The Windup Girl полностью

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?"

"No one! I swear!" She is shaking with fear but Hock Seng doesn't release her.

"Is there something you wish to say? Some secret you must keep? Tell it now."

She gasps at the pressure of his blade on her neck. "No! Khun! I swear! No secret! But… But…"

"Yes?"

She sags against him. "The white shirts," she whispers. "If the white shirts find out…"

"I'm no white shirt."

"It's Kit. Kit is ill. And Srimuang. Both of them. Please. I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose the job. I don't know what to do. Please don't tell the farang. Everyone knows the farang might close the factory. Please. My family needs…Please. Please." She is sobbing now, sagging against him, begging him as if he might be her savior, mindless of the knife.