A Nail Through the Heart

17

Rafferty shouts directly into Arthit's ear, "Any Cambodians?" The drunk American sitting beside the music system has found the volume control again, and walls are vibrating with the rhythm section of Bachman-Turner Overdrive, so rarely heard and so little missed in the West.

The bar is jammed with male tourists drawn by the nearby sexual supermarket called Nana Plaza. The tourists wear either T-shirts and tropical shorts or the kind of la-la safari clothes Rafferty found in Claus Ulrich's apartment. The Thais are dressed like human beings. Arthit's brown policeman's uniform-stretched tight over the hard, round belly he has recently stopped trying to fight-is conspicuous. In one hand Arthit has a glass of Mekhong whiskey and in the other a cigarette, a sure sign that something is wrong. As always lately, Rafferty is afraid to ask what it is, afraid to blunder into the private space Arthit and Noi have created around her illness, the disease that has set slow fire to her nervous system.

"Cambodian safecrackers?" Arthit takes a handful of peanuts and throws them in the general direction of his mouth. Most of them bounce off his shoulders and hit the floor. A miniature lunarscape of peanuts surrounds his feet. "Not that spring to mind. Cambos stick to the less-skilled trades. Smash-and-grab, mugging, chain snatching, picking pockets, hits. Especially hits. We've got truckloads of Cambodian hit men. There's a whole generation who got handed a gun at the age of ten or eleven and never really put it down."

"The killer kids." The executioners of the Khmer Rouge, back in the days of terror.

"Meanest little bastards in the world," Arthit says, chewing the one or two peanuts that somehow got into his mouth. "Conscience trained right out of them, kill without giving it a thought. Not children by now, of course."

"In their late thirties or thereabouts, right?"

"Say they were ten, and the Khmer Rouge got hold of them in, oh, 1975. That'd put them in their late thirties, early forties. But, you know, when they were thirteen or fourteen, they were beating people to death with hoes. And, of course, it was all over by 1979." In 1979 the Vietnamese, to their everlasting credit, invaded Pol Pot's Cambodia.

"Hold it." Rafferty pushes himself off the stool and crosses the room to the music system, which he turns down. The drunk American gives him a disbelieving glare and starts to get up from his chair, but Rafferty puts a hand on his shoulder and shoves him back into it. He points at Arthit, sitting mildly at the bar, and says, "Noise police." The American takes a long, sullen look at Arthit's uniform and buries his nose in his beer.

"So they're mostly thug-level," Rafferty continues in a normal tone of voice as he settles onto his stool.

"Not much opportunity for anything else," Arthit says. "Khmer Rouge closed every school in the country. For five years people raised rice and died. Most higher-level crooks are educated crooks."

"So who are the best safecrackers in Bangkok?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Arthit stubs out his cigarette as though he carries a grudge against it. "I'm a cop, not a database."

"But you can find out, can't you?"

Arthit lights up again and breathes directly through the cigarette. "This have to do with Claus Ulrich?"

"Maybe. I don't know yet."

"Spoken like a real policeman." Smoke plumes from his broad nostrils, making him look like a cartoon bull. "I know I asked you to do this, Poke, but don't get yourself into trouble, especially not with the Cambos. We'd hate to see anything happen to you."

"We" are he and Noi. He drains his Mekhong, puts the glass down on the bar sharply enough to draw a startled glance from the barmaid, and holds up two fingers for a double. She takes his glass and hurriedly begins to fill it. Arthit looks through her, at something private and internal.

"You got the pictures of my colleagues? The ones I faxed?" he asks.

The mention of the two resentful cops causes Rafferty more discomfort than he cares to show to Arthit. "Got them. Nice-looking guys, too. Do you know a Madame Wing?"

Arthit turns to him slowly, eyebrows high. "Rich lady, a general's widow, I think. One of the best old houses in the city. Guards, antiques, broken glass on the walls. Doesn't get out much. Nobody else gets in much."

"What kind of name is Wing?"

"I don't know. Sounds Chinese."

"If she's Chinese," Rafferty says, "she sure doesn't look it."

"So?" Arthit says. "Maybe Wing is her husband's name. Maybe she's an Eskimo. She keeps to herself." He drinks again and pitches some more peanuts at his face.

"Why don't you just drop them directly on the floor?" Rafferty asks. "Think of all the energy you'd save, not opening and closing your mouth like that."

"Don't be silly." Arthit pretends to chew, even though he missed. "Eating them this way demonstrates the kind of savoir faire that keeps me from being dreary. If you're finished with safecrackers and rich widows, what about Mr. Ulrich?"

"Nothing," Rafferty says. "That's the trouble. He's lived in Bangkok for twenty years or thereabouts, and he hasn't left a footprint anywhere. He's a cutout. The blank space is the only reason you know it was ever there."

Arthit puts a hand flat on the bar, fingers spread, as though he is confirming its solidity. "You're not looking in the right place. Nobody lives anywhere for twenty years without leaving a footprint. Friends, enemies, business associates, lovers, acquaintances, victims." A different finger taps the bar with each item on the list. "People do things to, or for, other people. That's the way it works."

"Well, I hope there's space in the new edition of Believe It or Not." Rafferty waves for a beer.

"You're drinking too much," Arthit says, hoisting his glass.

"Arthit," Rafferty says, putting a hand on his friend's arm and interrupting the drink's arc. "Thank you for calling Hank. I think he can help."

"Money," Arthit says, rubbing his fingers together. "Once Hank knows everything's okay, it's just a matter of money. Apply the grease to the wheel and the wheel will turn." He drinks.

"That's pretty much what Hank said."

Arthit starts to say something, thinks better of it, and then looks down at the bar. "Do you need a loan?"

"I'm fine, Arthit. And bless you for asking."

"If I'm offering you a loan," Arthit says, sitting back and resting his hands on his knees, "it probably is time to go home."

"How's Noi?"

"Life stinks," Arthit says. "But we'll get through it." He picks up the half-full glass and regards it. "Until we don't."

The boy comes to the dinner table wearing one of Miaow's blouses. With a little electric jolt, Rafferty realizes that Superman has tried to dress up for dinner.

"Don't you look nice," Rose says brightly. The boy gives her the flicker of a smile and sits. He looks down at himself and plucks the fabric between thumb and forefinger. He draws two deep breaths. "Not pink," he says.

Rafferty forces himself to get into the act. "What did you do today?"

"Went to school," Miaow says into the silence. The boy is twisting the fabric of the blouse with great concentration. Rafferty is folding his fingers into his palms, one by one, beneath the table, counting as he waits.

"The street," the boy finally says, without lifting his face to them. Miaow's head swivels toward him, fast.

"Okay," Rafferty says. "Well. Hey." He can hardly believe that the boy spoke, and he does not feel equal to the challenge of a reply. He rejects three questions as too probing before settling on one. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," the boy whispers. He is still studying the blouse as though he expects it to change color at any moment.

"Me, too," Rafferty says, feeling like the idiot father in a sitcom. "I could eat a horse. What have we got, Rose?"

"Horse," Rose says promptly. "Horse noodles and horse soup." The boy's eyes flick to her. "And horse ice cream for dessert."

Miaow laughs first, so loudly that Rafferty almost misses it when the boy joins in. Suddenly Rafferty is laughing, too, while Rose beams at all of them.

"I want the tail," Miaow says happily.

The boy says something to his blouse.

"What?" Rose asks. "What did you say?"

"The whinny," the boy says without looking up. "Give Miaow the whinny."

Miaow swats him on the head, and the boy ducks and raises a clenched fist. Rafferty freezes, but all the boy does is knock lightly on Miaow's part, three times. Rose laughs deep from her belly and begins to dish out the food. Both Miaow and the boy are blushing fiercely.

"Tomorrow," Rafferty says, eyeing the blouse, "let's go get you some shirts."

"He'll be fine," Rose says from the floor.

"What do we call him?" Rafferty asks. He has claimed the couch, since Rose doesn't want it. "I can't bring myself to say, 'Hi, Superman.'"

"Don't call him anything. Let him name himself. Maybe he wants to be Boo again." She yawns, making it look elegant. "He may get angry sometimes. It's not easy to quit using yaa baa."

"Did you use it?"

"I never smoked it, but I ate the pills like popcorn when I started dancing. The tourists choose the girls who look like they're having a good time. There are only so many times you can smile while you're dancing to 'American Pie.'"

"But you stopped taking it."

"I got tall," she says. "I grew three inches in my first year. Everybody else in the bar was short, so I stood out. I could just hang on to the pole and do the mermaid." She moves her hips back and forth in a sinuous curve, like someone swimming the butterfly stroke. "I stopped taking the pills, but it wasn't easy."

There is a silence. "You've been wonderful," he says into it.

Rose gives him a half smile. "I have always been wonderful. You just didn't notice."

"About the boy, I mean."

"He's a child," she says. "He can't help who he is. Maybe he's bad, you know? Some people are born bad. But probably something happened to him that killed part of who he was and left something else behind. Don't look at me like that," she says, although Poke is not aware that his expression has changed. "It happens to some people. Maybe it's something from their karma that suddenly falls on them, like a stone, and everything breaks. They still look the same, they still need to eat and sleep, but whatever their lives were tied to-whatever it was that gave them the chance to be good-it's gone. They lose their weight, they drift. They're empty. Sometimes they do terrible things to try to feel something again. They're like hungry ghosts."

"There seem to be a lot of those these days."

"There are always a lot of them. But a hungry ghost can sometimes be put to rest. And these people, maybe, can be given something new to tie themselves to. Maybe they can even remember who they used to be. If you can do that, you will make merit. It'll help you when you're reborn." She works a cigarette out of the tiny opening in the pack and lights it. When she looks up at him, she is smiling. "I have often thought you would be reborn as a goat."

"I've always figured I'd come back as a midsize sedan."

"You will be something that can be eaten," she says complacently.

"As long as the cook isn't English," Rafferty says.

She fiddles with the tip of the cigarette, touching it to the ashtray's edge to brush off the ash. Bangkok glitters through the sliding glass door behind her. "I am very pleased with what Mr. Morrison said about Miaow."

"Me, too."

"You will be a real family. That will be wonderful for her."

"Not quite." Rafferty swallows. He seems to have an orange lodged in his throat.

"Not quite what?"

"Not quite a real family." Heat creeps up his cheeks.

Rose's head comes up. She is as close to looking surprised as Rafferty has ever seen her. His face is burning and he can feel the pulse at his wrists. The moment stretches out, infinite to Rafferty, until she breaks it by stubbing her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray.

"The boy will be wanting the couch," she says. "We should give him the room."

"You bet," Rafferty says, leaping up. "Poor kid's probably exhausted."

"And you need to sleep." She tosses her things into the big purse, as always in no discernible order.

"Not so's you'd notice," Rafferty says.

Her hands are still, but her face is downturned, shrouded by the fall of dark hair. "I heard what you said."

Sweat prickles Rafferty's underarms. "Thank God. I'm not sure I could say it twice."

"It needs a lot of thought."

"Are you saying you'll actually think about it?"

She raises her face to his, her features as smooth as stone. "How could I not honor such a suggestion with thought?"

"Hah," Rafferty says, unable to think of a single word in any language. Eventually he dredges one up. "So."

"So," Rose echoes.

"So I guess the important thing is not to…you know, change things while we think about it. Not break our usual routines."

"Such as what?"

"Such as we go into the other room and you get to start out on top. As long as it doesn't lead to any misunderstanding about who's really in charge."

She rises to her full six feet, lifting the purse as effortlessly as if it contained a quart of soap foam. "I think we both understand very clearly who's in charge," she says. She takes two steps toward him and brushes her lips against his, then turns to the bedroom door. With her hand on the knob, she turns back to him. "Definitely a goat," she says.