Read Online Yellowthread Street by William Marshall - Free Book Online Page A

found the assistant smoking a cigarette, roared at him, sat down behind the counter with her books and her cashbox and sent him out to bring her back a bottle of beer.
    At eight minutes past midnight the Mongolian came in. He examined Alice (Alice examined him), decided she was the cleaning woman pilfering cash from the fingerless proprietor (Alice decided he was no customer), and said, ‘Owner!’
    ‘I’m the owner,’ Alice said. She shut the metal cashbox and stood up with her fat hands on her hips.
    ‘Owner,’ the Mongolian said. He was not a man to entertain two thoughts in his shaven head at the same time, ‘Owner!’
    People didn’t talk to Alice in that tone. ‘People don’t talk to me in that tone,’ Alice said. ‘So get out!’
    ‘Owner,’ the Mongolian said.
    ‘Me!’ Alice said. She flicked her thumb at her giant breasts, ‘Owner—me!’
    ‘Police,’ the Mongolian said.
    ‘Like hell you are,’ Alice said.
    ‘You police.’
    ‘Like hell I am.’
    The Mongolian shook his head. ‘No call police.’
    Alice leaned back on the heels of her shoes and gave the impression of looking down from her five foot three to the Mongolian’s lesser six foot three.
    The Mongolian thumped his barrel-stave chest with histhumb. It sounded like an elephant’s heart beating at full charge. ‘Mongolian,’ the Mongolian said.
    Hot Time Alice Ping stopped leaning back on the heels of her shoes.
    ‘No police,’ the Mongolian said. ‘No police.’
    Alice put her fingers behind her back, still attached to her wrists and going to stay that way.
    ‘Fingers,’ the Mongolian said.
    ‘We can talk about this,’ Alice said, ‘Listen, we can talk about—’
    ‘No police. Bad thing,’ the Mongolian, who was no good at long conversations, said. He drew his eleven-inch-long knife and lopped at Alice’s ear which she did not have behind her back.
    There were then a number of sounds in the store in Camphorwood Lane. There was a swish as the kukri completed its arc and a click as the Mongolian sheathed it in the same motion, a metallic tinkle as Alice’s bangle earring struck the glass counter, a plop as Alice’s ear followed it, the sound of the Mongolian’s footsteps on the floor as he left, a clunk as he shut the glass door behind him, and finally, Alice’s broken voice as she began running about in tiny circles behind the counter looking at her ear and screaming.
    The assistant came back with the beer, looked at the ear and the glass counter, at Hot Time Alice Ping running, and drank the contents of the bottle in one gulp.

A.M.
    There were two conferences going on in Hong Bay. It was two fifteen in the morning and at the venue of the first conference, the Yellowthread Street Police Station, the atmosphere was stale and fuggy with cigarette smoke, half empty cardboard cups of aromatic burnt-bean coffee, O’Yee’s almost devoured night meal of take-away noodles and pork, and Auden’s and O’Yee’s bad jokes.
    ‘Ear today, gone tomorrow,’ O’Yee said and popped noodles into his mouth.
    Feiffer continued reading Spencer’s report on his first interview with Hot Time Alice Ping of the two ears and Sister Sung’s telephoned news of Hot Time Alice Ping of the one. Feiffer said, ‘Shut up.’
    ‘Don’t be so cruel,’ Spencer said to O’Yee and Auden. He read his report over Feiffer’s shoulder.
    ‘Ear’s to you,’ O’Yee said and raised his cup.
    Auden collapsed in helpless laughter and banged his desk.
    ‘The Andrews Sisters,’ Feiffer said. He said to Spencer, ‘What’s this word?’
    ‘Frank,’ Spencer said. He read on, ‘. . . it was a frank and meaningful interview . . .’
    ‘It says “frunk”.’
    ‘It’s the typewriter,’ Spencer said.
    Auden banged on his desk.
    Two streets away, in
Alice’s,
the customers had been cleared out and the place closed for a private party (the notice on thedoor said). The guests had come down from Hanford Hill and they were not feeling very