Timothy Hallinan - The Queen of Patpong

For a moment Rafferty thinks Elson has hung up. But then he says, "Yes?"

"How improbable is it that the U.S. would make a secret arrangement to spirit him out?"

"As opposed, for instance, to having a sensational trial that they can't control."

"Exactly."

"All right, let me make sure I have this straight. An employee of an American contractor, on a mission in, hypothetically, Afghanistan, does something horrific in another country, hypothetically Thailand, and the issue is whether, either in the State Department or in the Department of Defense, there might be a black-ops budget with minimum oversight, so nobody with any rank would be involved if the situation blew up in their faces, and whether that hypothetical budget has money in it that could be used to yank that contractor out of the third country before the media circus makes the U.S. look like bloodthirsty savages and the Senate starts demanding hearings into the war effort and secret budgets and the impeachment of the president. Umm, let's see, and that there are also people in the right places who have access to that budget and would be willing to spend it. Is that about it?"

"Very good."

"And also reopen the whole basic issue about contractors."

"Which issue?"

"About how they're not there because they were drafted. About how they volunteered and even competed for a slot where their basic job is to kill people. And about how there are always going to be psychopaths among them, no matter how stridently the people in charge deny it."

Arthit's eyes meet Rafferty's.

"Yeah," Rafferty says. "All those issues."

"And you want to know what, exactly?"

"How improbable it is that the government would spring a guy like that."

"Hmmm." Rafferty can envision the reflection on Elson's glasses as he lifts his chin, the man's thin lips tightening as he thinks. "Tell you what. There's no commonly accepted index for improbability that I know about. So why don't you give me an example of something improbable, and I'll tell you whether your scenario is less or more improbable than that."

Rafferty looks up to find Arthit's eyes still on him. Arthit mouths one word: Frank.

Rafferty nods and says, "Off the top of my head, okay? Let's say a U.S. government agency takes an Anglo man who needs to hide out for the rest of his life and assigns him a false identity that was originally set up for a Chinese man, without even changing the Chinese man's name, although the guy hiding out isn't Chinese. As improbable as that?"

"It's exactly that improbable. And you wouldn't believe how improbably large that budget would be, if there were such a budget."

"Improbable as it is, what would happen to the contractor after he was returned to the States?"

"Whatever it would be," Elson says, "you'd never hear about it. Are you finished?"

Rafferty says, "Am I ever," and hangs up.

From the dining room, Miaow says, "But that's what he did with your father. He gave him-"

"That's right," Rafferty says.

Arthit says, "I need to think about this."

"Think about it fast," Rose says, getting up and going into the dining room. "The girls will be here any minute. Miaow, we need more glasses and things."

Arthit says, "The girls?"

"I really need those pictures, Arthit," Rafferty says.

Arthit shakes his head as though he needs to clear it. "What girls?"

"From my agency," Rose says. "At least eight more glasses, Miaow. And, Pim, could you please make some tea?"

"How come you say please to Pim but not to me?" Miaow asks, heading for the kitchen.

Rose says, "Because I like her better."

Miaow makes a rude noise as she leaves the room.

"I don't need a maid," Arthit says. "I told Poke I don't-"

"You certainly do need a maid," Rose says. "This place is 'man clean,' but that's not the same as clean. Why don't you hire Pim?"

"Pim, Pim, Pim," Miaow says from the kitchen. Scarlet-faced, Pim flees the room.

Arthit says, quite loudly, "Everybody. Stop."

Everybody stops except Pim, who runs all the way to the kitchen. The moment stretches out, totally silent. Arthit blinks in surprise.

Rafferty says, "What now, Arthit? Can we start again?"

"At least with the food and the glasses," Rose says.

There's a knock at the door. Rafferty pulls out his Glock, which has been tucked into his waistband ever since he got there.

Rose says, "What? You're going to shoot Fon?"

"You stay where you are. I'll answer the door." Rafferty puts the gun hand behind his back and crosses the room, and he finds Arthit beside him, his own gun in hand. When they get to the door, Arthit waves Rafferty aside so he'll be right behind the door when it opens, turns sideways to hide his gun and present a smaller target, and, with a nod to Rafferty, yanks the door open.

Fon takes a surprised step back and says, "Hi."

There are nine of them in all, and Rose's partner, Peachy, makes ten. With the exception of Peachy, who's wearing enough makeup to sing opera, the women are scrubbed and natural, their hair pulled back simply into ponytails or braids. Fon's hair has been gathered on top of her head and rubber-banded, the hair exploding straight up and then fanning out like a little black volcano. Except for two of them, Fon and Rose, they retain little of the allure they'd once projected onstage in the bars of Patpong. Some of them are so determinedly plain it looks intentional, a way of erasing who they were in the past.

They're sitting on the floor, most of them with their feet tucked politely to one side, each with a cup of tea or one of Miaow's dwindling supply of Cokes. Five or six of them are smoking, as is Rose. Every time Miaow comes into the room, she fans her hand and makes a face. A few of the women blow smoke at her.

A piece of paper is being passed from hand to hand. One of the women scans it and says, "The Kit-Kat."

"Good," Rafferty says, writing it on his own piece of paper. "That's twenty-seven."

Fon says, "What's that upstairs place up near Surawong? Used to be the Baby Bar?"

"The Lap Bar," Rafferty says. "We've got it."

"I'm getting old," Fon says. "That's where you and Arthit went to scare my little sister. I've blanked it from my mind. And it was only a few days ago."

"Poke terrified her," Arthit says from his chair at the dining-room table, where he's watching the proceedings with a certain amount of bemusement.

"He has that effect on women," Rose says. She looks at her own list. "I've got twenty-eight. The Lap Bar makes twenty-nine."

"The Butterfly," says one of the other women. "And Lolita's, ugh. And I think Poke's cute."

Writing the names of the bars, Rafferty says, "I think I'm cute, too. I've only got twenty-eight."

"So I've got one more than you do," Rose says to him. "Why don't I read my list, and everybody try to figure out if we're missing any."

"Sounds like a plan." Rafferty gets up from the floor, feeling as if every muscle in his body has been hammered by dwarfs. He walks stiffly down the hallway to the kitchen, where Pim and Miaow are tossing paper plates and scraping leftovers into Baggies. "This is what I like to see," he says. "The next generation of womanhood, turning its back on feminism."

Miaow shows him a white container that holds about an ounce of some kind of chicken with sauce. "Is this worth keeping?"

"Was it good?"

She shrugs. "It was okay."

"Gimme." He takes it away from her and picks up a used plastic fork.

Miaow says, "Eeeeewww. Disgusting."

"We are all one," Rafferty says, wiggling his eyebrows mysteriously, and Pim laughs. "You're right," he says, eating. "It's just okay. How's your head?"

"If we're all one," Miaow says, "you shouldn't have to ask."