Timothy Hallinan - The Fourth Watcher

uniformed Bangkok policemen standing in the hallway. “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

“We know exactly what time it is,” someone says in American English. The cops part to reveal a thin, youngish man in a black suit. He steps between the policemen as though he expects them to leap out of his way, and they almost do. Behind the three of them, Rafferty is startled to see Fon, looking as though she’s just learned she has an hour to live.

“Open the door, sir,” the man in the suit says. He has short-cropped, receding dark hair with a part as sharp as a scar, a narrow face, and lips thin enough to slice paper. Rimless glasses, clinically clean, perch on a prominent nose.

“Oh, sure,” Rafferty says. “Maybe you’d like a piece of cake, too.” Rose has fled to the bedroom, clutching the towel.

“Mr. Rafferty,” says the man in the suit. “This is not a productive attitude. We need to talk to you and Miss. . um, Puchan. . Punchangthong.” After mangling the pronunciation of Rose’s name, he pushes the door open another few inches before Rafferty gets a bare foot against it. “Now,” he says.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

The man reaches into the inside pocket of his suit coat, pulls out a black wallet, flips it open, and then closes it and returns it to the pocket. He takes a step forward and runs into Rafferty’s hand, fingers outspread, in the center of his chest.

The man does not look down. “Remove your hand, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’ unless you mean it,” Rafferty says. “And do that cute little wallet flip again. You’re not on CSI, and you didn’t get a close-up.”

“The hand,” the man says. His eyes have not left Rafferty’s.

“The wallet,” Rafferty says, “or you’ll be looking at the outside of the door again. How are you, Fon?”

“Not good,” Fon says.

“Sorry to hear it.” To the American he says, “What about it? We need a retake on the wallet.”

“I can’t get to it,” the man says through his teeth, “with your hand on my chest.”

“Back up,” Rafferty says. “So I can close the door if it’s a Boy Scout merit badge.”

“We’re coming in,” says one of the cops. He loses some face by looking to the American for approval.

Rafferty doesn’t even glance at him. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see it.”

Stiff-faced, the American brings out the wallet again and lets it hang open. A silvery shield with a star in the center reads u.s. secret service.

“I don’t know how to break this to you,” Rafferty says, “but we’re in Thailand.”

“That’s why these gentlemen are with me,” the American says.

“And very terrifying they are, too. This got something to do with you, Fon?”

“It does,” says the American.

“I didn’t ask you.” Rafferty looks past him. “Fon?”

“Yes,” she says. It barely registers as a whisper.

Rafferty studies her face: desolate as a razed house. “Then I’ll let you in. But hang on a minute,” Rafferty says to the American. “And don’t let these goons knock the door down unless you want to pay for it.” He closes the door in the American’s face and goes into the bedroom. Rose is wearing jeans and the Totoro T-shirt, the sight of which makes Rafferty’s heart constrict. “Maybe a problem,” he says, throwing on a pair of linen slacks and the first T-shirt in the drawer. He has it halfway on before he realizes it says yes i do. but not with you. He stops tugging it down for half a second, says, “The hell with it,” and leaves it on. Motioning Rose to stay put, he goes back into the living room and opens the door.

“Mi casa es su casa,” he says, moving aside.

“That may be truer than you know,” says the American. He steps into the center of the room and looks around. He registers the cake on the table, ignores it, and focuses on the view through the sliding glass door to the balcony. “You’ve got it nice here.”

“ Architectural Digest is coming in the morning.” The cops trail in. One of them has his hand on Fon’s upper arm. Rafferty says, “She can walk without help.” The cop gives him hard eyes but lets go of her arm. “Do you want to sit down, Fon?” Rafferty asks in Thai.

“English only,” says the American.

“Okay,” Rafferty says, suddenly blind with fury. “How about ‘Fuck you’ ?”

There is a moment of silence, and then one of the cops says, “He asked if she wanted to sit down.”

“Sure,” the American says, his eyes locked on Rafferty’s. “Let her sit.” Fon collapses onto the couch, eyeing them all uncertainly. She sits bent forward, hands in her lap, as though trying to present the smallest possible target. The American smiles at Rafferty, making his lips disappear completely. “You’re forcing me to be unpleasant,” he says. “Unfortunately for you, I enjoy being unpleasant.”

“A name would be nice,” Rafferty says. “Just so I can be sure they bust the right jerk.”

“Elson,” the American says. “Richard Elson. E-l-s-o-n.” He looks around again. “Where’s Miss Punchangthong?”

“In the other room. She’s choosy about her company.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Elson says, and the next thing Rafferty knows, one of the cops has hold of his right arm and is pulling him away from Elson.

“Actually,” Elson says, “it would be easier if you hit me. We could just take you all in and do this right.”

“Don’t do anything silly, Poke,” Rose says in Thai, and Rafferty turns to see her in the bedroom door. Elson turns at the sound of her voice, and for a moment he’s just another man getting his first look at Rose. His eyes widen slightly, his thin lips part, and he inhales sharply.

“Miss Punchangthong?” he says. He pronounces it right this time.

Rose nods without turning to him. It’s the non-look she gave to customers in the bar who had no chance of getting any closer to her than across the room.

“Richard Elson, United States Secret Service. You speak English?”

“Small.”

Elson flicks a finger at Fon. “Do you know this woman?”

Rose’s face is stone. “Yes, know. Her my friend.” The crudity of the pidgin surprises Rafferty, and he glances at Rose, who avoids his eyes.

“And an employee,” Elson says.

“Where is this going?” Rafferty demands.

“You’ll know in a second.” Elson doesn’t look at him. “An employee?”

“You say so,” Rose says. She turns her head to regard Fon. “But her my friend first.”

“I want to know what this is about right now,” Rafferty says. “Or you can come back here tomorrow with a lawyer.”

“It’s about this,” Elson says, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. He opens it and displays a thin sheaf of currency. He shows it to Rose. “Did you give this to Miss Sribooncha- Jesus, these names. What the hell did you call her? Fon? Did you give this to Fon today?”

“Not give,” Rose says.

“That’s not what she says.”

“Peachy-” Fon begins, but Elson silences her with a glance. “Miss Punchangthong?”

“Fon get money today,” Rose says. “But me not give.”

“But you own the business.”

Rose shakes her head. “Peachy and me own, same-same. Hasiphasip, you know? You speak Thai?” As angry as he is, Rafferty has to turn to the sliding door to hide his grin.

“No,” Elson says, a little grimly. “I don’t speak Thai. So, in a sense, you paid her.”

“In a sense?” Rose asks. “What mean? What mean, in a sense ?”

“It means-” Elson begins. He stops. “It means, um. .”

“English only,” Rafferty says happily.

Elson licks his lips and turns to the cops. “One of you explain.”