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.”

“Unseal it, then. Unseal it and read it to me.”

Brigitte shifts from foot to foot, obviously wishing she were elsewhere. “I’m not sure I should.”

“Whoever sent it to me probably wants me to know what it says, right?”

“Well…I suppose.”

“Then open it and read it to me. I can promise you that if you don’t, it will probably be weeks before I get around to opening it myself. I have far too much on my hands.” He rips out another page of another report and folds it lengthwise, already visualizing a triangular tuck in the tail section that might make the staple redundant. Staples seem like cheating.

“Well.” Brigitte chews the inside of her cheek. Then she opens the envelope, which is not in fact sealed; the flap has merely been slipped inside. “It’s…um, it’s a Form 74.”

“Really. And a Form 74 is?”

“Leave. It’s the form granting compassionate leave.”

“Ah,” Arthit says. He creases the page with his thumbnail to sharpen the fold. “Does it say when the leave begins?”

“It starts today,” Brigitte says. She blinks rapidly, and for a moment Arthit is afraid she will burst into tears. “In fact, it starts now.”

Arthit says, “Mmm-hmm.” He launches the plane, which sails across the room rewardingly. “And is there anything about how long this compassion will last?”

“Until further notice,” Brigitte says.

“That’s a very generous serving of compassion,” Arthit says. “Definitely something to remember.”

I hope you know what a big favor this is,” grumbles the man behind the desk. Through the floor-to-ceiling window with the desk positioned in its center, Rafferty sees the silvered windows of the office tower across the street.

“And I hope you know how much I appreciate it,” Rafferty says to Wichat with the smallest smile he can manage. “The people who want this book written feel you might have a special perspective on Pan.”

“I was around,” Wichat says. His shoulders are hunched and high, and it looks protective. “I was just a foot soldier then, but I was around.”

“That’s not what I hear. I hear you were already on the way up.”

Wichat shakes his head. “The big guy then was Chai. He was generous with his men. He took care of me. I did what he needed done, and he took care of me.” Wichat tilts the chair back, dangerously close to the plate glass behind him.

“Doesn’t that scare you? It’s, what, twenty-eight stories down?”

Wichat says, “Nothing scares me.”

“Well, lucky you. Did anything scare Pan?”

“If it did, he didn’t show it. He could have been pissing his pants, but he looked like something carved into that wall of his. Nothing showed except what he wanted to show. Had a way of bringing down the corners of his mouth so hard they almost touched. Scared the shit out of people.”

“You knew him when he made the move, right? The move to the massage parlors.”

“The Mound of Venus,” Wichat says lightly, as though he’s been asked an unexpectedly easy question. “Sure.”

“Where’d he get the money?”

Wichat picks up a battered pack of cigarettes and tweezes one out between his first and second fingers. He puts it in his mouth and picks up a gold lighter. “Trying to quit,” he says.

“Yeah, well, lighting one is a surefire method.”

“I don’t light as many as I used to,” Wichat says, blowing a plume of smoke across the desk. “Don’t smoke them so far down either.”