The Fourth Watcher

17

"Rafferty?” Prettyman says, knitting his brow in a way that would make most people look thoughtful. “The same last name as you?”

“He’s my father, Arnold,” Rafferty says, trying not to grind his teeth. “As I told you a minute ago. Maybe you should speak English more often.”

Prettyman tears his eyes away from the front door of the bar. He’s been watching it the same way Leung watched the door of the restaurant, and probably for the same reason. Eighteen years’ worth of CIA training dies hard.

Ignored by both of them, three lightly clad girls dance listlessly on the stage. Except for their shoes, which are high-heeled, calf-hugging boots, they are saving a fortune on clothes. They shuffle their feet and hang on to the vertical chrome poles as they endure “Walk of Life” for the three-thousandth time. Their exposed skin, and there is quite a lot of it, is goose-bumped; the bar is aggressively air-conditioned. Rose once told Rafferty the bar owners kept the places cold so the girls’ nipples would stand out.

One of the girls wears a large triangular plastic watch, and the others glance at it from time to time. Two of the bar’s other main attractions sit in the laps of overweight customers, and another has been sufficiently lucky, or unlucky, to be taken behind the curtain in one of the booths.

“So you’re asking me to check up on your father?” Prettyman asks, having apparently reviewed the conversation in his mind. His eyes flick to Rafferty’s for confirmation. “Not a very close family, is it?”

“I barely remember the man,” Rafferty says, wishing it were true. “He disappeared into China more than twenty years ago. Not a lot of cards and letters. But here’s the thing, Arnold. He’s got-how should I put this? — he’s got skills.”

“Living in China for those particular years would take some skills,” Prettyman says listlessly. A Steely Dan riff punches its way through the speakers, and he turns to eye the girls onstage as though he is wondering about their Blue Book value. “Where in China?”

“Shanghai and Shenzhen. Yunnan, Fujian. Also, apparently, a little time in Pailin. In Cambodia.” Frank had mentioned Pailin in the tuktuk on the way to the restaurant.

Prettyman looks remotely interested for the first time. “Pailin is old Khmer Rouge and rubies. Fujian is people smuggling. Shanghai and Shenzhen are everything we can both think of, and lots we can’t. You think it’s any of that?”

“For all I know he makes Garfield the Cat in a plush-toy factory. That’s what I’m asking you to find out, Arnold.” He decides, on the fly, that the word “triad” might dampen Prettyman’s enthusiasm. Such as it is.

Prettyman’s lifeless eyes go back to the door. Then he says, “Money, of course.”

“Of course. Twenty thousand now and twenty more when you come through.”

“Thirty. When I come through, thirty.”

“I’m a little squeezed at the moment, Arnold.” Nothing like understatement.

Prettyman nods. “Then you’ll owe me.”

One of the girls onstage stumbles, grabs the arm of the one next to her, and they both go down, laughing, in a tangle of elbows, thighs, and buttocks. Rafferty turns at the sound.

“You want one?” Prettyman is following Poke’s gaze. “Add it to your tab.”

“Thanks anyway, Arnold. I’m sort of booked up.”

“Suit yourself.” Prettyman regards the girls another moment, looking like a man counting his change, then seems to come to a decision. “China,” Prettyman says. “I’m still connected in China. I don’t know about that money, though. Seems pretty short.”

Rafferty touches Prettyman’s arm, and Prettyman yanks it back, all the way off the table. “Arnold. I’m not in a mood to be fucked around with. It’ll cost exactly what I said it would cost.”

Prettyman says, “Or?”

“Or,” Rafferty says. “This is a nice bar. Mirrors, sound system, lots of liquor, those fancy booths, everything. Lot of cash sunk into this room. Cops would line up to bend you over a barrel for a higher cut. I know a lot of cops, Arnold.” It’s not exactly true, but it’s enough to make Prettyman purse his lips. Then he shakes his head slowly, a man who has grown used to disappointment.

“No bargaining, no give-and-take,” Prettyman says, and sighs. “None of the old back-and-forth. It’s not the same world, is it, Poke?”

“I doubt it ever was.”

“Maybe not.” Prettyman looks depressed.

“One more thing, Arnold.” Rafferty taps the table for emphasis. “What you find out, whatever it is. It belongs to me. It is not capital. It’s not for sale, loan, or affectionate sharing. The man may be one of the world’s premium assholes, he may be the leading sphincter on the planet, but he’s still my father. This is bought and paid for by me, not merchandise for additional profit.”

Prettyman turns to him, gives him the full blue-eyed treatment. “Poke,” he says, “don’t you trust me?”

Rafferty looks at him.

Prettyman shrugs and turns back to the door. “Just asking,” he says.