“I, I, I have this Bu-, Bu-, Bu-, Buddhist conscience, I really do try to follow the Eightfold Path, I mean I take it seriously, I don’t juh-, juh-, just go to temple, I study Buddhism, I probably know more about Buddhism than the average monk, you said it yourself, I’m a monk manqué-no.” I said it again, more to convince myself than him, “No. No, no, no way I could be anybody’s consigliere.”

He was gazing at me more with amusement than irritation. “Have you discussed it with your mother?”

Aghast: “My mother? Of course not, you’ve only just mentioned it.”

He let me have one of his tiger smiles. “Don’t get so excited, that’s always been your weakness, your nerves are way too close to the surface. That’s because your rising sign is a Wood Rabbit.”

“I know, I know, and you’re a Metal Dragon.”

“Exactly. And you work for me.” He raised a hand at my sudden anger. “It’s okay, I’m not ordering you to do anything except think about it-and discuss it with your womenfolk. If you don’t want to talk about it with your mother, at least discuss it with Chanya.”

“My wife?” I was about to protest that no way would my devout Buddhist partner (we’ve started using that word over here, where-as we shall see-the definition of wife is somewhat loose) encourage me to play consigliere to a jao paw, a godfather; then I realized he must already have done some lobbying or he would never have mentioned my mother or Chanya.

“Okay,” I said, because it was the only way to close the interview, “I’ll talk about it with Nong and Chanya.”

I was pretty sure he’d somehow gotten my mother, Nong, on his side, probably using the weight of his money-he owns a majority of shares in her go-go bar on Soi Cowboy, the Old Man’s Club-but I was confident of my darling Chanya, a female arhat, or Buddhist saint, far more advanced than myself, an attainment all the more remarkable in that she spent years on the Game herself. No, Chanya was my conscience, not his. Furthermore, she had grown increasingly respectable in her attitudes since giving birth to Pichai, our now six-year-old son, to the extent that she had even started hinting at a legal marriage. So far, we had remained content with a Buddhist ceremony in her home village. I paid her mother fourteen thousand dollars in the form of a dowry, even though she was technically damaged goods within the village price structure: her mum knew I was a junior shareholder in my mother’s business and shrewdly concluded I was worth a lot more than my cop’s salary. (Chanya, by the way, had to wash my feet as part of the ceremony, a benchmark event which we reminded each other of from time to time-it’s a two-edged sword in any argument.)

More terrified than depressed by Vikorn’s offer of promotion in his import-export franchise, I rushed home that day. Chanya was playing with Pichai in the yard of our little house-Pichai was the reincarnation of my former police partner and soul brother, whose name was also Pichai, who died in the cobra case years ago-and I had to carry on the conversation while Pichai crawled all over me and tried to pull my gun out from where I had shoved it under my belt in the small of my back.

“D’you know what Vikorn is trying to get me to do?”

The innocence of her expression was compromised by the time she took to assemble it. “No, what, tilak?” Tilak means “darling” (literally: “the one who is loved”). She was particularly skilled in its usage for strategic and tactical purposes.

“He wants me to be his consigliere.”

“His what?”

“It’s like chief negotiator to a jao paw-it’s a Sicilian invention. You saw The Godfather, with Marlon Brando and Al Pacino?”

“No. Who are they?”

“Actors. That’s what’s so ridiculous. We’re in the field of fiction here.”

Chanya gave one of her beautiful smiles. “Oh, well, if it’s only fiction, why not indulge him?”

I stared at her for a long moment. “He’s got at you, hasn’t he?”

“Tilak, don’t get paranoid. I haven’t spoken to Colonel Vikorn for over a year, not since that-ah-Songkran party.” Songkran is the old Thai New Year; everyone gets drunk. This one was about par for the course: three near rapes, nine traffic accidents, a couple of serious beatings-I’m talking here about cops and staff at the police station. Chanya loved it.

“Through my mother-Nong spoke to you, didn’t she?”

Chanya puckered her lips a tad. “Tilak, when you spoke to Colonel Vikorn about this, when he offered you this new position, did it even occur to you to ask about salary?”

Aghast for the second time that day: “Of course not. I was thinking of my skin, not my bank account. And my-” Suddenly I felt silly saying it, so I let her say it for me.

“Your karma?” She came to sit on the bench next to the outdoor shower, causing Pichai to change sides immediately and nestle up to her bosom, of which he was, in my humble opinion, inordinately fond. Only seven years ago he was a celibate twenty-nine-year-old Buddhist about to enter a monastery: there is no constant in life but change. “Tilak, I love you so much, and I love you most for your conscience. You’re the most genuinely devout Buddhist I know. Everyone else just follows the rules. You really think about karma and reincarnation. It’s very admirable.”

“Well, if it’s so admirable, why are you trying to corrupt me?”

I felt a friendly female hand run up and down my back a couple of times, followed by a caress of my thighs and a subtle little tug at my cock-there are many techniques she learned on the Game which have proven useful in married life. “You are a saint, but you mustn’t make the mistake of being a cloister saint.”

“That’s what Nong calls me sometimes.”

“Tilak, just think of all the good you’ve done by restraining Vikorn over the years. Only last month you got tipsy right here in the yard and boasted about-no, I mean, reluctantly let slip-all the lives you’ve saved merely by whispering words of restraint and compassion into his ear.”

“I always have to make it look like good strategy. I play Condoleezza Rice while Sergeant Ruamsantiah plays Cheney.”

“Exactly, tilak, that’s exactly what I’m getting at. What your mother pointed out as well. You’re so smart the way you handle him-the whole citizenry of District Eight has reason to be grateful to you.” Chanya started to use terms like “citizenry,” and “reluctantly let slip” after she enrolled in a distance-learning course in sociology at one of our online universities.

“But don’t you see, it only works because it’s informal. If I become his consigliere, I’m on the payroll, I can’t threaten to resign every five minutes the way I do now. He’ll have me under his thumb totally.” At this point I used Pleading Eyes, normally a fail-safe tactic. This time, though, she remained unmoved.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to be thirty-seven this year. You’re not the boy genius anymore. You need to consolidate. I think you’ll do marvelously as his-whatsit. You’ll save twice as many lives as you do now. He’ll listen to you more carefully, he’ll have to, how else will he justify…” Her voice faded strategically.

Feeling deflated, my eyes rested on Pichai for a moment, then I caressed his head. I gave a huge sigh. “So, how much did Nong tell you Vikorn told her he would pay me?”

“Actually, your mother negotiated a bit on your behalf. He started at a hundred thousand, but your mum is such a genius negotiator-she used all the arguments you just used, but much more effectively, and she really went on about the extra threat to Pichai and me, what a strain it was going to be on your whole family, the risks to your life. She referred to Pichai-I mean in his last incarnation-a lot, how he got shot in the line of duty and he wasn’t even bent.” She paused here, smiled at the water tank, then slowly turned the beam on me. “She got him up to two and a half.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand baht a month?” I had to give credit where it was due; nobody has ever gotten that kind of money out of Vikorn.