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Back The Third Brother Save as PDF
Chapters (116)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by the Author
  3. The Third Brother
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. PART I
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. PART II
  67. 60
  68. 61
  69. 62
  70. 63
  71. 64
  72. 65
  73. 66
  74. 67
  75. 68
  76. 69
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. 80
  88. 81
  89. 82
  90. 83
  91. 84
  92. 85
  93. 86
  94. 87
  95. 88
  96. PART III
  97. 89
  98. 90
  99. 91
  100. 92
  101. 93
  102. 94
  103. 95
  104. 96
  105. 97
  106. 98
  107. 99
  108. 100
  109. 101
  110. 102
  111. 103
  112. 104
  113. 105
  114. 106
  115. 107
  116. 108

“See?” He lifts the bun, shows Mike the pickles on his cheeseburger, and pulls them off with venom. Mike shrugs. The kid tells him he is headed to a full moon party on the beach, but he’s heard they’ve been checking for drugs on the way in. “It fucking sucks,” he says.

Looking at this kid, Mike thinks about codes. Analect and his father, in adjacent prison cells, tapping their knuckles to the bloody bone on cinderblock walls. Secret language. A formalized system of deception, thinks Mikes. Codes cover the truth. Like all of his father’s talk about action. Like Tweety’s makeup.

Then Mike stops thinking because Tweety walks in. She spots him and walks over. The asshole kid stops chewing.

“I like Big Macs,” she says. “Can we get some and go to your room?”

51

“Sex doesn’t matter,” Tweety says. “Not important anymore.” Mike and Tweety sit side by side on the edge of his bed, eating the Big Macs.

“We’re even now,” she says between bites. “Maybe you can help me.” She is so slight that watching her devour the enormous Big Mac makes her seems grotesque to Mike.

“I’ll try,” Mike says. “What do you need help with?”

“I don’t want to work for Harrison anymore. Or Mickey Burton. Can I work for you?”

“I can’t hire you, Tweety. I don’t even have a real job.”

“Can you get me a job like yours?”

Mike thinks of how he got his job. How it started thirty years ago between Analect and his father.

“I don’t know,” says Mike.

“They won’t let me quit.”

“Harrison?”

“You tell them to leave me alone, please. I want to stay home.”

And then Tweety stands up and, before Mike can say anything, puts her Big Mac in her purse and is gone.

Mike is suddenly exhausted and very glad for the clean sheets.

52

Back in Hong Kong, as soon as he knew he was going to Bangkok, Mike looked up Christopher Dorr on the Internet. He sat in his cubicle in the gleaming, carpeted magazine office and read everything he could find. Christopher Ames Dorr was educated at St. Bernard’s and Exeter and Harvard and, finally, Oxford, in East Asian Studies. He had won numerous awards for his investigative pieces, most famous a cover story about the Wa people who farmed opium for a Burmese warlord cartel along the northern Thai border. Mike read the piece. It was so close to the culture it was almost as if Dorr were Wa himself.

On the contributors page, Dorr was characterized as a fearless journalist who had been everywhere. Mike also found two photographs. In the first, Dorr stood at the edge of a Harvard boxing team picture. Mike’s father was in the same picture. The second was a photograph of Dorr standing with some villagers in a remote field. The credit, Mike had noted, was Harrison Stirrat.