Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller полностью

And now, seated to Rafferty’s left, he blows out a quart of cigar smoke and leans back in his chair. His eyes flick to Rafferty again and then away. Late forties, strong as a horse beneath fifteen pounds of soft, wet fat, he holds the cigar dead center in a tightly pursed mouth.

He says in English, “Bluff.”

“Easy to find out,” Rafferty says. His heart is beating so hard he can actually feel the cloth of his shirt brush his chest.

A cloud of smoke, waved away so the Big Guy can peer down at Rafferty’s chips. “How much is that, farang?”

“Two hundred ninety-two thousand,” Rafferty says.

“I’ve only got two-eighty-five.”

“In or out?” asks the dealer.

“In,” says the Big Guy. He pushes his chips into the center of the felt and then drops the last few thousand-baht chips on top of the pile, one at a time. Then he switches to Thai. “Look at your money,” he says, “because you’re never going to see it again.”

The hatchet-faced man throws in his cards. The dealer and the man next to him also fold. Arthit takes a last look at the faceup cards and then mucks his own, making it unanimous. The man to Rafferty’s right, who has already folded, shifts in his chair to watch the showdown.

“After you,” Rafferty says to the Big Guy. The Big Guy moves the cigar to the corner of that pink mouth and flips his cards. He’s got a straight: four, five, six, seven, eight.

“Gee,” Rafferty says. He looks at the Big Guy’s hand and shakes his head in admiration. Then he turns over one of his hole cards: an eight. “Let’s see,” he says, squinting at the table. “I haven’t played for very long, but this is an eight, and there are two more of them over there, so that makes three, right?” He flips the other card. “And here’s another one. So that means I’ve got four eights.” He looks around the table. “Who wins?”

The Big Guy’s chair hits the floor with a bang, and the bodyguards step forward to flank him. “Who wins?” He takes three steps back, one of the bodyguards whisking the fallen chair out of his way. “You’re a cheat, you and that blue-haired freak over there. And you picked the wrong game.” He pushes back his suit coat, and suddenly Arthit is standing with his police automatic in his hand.

“Don’t move,” Arthit says, and Kosit, the man who dealt the hand, also pulls a gun and waves it around as though to say, Look what I have, although he doesn’t point it at anyone. “Khun Pan,” Arthit says to the Big Guy, “if you’re thinking about getting that little gun out of your shoulder holster, I have to advise against it.” The dealer’s gun comes to rest pointed at the nearest bodyguard.

“This…this game is fixed.” Pan is so furious he’s spluttering.

“Of course it is,” Arthit says. His eyes flick to the bodyguard at Pan’s right, who’s looking jumpy. “By the way, just to put all the information on the table, there’s no reason not to shoot you, so don’t get silly.”

“You should be ashamed,” Pan says. “Siding with this farang against a table full of honest Thais. He’s a cheat.”

“Yes, he is,” Arthit says. “But as you pointed out, he’s not the only one.” Neither the dealer nor the hatchet-faced man reacts, but two of the businessmen draw sharp breaths. “Tip here,” Arthit says, indicating the hatchet-faced man, “joined us this evening straight from the monkey house, where he’ll be staying for-how long is it, Tip?”

“Four years,” Tip says.

“With a little time off for tonight,” Arthit says. “Because Tip is way, way too lucky.”

“I saw the signal,” Pan says. “But if he’s so fucking good, how come he hasn’t won anything tonight?”

“He’s not supposed to. He’s been feeding Mr. Rafferty.”

“Feeding?”

“He’s been watching you,” Rafferty says in English, with Arthit providing more or less simultaneous translation and, to all appearances, enjoying it. “You’re watching him to see whether he’s cheating, but what he’s doing is lighthousing me, based on what he sees you do and what I have in my hand. Before I bet this last hand, I picked up eight chips and rattled them four times to tell I was holding four eights. He gave me a sign that said bet the house, and I did.”

“You shit farang,” Pan says. Rafferty starts to get up, but Arthit waves him back to his seat.

“You should be grateful,” Arthit says. “Tip pulled this trick in a game a few months ago that cost a friend of yours almost four million baht. So you got a free lesson. And before you get any more disagreeable, this is a sanctioned police operation, and you’re all going to get your money back.”

“And you’re going to lose your job,” Pan says. “I don’t want my fucking money back. I came here to play cards.”

“Tough,” Arthit says. To the dealer he says, “Give him the two hundred seventy-five thousand he came in with. Mr. Vinai,” he says to the man on Rafferty’s right, “you came in with a hundred and eighty-seven thousand. Officer Kosit here will count it out for you. You had two-ten,” he says to the other businessman.