Timothy Hallinan - The Queen of Patpong

She says, "Too many ow."

"It'll feel better if you put some weight on it. Come on." He gets up and thinks for a second about how to help her without further damaging his bad arm, then goes around to her left side and puts his right arm around his waist. "Lean on me," he says in badly pronounced Thai. "Put about half your weight on the ankle." He starts to walk her in a circle.

"Ooo," she says. A moment later she says "Ooo" again, and he can hear the wince.

"It'll get better."

She says "Ooo" yet again. She has the salty smell of sweat, mixed with something that Rafferty can't place, slightly fragrant, slightly medicinal. Talcum powder, he thinks, with menthol in it, the poor person's cure for prickly heat.

"In a circle," he says, guiding her. "Come on. Put some more weight on it. Don't just put it down like that. Bend it a little when you step on it."

"Buy me drink," the girl says, stopping. "Hot."

"Make a deal. You walk another two minutes by yourself, just keep going in a circle, while I run over to the pharmacy and get some aspirin and a bandage, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

"Want cola," she says.

Someone comes out of the Beer Garden, and Rafferty slows his pace to watch, but it's not John. It's a lanky scarecrow with a pair of women in tow, and Rafferty can almost see the thought balloon above his head, saying, Wait'll I tell them about this back home. God, am I a stud.

"Two lady," the girl says flatly. "Two lady no good."

"Why no good?"

"Ugly," the plump girl says. "One lady, one man okay. Two lady, one man ugly."

"I agree. Walk a minute while I go over there. Then I'll get you your Coke and you can go inside."

"Lady in there no like me," she says, showing no sign of wanting to let go of him.

"Why?"

She shakes her head. "Don't know. No like."

"Because you're young," Rafferty says. "Most of them are getting older. They're aunties."

"But lady in there," she says, and pauses, and he thinks she'll switch to Thai, but she finds her way in English. "Pootiful. Many lady Beer Garden pootiful. Have jewel, have watch. Have tattoo. Me no pootiful. Me fat."

"You're fine," Rafferty says.

"You take me?" She looks hopeful.

"No," Rafferty says. "I'm married."

"Ugly," the girl says. "Fat. Black."

"Oh, give it a rest," Rafferty says in English. In Thai he says, "Walk. Watch the door to the Beer Garden for me. Look for a man. Taller than I am." He lifts his hand, palm down, a couple of inches above his head. "Very short hair, flat on top. White shirt with blue stripes. This wide." He holds up thumb and forefinger, half an inch apart.

"Friend you?"

"No. He's not your friend either. If he comes out, don't get near him. Just watch where he goes, so you can tell me. And keep walking, okay?"

He waits until she starts to limp in a tight circle, toting her shoes in her hands and squeaking like a chipmunk, and then he turns and jogs to Sukhumvit. The pharmacy is about half a block to the right, exactly where he remembered it. He comes out a couple of minutes later, dry-chewing four aspirin and carrying a plastic bag containing some more loose pills, a roll of gauze, some bandages, and a tube of antibiotic cream. The young woman behind the counter had wanted to treat him right there, but he'd fought her off, although he was unable to prevent her from soaking some tissues in water and pressing the sopping wad into his hand. It drips down his bloody arm and onto his shirt as he works his way back through the crowd on the sidewalk, making pink stalactite-shaped stains on the front of his T-shirt like a souvenir of the Cave of Blood.

When he reenters the soi, the girl is at a table with a can of Coke in front of her, the can sweating in the humidity, and she's holding her left foot in both hands, turning it this way and that. She gives a little start when she sees his ruined shirt and then holds out both hands for the bag and the tissues. Even before he's fully seated, she's gently wiping his forearm with the wet tissues, folding them to get a clean surface and wiping some more, then patting the skin dry with napkins.

"Ankle better?"

"Small ow," she says. She places a hand on his upper arm, and with the other she takes his wrist. With a practiced air, she bends the arm at the elbow and then straightens it, taking it through the full range of motion and ignoring Rafferty's grunt of pain.

"Him not come," she says, indicating the Beer Garden with her chin. She returns her attention to his arm, pushing it so the elbow forms an acute angle. "This okay. Not break." To prove it she yanks the arm open and then closes it again, bringing Rafferty three or four inches into the air. "Baby," she says. "All man baby."

"Yeah, well, thanks for the help." He reclaims his arm and opens and closes it gingerly, the pain slowing him like rust on the joint, and then he rotates it for a look at the elbow. He's got a swelling the size of a tomato, and the skin is torn in a jagged three-inch pattern that looks like lightning.

"No problem," she says. "Only dirty. I clean."

"Wiggle your foot around," Rafferty says. "I mean, as long as we're playing doctor."

"Foot okay. Ow, but okay. Same you." With considerable precision she inverts the cap on the tube of ointment to puncture the top, lays a thin line of cream along the zigzag of the tear, and uses a small piece of gauze to spread the ointment on either side. She examines her work and then takes the roll of gauze and begins to mummify his elbow with it.

He says, "Not so tight."

She tugs the gauze a bit tighter and passes it under his arm again. Without looking up she says, "Name you?"

"Poke," he says. "And you?"

"Pim." She rolls the gauze around his arm four more times, nips the edge with small white teeth, and rips it neatly across. Then she folds the end under once, so no loose threads are exposed, smooths it flat across the mound of gauze swathing Rafferty's elbow, and expertly tapes it in place with two elastic Band-Aids. She eyes her work critically, smooths it again, and drops everything back into the bag. "You no die," she says.

"You've done this before," he says.

"Have," she says without meeting his eyes. "Have many baby, my house."

"In the bag," he says. "Three aspirin for your ankle."

"Not like."

"Nobody likes. But they'll keep it from swelling. Take them."

She grimaces in protest but scrounges in the bag until she comes up with the pills. Then she gives them a dubious glance, looks at the Coke in her hand, fills her mouth with Coke, and drops the pills in. Then she swallows convulsively and immediately burps, her free hand splayed out over her sternum.

"There," Rafferty says. "You did great, but don't make it a habit."

Pim puts the can down, blinking fast, and picks up the roll of gauze.

"I'll do it," Rafferty says. "Give me your foot." She puts her foot in his lap, and he starts to wrap the ankle.

"More harder," she says, and he tightens the spiral of cloth.

"Friend you, in there-" She jerks her head back, toward the entrance to the Beer Garden.

"Not a friend," Rafferty says.

She says, "No good?"

"No good." He tugs on the roll, passing it under and over her ankle. "I don't want him to see me, but I need to know where he goes."

"Short hair," Pim says. "Shirt same-same…" She draws vertical stripes down Rafferty's T-shirt, then burps again. "Old, not old?"

"Not old," Rafferty says, and puts in the little barbed clamps to hold the gauze in place. "But I don't think you should-"

"I look," Pim says. She gets up and then squeaks, both hands grabbing at the back of her chair. Says, "Oooo."

"Skip it," Rafferty says. "Not a good idea."

"You say I walking, yes?" Pim says. "So okay, I walk."

"Look." He gets up. "If you're going in there, make me a promise. Don't get anywhere near him. Go in, look around like you're supposed to meet somebody and he's not there. If you don't see him, come out and tell me. If you do see him-" He breaks off. "You've got a cell phone, right?"