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
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.
