Breathing Water by Timothy Hallinan

of them you’re taking care of.”
    Pan brings the scarred hands back together. All Rafferty can see is the Elvis-black hair and the silver grizzle on the chin. “Who else will?” Pan says.
    “I didn’t think you liked prostitutes.”
    “You were wrong. It’s farang I don’t like. Those women and me, we’re mushrooms, sprung from the same shit. They’re my sisters for life. ‘Whore’ is just a word for something they have to do for a while.”
    “Do you mean that?”
    “Look at me,” Pan says. He opens his desk drawer, pulls out a tube of lip balm, and applies it. “Look how handsome I am. Am I any better than they are?”
    Rafferty thinks, No , and he’s heard enough. “We need to talk.” He moves his head a quarter of an inch in Dr. Ravi’s direction. “Alone.”
    Pan’s glistening mouth contracts as though he’s about to whistle. Dr. Ravi sputters.
    Pan says, in English, “Go.”
    “Khun Pan,” Dr. Ravi says, “I don’t advise—”
    “If I have to get up and push you out the door,” Pan says, “I’ll probably break your back.”
    “Very well.” Rafferty can hear Dr. Ravi’s lips tighten around the words. Then the door closes.
    Rafferty says, “I’m going to put my life in your hands.”
    Pan is watching the door as though he’s trying to see through it. He seems to be listening, but not to Rafferty. After ten or fifteen seconds, he nods and says, “Why would you do that?”
    “Because my wife thinks you’re a great man.”
    “Women are bad judges of character.”
    “Oh, turn it off. You’ve already outraged me. Give it a rest.”
    Pan puts his fingertips to his temples and rubs circles, about the sizeof a quarter. “This is about why you don’t want the million baht.”
    “Actually, the million baht confuses me.”
    “Why? A million is a thousand thousands, right? What’s confusing?”
    “I had a threatening call this morning, telling me not to write the book.”
    The circles stop. “You did? Who—Oh, oh, I see. No, not me. I don’t do things that way.”
    “You used to. Back in the old days.”
    “Think about it,” Pan says. “I have someone threaten you this morning—what? Four, five hours ago?”
    “Something like that.”
    “And then I ask you to come here so I can offer you money. Without even waiting to see if you’ve been scared off. Does that make sense?”
    “Then you have no idea who—”
    “None. But I’ll think about it. So,” Pan says, leaning back in a relaxed position for the first time, “are you going to write the book or not? The million’s still on the table.”
    “It’ll have to stay there. I had two conversations this morning, not one. In the second chat, my life and the lives of my wife and daughter were threatened if I don’t write the book.”
    He jerks forward as though Rafferty had yanked a rope tied around his chest. “If you don’t —”
    “And the book they want me to write is probably not the monument of your dreams.”
    Pan settles back in the chair. The wet-looking eyes go from side to side for a second, as though Rafferty were moving, and then something ignites in them. He leans forward again, almost eagerly, and says, “Who?”
    “I don’t know. But they’re serious.” He tells Pan about the snatch in front of Miaow’s school and what followed.
    “Do you have the list?”
    “Sure.” He hands it across the desk.
    Pan scans it, and the color mounts in his face. “No,” he says. “Not the book I’d want.” His eyes come up from the page. “Do you know any of these people?”
    “I recognize some of the names. Anyone would.”
    “Spiders, the bunch of them.” Pan passes the side of a scarred handacross the page as though he could erase the names. “Bloated, greedy, venomous. They suck people dry and spit out the husks. Strip the land, poison the rivers, turn men into drunks and women into whores. Buy rice at low prices and sell it at high ones. Let people starve and count the money.” He fills his