39

Rafferty says, “I like the hair.”

Miaow says, “Really? You’re not just trying to make me feel better? You don’t think it looks dumb? And fake?”

Rose says in Thai, “It’s very stylish. It’s not supposed to look real, Miaow, not any more than lipstick is. And it catches the light well. Lots of highlights.”

“Honest? I mean, you really think so? Do you think the kids at school will, um…?”

“If they don’t like it,” Rafferty says, “it’ll just be because they’re envious.”

“Oh, come on,” Miaow says.

Rose says, “It makes you look older.”

The morning light pours in through the sliding door to the balcony, bouncing off the glass top of the coffee table to create a rectangle of sunlight on the ceiling. Other than the sunlight, nothing in the apartment is moving. The small tape recorder is hooked up, via its expensive connectors, to Rafferty’s amplifier, and the voices come out of the bookshelf speakers on either side of the empty room.

Down on the fourth floor, Rose says, in person, “This is ridiculous. It’s way too big.”

She is wearing a gray uniform jacket and matching slacks. The slacks have a black stripe down each side. Under the jacket are a white shirt and a black clip-on tie. Her shoes are cheap black lace-ups with rubber soles.

“Hair down inside your shirt,” Rafferty says. “All of it. Tie it back with a rubber band or something.”

“So? Everything will still be too big.” She pulls at the waistband of the pants. “I’m swimming in it.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be.” Rafferty goes behind her and tries to gather her hair between his hands but gives up immediately. “Two-hand job,” he says. “I’m disqualified.”

“Do you actually think this will work?” She has tugged the back of the shirt away from her neck and is stuffing hair down inside it. “I look like a clown.”

“It’ll happen fast,” he says, “and we’ll set it up. Like a bluff in poker. They’ll see what we want them to see. They’ll hear a male voice just before they see you. They’ll put it together themselves and see a man for the three or four seconds you’re visible. And don’t forget, there will be other stuff going on.”

“But why is everything so big? Did Kosit get the wrong size?”

“No. You and Miaow each have three shirts, two pairs of pants, an extra pair of shoes, a couple of towels, and the other stuff on the list, right?”

“I put it together myself.”

“And you brought the wide scarf I took out of your closet.”

“It’s a shawl,” she says, “and yes, I have it, although I can’t imagine where I’m going to wear a cashmere shawl when I’m supposed to be running for my life.”

“You’re going to wear it under your shirt, tied around your middle. With all those extra clothes inside it. You’re going to be a guy with a gut. And the uniform will fit once you’ve got your belly on.”

She gives the collar a tug and puts on the cap. “So?” she says. “Is it me?”

“Tilt the cap back a little bit to close the gap between it and the collar.”

Rose uses both hands to reset the cap, being careful not to allow any hair to fall out of it. “Maybe I should just cut it off.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll bobby-pin the cap so it can’t slip.”

“Listen to you,” she says. “I married a hairdresser.”

“You wish.”

“Poor Arthit,” Rose says. “How will he get by? She was the only thing he loved in the world.”

“I have to find him,” Rafferty says.

“Let him lick his wounds. He’s not someone who asks for help.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to give him some. And I have to see whether there’s any way I can get him out of this jam with Thanom. Especially since it’s basically my fault.”

His cell phone rings. “Put the shawl on the table and put the stuff on it,” he says. “Try to get it even. You don’t want a lumpy stomach.” He opens the phone and says, “Yeah?”

“Snakeskin Industries,” Floyd Preece says. “Am I good or what?”

“I don’t know, Floyd. What’s Snakeskin Industries?”

“A snakeskin. It’s something that’s empty when it’s left behind. It’s the company that owned the factory that burned down, the one that made Buffy the Bunny, remember?”

“I remember. But I also remember, from reading the newspapers, that it was empty-it was a holding company that was held by another holding company, and nobody could identify any of the officers.”

“Yeah, well, Snakeskin didn’t own it when it burned down.”

“I’m not following you. You just said-”

“You’re right about the cops; they couldn’t find anything about the company that owned the place when the fire happened. The American corporation that made the bunnies or whatever they were leased the place, and the company they leased it from was a system of double and triple blinds. But eighteen months later the factory, the shell of it anyway, was sold, and the company it was sold to, the company that sold it a second time, was Snakeskin Industries.”

“I guess that’s interesting. Sort of.”

“Oh, it’s interesting,” Preece says. “Because of who Snakeskin sold it to.”

Rafferty waits for a second or two and then says, “This is an irritating pause.”

“They sold it to Pan.”

Rafferty watches Rose pile Miaow’s and her things in even layers as he thinks. “You’re right,” he says, “that qualifies as interesting. It’ll be even more interesting if you know who owns Snakeskin.”

“I don’t know who the Thai principal is, but a special permit was issued to Snakeskin Industries to operate in Thailand under partial foreign ownership.”

“Foreign as in?”

“As in a guy named Tatsuya Kanazawa. And, as you might guess from the name, old Tatsuya isn’t Thai.”

“Japanese,” Rafferty says, and a little jolt of electricity fizzes through him. “Is he-did you read anything about him being yakuza?”

“No,” Preece says patiently. “But it’s still morning.”

“And there was nothing on the other partner, the Thai partner?”

“No again. But Tatsuya’s part owner of another business in Bangkok, too.”

“Let me guess,” Rafferty says. “Steel.”

“Awwwww,” Preece says. “Tell me you didn’t already know all this.”

“You’ve done great, Floyd.”

“Money,” Preece says. “You were supposed to give me some last night.”

“I’ll call you later and let you know where to meet me.”

“You’d better,” Preece says. “Or I won’t tell you the rest of it.” He hangs up.

“I don’t know about this,” Rose says, looking down at the strata of stuff she’s spread over the shawl.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rafferty says. “You’re going to be a great-looking fat guy.”

“IT’S HOT DOWN here,” says the man who’s been assigned to Rose. “Gotta be thirty-one, thirty-two degrees.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Captain Teeth says on the other end of the phone.

“All I’m saying, why can’t we take turns? One of us goes to get cool for a few minutes, then comes back and-”

“Not the plan,” Captain Teeth says. “The man wants everybody on the job.”

“Well, what are they doing? Does it sound like they’re coming out or what?”

“They’re sitting around talking about hair color.”

“Must be the little girl. She had it dyed red a day or two ago.”

“Apparently it looks great,” Captain Teeth says. “Stay where you are.” He closes the phone and drops it onto the console.

Out on the street in front of Rafferty’s apartment house, the man who’s been assigned to Rose watches a few street kids float by. Five or six of them. They’ve been up and down the street a couple of times, just straggling along, peering through the windows of parked cars and generally looking for trouble. One of them had asked him for money, and the man had shown the kids the back of his hand and told them to beat it. But they were back.