Cost of a pack here was about the same as back home—$10-11 and more at the supermarkets. The chaps in this stretch of town who burn 30-40 a day can't afford that of course, just like elsewhere. Here there was no space for illegal chop-chop, that toxic stuff they fertilise and spray with god knows what.
Over the Causeway, about nine hundred metres—30 seconds in a fast boat—same pack costs quart the price. Easy to figure. Even with fines one hundred times the tax evaded, can be got if you know where. Naturally the lads who need to know, know.
Problem was a big raid last weekend which sent all the dealers to ground. Nothing for goin’ down with the tehs. Toe-tapping all along the pavement tables like a chorus-line pretty much up to the Haig bus-stop.
The author's long walks in the evenings uncovered some hidden corners that even the old crocodiles didn't know about. When they were tried by one or two fellows, returns empty-handed and complaints. Eventually, when the seekers happened upon the lads in the particular lorongs, wouldn't you know it. Only Marlboro Reds & Greens. Gudang Garangs zilch. They weren't going to pay even five for the other.
Last night an act of charity was performed. This was a different locale, needless to say needing to remain nameless. The arrangement had been observed previously in 2-3 places. Unlike the elaborate chain of a dozen or more lads in a long row, with the goods themselves kept well outta sight, here was a one-man, simple operation.
Under a covered walkway beside a pillar, an old cardboard box holding 8-9 packs in the bottom. M.Greens, a Red or two, and a couple of glinting Indon deep, lustrous mauves, blinking and glinting their lights like a semaphore, somehow.
There may have been an unobtrusive spot trained from a hidden railing. A little shady in the walkways, and uneven the floors. You needed to watch where you were planting your feet.
Ah! Brought up sharp. Step back needed.
Set-up nicely mounted.
The box sat against a pillar and just at that place there seemed to be more than the usual other pillars thick along the pavement. This was an ancient, if not Roman scene.
One found oneself in the midst of old, established cultures in Sin’pore. Well practiced.
From behind one of these extra pillars, a man.
If you ain’t ever seen rabbits pulled from a hats, you can't appreciate.
A sea of Chinese faces, like every night along that nameless, long-winding street. Outside of this dark, shuttered shop there was none.
Then there was.
A foreigner wouldn't stand a chance picking the fellow in line-up. In that area of Geylang an experienced portrait painter would never be able to differentiate the chap two minutes later. Two seconds later.
Generic Chinaman.
Raised his chin.
Incapable of producing a single English sound, one would have wagered. Wrongly.
— Five.
It would have been unseemly to bargain.
There was no time for linger. Cameras & microphones could be assumed everywhere in Sin'pore. (The purchaser was in deep poo like the seller.)
Somehow, without a hand involved, without naked flesh uncovered—the five no longer anywhere.
Somehow, it was clear the fellow wasn't going to stoop to pick up for you, either.
Usually a customer got first rate service in Sing'pore. White fella deluxe. Customer was king & Emperor. Usually.
The mainland Chinese were not known for their delicacy.
Did the man step away in the other direction? Didn’t mind you took two?
Sometimes one can catch the tails of lizards scampering up these pillar.
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