Timothy Hallinan - The Queen of Patpong

If John's spent much time in Bangkok, he hasn't spent it wandering around on his own. He almost got clipped in the street because he forgot that Thais drive on the left, so he's probably not aware that the alley leads to a maze. Scratch going left, at least as an operating hypothesis. Rafferty doesn't see him at any of the tables in the outside restaurant, and he's not dwindling into perspective down the soi. That leaves the pool-table bars and the Beer Garden.

Most guys who come solo to Bangkok learn about the Beer Garden within a few days. In a town where the nighttime action is literally overwhelming, the days can seem positively dreary. For a man who's in the market at 3:30 P.M., the Beer Garden is a shining exception.

And a dangerous place to chase someone into.

The problem is that there's only one official entrance, and every seat in the place faces it. That wouldn't be such an issue if there weren't three hundred seats. The Beer Garden is enormous. On any day of the week, there are likely to be a hundred to a hundred fifty farang men and as many as two hundred women, many of whom are standing or circulating, looking for a free drink, a meal, or a welcoming lap. Plenty of room for old John, plus Howard and a dozen of their friends to be sitting there, watching the door, waiting for the rabbit to stroll into the trap.

Rafferty pushes open the door of the pool-table bar to his right and sticks his head in, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness as the hostesses hurry toward him. There's a herd of them, and a quick look around makes it clear that Rafferty will have all their attention, because there's not a customer in the place. He waves off the women who are nearest and yanks the door closed.

He turns, irresolute for a second: Check the other bar or brave the Beer Garden? The day brightens again, and he closes his eyes and feels the street start to move beneath his feet. As he opens his eyes, looking for something-anything-that's standing still instead of spinning, he feels a tug at the back of his shirt.

He whirls so fast that he nearly goes down, and the person behind him takes a panicked leap backward. The two of them topple sideways simultaneously, Rafferty coming to rest in a semi-standing position against the wall of the bar and the girl yelping as one of her towering platform shoes rolls sideways. When she finally stops moving, she's bent double, both hands on her left ankle, going, "Oooo-oooo-ooooo."

"I'm sorry," Rafferty says. He pushes himself off the wall and raises both hands to show he's harmless, but she's already taken a little hop away. She lands on the newly sprained ankle and emits a squeak so high it's at the upper limit of Rafferty's hearing. Then she drops to one knee and wraps both hands around her ankle again, looking up at him through a dry frizzle of badly dyed red hair.

"You arm," she says in English. "You arm no good." She raises her right hand and points at his injured elbow as though he might be unaware of it, then grabs her ankle again and says, "You arm. You know you have problem you arm? You know you have ow?" She's short and plump and dark-skinned and ridiculously young, maybe eighteen, wearing a chopped-off T-shirt, red hot pants with a wide white vinyl belt studded with rhinestones, and makeup so thick it looks like she put it on with the lights out.

"I know," Rafferty says. "No problem." Just then his elbow lets loose a giant twinge of contradiction, and he catches his breath and expels it with a chuff like a steam engine. "What about you?" She looks up at him, clearly working on an internal translation. "Your ankle," he says in Thai. "Is it okay?"

"Not okay," she says in English. "But not have… not have…" She thinks for a second and then rubs her heavily lipsticked lower lip with a fingertip, makes a red smear on her bare arm, and points to it.

"Blood," Rafferty says.

She nods eagerly. "Not have blood." She sticks out a pink tongue and licks the lipstick on her arm, then rubs it away with the palm of her hand.

"Look," Rafferty says, "I have to go over there for a second." He points to the dark-windowed billiards bar across the street. "You get up and walk a little." Although he's speaking Thai, she just looks at him, so he imitates a limp for a moment. "You need to walk on it, before it swells up. Take your shoes off and move around. I'll be right back."

She says okay to his back, and he turns at the sound of her voice, but she just smiles at him and says okay again. He starts across the soi, and when he glances back over his shoulder, she is watching him go as if he were her only friend on the playground. She waves but makes no move to get up.

Rafferty nods at her, feeling oddly formal, and crosses the street. One last look reveals her still in a crouch, her hands still cupped around her ankle. When she sees him turn, she smiles again. Her little belly pouches out over the top of her hot pants, her belly button looking like the world's deepest dimple.

He pushes open the door of the billiards bar. It's cool and dim, and neither of the two farang hunched face-to-face over one of the tables is John.

Rafferty shakes his head to slow the approaching hostess and turns back to the street, hearing the door sigh closed behind him. It hits his elbow, and his arm blooms with pain. He grabs his shoulder, which seems to ease the pain slightly, and leans forward, blowing out all the air in his lungs. He stays there, staring at the sidewalk, until the tide of pain has receded to the point where he can breathe regularly. When he straightens and looks across the street, the plump little apprentice tart is right where he left her. She's on one knee, with the injured ankle stretched in front of her, and she's slowly wiggling the foot back and forth. The platform heel on the shoe she's removed has to be six inches high. Rafferty stands there, waiting for the red heat in his arm to subside further, and sees a group of four cigarette-puffing women, older and more seasoned than the one across the street, go through the open space that leads into the Beer Garden. Then come the usual high-frequency cries of delight from their friends, who probably haven't seen the newcomers for at least an hour.

And here Rafferty is, halfway up the block. If he'd been right beside the door, he might have been able to slip in with the women, maybe hunched over a little. Maybe whoever is watching the entrance would have registered the girls and looked away, maybe turned to the person next to him to say-

No. Not these guys. If John's supposed to be watching the door, he'll be watching the door.

Rafferty pulls out his cell phone and pushes the speed dial for Miaow.

"Nobody's behind me," she says, without waiting for his hello. "I'm getting sick, riding backward."

"Sick is better than dead. And you're keeping your eyes open."

"What else have I got to do?" Miaow says. "But there's nobody back there."

"Good. How long until you get home?"

"I'll get home about ten minutes after I throw up." She disconnects.

Across the street the plump girl wobbles to her feet, arms spread as though she's on a tightrope. She takes a step, but when she puts her weight on the bad ankle, she straightens quickly, and Rafferty can hear her shrill squeak over the traffic from the boulevard. With a certain amount of relief, he resigns himself to not confronting John and goes back to her.

The girl leans against the wall of the bar and watches him come. The soi is completely in shadow now, and multicolored lights begin to blink in the boughs of the enormous tree that grows just inside the entrance to the Beer Garden.

She stands like an egret, the foot beneath the injured ankle raised slightly, letting the wall take all her weight. Rafferty kneels in front of her and slides his hands over the ankle, feeling the warmth of the swelling. "This is no good," Rafferty says. "You have to walk on it."