Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller полностью

FOR PURPOSES OF his work, Rafferty’s favorite kind of people are the ones who are dumber than they think they are. The policeman, Thanom, had practically redefined the category. Yes, of course he’d be happy to help Rafferty, especially in light of the call he’d received. Rafferty certainly had prominent friends, didn’t he? Heh, heh. And the time was long overdue for a book about this disgusting man, this scab on the Bangkok social scene. Practically a common criminal, for all the flash and the…um, amazing girls. Here Thanom had actually stopped talking long enough to press the side of his index finger against his upper lip, blotting sweat Rafferty couldn’t see.

But of course Rafferty knew a few things about beauty himself, didn’t he? Thanom said when his finger was out of the way, considering the rare orchid Rafferty had been parading at the event at Pan’s house. And then Thanom brandished the official elbow: Amazing how resilient women are, isn’t it? he asked. Take them out of the mud and six months later they look like they’ve never been dirty a moment in their lives. Not that Thanom thinks of Patpong as mud, of course. It’s just regrettable that there aren’t better career choices for these flowers of the northeast. And how fortunate she was, Rose, to find a good man to rescue her, one who wouldn’t object to…well, to all that. But change was coming. Surely Rafferty could feel it in the air, after-here Thanom glanced down at a single piece of paper sitting in regal splendor on his desk-after three years and nine months in the kingdom. Why, he said with an admiring shake of the head, you must feel half Thai yourself.

And no, he didn’t know how Pan had gotten his start, how he had climbed from thugdom to the top of the industrial heap, or even-for sure-that there was any thugdom back there in the first place. “Common criminal” had just been a figure of speech based on, you know, how he dresses and behaves in public. There were rumors, of course. There were always rumors wherever there were envious people, but nothing official. And of course he’d be delighted to let Rafferty look at the official records, especially considering who had called him to suggest that he find time for this meeting, nothing would make him happier, but he would have to exceed his authority to do so. No matter how high you rise, there’s always someone higher, isn’t there? Although Rafferty, as a freelance writer with two-no, three-books to his credit and another one in the pipeline (isn’t that the term you use, “pipeline”?), yes, Rafferty probably lives a much freer and less constrained life than a simple civil servant. How I envy you that freedom as I sit chained to this desk all day, working for the people’s good.

And now you’ve got this fascinating project about one of Bangkok’s most…uh, visible citizens.

And I’d like nothing better than to show you the files, but it’s impossible. Just procedure, rules and regulations, you know. But of course all of Pan’s records are accessible. The police didn’t lose records. There were backups of backups of backups. To purge anything, even something inconsequential, would be a vast enterprise, requiring hundreds of man-hours. But nothing of that kind had happened in Pan’s case. The records are there, but unavailable, I’m sorry to say.

By now Thanom had taken the paper clip off the sheets and was flicking one end of it with an index finger to make it spin. The activity had the unfortunate effect of making him look even more like a monkey, one who is on the verge of inventing a tool but probably won’t. When Rafferty asks him about Pan’s political aspirations, the paper clip sails off the desk and lands in Rafferty’s lap.

On the street, having wasted much of his morning and with yet another interview in front of him, Rafferty asks himself again: What do they actually want?

SEVERAL HOURS LATER Arthit has made a third improvement to his new paper-plane design when someone knocks on his door. Elaborately folded official reports, symmetrically streamlined and sharply pointed, most of them with a downturned nose borrowed from the Concorde, litter the carpet. The nose looks good, but it seems to impair the lift a good paper plane needs, so Arthit has just counterweighted the tail with a staple and launched it across the room.

He doesn’t bother to tell whoever it is to come in.

Arthit doesn’t have anything as grand as a secretary, but he has access to a pool of women with widely varying skill levels. The one who comes through the door is his favorite: in her sixties, dressed and made up like a nineteen-year-old, she calls herself Brigitte, after Brigitte Bardot. Except for Arthit she is probably the only person in the station who remembers Bardot in all her pouting, carnal glory.

“For you,” she says. She has an envelope in her hand.

“So I assumed,” Arthit says. “Since this is the office you brought it to. What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Brigitte says, although her eyes say she does. “It’s sealed.”