Timothy Hallinan - The Fear Artist

He looks at it and pushes it aside. The beer waves at him, so he pays it a little attention.

The second draft puts the farang in the center and transforms Rafferty into one of a planetary system of satellites that include Shen, the red-haired man, Elson, Cheyenne, and a little black circle for Helen Eckersley. Even as he adds the dry-cleaning shop to the little solar system, he realizes that the image is wildly unbalanced in favor of nations other than Thailand. That reminds him of the Growing Younger Man saying that one of the factors in the current political situation is the pressure that comes from other countries-to contain the Muslim situation, to maintain a profitable peace.

He studies his diagram for a moment, assigning countries of origins to its components. Then he crumples it up and takes another sheet of paper.

America, America, America, America: The third diagram presents a situation in which Thailand is almost marginal, represented by Shen and his grand-opera thugs, whom Rafferty suddenly visualizes as hand puppets. Outnumbering them, overwhelming them, possibly providing the hands that animate them, are the fallen farang , Elson, American multinational companies and their governmental and diplomatic shills, Cheyenne, Helen Eckersley, and the kind of organization that mounts a four- or five-person tail. Even Shen has a connecting line to America: years spent there before his return to the kingdom as a sort of semi-indigenous American spook. A hand puppet.

It’s a very American diagram.

And in the center of the third diagram-the diagram he thinks is closest to the truth-he places a malicious caricature, all big belly and flaring, tufted nostrils: the red-haired man.

Mrs. Pongsiri is partly made up for her night’s work in the bar she either runs or owns; her hair is pulled back and her face powdered ghost white, awaiting the application of a foundation of some kind. There’s a snowy little sifting of powder on the tip of her nose and on her red T-shirt, and a new scar, a fine reddish line, on the side of her slender neck. A little less than a year ago, she’d been hurt quite badly when she tried to prevent two knife-wielding men, each of whom was probably double her weight, from breaking up Rafferty and Rose’s apartment. Rafferty’s been waiting ever since for a change in attitude, a telltale wince that says she’s become wary of him, and he’s never caught a glimpse of it.

Working in a bar for a few decades is a toughening experience.

Of course Rafferty can use her phone, she says, she says, sorry to come to the door looking like a monster in the movies; you know where the phone is, please excuse me while I turn myself into someone not so scary. Have you heard any more about the flooding?

And would he like a glass of water?

Rafferty declines the water and waits until she’s gone back into the bathroom. Her apartment is pretty much a duplicate of his, although he has no idea what she’s done with the second bedroom-used it as a closet, probably, since she owns an enormous amount of evening wear. The decor is surprisingly unfrilly, open and coolly austere, not too many pieces of furniture to jam up the room. A couple of very good carpets, antique from the look of them, take the curse off the building’s generic wall-to-wall. A robed monk of gilded wood sits, hands raised palms together in worship, knees drawn up beside him, all alone on a table in the corner.

The sliding glass door to her balcony is ajar; she’s on the downwind side of the building, and rain has gathered in little pools on the balcony floor, but it’s not slanting sharply enough to get into the apartment. She’s got the rising river on her side, a thick gray-brown snake a mile or two away, but he can’t see anything out of the ordinary, not that he’d recognize anything short of the city’s being full of water.

“It’s your husband,” he says into the phone in Thai when Rose answers.

“I know,” she says. She’s also speaking Thai. “Who else would call me in the autumn of my life?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard the way they talked about you at the Expat Bar last night.”

“Them,” she says. “They remember a much younger woman. No, you’ve frightened off all my admirers.”

“You bet I have.”

“And a good thing, too. Motherhood being what it is.” She sniffles. “I thought I was supposed to call you tomorrow.”

“That’s right. You were.”

“That’s so sweet. You couldn’t wait to hear my-”

“Actually, there’s a problem.”

“On your end, too? Good. It doesn’t seem fair that I’ve got Miaow all to myself.”

“Well, you’re going to have her longer.” She doesn’t reply, so he says, “What is it this time?”

“She’s become a vegan.”

“You mean, no meat?”

“Oh, it’s not that easy,” Rose says. “Nothing that’s ever heard of meat. Nothing that’s ever been in the room when the word ‘meat’ was spoken. Nothing that came in a package made of anything that moves faster than a tree. Did you know that shrimp raised in captivity don’t have enough swimming space?”

“Is she serious about it?”

“Loudly serious. My mother starts to look worried hours before dinner.”

“Well, take her to the temple and leave her there. They’re vegetarians.”

“She’s a girl, remember? And the monks are much too bloodthirsty for her. They’ve vegetarians, not vegans. They wear leather sandals .”

“Boy,” Rafferty says. “I’m glad she’s your problem, not mine.”

“You don’t really know a man until you marry him.”

Mrs. Pongsiri comes into the room, heading toward the kitchen, a towel fastened over her shoulders with a big rhinestone hair clip. She mimes tilting a glass to her lips, eyebrows raised, and he shakes his head.

“In fairness to Miaow,” Rose says, “I’d forgotten how boring it is here. The kids just stare at her with their mouths open and wipe their noses. Everybody’s nose is running. People’s houses leak, and it looks like the rice crop is ruined.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, and we’ll send extra money to your parents if the crop fails. I’ll even mail you some Kleenex, but I need you to stay away from Bangkok and to keep her with you.”

“Oh?” She pauses and sniffles. “Me, too,” she says.

“You too, what?”

“Nose running. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t really know what’s going on, so why don’t I tell you what’s happened instead?” And he does. He’s halfway through when she says, “Arthit’s got a girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,” he says, barely throttling his impatience. “How would I know? I’m a man.”

“You were there.”

“Okay, yeah, I think he does. I think they like each other.”

“And she knew Noi? Did you like her?”

“Listen, I know I’m being all insensitive and male in wanting to talk about my problems when-”

“You care about Arthit, too.”

“Well, of course I–Look, look. Here’s the deal. These people think I know something, whatever it is, and that I might pass it on to someone else. And they don’t really give a shit if they flatten a few bystanders. They can haul me in anytime they want-”

“How?”

“And they’ve got my gun.”

A pause on her end. “How did they-”

“I was just about to tell you. They broke into the apartment and took the gun.” The pause this time is so long that he says, “Hello?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe I’m asking this question, but who was shot with that gun?”

He’s been asking himself the same question from the moment the bag of coins hit the bed. “Madame Wing, but nobody’s going to find her if they haven’t already. Couple of Chu’s guys, same thing. But the point is, I have no right to have it in the first place.”