21 Immortals

by Rozlan Mohd Noor

  “Headquarters. Just got back from a meeting. It’s all right, Fie; I’ll stop at one of the stalls on my way home and grab something.”

  “Lan, why don’t you come over? There’s a place here that makes excellent nasi goreng. I thought of having it for dinner, but it’s too much for me to eat alone. If you come over, I will share it with you. How about that?”

  “Are you sure? It’s late. By the time I reach your place, it’ll be about ten-thirty.”

  “Sure, I’m sure. Call me when you’re here. See you,” she says, hanging up before he can say anything else.

  The prospect of supper with Safia excites him. The prospect of a chance to pick up where they left off is invigorating. Traffic is light, so he makes an illegal U-turn and takes the slip road to Loke Yew. He has been to Safia’s place twice, but only to drop her at the guardhouse each time. She rents an apartment in one of the condominiums in Taman Midah, a predominantly Chinese area. Being a liberal Malay, she prefers living in a multiracial community, rather than in a Malay-dominated area: no prying eyes, no sanctimonious judgments of other people’s private lives.

  He parks his car outside the gate and calls her. While waiting, he telephones home and his maid tells him that Daniel is asleep. When he sees Safia coming out, he flashes his car headlights to attract her attention. She waves and walks towards him. She looks like a college student, dressed casually in dark shorts, white T-shirt, slippers, and a pink Callaway golf cap. He takes his backpack out of the car, locks the vehicle and meets her halfway.

  “Where to?”

  “Over there,” she says, pointing to a stall across the road. “You look like shit.”

  He takes her hand and helps her across, a habit he had developed with his exwife.

  “You’re the second woman to say that to me today, but you know what? I’m a happy shit,” he laughs.

  “Who was the first?” she asks.

  He detects some jealousy in her voice and smiles, “My boss, Puan Samsiah.”

  “Happy? Did you break the case?”

  “I wish.”

  “A long-lost uncle died and left you a million ringgit. No, make that US dollars,” she teases. “Now you can quit your job and enjoy life.”

  He smiles.

  At the stall, they pick a table furthest from the other customers, and order a plate of nasi goreng, one iced tea and an iced coffee.

  “What’re you happy about, then?” she asks.

  “Happy I’m having an alfresco dinner, or supper, with a beautiful, not to mention intelligent, woman. If that doesn’t make a man happy, I don’t know what will,” he says.

  “Who, where?” she teases, looking to her left and right.

  “Just enjoy the compliment, doc.”

  Her phone rings just then. She looks at the screen and slides it back into her pocket where it keeps ringing until it times out. Uncomfortable silence hangs over them as they wait for the ringing to stop.

  “Did you mean what you just said?”

  Before he can answer, her phone rings again. The awkward silence returns. She lets it ring until it dies off again, pulls it out, puts it on silent mode and slides it back into her pocket. Their orders arrive. That breaks the awkwardness. She shifts into the chair next to him from across the table so she can share the nasi goreng. He uses the spoon and she, the fork. The nasi goreng does indeed taste as good as she had claimed, or perhaps it does because he is starving.

  “Did you mean what you said?” she asks again, putting down the fork.

  He had thought he had escaped answering the question, but he had thought wrong. “I say many things. What did I say?” He delays his answer to think of a noncommittal response.

  “About being happy?” she says, looking him in the eyes.

  He lights one cigarette for her and another for himself. He nods, “Yes.”

  “Me, too,” she replies, smiling.

  Her answer surprises him. “Really! I mean you, too?”

  She laughs, strokes his hand lightly and says, “Yes, Lan. I’ve always enjoyed your company. You’re always, how shall I put it, a gentleman. We’ve been out, what, five, six times and you’ve never asked me anything personal, or pushed me into anything. Not like most men. I have wondered if you were gay, or if you didn’t find me attractive, though I don’t know which is worse.”

  It is his turn to laugh. “The answers to your questions are ‘no’, I’m not gay and ‘no’, I don’t find you attractive. I find you very attractive.”

  She squeezes his wrist and slowly pulls her hand away.

  “Tell me about you, Lan.”

  “What’s there to tell? What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  The awkward silence returns.

  “All right, let’s play a game. We each take turns to ask questions that must be answered truthfully. We have only one pass card we can use. Once it is used, the same question cannot be asked again. How about it?”

  “Only one pass? I always thought you are given three,” he begins to feel a little uneasy.

  “Just one. So, use your pass wisely,” she says, patting his hand reassuringly.

  “It’s late, Fie, I’ve not had my bath and I stink,” he says rather lamely, unsure if he is up to a truth game. In his profession, he does all the asking.

  “Tell you what, why don’t we go back to my place. You can take a shower and we can have coffee out on the balcony. It’s nice and breezy, I’m sure you’ll like it.” Without waiting for his reply, she asks for the bill, which he pays, and they leave. Walking back to her place, she slips her hand into his.

  Her two-bedroom unit is on level nine and, as he imagined, is modestly furnished, reflecting her character. A two-seater earth coloured sofa, a wooden coffee table from IKEA littered with women’s and medical magazines, a bookshelf overflowing with books, a piano and a treadmill define her. She disappears into one of the bedrooms. A few seconds later, she calls out to him. When she sees him standing at the door, she says, “It’s all right, you can come in. The bathroom is there. There are fresh towels on the rack. I’ve put a T-shirt and shorts on the bed, I’m sure they fit. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll make us some coffee?”

  He takes a few hesitant steps into the room as she goes to the kitchen. Dropping his backpack next to the TV, he examines the shorts and T-shirt on the bed and wonders if what he’s doing is right. His brain tells him to leave, but his heart tells him to stay.

  He showers, passes on the shorts, puts on his own trousers and the T-shirt. He scans the bedroom: more books by the bedside table, no framed photographs. He does not recall seeing any on the bookshelf either. He finds that a bit odd. He goes back to the living room to find her sitting on the sofa with two mugs of hot coffee. From the look on her face, he sees that she has noticed he has not taken up her offer on the shorts, but she does not say anything. Handing him a mug, she points to the balcony.

  The view from the balcony is indeed spectacular. It overlooks the city; sadly, it is too dark and cloudy to identity landmarks, except the Twin Towers. He is sure the view is beautiful on a clear night. He sees only one balcony chair, so he remains leaning against the railing while she slides into it. The night air is fresh at the ninth floor and there is a light breeze. He struggles to light a cigarette, and his efforts amuse her. After several attempts, he gets it and, using his cigarette, lights one for her.

  “Why are you not wearing the shorts?” she finally asks.

  “I don’t want to seduce you with my sexy legs,” he answers evasively. He feels some rain when he stretches his hand over the railing. “It’s drizzling.”

  “Let’s sit inside and leave the door open. I like the breeze.” She moves to the sofa and rearranges the magazines on the coffee table to make space for their mugs and ashtray. They sit leaning against the armrest on either end, facing the balcony.

  “Shall we start?” Although she hides behind a smile, there is something in her tone that tells him she i
s serious about the game.

  “Ladies first,” he says, uncertain which road the game is going to take.

  “Chauvinist,” she says, mischievously. “Do you like me?”

  “Wow, straight for the jugular. No warm-up question?”

  She smiles, shakes her head and says, “It’s late and you’re tired.”

  “Yes,” he says, surprised by his answer.

  “How much?”

  “I thought it is my turn to ask.”

  “I have changed the rules. I am allowed to ask follow-up questions if the answer is ambiguous. So, ‘how much’ is a follow-up question,” she chuckles.

  “Which part of ‘yes’ is ambiguous? When did this happen? I mean, when did the rules change?”

  “When you were in the shower. Okay, that was your question, now it’s my turn. How much?” she chuckles again.

  “That’s not a question. I mean, that was not my intended question. I was seeking clarification over the rules,” he rebuts mildly.

  “Now, you’re getting technical on me.”

  “Hmm, you’re more than just a clever and helpful pathologist,” he quips.

  “Now, you know,” she replies, casually lifting her legs, stretching it along the sofa resting them on his thighs. He pretends not to be affected, as if it is something every woman does when playing the truth game, or whatever. Question after question keeps coming from her without him having a chance to ask any. Somewhere during the Q & A, she shifts from the edge of the sofa to lean her head on his shoulder with her legs on the coffee table.

  His phone alarm jolts him awake. It is the best sleep he has ever had, sitting. As gently as he can, he lifts her head, now resting on his numb thighs, and rests it on a cushion. He slowly pushes himself up, holding the sofa’s backrest for support. He waits for blood circulation to resume in his legs before attempting his walk to the bedroom. He changes his shirt and gathers his backpack. He looks at her sleeping on the sofa and decides not to wake her. He knows she has two sets of house keys because he had noticed the spare on the holder when he was coming into the house. He kisses her on the forehead, takes the spare set, and tries the front door and grill. It works. He writes a note saying he has taken the spare keys, will return them asap and leaves.

  14

  Tuesday

  Mislan sends a text message to Sarah, his neighbour, asking if she could give Daniel a ride to school. When she agrees, he calls his maid and tells her the arrangement. He then drives to the office, pops his trunk to extract a clean shirt, socks, and his toiletry pouch. It is common for Major Crimes personnel to work overnight, and it made sense to have a mini-wardrobe in the trunk. After being in the same shirt and socks for twenty-four hours, a change is always welcome.

  It is seven o’clock, and the building is not alive yet. Taking the lift, he gets off at his floor; goes to the toilet, washes up the best he can in the cubicle, changes, stuffs his soiled clothes into the backpack and slips into his office. The investigator on shift duty and his assistant are discussing something with the front desk officer when he walks in.

  “Good morning. How is business?”

  “The usual shit. Nothing like The Yee Sang Murders,” the shift investigator replies sarcastically.

  “Good for you,” he mumbles, not amused by the insinuation.

  He flips through the message slips on his table. Three are from Audi to return her calls. He makes a note to call her later and sticks it on his tiny soft-board with many other slips, long forgotten. Switching on the computer, he takes out his digital recorder, plugs it into one of the USB ports and slides in a blank CD to make a copy of the three interviews. He ejects the CD, puts it into a plastic holder and labels it, Report No 21222/08 – 302 PC – Interviews with Maria, Irene, and Four Finger Loo. He seals the plastic holder, pastes the red Sulit sticker on it, and drops it into the ‘Out’ tray at the front office. His phone beeps; an incoming text message. It is Safia. She had a wonderful time and not to worry about the keys. She ends it with a ‘smilie’. He replies, saying he too had a good time, and sorry about taking the keys without permission.

  He sees Johan coming, his hands empty. “No nasi lemak today?”

  “Sorry lah, was in a rush.”

  “Let’s go to the canteen then. My treat.”

  “You seem happy. Want to share some of it?”

  The lift lobby is crowded now. The door to a lift going down opens, packed with officers, rank and file, and civilian staff. They squeeze in, ignoring the groans of disapproval. All the passengers get out at Level One where the canteen is, leaving the lift empty for the rest of its journey to the ground floor.

  Mislan hates the canteen during breakfast and lunch, when it festers with internal politics, promotion lobbying, scandalous gossips, backstabbing, arse-kissing, and grumbling. They down a quick wordless breakfast and leave. On the way up to their office, Johan again asks why he looks happy. To shut his AIO up, he tells him that he had a wonderful night without giving any details.

  “What’s the plan today?”

  “I don’t know yet. Let’s talk about it after ‘morning prayers’. I need to put the eyes on Four Finger Loo and see where he leads us. I’ll ask puan if she can get E3 to lend us a team. Why don’t you dig up whatever intelligence you can get on him, say, for the last one year?”

  “You think he has a hand in this?”

  “I doubt it, but let’s be sure before we write him off. And don’t forget to go through the interviews. It’s in the PC titled The Yee Sang Murders. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t. And Jo, you remember the extortion case we did about a year ago, the Black Dagger gang?”

  “Yes. You think they’re connected?”

  “No, I doubt it. Remember the gang leader, Botak Kim? He was expelled from the secret society, right? I think he’s still in prison. Can you have a chat with him? See if he can provide any information on 21, Four Finger Loo and Fatty Mah.”

  “I’ll arrange for the interview. When do you want me to do it?”

  “Asap, before we write-off Four Finger.” He then leaves to attend ‘morning prayer’.

  Investigators are making small-talk when he enters. The chair next to the Head of Major Crimes, usually reserved for the outgoing shift-investigator is empty, with a note, ‘Reserved for The Yee Sang Murders’ on the backrest. The room becomes silent instantly and all eyes follow him. “Funny, real funny,” he scoffs, ripping out the sticker. An investigator seated at the far end remarks, “Touchy!” and immediately regrets opening his mouth. Like a killer laser beam, a vile stare shoots out in his direction. Supt Samsiah enters, flanked by two uniformed women officers. Two additional chairs are wheeled in by a civilian staff member. They take their seats and the Head of Major Crimes introduces them as ASP Theresa Yip and Inspector Mahani from Public Relations. To him, the two women look as if they have just stepped out of a beauty salon after unsuccessful makeovers. Both wear fake GRO smiles, and look smug and conceited. He wonders if their beauty treatments and cosmetics were paid for by the force.

  “Inspector Mislan, you looked like you have something to say.”

  “No, puan, nothing important.”

  “Right then, let’s start.”

  The outgoing shift investigator briefs the meeting on the seven cases reported in the last twenty-four hours. One 302 between two drinking buddies, three armed robberies – all suspected to have been carried out by the same group – and the rest are SDRs, Sudden Death Reports, by the public. All cases are being investigated by district stations without the involvement of Major Crimes.

  “We believe the robberies are related to my case. We have identified one of their known hangouts, and I’ve put surveillance on it,” interjects ASP Ghani Ishak, Head of Special Projects.

  “Good. Anyone attending court today?” Two investigators respond and are released. “Mislan, any update on your case?”

  “Now?” he asks, unsure if his findings should be made general knowledge, especially in the presence of the two
PR dolls.

  “Yes, PR will be organising a press conference. So, our investigators may as well hear it from the lead, rather than read about it in the papers. Don’t you agree?”

  “All right, but I think it’s premature. Again, who am I to decide?” he responds with as much sarcasms as he can get away with.

  ASP Theresa Yip is about to say something, when Head of Major Crimes raises a hand, stopping her. “I have noted your views,” she says.

  “You’re the boss,” he murmurs under his breath, expressing his disappointment. “Forensics found traces of perfume and cosmetic on two of the vics, father and son, which didn’t match the mother’s, or those found at the scene. By the way, ‘vic’ is ‘victim’ in investigator’s jargon.” He explains, looking at ASP Theresa Yip and Inspector Mahani with a cynical smile. Noticing ASP Theresa Yip’s raised eyebrows he pauses, hoping she will say something stupid. She does not disappoint.

  “That’s a positive lead,” ASP Theresa Yip butts in.

  He jumps at the opportunity she offers, “And what positive lead might that be?”

  “The cosmetic, it tells you that there was a woman present at the scene,” ASP Theresa Yip replies, excited.

  “Good deduction, but elementary.” He gives her one of his many smart-ass smiles, relishing the slow-burning blush on her face. “Unless we can make a match, it tells us nothing. It could be a transfer from an unknown male or female. At present, it’s like looking for Nemo in the ocean, so I’m not pursuing your so-called positive lead, unless Forensics can identify the perfume or brand name of the cosmetic.” Having appeased his burning indignation at the PR dolls, he continues, “I managed to track down Four Finger Loo and we had a sit-down last night. He denies the involvement of the SS or himself. Animosity between him and the vic goes back to ninety-five, so he is not grieving over the yee’em chai, that is Chinese for traitor, joining his ancestors. They, by that I meant the 21 Immortals, believed the vic had snitched on them in the ninety-five big sweep that sent most of them to Pulau Jerejak.”