The Fear Artist (3 page)

“Well, no,” Andrew says, wiping the fingertip on his jeans. “She hasn’t … umm, she hasn’t phoned me.”

“She’s only been gone two—”

“And when I phone her, I get her voice mail.” Andrew blinks again and pushes at the glasses, even though they haven’t moved a fraction of an inch, and in the gesture Rafferty recognizes loneliness.

“She doesn’t have her phone,” he says, a bit more gently.

“Whoa,” Andrew says, tilting back. “That’s kind of raw.”

“It’s not a punishment, Andrew. She’s in a two-buffalo town in the middle of nowhere, and the phone would probably be useless.” He doesn’t add that Rose had insisted on it, saying she wasn’t going to spend the entire visit apologizing to her mother because all Miaow does is text.

“Huh?” Andrew screws up his eyes. “I thought Mrs. Rafferty’s family had a big estate, with … you know, farms and everything.”

Rafferty feels like someone watching a movie in a foreign language at the moment the subtitles disappear. “Right,” he says, his mind on full spin, trying to reconcile the “estate” Miaow has conjured up with the one-room thatched hut in which Rose grew up. “Um, rice paddies and huts for the farmers and a little river.” At least he’s not lying. That’s pretty much everything there is in Rose’s village.

“But no cellular,” Andrew says.

“They’re … they’re
older
,” Rafferty improvises, wondering why he’s elaborating on what is clearly a whopper of a lie. “You know, they can’t even work the remote.”

“They’ve got a TV but no cell service?”

“One thing you’re not, Andrew—you’re not dumb.” Rafferty looks over Andrew’s head at the elevator, wishing he could cross the hall and get into it. “That’s a really good point, and the answer is yes. They have TV but no cell service. That’s exactly what they’ve got. And listen, there’s nothing I’d rather do than stand around at my front door and chat with you, but I have places to go, and—”

“Where?”

“A
bar
, Andrew. I intend to go to a bar. Why? Would you like to come?”

“I’m too young,” Andrew says with perfect seriousness.

“By golly, you are. And I was looking forward to taking you with me. How are you getting home?”

Andrew blinks, so perhaps the question wasn’t as diplomatic as Rafferty hoped it was. “My father’s driver. He’s waiting.”

“Your father’s—”

“Driver.”

“Well,” Rafferty says as the reasons behind Miaow’s lie become apparent. “How nice. Listen, she’ll be back in four or five days, and if Rose calls me—I mean, if she finds a cellular signal somewhere and calls me—I’ll tell her to ask Miaow to call you. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Andrew says. He shuffles his feet from side to side, and Rafferty has a sudden urge to hug him. “That’d be cool.” He takes a step back, although he seems to have chosen the direction at random. He’s clearly lost. “I kind of miss her,” he says.

“Me, too,” Rafferty says. “I miss her a lot.”

“Even though she’s sort of … you know.”

Rafferty says, “Do I ever.”

“She’s got a shirt just like that one.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Rafferty says. “
I’ve
got a shirt like this one, and she steals it.”

“Ahh,” Andrew says, and this time he turns around. “Okay, thanks, Mr. Rafferty. Maybe she’ll call me.”

“I’m sure she will. Bye, Andrew.”

He watches the kid cross the hall, the cuffs of the jeans flapping around and threatening to trip him with every step, and in the big head and the narrow shoulders he sees what Miaow may like, or even love, about him.

Andrew needs her.

Rafferty waits until the elevator arrives and the doors have closed behind Andrew before he says, “Well, I need her, too.”

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
he jams the damp wad of paint-stiff clothes down the trash chute to the basement and pushes the button for the elevator.

As he hits the street and opens Rose’s umbrella, he feels a bit of the old tingle, the little carbonated fizz of anticipation he’d felt all those years ago, when he first arrived, when Bangkok was just one jaw-dropper after another. When he spoke none of the language, when he might as well have been blind for all the sense the signs made to him. When he felt that the odds were fifty-fifty, each time he went down a new street, that it would be dedicated to holiness—temple carvers, amulet makers, gold-leaf hammerers—or hedonism—bars, restaurants, flamboyant neon signifying the falloff edge of his middle-class map of life. Whether the people on the sidewalks would be housewives toting plastic bags full of groceries or children playing tag or transsexual hookers gossiping as they waited for dark. When it felt like the whole city changed every time he went out, as though they knocked it down behind him and built it up in front of him.

Before he met Rose.

It’s only a couple of extremely wet blocks from their apartment
to the point at which Patpong 1 empties into Silom and the usual snarl of traffic, slowed by the line of taxis and
tuk-tuks
waiting for the sweltering hordes and their compensated companions for the evening. Patpong had its best days, if the adjective is applicable, decades ago, but it retains a kind of overstimulated, faintly gangrenous energy, and the street between the bars is jammed, despite the weather, with sex tourists, gawkers of both sexes, and the ever-present 10 percent of hypocrites who pretend they came to browse the junk on sale in the night market that stretches down the center of the street and are shocked—
shocked
, do you hear?—to discover all these bars full of rowdy, half-naked women who seem unusually friendly. There’s no way, the hypocrites’ body language announces, that they’d have come here if they’d known what a
sewer
it was.

They’re usually the ones who stay forever.

It’s kind of melancholy, Rafferty thinks as he picks a path between the drunk and distracted and tries to avoid the chill little waterfalls off the plastic sheeting over the stands, that he has so few friends at this point that the best thing he can think to do, on his second evening alone, is to spend time with a bunch of aging sexpats. The
family
, this totally unexpected and all-consuming planetary cluster of Rose, Miaow, and Poke, has absorbed him so completely that he has almost no relationships outside it.

With a guilty pang, he sees the face of his best friend, Arthit, but Arthit is out of contention these days if what Rafferty wants is some light, meaningless male bonding. Since the death of Arthit’s wife, Noi, his friend’s spirit seems to have dimmed like a candle under a glass. Rafferty worries about him, even though Arthit has apparently put the heavy grief drinking behind him, but, to be brutally honest, a couple of hours tiptoeing around Arthit’s heartbreak isn’t what Poke has in mind tonight, after … after the day he’s had. He’ll see Arthit, he tells himself, tomorrow.

If he were being honest with himself, he thinks, he’s actually afraid to be alone after what happened on that painted sidewalk. A murder in plain daylight, denied—by a cop—before the body cools.

What he needs now is dumb stuff. Guys arguing with complete
conviction over things they don’t care about. A few beers to befriend the two he drank at the apartment.

The Expat Bar.

A holdover from the 1970s, when Patpong was full of small bars that actually made most of their money by selling alcohol as opposed to skin, the Expat Bar is jammed between a coffee shop and a big, forever-cursed space that seems to be a disco this week and will probably be empty again next week. The bar staked its narrow claim fifty-plus years ago, and some of its patrons have been sitting at it ever since.

“Zo,” Leon Hofstedler says in Wagnerian English even before Rafferty lets go of the door, “Poke comes. Look, people, look who finds ze key to his cage tonight.”

“Can I use it to get in?” Bob Campeau asks. Campeau has been a bit edgy with Rafferty ever since he took Rose off the market, as Campeau puts it, although Rose says she never met him.

“You could,” Rafferty says. “But you wouldn’t get out alive. Anyway, the birds have flown.”

Campeau returns to his depressive survey of the bar’s battered surface, every square millimeter of which he could probably draw blindfolded.

Hofstedler, who’s been a regular for so long that his name is engraved on a brass plate on the back of his stool, swivels to face Poke. “Would it be rude to ask—”

“Yes, it would,” Rafferty says. “Hi, Toots.”

The bartender, a cheery, ageless Thai woman whose real name has been lost since before clocks began to run, gives him a smile bright enough to make him blink. “Beer Singha,” she says with the certainty of someone who pulls out a plum every time she puts in her thumb. “Big one.”

“Zo,” Hofstedler says as Poke climbs onto the only empty stool at the bar. He tilts his stool back so he can swivel into position again without knocking the bar over with his belly. “Ze lovely Rose and ze little one, her name will come to me, zey haff gone”—he puts his fingertips to his temples and closes his eyes—“up north,” he says in a tone of profound mystery. “Yes?”

“You’re amazing, Leon.” Rafferty takes the bottle, served
without a glass, as he used to order it all those years ago, and makes the sign of the cross over Toots. “May your children have children,” he says.

“Have already,” Toots says. “Many, many.”

“Why, you’re a child yourself,” Rafferty says.

“She’s taken,” Campeau says sourly. He’s as gaunt as Hofstedler is fat, the kind of thin that announces he’s never tasted anything he liked.

Toots wiggles her eyebrows. “Not every night.”

“I don’t know what you’ve got,” Campeau says to Rafferty, “but I wish you’d lose it.”

“Miaow,”
Hofstedler says triumphantly. His conversational principle is that no discussion actually exists unless he’s a part of it, which makes it impossible for him to interrupt anyone. “I am right, yes?”

“Flown north,” Rafferty says, “as you so cannily deduced. So what’s the news?”

“King’s Group bars,” Campeau says immediately. He lifts a hand and lets it land flat on the bar with a thwack. “Raised the bar fine. Six hundred baht, can you believe it. Just to get the girl out the door. I remember when all night long didn’t—”

“Two dollars,” Hofstedler says. “Toots?” Toots bends down beneath the bar and comes up with a big brandy snifter half full of loose one-dollar bills. “Zis is a new rule,” Hofstedler continues for Poke’s benefit. “Two dollars every time somebody says ‘I remember when.’ ”

Campeau drops a thousand-baht bill into the snifter and makes change, very decidedly in his favor.

“And the principle is?” Rafferty says.

“To keep us from haffing ze same conversation we’ve been haffing zince Nixon was president—”

“That crook,” says the Growing Younger Man, sitting in his usual spot at the far end of the bar. He looks up at everyone, his eyebrows yanked higher than Lucille Ball’s by his most recent face lift. “Just saying,” he adds apologetically.

“But why?” Rafferty asks. “It was a perfectly good conversation. I had it many times.”

“They want six hundred baht,” Campeau repeats in a tone sharp enough to etch glass. “And me on a fixed income.”

“That’s awful,” Rafferty says, putting a little extra on it.

“Easy for you to say,” Campeau snarls, “considering what you’ve got at home.”

Rafferty smiles. “Careful, Bob.”

“Toots,” Hofstedler says soothingly, “top Bob up, would you? Put it on my tab.”

“So.” Rafferty is already tiring of his night out. “What does anybody hear about the Red Shirts? Or riots in general?”

Toots gets very busy polishing beer mugs.

“Red Shirts are mostly lying low, since the new prime minister was elected, hoping she’s the miracle that will solve everything,” the Growing Younger Man says. “I was with a girl three or four days ago, says her village has a couple of Red Shirt biggies in it, organizers, and they’re just staying in the house. Playing cards, she says. Nobody wants to put the new prime minister on the spot. Not yet anyway.”

“Girl from where?” Campeau asks, drawn from his sulk by the only topic that interests him.

“Rainbow 2, over at Nana.”

“You’re shitting me. That place is
ruined
, all those Japanese guys, paying two thousand, three thousand—”

“Where’s the village?” Rafferty asks, mostly to shut Campeau up.

“Isaan.” The Growing Younger Man tears the top off a small packet and empties a fine green powder into his glass. He clinks his ring against it, and Toots puts down a very well-polished mug and hurries to take the glass. “Practically in Laos,” he says, his eyes on Toots as though he’s on the lookout for knockout drops. He raises a hand to tell them all that he’ll be back after the commercial and leans forward to watch her pour two fingers of bourbon into his glass and top it off with steaming water from a heat pump. She wraps a napkin around it and carries it to him. It’s a green that Rafferty doesn’t really want to look at, the color of spring gone wrong. “Probably
was
in Laos fifty years ago,” the Growing Younger Man continues, studying the glass. “Uttaradit, up where that bird’s-beak piece of Laos pokes into Thai territory.”

“I know where it is. Heard about anything, any demonstrations in Bangkok?”

“You will not,” Hofstedler says. “Never. If two hundred people were rioting upstairs in ze King’s Castle right now—across ze
street
—we would never hear of it. There would be zecret people, people without uniforms, everywhere. Every tourist with a camera would haff to give it up. Now we haff ze zecret cops.”

“It’s not the Red Shirts anymore,” the Growing Younger Man says. “These days when there’s a crowd of people throwing things, it’s either Buddhists from down south screaming for people to control the Muslims or it’s Muslims screaming that they’re the victims of prejudice. Either side, they come up to Bangkok and shout for attention. Get a bunch of people tramping the streets now, that’s probably what it’s going to be about.”

Rafferty says, “Really.”

“And it’s not all Thais either. There’s a lot of outside players.” The Growing Younger Man stirs the drink, studying it for something, perhaps a chemical reaction. “Every country that’s ever had a bomb go off. And then there’s all the international business interests. Multinationals, American, German, even Chinese. Lot of big money depends on Thai people turning up for work and their factories not getting blown up or burned down. So no, not just the Red Shirts anymore.”