Free The Queen of Patpong by Timothy Hallinan Page A

against his. “I just want . . . I just want to . . . to be like everybody. I want people to like me. I don’t want to get up every morning with my stomach all feeling like it’s got ice and glass in it, and have to smile at you and Rose before I go to school, and wish all day I could be back in bed and pull up the covers. I’m not big like you. I’m not brave. I need friends. I want . . . I want . . .”
    “You are brave,” Rafferty says. “You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. And you know what? About those kids? They’ll like you when they know you better. Look at you, you’re younger than they are because you skipped a grade, and you’re not real tall yet, so you look even younger. And so maybe they’re kind of snobbish, you know? Maybe they think it actually means something that their parents have money. Maybe they’ve had little tiny lives and all they’re comfortable with is stuff that’s familiar to them. And you’re different. Maybe they’re a little afraid of you.” He holds her at arm’s length. “Do you know what I’m saying?”
    “I’m not brave,” she says, but she’s not crying anymore.
    “What you have to do,” he says, “is remember that you’ve had four or five lives already, compared to them. They’re the babies. You know more about the world right now than they will when they’re thirty. Just go to school in the morning, knowing that you understand things about real life, not just school life, that they’ve never had a hint of. And know that you’re big enough to forgive them, without them even knowing you’ve done it.”
    She stands there, all four feet of her, waiting for something Rafferty isn’t sure he has to offer. What he says is, “And play Ariel all the way to the back row, because there isn’t another kid in the school who has the magic to do it.”
    Miaow sniffs. Her eyes are downturned but flicking back and forth as though she’s reading a page, and he knows she’s sifting his argument for weak spots. He also knows it’s full of them. But if he says anything else, it’s just going to get weaker.
    She nods and scuffs her right shoe over the marble floor, producing a squeal that bounces off the walls. She does it again. Then she says, “Let’s go.”
    Rafferty rises, looks down at the thatch of short yellow hair, and ruffles it. She immediately scrubs her fingers through it to disarrange it her way. He says, “I love you,” and she reaches up and takes his hand. She slides her feet over the marble until she reaches the door, producing a long, agonizing string of squeals.
    Mrs. Shin’s apartment house is tucked away off Sukhumvit Soi 11, and there’s no traffic on the little street, not even any vehicles except for a couple of motorcycle taxis parked in the building’s shade. The drivers are out cold, balanced on their seats with their bare feet on the handlebars, demonstrating the Thai genius for sleeping anywhere. Since Miaow hasn’t yanked her hand back, she and Rafferty hold hands as they head for the boulevard to flag a taxi. It’s after three, and the buildings and road surfaces have had all day long to absorb heat. It radiates from the walls and sidewalks, wrapping them in a claustrophobic personal climate that’s rich in perspiration. There isn’t even a whisper of a breeze.
    “I like Bangkok best from high up,” Miaow says.
    What Rafferty hears is a roundabout acknowledgment that she’s grateful to live in their eighth-floor apartment. It’s oblique, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t cost her anything. He gives her hand a little swing. She resists and then gives up and takes exactly one skip. His heart lightens.
    On Sukhumvit he signals a cab and opens the door for Miaow. He has his hand in the small of her back as he leans down to tell the driver where to go when he feels Miaow turn to stone. He looks at her and finds her staring across the street. He can see the pulse slamming at the side of her