The Windup Girl (28 page)

The night market has fallen silent.

And then, like hungry ghosts, the men in white appear behind her, talking in their quick song-song to the woman at the wok. The woman bustles to serve, obsequious. Emiko trembles before them, noodles halfway between mouth and lips, her slender arm suddenly shaking under the strain. She wants to put the chopsticks down, but there is nothing to do. No way to hide herself if she moves, and so she sits frozen while the men speak behind her, looming over her as they wait.

". . . finally overstepped himself. I heard Bhirombhakdi was screaming up and down the offices saying he was going to get his head. 'Jaidee's head on a platter, he's gone too far!'"

"He gave 5000 baht to his men, every one of them, for the raid."

"A lot of good it does them now that he's been stripped."

"Still, five thousand, no wonder Bhirombhakdi was spitting blood. It must have been half a million that he lost."

"And Jaidee just charged in like a megodont. The old man probably thought Jaidee was Torapee the bull, measuring his father's footprint. Looking to take him down."

"Not anymore."

Emiko trembles as they jostle her. This is the end. She will drop the chopsticks and they will see the windup girl, as they haven't seen her yet though they cluster around her, though they bump against her with a self-confident maleness, though one white shirt's hand is touching her neck as though accidentally pressed there by the jostle of others. Suddenly she will no longer be invisible. She will appear before them, fully formed, a New Person with nothing but expired papers and import licenses and then she will be mulched, recycled as quickly as they compost dung and cellulose, thanks to the telltale twitching movements that mark her as clearly as if she were painted in the excreta of glowworms.

"I never thought I'd see him
khrab
before Akkarat, though. That was a bad thing. We all lose face with that."

There is a pause. Then one of them says, "Auntie. It looks like your methane is the wrong color."

The woman grins uncomfortably. Her daughter's smile mirrors the uncertainty. "We made a gift to the Ministry last week," she says.

The man who has his hand on Emiko's neck speaks, caressing her idly. She tries not to shiver under his touch. "Then perhaps we were told wrong."

The woman's smile falters. "Perhaps my memory is bad."

"Well, I'm happy to check the state of your accounts."

She keeps the smile on her face. "No need to trouble yourself. I'll send my daughter, now. In the meantime, why not just take these two fish for yourselves? You don't get paid enough to eat well." She pulls two large tilapia off her grill and offers them to the men.

"That's very kind of you, auntie. I am hungry." With the banana-leaf wrapped
plaa
tucked in their hands, the white shirts turn away and continue their journey through the night market, seemingly unaware of the terror they spread before them.

The woman's smile fades as soon as they're gone. She turns to her daughter and pushes baht into her hands. "Go down to the police box and make sure that Sergeant Siriporn is the one you give the money to. I don't want those two coming back."

The touch of the white shirt burns on the back of Emiko's neck. Too close. Too close by far. Strange how she sometimes forgets that she is hunted. Sometimes fools herself and thinks she is almost human. Emiko shovels the last of her noodles into her mouth. She cannot delay anymore. She must face Raleigh.

* * *

"I wish to leave this place."

Raleigh turns on his barstool, expression bemused. "Really, Emiko?" He smiles. "You have a new patron, do you?"

Around them, the other girls are arriving, chattering and laughing with one another, making
wais
to the spirit house, a few of them making little offerings in hopes of encouraging a kind customer or rich patron.

Emiko shakes her head. "Not a new patron. I wish to go north. To the villages where New People live."

"Who told you about that?"

"It exists, yes?" From his expression she knows that it does. Her heart starts to pound. It's not just a rumor. "It exists," she says more firmly.

He gives her an appraising look. "It might." He signals Daeng the bartender for another drink. "But I should warn you, it's a hard life out there in the jungle. You eat bugs to survive if your crops fail. Not much to hunt, not after blister rust and Nippon genehack weevil killed so much fodder." He shrugs. "A few birds." He looks at her again. "You should stay closer to the water. You'll overheat out there. Take it from me. It's damn hard living. You should look for a new patron, if you really want to get out of here."

"The white shirts almost caught me today. I will die here, if I stay."

"I pay them not to catch you."

"No. I was at a night market—"

"What the hell were you doing at a night market? You want something to eat, you come here." Raleigh scowls.

"I am so sorry. I must go. Raleigh-san, you have influence. People you can influence to help me get travel permits. To allow me to pass the checkpoints."

Raleigh's drink arrives. He takes a sip. The old man is like a crow, all death and putrescence sitting on his barstool, watching his whores arrive for their night's work. He looks her over with barely masked disgust, as if she is a piece of dog shit stuck to his shoe. He takes another drink. "It's a hard road north. Damn expensive."

"I can earn my passage."

Raleigh doesn't respond. The bartender finishes polishing the bar. He and an assistant set out a chest of ice from the luxury manufacturer
Jai Yen, Nam Yen.
Cool Heart, Cool Water.

Raleigh holds out his glass and Daeng drops a pair of cubes in with a tinkling report. Out of the insulated chest, they start to melt in the heat. Emiko watches the ice cubes sag into liquid. Daeng pours water over the cubes. She is burning up, herself. The club's open windows do nothing to catch the breeze and at this early hour the swelter inside the building is still overwhelming. None of the yellow card fan men have arrived yet, either. The club radiates heat from walls and floor, encasing them. Raleigh takes a swallow of his cool water.

Emiko watches, burning, wishing she could sweat. "
Khun
Raleigh. Please. So sorry. Please," she hesitates, "a cold drink."

Raleigh sips his water and watches as more of his girls filter in. "Keeping a windup is damn expensive."

Emiko smiles embarrassment, hoping to assuage him. Finally, Raleigh makes a face of irritation. "Fine." He nods to Daeng. A glass of ice water is passed across. Emiko tries not to lunge for it. She holds it to her face and neck, almost gasping with relief. She drinks and presses the glass against herself again, clutching it like a talisman. "Thank you."

"Why should I help you get out of the city?"

"I will die if I stay here."

"It's not good business. Wasn't good business to hire you. And it's definitely not good business to bribe you all the way north."

"Please. Anything. I will pay it. I will do it. You may use me."

He laughs. "I've got real girls." His smile disappears. "The problem, Emiko, is that you've got nothing to give. You drink the money you earn every night. Your bribes cost money, your ice costs money. If I weren't so nice, I'd just throw you out in the street for the white shirts to mulch. You're not a good business proposition."

"Please."

"Don't piss me off. Go get ready for work. I want you out of your street clothes when the customers arrive."

His words have the finality of true authority. Reflexively, Emiko starts to bow, acquiescing to his wishes. She stops short.
You are not a dog
, she reminds herself.
You are not a servant.
Service has gotten you abandoned amongst demons in a city of divine beings. If you act like a servant, you will die like a dog.

She straightens. "So sorry, I must go north, Raleigh-san. Soon. How much would it cost? I will earn it."

"You're like a goddamn cheshire." Raleigh stands suddenly. "You just keep coming back to pick over the dead."

Emiko flinches. Even though he is old, Raleigh is still
gaijin
, born and fed before the Contraction. He stands tall. She takes another step back, unnerved by his sudden loom. Raleigh smiles grimly. "That's right, don't forget your place. You'll go north, all right. But you'll do it when I'm good and ready. And not until you've earned every baht for the white shirt bribes."

"How much?"

His face reddens. "More than you've made 'til now!"

She jumps back but Raleigh grabs her. He yanks her close. His voice is a low whiskey growl. "You were useful to someone, once, so I see how a windup like you might forget herself. But let's not fool ourselves. I own you."

His bony hand fumbles at her breast, seizes a nipple and twists. She whimpers in pain and wilts under his hand. His pale blue water eyes watch her like a snake's.

"I own every part of you," he murmurs. "If I want you mulched tomorrow, you're gone. No one will care. People in Japan might value a windup. Here, you're just trash." He squeezes again. She takes a shuddering breath, trying to keep her feet. He smiles. "I own you. Remember that."

He releases her abruptly. Emiko stumbles back and catches the bar's edge.

Raleigh returns to his drink. "I'll let you know when you've earned enough to go north," he says. "But you'll work for it, and work for it good. No more of your picky ways. If a man wants you, you go with him and make him happy enough that he wants to come back and try the novelty again. I've got plenty of natural girls offering natural sex. If you're going to go north, you'd better start offering something more."

He upends his drink, gulping it, and slaps the glass down on the bar for Daeng to refill.

"Now quit sulking and start earning."

16

Hock Seng scowls at the safe where it squats across from him. It's early morning in the SpringLife office, and he should be busy forging a ledger before Mr. Lake arrives, but the safe is all he can focus on. It mocks him, sitting there, enveloped in the smoke of offerings which have done nothing to open it.

Ever since the anchor pad incident the safe is always locked, and now the devil Lake is always looking over his shoulder, asking about the state of accounts, always prying and asking questions. And still the Dung Lord waits. Hock Seng has seen him twice more. Each time the man has been patient, and yet Hock Seng senses a growing irritation, a willingness perhaps to take matters into his own hands. The window of opportunity is closing.

Hock Seng scratches numbers into the ledger, reconciling the money he skimmed from the purchase of a temporary spindle. Should he simply rob the safe? Take the risk of suspicion falling on himself? There are industrial supplies in the factory that would burn through the iron in mere hours. Is this better than making the Dung Lord wait, risking that the godfather of all godfathers will do the deed himself? Hock Seng ponders his options. All his choices come loaded with risks that make his skin crawl. If the safe is damaged, his face will soon be plastered on lampposts and it is a very bad time to be an enemy of the foreign devils. With Akkarat in ascendancy, the
farang
are also on the rise. Every day brings more news of white shirt humiliation. The Tiger of Bangkok is now a shaven-headed monk without family or property.

What if Mr. Lake were removed entirely? An anonymous knife in the gut as he walks down the street perhaps? It would be easy. Cheap, even. For fifteen baht Laughing Chan would do it willingly, and the foreign devil would trouble Hock Seng no more.

A knock at the door startles him. Hock Seng straightens and shoves the newly forged ledger under the desk. "Yes?"

It's Mai, the skinny girl from the production line, standing at the threshold. Hock Seng relaxes slightly as she
wais
.
"Khun.
There is a difficulty."

He uses a cloth to wipe the ink from his hands. "Yes? What is it?"

Her eyes flick around the room. "It would be better if you came. Yourself."

She positively reeks of fear. The hairs on the back of Hock Seng's neck prickle. She's little more than a child. He has done her decent favors. She has even earned bonuses crawling down the tight passages of the drive trains, inspecting the links as they brought the factory back into working order. . . and yet, something in her demeanor reminds him of when the Malays turned on his people. When his workers, always so loyal and appreciative, suddenly could not look him in the eye. If he had been clever, he would have seen the turn of the tide. Seen that the days of the Malayan Chinese were numbered. That even a man of his stature—who gave freely to charities, who helped his employees' children as if they were his own—that even his head was slated to be stacked in a gutter.

And now here is Mai, looking shifty. Is this the way they will come for him? Furtive? Sending a harmless-looking girl as bait? Is this the end of the yellow cards? Is it the Dung Lord, moving against him? Hock Seng feigns nonchalance and reclines slightly in his chair even as he watches her. "If you have something to say," he murmurs, "then say it now. Here."

She hesitates. Her fear is obvious. "Is the
farang
near?"

Hock Seng glances at the clock on the wall. Six o'clock. "He shouldn't be here for another hour or two. He is seldom early."

"Please, if you could just come."

So this is the way it will be. He nods shortly. "Yes, of course."

He stands and crosses to her. Such a pretty girl. Of course they would send a pretty one. She looks so harmless. He scratches at his back, lifting the loose hem of his shirt and slips the knife out, holds it behind his back as he approaches. Waits until the last moment—

He grabs her hair and yanks her close. Presses the knife against her throat.

"Who sent you? The Dung Lord? White shirts? Who?"

She gasps, unable to free herself without cutting her throat. "No one!"

"Do you think I'm a fool?" He presses the knife home, breaking skin. "Who is it?"