“You know what the Thais say: ‘When a yellow card runs, watch out for the megodont behind him.’”
Anderson surveys the offices one last time, then leans out the window. “Come on. Let’s see where my assistant went.”
“You serious?”
“If he didn’t want to meet the white shirts, then we don’t either. And he obviously had a plan.” Anderson hoists himself up and climbs out into the sun. His hands burn on the tiles. He straightens, shaking them. It’s like standing on a skillet. He studies the roof, breathing shallowly in the blast furnace heat. Down the length of the roof, the Chaozhou factory beckons. Anderson goes a few paces then turns and calls back. “Yeah. I think he went this way.”
Carlyle climbs out onto the roof. Sweat gleams on his face and soaks his shirt. They make their way over reddish tiles as the air boils around them. At the far end of the roof, their route terminates at an alley, shielded from Thanon Phosri by a winding of the lane. Across the gap, a ladder dangles to the ground.
“I’ll be damned.”
They both stare down into the alley three stories below. “Your old Chinaman jumped that?” Carlyle asks.
“Looks like it. And then went down the ladder.” Anderson peers over the edge. “Long way down.” He can’t help smiling darkly at Hock Seng’s resourcefulness. “Sly bastard.”
“It’s a long jump.”
“Not too bad. And if Hock Seng—”
Anderson doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Carlyle flies past him, hurtling across the gap. The man lands hard and hits the roof rolling. A second later he’s up, grinning and waving for Anderson to follow.
Anderson scowls and makes his own run at the gap. The landing rattles his teeth. By the time he straightens, Carlyle is already disappearing over the edge, climbing down the ladder. Anderson follows, favoring a bruised knee. Carlyle is surveying the alley when Anderson drops down beside him.
“That way goes back to Thanon Phosri and our friends,” Carlyle says. “We don’t want that.”
“Hock Seng is paranoid,” Anderson says. “He’ll have a path worked out. And it won’t be on main streets.” He heads in the opposite direction. Almost immediately, a slot between two factory walls appears.
Carlyle shakes his head in admiration. “Not bad.” They squeeze into the narrow way, scraping along for more than a hundred meters until they reach a door of rusted tin. As they push aside the crude gate, a grandmother looks up from a bundle of washing. They’re in a courtyard of sorts. Laundry hangs everywhere, sun pouring a rainbow through damp fabrics. The old woman waves at them to proceed past her.
A moment later, they’re out in a tiny soi, which in turn gives way to a series of maze-like alleys that twist through a makeshift slum for the coolie laborers who work the levee locks, transporting goods from the factories to the sea. More micro alleys, laborers crouched over noodles and fried fish. WeatherAll shacks. Sweat and the dimness of overhanging roofs. Burning chile smoke that makes them cough and cover their mouths as they forge through the swelter.
“Where the hell are we?” Carlyle murmurs. “I’m completely turned around.”
“Does it matter?”
They thread past dogs lying dazed in the heat and cheshires perched atop refuse piles. Sweat runs down Anderson’s face. The buzz of afternoon alcohol is long gone. More shadowy alleys, more tight walking spaces, twists and turns, squeezing around bicycles and scavenged piles of metal and coconut plastics.
A gap opens. They spill out into diamond sunlight. Anderson sucks at the relatively fresh air, grateful to be out of the claustrophobia of the alleys. It is not a large road, but still, there is traffic on it. Carlyle says, “I think I recognize this. There’s a coffee guy somewhere around here that one of my clerks likes.”
“No white shirts, at least.”
“I need to find a way back to the Victory.” Carlyle says. “I’ve got money in their safe.”
“How much is your head worth?”
Carlyle grimaces. “Eh. Maybe you’re right. I need to get in touch with Akkarat, at least. Find out what’s going on. Decide on our next move.”
“Hock Seng and Lao Gu both disappeared.” Anderson says. “For now, let’s make like the yellow cards and lie low. We can take a rickshaw to Sukhumvit khlong, and then take a boat to near my place. That will keep us far away from any of the factory and trade areas. And far away from all those damn white shirts.”
He flags down a rickshaw man, not bothering to bargain as he and Carlyle climb aboard.
Away from the white shirts, Anderson can feel himself relaxing. Almost feels foolish for his earlier fear. For all he knows, they could have just walked down the street and never been bothered. No need to go running across rooftops at all. Perhaps… He shakes his head, frustrated. There’s too little information.
Hock Seng didn’t wait. Just gathered up the money and ran. Anderson thinks back on the carefully planned escape route again. The jump… He can’t help laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just Hock Seng. He had it all worked out. Everything set. As soon as there was trouble-Shooo! Out the window he goes.”
Carlyle grins. “I never knew you were keeping a geriatric ninja.”
“I thought—” Anderson breaks off. The traffic is slowing. Up ahead, he catches a glimpse of white and stands for a better view. “Hell.” The starched whites of the Environment Ministry are in the road, blocking traffic.
Carlyle pops up beside him. “Checkpoint?”
“Looks like this isn’t just the factories.” Anderson glances behind, hunting for a way out, but more people and cyclists are piling up, jamming the way.
“Should we make a run for it?” Carlyle asks.
Anderson scans the crowd. Beside him, another rickshaw driver stands on his pedals, studying the scene, then settles back on his seat and jangles his passing bell irritably. Their own rickshaw man joins the bell ringing.
“No one seems worried.”
Along the road, Thais barter over piled reeking durian, baskets of lemon grass and bubbling buckets of fish. They, too, seem unconcerned.
“You just want to bluff through?” Carlyle asks.
“Hell if I know. Is this some kind of power play of Pracha’s?”
“I keep telling you, Pracha’s had his teeth pulled.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Anderson cranes his neck, trying to glimpse what’s happening at the road block. From what he can make out, someone is arguing with the white shirts, gesturing as he speaks. A Thai man, deep mahogany skin and a flash of gold thumb rings on his hands. Anderson strains to hear, but the words are drowned out as more cyclists pile into the jam and join in the impatient ringing of their bells.
The Thais seem to believe this is nothing but an irritating traffic jam. No one is frightened, just impatient. More bicycle bells tinkle and chime, surrounding him in music.
“Oh… Shit,” Carlyle murmurs.
The white shirts yank the arguing man off his bicycle. His arms flail as he goes over. His thumb rings flash in the sunlight and then he disappears under a knot of white uniforms. Ebony clubs rise and fall. Blood whips from the clubs, glistening.
A doglike yelping fills the street.
The cyclists all stop ringing their bells. The street noise fades as everyone turns and cranes their necks to see. In the silence, the man’s ragged pleading carries easily. Around them, hundreds of bodies shift and breathe. People glance left and right, suddenly nervous, like an ungulate herd that has suddenly found a predator in its midst.
The dull slap of the clubs continues.
Finally, the man’s sobbing breaks off. The white shirts straighten. One of them turns and motions traffic forward. It is an impatient gesture, businesslike, as though the people have stopped to gawk at flowers or a carnival. Hesitantly, cyclists push forward. Traffic begins to roll. Anderson sits down in his seat. “Christ.”