The police would question him as to why he had broken down the door. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t have broken down the door? he asked himself. But it meant that he wasn’t just another bystander but someone—a foreigner with an office above—who had done something physical and violent. How would the police interrogator react? Calvino wondered, if he were the police, what would go through his mind? Would he become a suspect? His thoughts shifted from the police to the pain in his shoulder. He remembered that Ratana had some of his painkillers left in her handbag. He had asked her to keep the bottle for him; otherwise, the temptation was too great to eat them like M&Ms. Four of the blue capsules were still in the bottle. He’d counted them. He remembered them very well and now looked forward to the moment when he could unscrew the lid on the bottle. The thought of swallowing a couple of painkillers brought a smile to his face.

The mamasan cleared her throat. He looked up to find that all of the yings were staring at him. The yings watched the pain spread across his face, twisting it, making his mouth angry and desperate. They knew the look from walking on the backs of customers. They had pinned him down. Calvino had been the only farang inside One Hand Clapping on the night of the death. He was already regretting that he had put himself in such an awkward position. He should have been on the phone to Andrew Danielson, telling him about the video footage. He should have been at his desk polishing his résumé for the WHO position. Instead he had the sour smell of som tam in his nose and the smell of death on his clothes.