system.”
“Some people are Ferraris,” Rafferty says, “and some are Land Rovers.”
“And some are in the Bangkok Sun and the World ,” Arthit says. “And a couple of the Thai-language papers, too.”
“Wait. What’s in the paper?”
“You and Pan,” Arthit says. “You’re big news.”
Rafferty puts down the cup. “Let me go get the papers,” he says. “I’ll call you back.”
THERE HE IS: page three in the Sun and page seven in the World . The Sun even has a dark, fuzzy picture, cribbed from the color shot on the back of Rafferty’s book Looking for Trouble in Thailand but oddly mutated by being cheaply converted into a black-and-white halftone.
“I look like an ax murderer,” Rafferty says.
“With all due respect,” Arthit says on the other end of the phone, “how you look is the least of your problems.”
“No,” Rafferty says. “How you look is the least of my problems. How I look is a matter of some concern. Who talked to the press?”
“None of them. They don’t have this kind of clout. One of them, probably Vinai, talked to someone who does have this kind of clout.”
“Why Vinai?”
“He’s the one who brought Pan.”
“And why don’t you think he made the call himself?”
“As I said, clout. By the time the game ended, the papers were coming up on deadline. It took somebody with weight to get the stories into the morning editions. And then look at what’s not in the story. The card game, any hint of resistance on Pan’s part—practically everything is missing except the fact that a farang has been selected to write Pan’s biography, with Pan’s blessing.”
“So what does that mean?”
Arthit says, “I don’t know yet.”
Rafferty’s adopted daughter, Miaow, comes into the living room, her hair wet and pasted to her head from her morning shower, on her way to another challenging day of fourth grade. She has been detached and even sullen lately, but she’s sufficiently surprised to see Rafferty—who’s not often up at this hour—to give him a startled little wave. Then she damps down her enthusiasm and heads for the kitchen.
“My phone’s been ringing all morning,” Rafferty says to Arthit.
“Oh, sure. This is news. Bangkok’s most profligate billionaire, the guy who gold-plated his Rolls-Royce and is known not to care for farang , has suddenly given one of them the right to tell his story.”
As if on cue, the other phone begins to ring.
“There’s my public,” Rafferty says. “Do you know somebody on the Sun , a reporter called Eloise or Eleanor or something?”
“Elora?” Arthit asks. Miaow comes into the room with a can of Coke in one hand and an orange in the other and starts toward the ringing phone. Rafferty holds up a hand to stop her.
“That’s it,” he says to Arthit. “Elora.”
“Elora Weecherat,” Arthit says. “Business section. Looks like a fashion model, but she’s as tough as nails.”
Miaow tucks the orange under her chin and picks up the phone, ignoring Rafferty’s attempt to wave her off. “Yeah?” she says.
“Is she pro or con on Pan?” Rafferty asks.
“She’s got a kind of horrified fascination,” Arthit says. “Mainly because of all the girls.”
Miaow says, “He’s on the other phone. This is his daughter.”
Hearing Miaow refer to herself as his daughter makes Rafferty smile, although he knows she won’t like his smile any more than sheseems to like anything else these days. “What’s she going to think when I quit?”
“ Are you going to quit?”
“No,” Miaow says, in the put-upon tone Rafferty’s been hearing a lot of. “I won’t write down a number. I’m eating breakfast. Call him back.” She hangs up and takes the orange out from under her chin, and her eyes drift to the newspapers on the table.
“I thought we’d decided that last night,” Rafferty says. “I’m going to call him today and tell him I changed my mind.”
“Just checking,” Arthit says. “I
“Some people are Ferraris,” Rafferty says, “and some are Land Rovers.”
“And some are in the Bangkok Sun and the World ,” Arthit says. “And a couple of the Thai-language papers, too.”
“Wait. What’s in the paper?”
“You and Pan,” Arthit says. “You’re big news.”
Rafferty puts down the cup. “Let me go get the papers,” he says. “I’ll call you back.”
THERE HE IS: page three in the Sun and page seven in the World . The Sun even has a dark, fuzzy picture, cribbed from the color shot on the back of Rafferty’s book Looking for Trouble in Thailand but oddly mutated by being cheaply converted into a black-and-white halftone.
“I look like an ax murderer,” Rafferty says.
“With all due respect,” Arthit says on the other end of the phone, “how you look is the least of your problems.”
“No,” Rafferty says. “How you look is the least of my problems. How I look is a matter of some concern. Who talked to the press?”
“None of them. They don’t have this kind of clout. One of them, probably Vinai, talked to someone who does have this kind of clout.”
“Why Vinai?”
“He’s the one who brought Pan.”
“And why don’t you think he made the call himself?”
“As I said, clout. By the time the game ended, the papers were coming up on deadline. It took somebody with weight to get the stories into the morning editions. And then look at what’s not in the story. The card game, any hint of resistance on Pan’s part—practically everything is missing except the fact that a farang has been selected to write Pan’s biography, with Pan’s blessing.”
“So what does that mean?”
Arthit says, “I don’t know yet.”
Rafferty’s adopted daughter, Miaow, comes into the living room, her hair wet and pasted to her head from her morning shower, on her way to another challenging day of fourth grade. She has been detached and even sullen lately, but she’s sufficiently surprised to see Rafferty—who’s not often up at this hour—to give him a startled little wave. Then she damps down her enthusiasm and heads for the kitchen.
“My phone’s been ringing all morning,” Rafferty says to Arthit.
“Oh, sure. This is news. Bangkok’s most profligate billionaire, the guy who gold-plated his Rolls-Royce and is known not to care for farang , has suddenly given one of them the right to tell his story.”
As if on cue, the other phone begins to ring.
“There’s my public,” Rafferty says. “Do you know somebody on the Sun , a reporter called Eloise or Eleanor or something?”
“Elora?” Arthit asks. Miaow comes into the room with a can of Coke in one hand and an orange in the other and starts toward the ringing phone. Rafferty holds up a hand to stop her.
“That’s it,” he says to Arthit. “Elora.”
“Elora Weecherat,” Arthit says. “Business section. Looks like a fashion model, but she’s as tough as nails.”
Miaow tucks the orange under her chin and picks up the phone, ignoring Rafferty’s attempt to wave her off. “Yeah?” she says.
“Is she pro or con on Pan?” Rafferty asks.
“She’s got a kind of horrified fascination,” Arthit says. “Mainly because of all the girls.”
Miaow says, “He’s on the other phone. This is his daughter.”
Hearing Miaow refer to herself as his daughter makes Rafferty smile, although he knows she won’t like his smile any more than sheseems to like anything else these days. “What’s she going to think when I quit?”
“ Are you going to quit?”
“No,” Miaow says, in the put-upon tone Rafferty’s been hearing a lot of. “I won’t write down a number. I’m eating breakfast. Call him back.” She hangs up and takes the orange out from under her chin, and her eyes drift to the newspapers on the table.
“I thought we’d decided that last night,” Rafferty says. “I’m going to call him today and tell him I changed my mind.”
“Just checking,” Arthit says. “I
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