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Back The Third Brother Save as PDF
Chapters (116)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by the Author
  3. The Third Brother
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. PART I
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. PART II
  67. 60
  68. 61
  69. 62
  70. 63
  71. 64
  72. 65
  73. 66
  74. 67
  75. 68
  76. 69
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. 80
  88. 81
  89. 82
  90. 83
  91. 84
  92. 85
  93. 86
  94. 87
  95. 88
  96. PART III
  97. 89
  98. 90
  99. 91
  100. 92
  101. 93
  102. 94
  103. 95
  104. 96
  105. 97
  106. 98
  107. 99
  108. 100
  109. 101
  110. 102
  111. 103
  112. 104
  113. 105
  114. 106
  115. 107
  116. 108

A “soi” is a road Mike thinks he remembers, but he has no sense of distance yet in Bangkok. The motorcycle taxis are right there, handy. But maybe he should walk and find a cab at the end of the road. No, he decides, what are the chances of two motorcycle skids? He approaches the pack of lounging drivers and shows one of them the address. As the driver makes a display of looking at it, Mike realizes he cannot read.

“Soi Four, Silom,” says Mike, and the driver nods vigorously. Mike looks into his eyes for maybe a moment too long, weirds the guy out a little, but he has to be sure.

And then the wonder of a clean motorcycle ride through Bangkok. Mike leans into the turns, watches the city slide past him. Wild dogs everywhere and carts of rice and vegetables. In one neighborhood, bald men in red robes. Buddhists, but out at night? Maybe Dorr has become a monk, solitary even among the red robes, and is marching home from prayer to sleep on a yellowing woven mat. Mike wishes he could stay on the motorcycle all night and all day, never have to talk to anyone, just soak it all in at high speed. If he could only see it all in motion, he thinks, he could have the insight without the fear, the trip without the nerves.

The story without the work. Mike wonders if Analect knew this would happen.

Mike gets to Silom Road in twenty minutes. It’s only eight-thirty and he doesn’t want to be early. Then, swinging his leg over the back of the motorbike, he hears a rip.

“Ha.” The driver points at Mike’s ripped pant leg as Mike pays him. Mike nods and laughs, but he is thinking Goddamn it, because he has ripped his expensive New York no-pleat safari pants right up the inseam. His father got him those pants.

Mike looks up and down Silom Road, sees Soi Four and walks down the smaller street looking for any numbered building. Where is 44? He can’t find it, but then, at a dead end, a sign that reads .44 Bar. The .44 Bar. Like a gun. Good.

To kill time, Mike walks back to Silom Road looking for new pants in the stalls that line the sidewalk. It is hard to walk in the crowd. He is not really looking for pants. He is looking for the version of himself that does not arrive too early.

He goes from stall to stall and all the pants are either a bad color or a bad cut or stop above the ankle, fisherman’s pants. Hemp. A woman catches his eye and points to a bunch of metal rings on a string. They have designs painted on them, like the rings Dreads had on his thumb. Maybe no one will notice his pants.