The fourth watcher

“I should hope so,” Peachy says. She looks like she’s about to start fanning herself.

“I always knew where I left my shoes,” Lek says.

“Next,” Peachy says, looking past Lek.

By two o’clock all the women have been paid, and Rose and Peachy face each other over the desk. Peachy takes the remaining money, sadly diminished now, and divides it into four unequal piles: one for the rent, a smaller one for bribes to the cops charged with protecting the business, and one of medium thickness for each of them. Handling the money carefully, out of respect for the portrait of the king on the front of every bill, she politely slides Rose’s money into an envelope before

handing it across the desk.

“So,” Peachy says, leaning back.

“You’re doing a good thing, Peachy,” Rose says. She stretches her long legs in front of her and crosses her feet. A silver bell dangling from her right ankle jingles. “You’re making merit.”

“I hope so.” Her eyes search the familiar room. “I have to admit, one or two of them worry me.”

“They’re good girls,” Rose says. “Or at least they’re trying to be. Some of them probably need more practice.”

“At any rate,” Peachy says, “it’s been an education. I knew about Patpong, of course, everybody does, but I never thought about who the girls actually were. I just thought of them as, well. .” Her face colors as she searches for a term that won’t offend.

“Dok thong,” Rose suggests, using the name of an herb employed as an aphrodisiac in folk medicine, a word that has come to mean “slut.” She adds, “Women who would do anything for a thousand baht.”

Peachy makes a tiny fanning gesture beneath her nostrils, Thai physical shorthand for “bad smell,” then says, “Such language.”

“Well, they were,” Rose says, “or rather we were.” She wiggles a hand side to side. “Although fifteen hundred is more like it.”

Peachy leans forward and laces her fingers. She purses her lips for a second as though trying to hold something back that wants to get out and then says, “Please forgive me. How bad was it?”

“Don’t take this wrong,” Rose says, “but in some ways it was fun. We weren’t planting rice or hauling a buffalo around. We were in the big city. We could go to the bathroom indoors. There was food everywhere. Some of the men were nice, and we were just swimming in money. And we had the satisfaction of sending a few hundred baht home every week. That took a bit of the sting out of it.”

Peachy is leaning forward on one elbow, her chin in her palm, so absorbed she doesn’t notice that her elbow is crumpling a stack of money. “But then there was the other end of it,” Rose says. “Going into rooms with men we’d never seen before, not knowing what they wanted. Even when it was just the normal minimum, just the basic guy-on-top, quick-getaway boom-boom, we knew we were damaging ourselves. You know, you can only sleep with so many strangers before making love stops meaning anything. You begin to wonder whether you can still fall in love.”

Peachy opens her hand so her fingers cup her cheek. “You did,” she says.

Rose feels the heat in her face, and Peachy courteously drops her eyes to her desk. This is territory the two women have always avoided until now. Then, abruptly, Rose laughs, and Peachy’s eyes swing up to hers. “Poor Poke. I made him prove himself a thousand times. I think part of me wanted to believe he was just another customer.”

Peachy’s powdered brow furrows. “Why?”

“I knew how to deal with customers,” Rose says. “It was love I didn’t know anything about.”

“Love,” Peachy says. “Love is so hard.” She glances down and sees that her elbow is on the king’s face, and lifts her arm as though the desk were hot. She smooths out the bills. “I mean,” she adds, “I mean it can be. Back when. . when I was married-” She stops. “Well, obviously I’d think it’s hard, wouldn’t I? Considering that my marriage fell apart, that my husband. . left me.”

As Rose searches for something to say, Peachy straightens the papers on her desk and then straightens them again. Then she lines them up with the edge of the blotter. “Listen to me ramble,” she says. “What matters is that you and Poke are happy, and that he brought you to me.” She hits the stack of paper with an aggressively decorated fingernail, fanning it across the desk blotter. “Why is this so difficult? What I’m trying to say is how happy I am that we’re partners, how much I appreciate what you’ve helped me to do.” She looks directly at Rose. “This business is my family. It’s my. . um, my baby. So I wanted to say thank you.”

Rose feels the slight prickling that announces that tears are on the way. She blinks. “That’s so sweet of you, Peachy.”

“I mean it. And today is obviously the right day to tell you.”

Rose looks up, surprised. There’s no way Peachy could know. “Today?”

“It’s eight months today,” Peachy says, as though it should be obvious. “This is our anniversary.”

“Oh, my gosh. Is it? It doesn’t seem possible.”

“You forgot,” Peachy says bravely, swallowing disappointment. “Oh, well. Your life is so full.”

“My life?” Rose asks without thinking. “Yes, I guess it is.”

“You’re lucky,” Peachy says.

“I suppose I am. I never thought I was. Maybe I’m not used to it yet.”

“Get used to it,” Peachy says, a bit shortly. “It’s a sin not to appreciate a good life. Somebody should hit you with a stick. I wish someone had hit me, fifteen years ago.”

Rose lowers her head. “Go ahead.”

“No. What I want to do. .” She hesitates and then plunges in. “I want to invite you to have dinner with me tonight. To celebrate.”

Rose sees the hope in Peachy’s eyes, sees a different woman from the resentful partner Poke had chained her to all those months ago. She leans across the desk and puts her hand on Peachy’s. “I’d love to,” she says. “But tonight is something special. Something with Poke, I mean. Can we do it tomorrow?”

Peachy turns her hand palm up and grasps Rose’s. She gives it a squeeze. “Tomorrow,” she says. “Tomorrow will be fine.” She puts the remaining stacks of bills in the desk drawer and pushes her chair back, preparing to rise. “But what’s tonight?”

“Nothing much,” Rose says. “It’s supposed to be for me.” She stands, slipping the envelope full of money into her pocket. “But it’s really for Poke.”

5

How Much It Means to Me That You’re There

The little man from the bank steps out into the heat of the evening. He pauses in the shade of the bank’s door, pulls out a cell phone, and dials the number he knows best. One

ring. Two rings. Three rings, and his stomach dips all the way to his

feet. “Hello?” his wife says. “Oh,” he says without thinking. “Oh, thank you.” “Why? What did I do?” She sounds pleased. “You’re there,” he says. “I don’t tell you enough how much it means

to me that you’re there.” They have been married nine years, and he is not a demonstrative

man. His wife says, “Are you all right?” “I’m fine,” he says. He waits, eyes closed, listening to his heart pound. “And that’s why you called? To tell me you’re glad I’m here?” “Well,” he says, and then a hand lands on his shoulder. Another

takes the phone from his hand and snaps it closed. The teller smells cheap cologne. He has to fight the urge to bolt.

“Give it to me,” the man says. He is tall for an Asian, with a broad, pale face and very tightly cut eyes on either side of a wide nose that has been broken, perhaps several times. The body beneath the tight jacket is bulky with muscle.