Not for the first time, he curses that he works with Thais. They simply lack the spirit of entrepreneurship that a Chinese would throw into the work.

"Khun?"

It's Mai, still lingering. She flinches at his glare.

"The man says that this is your last chance."

"My last chance? Show me this heeya." Hock Seng storms toward the main floor, shoving aside the curtains of the fining rooms. Out in the main hall, where the megodonts lean against spindle cranks burning money that they simply don't have, Hock Seng stops short, wiping algae fines from his hands, feeling like a terrified fool.

Dog Fucker stands in the middle of the factory like cibiscosis in the middle of Spring Festival, watching the whir and clatter of the QA line as it runs through tests. Old Bones and Horseface Ma and Dog Fucker. All of them standing so confidently. Dog Fucker, with his fa' gan fringe and his missing nose, and his thug cronies, hard-edged nak leng who have no pity for yellow cards and no fear of police.

It's only dumb luck that Mr. Lake is upstairs going over the books, only dumb luck that little Mai came to him and not to the foreign devil. Mai scampers ahead, leading him toward his future.

Hock Seng motions for Dog Fucker to join him out of sight of the observation windows above, but Dog Fucker, maddeningly, sets his feet and continues to study the rumbling line and the shamble of the megodonts.

"Very impressive," he says. "Is this where you make your fabulous kink-springs?"

Hock Seng glares and motions for him to move out of the factory. "We should not be having this conversation here."

Dog Fucker ignores him. His eyes are on the offices and the observation windows. He stares up at them intently. "And is that where you do your work? Up there?"

"Not for long, if a certain farang catches sight of you." Hock Seng forces himself to make a polite smile. "Please. It would be better if we went outside. Your presence arouses questions."

For a long moment, Dog Fucker doesn't move, still staring up at the offices. Hock Seng has the unnerving feeling that the man sees through the walls, that he sees the huge iron safe sitting up there, holding its valuable secrets tight.

"Please," Hock Seng mutters. "The workers will speak enough about this as it is."

Abruptly the gangster turns away, nodding to his men to follow. Hock Seng stifles a rush of relief as he hurries after them. "Someone wants to see you," Dog Fucker says, gesturing toward the outer gates.

The Dung Lord. Now, of all times. Hock Seng glances up at the observation window. Mr. Lake will be angry if he leaves.

"Yes. Of course." Hock Seng motions back toward the office. "I will just tidy my papers."

"Now," Dog Fucker says. "No one keeps him waiting." He motions for Hock Seng to follow. "Now or never."

Hock Seng hesitates, torn, then waves for Mai. She dashes up as Dog Fucker leads them toward the gates. Hock Seng leans low and whispers. "Tell Khun Anderson that I will not be returning… that I have an idea of where to locate a new winding spindle." He nods sharply. "Yes. Tell him that. A winding spindle."

Mai nods and starts to turn away, but Hock Seng pulls her back, pulls her close. "Remember to speak slowly, and in simple words. I don't want the farang to misunderstand and put me out on the street. If I go, so do you. Remember that."

Mai grins. "Mai pen rai. I will make him very happy that you are working so hard." She dashes back into the factory.

Dog Fucker smiles over his shoulder. "And I thought you were only the king of yellow cards. Here you have a pretty Thai girl doing your bidding, too. Not bad for a Yellow Card King."

Hock Seng makes a face. "The king of yellow cards is not a title to aspire to."

"Nor the Lord of Dung," he says. "Names hide much." He surveys the compound. "I've never been in a farang factory," he says. "It's very impressive. A lot of money here."

Hock Seng forces a smile. "The farang are crazy with how much they spend." His neck prickles at the workers' eyes watching him. He wonders how many of them know of Dog Fucker. For once he is grateful that more yellow card Chinese don't work at the factory. They would recognize in an instant who he treats with. Hock Seng forces down the irritation and fear he feels at the exposure. Of course Dog Fucker would like to see him off-balance. It is part of the bargaining process.

You are Tan Hock Seng, head of the New Tri-Clipper. Do not let petty tactics unsettle you.

This mantra of self-assurance lasts until they reach the outer gates. Hock Seng stops short.

Dog Fucker laughs as he opens the door for Hock Seng. "What's the matter? You've never seen a car before?"

Hock Seng stifles an urge to slap the man for his arrogance and stupidity. "You're a fool," he mutters. "Do you know how this exposes me? How people will speak of an extravagance like this, parked in front of this factory?"

He ducks inside. Dog Fucker climbs in after him, still grinning. The rest of his men crowd in after. Old Bones calls forward to the driver. The machine's engine rumbles to life. They start to roll.

"Is it coal diesel?" Hock Seng asks. He can't help whispering.

Dog Fucker grins. "The boss does so much for the carbon load…" He shrugs. "This is a small extravagance."

"But the cost…" Hock Seng trails off. The exorbitant cost of turning this steel behemoth into acceleration. An extraordinary waste. A testament to the Dung Lord's monopolies. Even in his wealthiest days in Malaya, Hock Seng would never have considered such an extravagance.

Despite the heat in the car, he shivers. There is an ancient solidity to the thing, so heavy and massive-it might as well be a tank. It's as if he's locked inside one of SpringLife's safes, isolated from the world beyond. Claustrophobia swallows him.

Dog Fucker smiles as Hock Seng tries to master his emotions. "I hope you aren't wasting his time," he says.

Hock Seng makes himself meet Dog Fucker's gaze. "I think you would like it better if I failed."

"You're right." Dog Fucker shrugs. "If it were up to me, we would have let your kind die on the other side of the border."

The car accelerates, pressing Hock Seng into the leather seat.

Outside the windows, Krung Thep slides past, utterly removed from him: crowds of sun-drenched skin and dusty draft animals and bicycles like schools of fish. Eyes turn toward the car as it forges past. Mouths open wide and silent as people shout and point at his passage.

The speed of the machine is appalling.

Yellow cards crowd around the tower entrances, Malayan Chinese men and women trying to look hopeful as they wait for labor opportunities that have already faded in the heat of the afternoon. And yet still they try to look vital, try to show that their bony limbs have calories to spare, if only someone will allow them to burn.

Everyone stares as the Dung Lord's car arrives. When the door opens, they kneel in a wave, all of them performing khrabs of abasement, triple bows to the patron who keeps them housed, the one man in Krung Thep who willingly shoulders the burden of them, who provides a measure of safety from the red machetes of the Malays and the black batons of the white shirts.

Hock Seng's eyes slide over yellow card backs, wondering if he knows any of them, momentarily surprised that he is not among them performing his own khrab of obeisance.

Dog Fucker leads him into the tower darkness. The skitter of rats and the smell of close-packed sweating bodies convects down from the floors above. At a pair of gaping elevator shafts he flips open a tarnished brass speaking tube and shouts with brisk authority. They wait, eyes on one another: Dog Fucker bored; Hock Seng carefully hiding anxiety. A rattling comes from above, gears clicking, the scrape of iron on stone. A lift sinks into view.