Killing Rain

seemed to be absorbed in a book. As I got closer I noticed the title: Beyond Good and Evil.
    “You’re reading Nietzsche?” I asked, incredulous.
    He looked at me. “Well, sure, why not?”
    I struggled for a moment, concerned that whatever I said next would be insulting. “Well, it’s just . . .”
    He smiled. “I know, I know, everybody thinks a southern boy can’t be intellectual. Well, my father worked for a big pharmaceutical company, and I grew up in Germany, where he was posted. I studied old Friedrich in school, and I liked him. All that stuff about the will to power and all. When I read it now, it comforts me.”
    “Who’da thunk it,” I said, imitating his twang.
    He laughed. “Hey, how did you even recognize what I was reading, cowboy? That’s more than I would have expected.”
    I shrugged. “When I was a kid, I always seemed to be on the wrong side of one gang or another. I found the best place to hide was the library. They never thought to look for me there. Eventually I got bored and started reading the books. I never stopped.”
    “Never stopped getting on the wrong side of gangs?”
    I laughed. “It seems that way, doesn’t it. Never stopped reading, is what I meant.”
    “So that’s where you get some of those big words you like to use. I found myself wondering from time to time. Plus you neverseem put off by my own extensive vocabulary. Even a word like ‘perineum,’ it seems like second nature to you.”
    “It’s good of you to say.”
    He closed the book and stood up. “Well, where are we off to tonight? Discotheque? Massage parlor?”
    “I was thinking more along the lines of taking in a fight at Lumpini, then maybe a bar. An adult bar.”
    “Sure, I love to see a little Thai boxing. Not sure about the adult bar, though. . . . Is it like an adult video? I like those a lot.”
    “You might be disappointed, then. But you should still give it a try.”
    He grinned. “ ’Course I’ll give it a try. Hell, I’m a tri-sexual, partner, I’ll try anything once.”
    We took the stairs to the basement, then exited through the Amarin Plaza shopping mall. Out on the street, Dox started to flag down a cab.
    “Wait,” I said. “Let’s move around a little first.”
    “Move around . . . Look, man, is that really necessary? We did a route on the way to the hotel earlier. We know we’re clean.”
    “Just because you were clean before doesn’t mean you’re clean now. You took a shower yesterday, right? Does that mean you don’t need one today?”
    “Yeah, but . . .”
    “There are ways to track someone other than physically following them. Think about what Delilah said. We’ve got some motivated people looking for us. Let’s not make it easy for them.”
    He sighed. “All right, all right. I just don’t want to miss the fights, is all.”
    We walked to Chit Lom station and took the sky train one stop to Phloen Chit. We waited on the platform until all the passengers had cleared, then got back on and rode back to Siam. Wetook the elevator down to the street level, then ducked across one of the sois to Henri Dunant, where we caught a cab.
    Dox looked at his watch. “Satisfied now? We’re going to miss half the fights.”
    “The good fights start at nine.”
    He looked at me. “You know Thailand better than you’ve been letting on, partner?”
    I shrugged. “I’ve spent some time here. Not lately, though, and not like you.”
    “You’re a mysterious man, Mr. Rain.”
    I winced slightly at the mention of my name. All right, I know I’m paranoid, as Harry used to tell me: the name wouldn’t mean a thing to the cabdriver, who had picked us up utterly at random and who doubtless spoke no English regardless. But what was the upside of using a name? If your paranoia doesn’t cost you anything, I figure, why not indulge it? It’s worked for me so far.
    But I let it go. I was learning that with Dox, as perhaps in all things, I had to pick my battles.
    The cab ride to Lumpini stadium took ten minutes. We bought ringside seats for fifteen hundred baht apiece and went inside.
    Muay Thai, or Thai boxing, is Thailand’s indigenous form of pugilism. The contestants wear gloves, and in this and a few other respects the art is superficially similar to Western boxing. But Thai boxers also legally and enthusiastically fight with their feet, knees, elbows, and heads, even from grappling tie-ups that Western referees would immediately separate. The feel of a match is