Killing Rain

people eyed me curiously. I took the attaché and walked confidently over to Manny’s wife. I bowed my head before speaking.
    “I am an attorney, representing the estate of Manheim Lavi,” I said to her. In the suit, carrying the attaché, I felt I looked the part. And if the average lawyer carries himself stiffly at moments like this one, then that part of the act was spot-on, too, because I was having a hard time even looking at her.
    She came to her feet. She was petite and very pretty, and, like many Filipinas, looked younger than she probably was.

    “Yes?” she asked, in lightly accented English.
    “Mr. Lavi left clear instructions with my firm, to be carried out in the event of his death. That certain funds were to be transferred to you, for the benefit of . . . your son.”
    I knew Manny might already have provided for them. Although, with a primary family back in Johannesburg, he might not have. I didn’t care. That wasn’t the point.
    The little boy ran over from his grandmother. He must have gotten spooked seeing his mother talking to a stranger. His arms were outstretched and he was saying, “Mama, Mama.”
    The woman picked him up with some effort and he clutched her tightly. He had regressed, I noted, from the trauma of the news he must have just received. That’s normal, I told myself. That’s normal.
    She shook her head. “Funds?”
    I cleared my throat. “Yes. From Mr. Lavi’s estate. Here.”
    I went to hand her the attaché, but she couldn’t take it with the boy in her arms.
    I felt oddly light-headed. Maybe it was the heat, the humidity.
    “This is yours,” I said, setting the case down in front of her. I cleared my throat again. “I hope . . . my firm hopes it will be helpful. And I am very sorry for your loss.”
    The boy started to cry weakly. The woman stroked his back. I swallowed, bowed my head again, and turned to walk back to the car.
    Christ, I almost felt sick. Yeah, it must have been the heat. I got in the car. As we drove away I looked back. They were all watching me.
    We drove past the paddies, the indifferent farm animals. I sat slumped in the seat. In my head, the boy cried out, Mama, Mama, again and again, and I thought I might never stop hearing his voice.
    We drove. The potholes in the road felt like craters.

    “Stop,” I said to the driver. “Stop the car.”
    He pulled over to the side of the dirt road. I opened the door and stumbled out, barely making it in time. I clutched the side of the door and leaned forward and everything inside me came up, everything. Tears were streaming down my face and snot was running out of my nose and I felt like my stomach itself might tear loose from its moorings and make its way onto the potholed road I stood on.
    Finally it subsided. I stood for a moment, sucking air, then wiped my face, spat, and got back in the car. The driver asked me if I was all right. I nodded. It was the climate, I said. You’d think I’d be used to it, but I’m not.
    I had him take me to the airport. I didn’t know where I would go from there. Wherever it was, I knew that everything I’ve done, it would all be coming with me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    John Rain’s fans seem to think he keeps getting better (I, of course, prefer the phrase “even better”) as he goes along. To the extent this is so, I owe much to the advice and other support I continue to receive from a number of good people. My thanks to:
    My agents, Nat Sobel and Judith Weber of Sobel Weber Associates, and my editor, David Highfill at Putnam, for helping me find the true notes and eliminate the false ones.
    Michael Barson (master of Yubiwaza), Dan Harvey, and Megan Millenky at Putnam, for doing such an amazing job of getting out the word on John Rain.
    Dexter Domingo, for giving me multiple insider’s tours of Manila; Yannette Edwards, for her suggestion that Rain shouldvisit the Philippines, which jump-started the entire book; and Doug and Susan Patteson, for getting Rain better acquainted with Manila and other Southeast Asian environs, for otherwise drawing on their extensive experience in the region to help me refine not just the locales, but the entire story, and for their insights into all things Rain.
    Jim Dunn, who came to know and love Bangkok during his service in the Vietnam War, for sharing his historical perspective on the city and refreshing Rain’s recollections thereby; David Gibbons, for sharing his extensive knowledge of Thailand and for being the best guide