Company Owner

Two dollar fifty pratas, teh tariks at a dollar and carrot juices—no ice, no sugar—ranging from $2.50 - $3 depending on who was serving—still seem to have presented the wrong kind of impression. The white-man counteracts it all. The only white-man who regularly frequents the place, that's for sure. Western tourists are rare in Geylang, certainly at Tasvee. The occasional one comes by. Occasionally one stops at Tasvee. More often they appear up the road beyond Aljuneid in the brothel quarter. Young men in the main, footballer types, Australian, British and American. This afternoon a German family of five stopped for lunch, perhaps encouraged by the presence of a fellow Westerner. Otherwise the clientele at Tasvee is comprised of Indians and Sri Lankans, with the older Chinese men the secondary contingent.
Seventy cents for illegal single cigarettes fails to give indication of indigence. The white-man counteracts all that. And this is without the powerful symbol of the panama. Patronizing the place almost entirely at night, the panama is left back at the hotel. After one or two late returns from town it might have been paraded.
The fellow usually manning the cigarette stand unusually smiley tonight. Wants to introduce a couple of new faces, friends of his visiting it seems. Over from India possibly, or Malaysia. (Once or twice the association with India disclaimed here. Malaysia is altogether different.)
A handshake with the first, a young fella in his late twenties. The intro inaudible against the traffic. A second coming up behind. This one gets a clearer fanfare. A man in his mid-late thirties. Less of open smiling. Signs of affluence. Gold. Open-necked biz shirt, tell-tale striped. Handshake somewhat limp.
— Company owner, no less.
It was easy to believe. The cigarette-stand man was doing the smiling for his friend. Broad. Wide enough to reveal the gap in the back of his upper row. You had to feel sorry for him. He was the poor cousin. Selling single cigarettes and two dollar fifty pratas to old Chinese pensioners and the construction slave gangs. A half dozen of them dependent on the business.
Earlier in the evening a strongly built young Chinese man, tall, in a clean white polo, with a look about him, hailed two cabs, one after another. Neat looking, capable, focused fellow. Knowing his business. No messing with him if you knew what was good for you. A busy man. There were no tattoos. On the side of his knee an old, minor scar. Many of the young men carry them. There are many young men limping on the street, a disproportionate number of lame, crippled and amputees. The motor-bikes without a doubt. Today another minor accident further up the road. Bike and bicycle in this case. The front wheel of the latter deformed irreparably, but no other obvious signs of damage.
This young fellow nimble on his feet. Near six feet tall. Thick-set. A kind of good-looker without that particular note of steeliness. A fellow best avoided.
When the first cab eventually stopped—the fellow had become a little impatient; the way he contained himself added to the impression of unnerving steeliness—he motioned into the back of Tasvee a couple of times and with his other hand opened first the passenger door and after it the rear.
Quickly out the back of Tasvee came four very lovely, very young Viet girls dressed to kill. Flouncy dresses, hair perfect, legs more perfect still. They knew to move quickly, promptly making room for each other. The middle one in back raised up a small, meaningful smile to their escort as she quickly clambered into the cab. Both doors were closed by the man. The driver seemed to know to get off without further ado.
Not a minute and a half later the second cab had stopped. The hand gesture was not needed this time. A look in back at Tasvee was sufficient. The second lot of girls had been alert. They came out the same as the first group, three Indians the same age as the Viets, again very lovely, one of them film-star quality in the role of the steadfast good girl of the town, patiently awaiting the return of her childhood sweetheart from the war.
Destination the Orchard Road brothels without a doubt. The ones in the back blocks of Geylang seemed far beneath this careful grooming and packaging. These young beauties would command dollars. Three or four hundred a time perhaps. There were girls just as beautiful here in Geylang, but in that particular setting, dressed to kill, with God knows what frills and staging at those places, the price goes through the roof. Three Floors of Whores, one place is called apparently. No doubt there are many more discreet, high-end salon-type get-ups. Valet services. Top shelf booze. Dressing gowns. You-name-it. Big business. By comparison Bangkok must be tawdry.