“How could you know that?”
“He’s my client’s son. And besides, if he’s like his father, he’s too stupid.”
Shek turned and gave Wong a wry smile. “Perhaps he rose to the occasion.”
* * *
The geomancer’s mobile phone rang.
“Wong? Where are you? Have you left the hotel?” It was the voice of Lim Cheong Li at the race’s gala lunch. He sounded irate.
“No, I’m here,” Wong lied. “Er, in the bathroom.”
The businessman spoke in a screech: “I need you back in the ballroom immediately. Your monk friend has messed the whole thing up.”
Wong’s heart sank. “Sin Sar? What he say?”
“He was supposed to open the event by clanging his holy bell, right?”
“Yes. He forgot the bell?”
“No, he didn’t forget the bell. He had the blasted bell. But he forgot that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and jangle the thing. Instead, he made a little speechette and then jangled the bell.”
“Oh. He said something bad?”
“Yes. He said something very bad indeed.”
Wong sighed. “He’s a monk. You have to expect people like that to talk all sorts of rubbish.”
Lim said: “Sin Sar told us the race should be spiritual. It should be a race of the heart. It should be a competition about who can crave less than his neighbor.” The man spoke in a whiny, mocking tone. “It should be a race about giving money and glory away to others, not grabbing money and glory for yourself. He said it was wrong to worship money.”
“Clearly rubbish, but no harm done,” Wong offered.
“Well get this. He said that many scriptures, including the Buddhist and the Christian ones, dictate that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. So he declared that good fortune would only continue to prevail if the title and the money and the trophy went to whoever came in LAST, instead of whoever came in first.”
There was silence. “Er, interesting,” said Wong, wondering how he could put a positive light on this. “Makes your race very unique and unusual and historical. You are very lucky.”
“Lucky?” said Lim, sounding close to apoplexy. “It’s a disaster. The last person wins the money and the glory. The idiot monk has turned it into a slow race, like those bicycle races where you have to go as slowly as you can. The winner is whoever is last, and the loser is whoever is first. Do you understand what this means, Wong?”
“I think so. Maybe small small problem.”
“It means that Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson are going to drive as slowly as they can. That’s the only way they can get the title and the money. They might not finish until next Tuesday. They might never finish. It means there is going to be no race. It means there will be nothing for the millions of TV cameras and viewers and sponsors to look at. It means the whole event will be a multimillion-dollar disaster.”
“Ah. I see. Can’t you just ignore what Sin Sar said?”
“He said it in front of the whole crowd and the TV cameras and everything. It was so unexpected that everybody laughed and cheered, not realizing what it really meant. Even the drivers were amused at first. It was only when he sat down that we realized the race would be destroyed.”
“Too bad.”
“Yes, it is too bad. Especially for you, since YOU are going to pay for it.”
“Huh?”
“You brought the blasted abbot into this process. If the whole thing goes belly-up, you’re paying for it.”
“Oh. Maybe I talk to Sin Sar,” the feng shui master offered.
“You’d better. They’re serving the last few courses of the Chinese banquet now. That means you have about ten or fifteen minutes.”
Wong pressed the red button to end the call.
The abbot’s birthday meant he had practically been born for this event. How could he have been a bad choice? This made no sense. And what would happen? Was Wong’s huge payoff going to turn into a massive bill? Should he leave the country immediately? What else could go wrong?
Detective Inspector Shek marched up to him, turning off his own phone. “Just got word from the hospital. Lap-ki Wu was declared dead on arrival. The wife is expected to follow shortly. We’re now talking about murders.”
Shek spun around on his heels and headed to the restaurant kitchen where Alberto Siu Keung was waiting.
Wong, not knowing what else to do, stood at the door and eavesdropped.
“Really, I don’t know what happened,” the young man said. “I did my job properly. I tasted every dish. It was all fine. The poison didn’t come from the kitchen. I swear. I’ll bet my life.”
“You are betting your life,” the detective said. “How does it work? Do you actually eat a bit of everyone’s steak right off their plate?”
“No. There’s a system that food tasters use.”
“There is?”
“Yes, we’re professionals. You think we’re like mothers with toddlers, tasting the food and feeding them? It’s not like that.”
Wong could hear Alberto sigh. Even when he breathed you could hear a vibrato tremor. The young man was trying not to cry. He sniffed twice, and then continued.
“I’ll tell you my system. Each dish is served from the cooking service onto an intermediary platter, preheated to keep it warm. I select a piece at random from each dish and give it a smell test. Sometimes I do a chemical test too. But if it smells fine, usually I just take a small bite. Then I wait to see if there’s any reaction. After a short wait—I can usually tell immediately if something’s wrong, but I usually wait two minutes, to see if anything develops—I take another bite. Most strong poisons you can detect surprisingly easily. There are a few which are tasteless, but most of them have a slight smell. It’s not a foolproof system, but it works. Once all the items have been tasted, it’s our job to look after the chain of custody, just like a police officer monitoring his evidence. We watch to make sure the items we’ve cleared are served onto the diners’ plates and handed to them.”
“So you did all that?”
“Of course. In this type of situation, where individuals are genuinely scared of being poisoned, I take a lot of care. I tasted everything. All the meat, every vegetable.”
“Drinks?”
“Even the drinks. I pour a little out of each into a separate cup, and smell it and taste it. I don’t let it out of my sight until it reaches the diners.” The young man started to weep. “Please believe me, wherever the poison came from, it wasn’t from anything they ate or drank.”
Wong found Alberto’s story believable. He turned and sniffed the air. Could some sort of gas be the culprit? Or a poisoned umbrella tip? Or a radioactive teapot? He’d done the reading. He knew how creative villains were these days.
His mobile phone rang. It was Joyce outside in the car.
“He’s freaking me out.”
“He’s freaking out?”
“No, he’s freaking me out. He says he wants to spend the rest of his life with his head in my lap. He’s creepy. I think he’s smelling my crotch. I’m standing outside the car. I said I was going to go and get drinks for the two of us. I got no money on me. Where are you?”
Wong told her which restaurant they were in. A minute later she appeared, and asked the bartender for two cold drinks.
The feng shui master sat down to make plans to escape from the slow-motion disaster that was unraveling at the hotel around the corner. Option one: go straight to the airport and leave Singapore forever. Option two: contact Sin Sar and get him to rescind his decree immediately. Better try that first.
He called the monastery and got the staff to give him the abbot’s phone number. He dialed it with growing anger, stabbing at his phone.
“Sin Sar, this is Wong. I am not in the room. I had to go out. Urgent business. But I heard about your decree. Last one gets the prize. You have to get up, tell them you were joking.”
“I wasn’t joking,” the monk said in h
is high, singsong voice, giddy with delight. “People here love the idea. You should have heard the laughter.”
“But that’s because they didn’t realize that you were spoiling the race. These guys famous for driving cars fast. Slow race no good. Makes bad TV. Sponsors very angry. Race organizer very angry.”
“It’s still a race. But the loser gets the prize. That’s the Buddhist way.”
“That’s not the Buddhist way.”
“Well, it’s the Abbot Sin Sar way.”
“Change it. I order you. Otherwise they will make me pay for everything. It cost millions of dollars. I can’t pay.”
“Look, Wong, I have to go. The next course has arrived. The food here is so good. Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”
“You are my friend. Why are you doing this to me?”
“I am not doing anything to you. I am doing something good for the people here. They are competitive in the worst way. They always want to win win win. Everything has to be bigger, stronger, faster. I am teaching them something good.”
“They are not bad people. You don’t have to spoil their race.”
“They have competitiveness in their hearts. That’s bad. They have a craving for money and glory. Those are poisons that will seep out and destroy their lives. I am doing them a favor.”
“Don’t talk to me about poison,” Wong growled.
The abbot hung up.
At that moment, Joyce stomped back into the restaurant, irritation on her face. She placed one of the drinks on the counter. “He won’t drink it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a boiling hot day but he wants it with no ice. He’s crazy.”
She waited until the barman made another gin and tonic, and then headed back out. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Oh, and by the way, we got a parking ticket. The driver says you have to pay it.”
Wong winced. She disappeared.
The barman looked over at him. “And that’s three drinks your lady friend ordered. You’ll have to pay for them too.”
“Aiyeeah,” cursed Wong. “Why do the gods hate me so much?”
The barman gazed down at the ice-filled drink that Keung had refused to accept. “You want to drink this? You look like you need it.” He slid the drink over.
Wong glared at it, as if it was responsible for all his troubles.
And then his eyes widened.
* * *
The clouds were clearing as C.F. Wong, Joyce McQuinnie, and Sigmund Siu Keung sat in the car, inching through the traffic on their way back to the Raffles Hotel.
“Driver, take me home FIRST,” said the tycoon, his head on Joyce’s thigh. “Marina Bay.”
“Later,” Wong said. “First, Raffles.” The feng shui master pulled out his phone and called the police detective. “Shek. I just want to ask you one question. Mr. Wu is dead, right? But Mrs. Wu is okay, recovering in hospital? Is it right?”
“C.F.? Yes, that seems to be the case.”
“What were they drinking at the meal?”
There was silence for a few seconds. “Not sure. Scotch, I think. Lap-ki Wu is from a Cantonese background. Probably cognac.”
Wong nodded. “I think I know what happened. Mrs. Wu puts poison inside ice cubes. When Alberto taste the drinks, they are fine. Poison locked inside the ice cubes. But after five minutes, ice cube melts. Mr. Wu drinks poison. He dies. Old system. Seen it before. Common.”
“But Mrs. Wu is also sick. Why would she poison herself?”
“You forget. Mrs. Wu is an actress.”
“Was an actress.”
“Is an actress. They never forget. Like bicycles, elephants.”
As the car pulled up outside the Raffles, Wong leaped from the passenger seat and sprinted through the lobby and into the ballroom.
He arrived puffing to find the room full of raised voices. It was clear that people had now realized that Abbot Sin Sar’s stricture meant the race would be unlikely to go ahead at all.
Lim Cheong Li was onstage, trying to maintain order.
The feng shui master marched up the tiny stage staircase and took the microphone from him. “So sorry, Mr. Lim,” he said. “Must just fix this small small problem for you.” C.F. Wong tapped the microphone hard, twice. Then he started speaking: “Excuse me, rich people, sponsors, businessmen, and et ceteras, I want to say something.”
He continued to tap the microphone and call for attention. The crowd’s attention was eventually caught by the skeletal man on stage with the thick Chinese accent. Conversations died down.
“Ancient Chinese legend says exactly what Abbot Sin Sar said,” Wong explained. “The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I know this is also in the Bible. But Bible originally was Chinese, as everyone knows. As Sin Sar says, whichever car crosses the line first will be declared the loser. Whichever car crosses the line last will be declared the winner. But Sin Sar forgot to say one important thing: Chinese legend says that racing-horse riders should ride each other’s horses. This is the traditional way.”
He glanced down at an event program before continuing. “So Mr. Emerson Brahms will drive the car belonging to Mr. Andreletti Nelson. And the vice will be versa. Mr. Andreletti Nelson will drive the car belonging to Mr. Emerson Brahms. The car which crosses the line last will be the winning car. This is the Buddhist way. This is the Singapore way. This is the best way. Thank you. Goodbye and good night.”
There was silence. People took a few seconds to ponder the implications of the change he had outlined. Slowly, the room broke into laughter and applause.
As Wong carefully climbed down the steps from the stage, he wondered how long it would take for the drivers themselves to realize what his proposal meant. If Brahms and Nelson were driving each other’s cars, each would do his damndest to try to get that car into the most UNdesirable position: first place. Each would drive with as much speed and skill as he could muster. And there was a certain Zen quality about the paradox that would give the race a truly Asian flavor.
The heavens had been right when they guided Wong to select Sin Sar.
Lim saw immediately that it would work. He followed Wong offstage. “Nice going, feng shui master. Let me buy you a drink.”
“I like iced tea,” Wong said. “But no ice cubes.”
For Cynthia Wong Mee Tin,
who taught me to love a good noir story
Editor’s Acknowledgments
Deepest gratitude to the terrific authors who contributed to this anthology as well as the National Arts Council of Singapore. Thanks, too, to the Studios of Key West, which provided a haven for editing at a crucial time, Johnny Temple and his lovely team at Akashic, S.J. Rozan for getting this ball rolling, Mike Hale, Jonathan Santlofer, Gordon Dahlquist, Jesse Pesta, and my agent, the inimitable Jin Auh with the Wylie Agency.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Monica Bhide’s work has appeared in Food & Wine, the New York Times, Parents, Bon Appetit, Saveur, and many other publications. Her food essays have been included in the Best Food Writing anthologies (2005, 2009, and 2010). She has published three cookbooks, the latest being Modern Spice: Inspired Indian Flavors for the Contemporary Kitchen. In 2012, the Chicago Tribune picked her as one of seven noteworthy food writers to watch.
Colin Cheong was born in Singapore in 1965 and graduated from the National University of Singapore in 1988. His debut novel, The Stolen Child, was awarded the Highly Commended Fiction in English Award by the National Book Development Council of Singapore in 1990. His novella Tangerine was awarded the Singapore Literature Prize in 1996, and he also won the Merit Award in that competition for his novella The Man in the Cupboard in 1998.
Damon Chua is a playwright, poet, and film producer. His plays are published by Samuel French and Smith & Kraus, and his poetry by Ethos Books. A recipient of grants from UNESCO, Durfee Foundation, and the Singapore Film Commission, Chua is a lover of film noir and is delighted to be a part of this collection. His grandfather once ope
rated a pig farm in Mandai village, a stone’s throw from Woodlands.
Dave Chua’s first novel, Gone Case, received a Singapore Literature Prize Commendation Award in 1996. Gone Case: A Graphic Novel, Book 1 and Book 2—with the artist Koh Hong Teng—were recently published. Chua’s latest book, The Beating and Other Stories, was longlisted for the 2012 Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award.
Colin Goh writes and illustrates Dim Sum Warriors, the multiplatform children’s graphic novel series that Fast Company named one of the Top 10 Coolest Original Digital Comics of 2012. He also wrote and directed Singapore Dreaming, a feature film that won the Montblanc Screenwriters Award at the San Sebastian International Film Festival, and Best Asian Film at the Tokyo International Film Festival.
Philip Jeyaretnam is a novelist and short story writer, whose first book, First Loves, topped Singapore’s Sunday Times best-seller list for eighteen months. His novel Abraham’s Promise was described by the New York Times as a “novel of regret for actions not taken and words unspoken, eloquent in the spareness of its prose and the gradual unveiling of the narrator’s self-deception.” Jeyaretnam has chaired the Singapore Writers’ Festival since 2007.
Johann S. Lee is the London-based author of a triptych of novels (Peculiar Chris, To Know Where I’m Coming From, Quiet Time) depicting the experiences of gay men in Singapore, where homosexual acts remain criminal under the country’s penal code. “Current Escape” is his second short story.
Suchen Christine Lim’s latest novel is The River’s Song. The winner of the Southeast Asia Write Award 2012, her other novels include Rice Bowl, A Bit of Earth, and Fistful of Colours, which won the inaugural Singapore Literature Prize. Other published works are The Lies That Build a Marriage, Hua Song: Stories of the Chinese Diaspora, and fourteen children’s books. Awarded a Fulbright fellowship, she was an international writing fellow and writer in residence at the University of Iowa.
Lawrence Osborne is the author most recently of The Wet and the Dry and the novel The Forgiven, both published by Hogarth in New York. His short story “Volcano” was selected for Best American Short Stories 2012. Born in England, he lives in Bangkok.
Singapore Noir Page 20
