Love in the Gutter, where bad guys always win and good guys are just another kind of loser.
It's Just A Matter Of How Much by Gregory Rodrigues
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Kanda ran a small café-bar in one of the red light zones. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Flashing black eyes, a great rack—unusual for a Thai woman—and a waist so slim I imagined I could encircle it with my hands. Underneath, the best set of legs in sin city. When she wore a teeny pair of cut-off jeans, it would’ve taken a pair of pliers to peel my eyes off her ass.
One day,
I was sitting at my usual table.
“Well,
here he is, the man himself.”
I
immediately went into threat assessment mode. He’d spoken in a tone heavy with
something unpleasant and there was underlying anger. It was a British accent
and from the rough industrial north. His eyes slowly picked me apart. He had a
crewcut, days of stubble, and a belly running to fat. A sleeveless t-shirt,
advertising the glory of Manchester United football team, revealed arms covered
in a mess of tattoos. More tattoos on legs that looked like they more properly
belonged on a fat pink pig. In short, the classic English football hooligan. I
would have laughed in his face except he was taller and heavier than me.
“Good
morning,” I said calmly. “I don’t think I know you, mate?”
“Where
are you from?” he asked.
“Australia,
if you must know. But, what are you on about?”
“In
Australia, is it ok to fuck somebody else’s girlfriend?”
“Mate,
it’s nothing to brag about but it happens. Just like anywhere. But, again, what
the fuck are you talking about? I don’t know you.”
“But
you know my girlfriend really well. Kanda. You’ve been fucking her.”
“That’s
bullshit,” I said.
“You’re
here every fucking day. People have told me.”
“Told
you what? That I sit here and drink coffee? This is a café. What the fuck else
would I do?”
We
both stopped talking at the sound of the scooter motor. Kanda pulled up at the
door. She’d gone to do an errand for a few minutes and had asked me to mind the
café.
Kanda
looked at the man angrily.
“Why
you come here?” she asked.
“So
you fuck him everyday,” he said, pointing to me.
“I
not fuck him. Not your business, anyway. You not my boyfriend, no more. What
the fuck you come my shop and talk bad customer.”
“Your
shop? You use money I gave you. I never said you can start a business with that
money.”
“You
fucking fuck,” Kanda shouted, “I start shop my money. Not your money!”
“Bullshit,
you just used me. You’re a fucking whore!”
Kanda
went white with anger. “You fucking motherfuck. Fuck off from my shop.”
I
thought it was time to come to Kanda’s aid. Yes, he was bigger than me but I
still had some macho pride left.
“Listen
mate,” I said, “it’s her fucking café and she wants you to go.”
I’m
an ex–cop. Burned out and jaded as all hell, I’d left the force five years ago
to wallow in an Asian gutter. The sleaziest of Bangkok’s red-light districts
had suited me just fine. Now my sword was rusty in its scabbard. Half a bottle
of Jack every day and limitless Thai pussy does that to a man—but I still should
have known better.
Now, I
was soft and slow. Worse, I was still sitting down when he rushed me. His arms
were around my throat and squeezing. Then a fist the size of a pink ham slammed
into my face. My bottom lip split open.
He
would have pounded me again but his face suddenly twisted with fear. He jumped
up and ran for the door. Kanda charged after him holding the largest kitchen
knife I’d ever seen.
“You fucking die, you come back my shop,” she
screamed.
A minute
later she came back inside. My lip was pouring blood.
“I so
sorry,” she said.
“Don’t
worry,” I replied, holding the wet towel she brought me against my face. I
could tell she was impressed that I had stood up for her. Despite the split lip,
I was thinking of a very specific way she could show her gratitude.
The
next morning, with my lip throbbing in pain, I walked to her place for my usual
café noir. The door of the café was shut. A sign hung down tied with string.
Some chicken scrawl in Thai and the word ‘closed’ in big red felt-tip letters.
The woman selling fried bananas on the road was in her usual spot. Yesterday she
had witnessed the whole drama. She saw my puzzled look.
“Kanda
close shop,” she said, “go with that man.”
I
looked at her in complete stupefaction.
“But
she chase man away with knife. Kanda too angry,” I said.
The
woman shrugged her shoulders. “Man come back when you go. Him stupid. Say he
give Kanda 300,000 baht if she close shop, finish and live together with him. Be
‘mia noi’ (paid mistress) for him. Kanda say ‘No.’ Man say give her 400,000
baht. Kanda say, ‘Go bank now?’ Man say ‘Yes.’ So Kanda close business. She go
with man.”
I stood
silent for a moment, numb with disappointment.
“So
it was just a matter of how much,” I half-muttered to myself.
“What?”
the woman said. “I no unnerstan.”
“Same
same like, ‘No money no honey.’ Kanda just want money,” I explained bitterly, “That
man very bad to her but she not care if he give big money.”
“Yes,
Kanda want money too much. ‘No money no honey,’” she said, looking amused. Then
she threw more bananas into her bubbling wok and forgot about me.
“Yes,
it was just a matter of how much,” I thought. “What a fucking whore!”
My
lip throbbed painfully.
I
walked away.
