Killing Rain

lighting, a bare ceiling, worn tables and floor, fading jazz memorabilia on the walls. I hoped no one would ever think to give the place a face-lift. We took a table on the right side of the bar, with a view of the band. Brown Sugar’s only real failing is its unimaginative selection of single malts, but I made do with a Glenlivet eighteen-year-old. Dox ordered a Stoli rocks. We settled back, sipped our drinks, and listened to the music. It turned out to be more pop than jazz, but Anodard was good and that was the main thing.
    It was a little odd to take in live music with a companion. Usually I go to a club alone, coming and going quietly and unobtrusively and without having to worry about whether anyone was enjoying the experience as much as I. About a half hour in, when the band took a break, I said to Dox, “Well? What do you think?”
    He frowned as though in concentration. “Well, it’s taking me a little getting used to. Most of the Bangkok establishments with which I’m acquainted have girls dancing on tabletops and wearing numbers on their bikini bottoms. But I can see the appeal.”
    I nodded. “All right, there’s hope for you.”
    “And that singer is sexy, too.”
    “Faint hope.”
    He laughed. “You know, partner, that Delilah’s a classy lady. I don’t know what she’s doing with a reprobate like you.”
    “I don’t know, either.”
    He gave me a smile that was half leer. “Looks like she smacked you up pretty good there. Didn’t know you liked that kind of thing.”
    I glanced around for the waitress.
    “I like it when a lady isn’t afraid to get passionate,” he went on in a thoughtful tone, apparently unperturbed by my lack of response. “Damn, just thinking about it is turning me on.”

    “Feel free not to share,” I said.
    “Oh come on, we’re partners and friends and we’re here in the great state of Bangkok, land of smiles! We can let our hair down a little.”
    “Dox, your hair’s never been up.”
    “I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I think your lady is going to help us. I’ve got a good feeling about her.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You can’t always go on a feeling.”
    “Well, partner, lacking your well-developed sense of universal paranoia, I’m often left with nothing more than my gut to fall back on. And it’s served me well so far, seeing as I’m even here to talk about it.”
    I was surprised to find that his words stung a little. Ever since we’d left Phuket, I’d been half-consciously playing scenarios through my head, testing my hope that Delilah was being straight with us. I thought she was. I just wished I could have Dox’s simple confidence.
    “We’ll see,” was all I said.
    The waitress came by, and we ordered another round. Periodically a new couple or group would drift in from outside. I was pleased to see Dox checking the door each time this happened. In professionals this should be a quick, unobtrusive reflex, performed as unconsciously as breathing. You always want to know who’s joining you, to maintain your sense of the crowd.
    At one point, I looked up to see a striking Thai girl enter the club. She was wearing a pewter silk jacquard blouse, sleeveless and with a mandarin collar, a clingy black silk skirt, cut just above the knee, and strappy, open-toe stilettos. Her makeup was perfect, and her hair was done in a neat chignon that accentuated her perfect posture and confident gait. Drop earrings that looked like jade gleamed under each ear.

    She sat down at the bar like royalty on a throne and looked around the club. Dox nudged me and said, “You see that girl who just came in?”
    I nodded, wondering whether I’d been giving Dox too much credit for what I thought were perimeter checks. It looked like the more likely explanation might be excessive horniness.
    The woman saw Dox and smiled. He smiled back.
    Great, I thought. Here we go.
    “You see that, man?” he asked. “She smiled at me.”
    I looked back at him. “She’s probably a prostitute, Dox. She smiles at everyone. Especially Westerners who she assumes have money to buy her jade earrings.”
    “Partner, I don’t care how she makes her living. She might freelance a little, who could blame her? That ain’t the point. The point is, she likes me. I can tell.”
    “She likes your money.”
    “She might like that, too, and I might even tip her, as a show of my appreciation and just to help her out generally. But I wouldn’t be attracted to her if