Fifteen grand. That’s how much money Scotty came asking for when they spoke last week, not even a week before he died. It was more than he’d ever come asking for, and he never said why he wanted it. And then, a few days later, he was dead. It was all too weird. He was prone to the migraines, but it never seemed to be anything that serious. Yet a few days after he comes looking for a ton of cash, he falls down dead somewhere in Asia.
“He was obviously dirty,” Robin had said while Steven packed his suitcase. “He was into drugs or something like that. He owed money to the wrong people.”
For once, Steven was inclined to agree with her, although not about the drugs. Scotty hated that sort of thing and was into too much healthy New Age nonsense to be into drugs. Besides, he had money in the bank that Steven let him have whenever he wanted it. Scotty could have easily gotten it—and drugs—if that had been his thing. It wasn’t drugs, but there was something shady going on in Scott’s life; Steven was pretty sure of that. He just had no clue what it could be.
In the end, Scotty never got the money. Steven dragged his feet on the transfer because the amount was so much he wanted to know what it was all about. He was waiting to hear back from Scotty before he finalized it with the bank. When the phone call from Singapore had come in the afternoon before, he had figured it was Scotty calling to explain. Instead, it was the hospital telling him his brother was dead and how to claim his body.
What the hell were you doing, big brother? Steven thinks. Scotty was born four minutes earlier than Steven, and the two of them had been pointing it out to each other their entire lives. Mostly, Scott didn’t want Steven to forget who the eldest twin was.
Steven winces as he fastens his seat belt and reaches for his magazine. He’s not very good with landings and tries to read his way through them. Right now, however, he’s too busy thinking about his dead brother lying in some morgue in the middle of Singapore and his dead relationship lying in ruins back in Toronto. The magazine will probably go unread until the flight home.
“Merry Christmas, Darling” by the Carpenters pops into his head for no reason, and he suddenly remembers that it’s that time of year again. As the plane touches down, he realizes that he forgot to send Scotty a card this year. It’s the first time he’s ever done that.
2
The heat in Singapore is brutal, and it is matched only by the intense humidity. Steven thought the summers in Toronto were rough, but they have nothing on December in Singapore. He knew it was hot because he did some reading online about the entire country when Scotty wound up there and said he was going to stay for a while. That still didn’t prepare Steven for what it was going to feel like when his shirt stuck to his skin the second he stepped out of the airport and flagged down a cab.
He keeps thinking that it’s way too hot and humid for it to feel like Christmas, but the decorations are everywhere. He’d heard that Singapore was mostly Buddhist but, looking around, it looks more Christian than Canada. The enormous Christmas tree in the middle of the baggage claim area didn’t even have ornaments of Buddha on it. “Let It Snow” was playing on the radio when he passed through customs. Now that the heat is beating down on him, Steven finds himself really missing Toronto.
Dear God, he thinks as he asks the taxi driver to crank up the air-conditioning. Please, let it goddamned snow.
The Christmas decorations are not limited to the airport and, while taking the long drive to the Furama hotel, Steven is bombarded by lit-up reindeer and snowflakes and Christmas trees everywhere he looks. The city is in the spirit, even if he’s not feeling it. Something about it doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s the brutal weather, but it doesn’t feel like Christmas, even if it looks like it.
“You American?” the taxi driver says. He is a young Asian man, about thirty years old, with a very crisp, blue, button-up shirt with short sleeves. He makes eye contact with Steven through the rearview mirror, glancing forward at the busy street every few seconds.
“Canadian,” Steven says. The traffic is intense, but it’s moving quickly. He knew that Singapore City was big, but it towers over him. He’s seen skyscrapers before, but these buildings seem twice as big as any of the towers in Toronto.
“Ah, Canada!” The cabbie speaks in short staccatos, his English good but frequently broken. “You like hockey?”
“Sure,” Steven says. He figures there’s no reason to tell some cab driver the truth.
“Hockey very exciting. Canada very nice.”
“Yep.”
“Like Canada very much.”
“Uh-huh. Can you turn the AC up a bit more, please?”
“What?” The driver laughs. “You want cold? You come here! Canada cold! Most Canadians come here, they don’t want the cold!”
“Not this one,” Steven says. “It’s too hot for me.”
“Hot!” The driver laughs harder. “This not hot. Today mild. All week, mild.”
Steven cringes at the thought. It feels like the hottest day in July to him. The humidity is easily over ninety percent, and there isn’t a breeze in the air. The taxi zips quickly off the highway and right into the middle of the city, where businessmen are wearing three-piece suits as they step out of the enormous office buildings and onto the sidewalk. He wonders how anyone could possibly dress like that in this kind of weather, and looks at his own tweed sports jacket and heavy chinos. It’s essentially the same outfit he wears every other day of the week, and it made sense when he left home. Now it might as well be a track suit.
“Furama!” the cab driver cheers gleefully, as if he’s never seen a hotel before. The taxi pulls up in front, and Steven suddenly doesn’t feel so bad about the clothes he’s wearing. He shakes his head as he steps out of the car and is greeted by a doorman who is dressed—head to toe—exactly like Santa Claus. A very thin, very short Singaporean man, he is wearing the big red hat, the very thick red suit, and even the black boots. To top it all off, the guy is even wearing a long, fake, white beard. Steven thinks of laughing, but isn’t sure if it’s right for him to do so or not. He doesn’t know the culture enough to laugh at the people here, and he hears that the police in Singapore cane people for something as simple as chewing gum.
“Hello, sir.” Santa Claus walks over and takes Steven’s small suitcase. Steven nods as he tries to figure out how to pay the cab driver and do the currency exchange in his head at the same time. In his pocket he has some Canadian cash, some American greenbacks he had in a drawer at home, and a wad of Singaporean cash that looks and feels like Monopoly money.
“Aren’t you hot wearing that?” Steven asks Mr. Claus.
“Yes, sir, very much.”
“It looks like it.”
“Very hot, sir.”
“You know that Santa Claus wears that outfit because it’s cold where he lives, right?”
“Yes, sir. Very cold.”
Santa Claus smiles so big, Steven can see it even underneath the thick, fake beard. He wonders if the guy simply agrees with anything he is told. Steven reaches into his pocket and takes out one of the Singaporean bills he has folded into his money clip and hands it over. The doorman’s eyes go bright, and his teeth are clearly visible now.
“Thank you, sir. Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.” Santa Claus nods and dips his head forward slightly. It’s not a bow, but it is very polite. Steven returns the gesture, wondering just how much money he just handed over and whether or not he’ll have anything left for dinner once he figures it out.
The doorman leads him into the lobby and hands Steven the wheeled luggage he pulled out of the car. Steven nods and extends his hand. “What’s your name, in case I need anything?”
“Lee, sir.” He takes Steven’s hand and shakes it as if his life were just saved. His grip is surprisingly strong for such a thin man. “And you are?”
“Steven.”
“Oh, good.” Lee smiles and nods again, a trickle of sweat beading in his Santa beard. “Thank you, Mister Stevens. Have a nice day.”
“Very good, sir. Have a nice day, Mister Steven.”
“No,” Steven says, then catches himself. “Never mind. Fine. Thank you, Lee.”
With a smile and another vigorous shake of the hand, Lee goes back to his bellhop stand in front of the hotel. Steven wonders just what that Santa suit must smell like at the end of the day. He hopes that all of the doormen don’t share the same suit. He also realizes that he actually has no idea what Lee looks like, and will only recognize him as an Asian Santa Claus.
At the front desk, every clerk is dressed in crisp, black shirts and very neatly pressed black pants. The outfit would look very stylish and professional if not for the fact that each employee is wearing a large, fluffy, red Santa hat. It is supposed to look festive, but Steven can’t help but laugh at how silly it is. In the past hour, he’s been reminded of Christmas more than he would be if he walked through a shopping mall in downtown Toronto.
“Checking in, sir?” The young woman behind the counter smiles at him as he approaches, and Steven wonders if there’s any unattractive women in this entire country. Thus far, every female he has seen has been very pretty. He’s never had a specific preference for Asian women or anything like that, and his redheaded girlfriend is pretty much the opposite of every woman here, but every female he has encountered so far has been striking. The clerk has a name tag that reads NICOLE.
“Steven Kelly,” he says as he pulls his passport out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the counter. The hotel lobby is nice, with dark marble floors and brass rails leading to the bar around the corner. Steven wonders how they got poinsettias all the way on this side of the world and whether or not they can actually grow them here. He’s pretty sure the evergreen garland everywhere is fake.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly.” Nicole begins tapping on her keyboard and looking at the computer screen in front of her. Then she taps some more. Then she pauses and reads something. Then she taps again. Steven has always wondered just what is on the screens of these computers in hotel lobbies everywhere. Border security does less reading and typing and checking on things whenever he hands over his passport than the average Holiday Inn. After a minute or two of this, Nicole looks up at him again and smiles.
“First time in Singapore City?” she asks.
“First time in Asia, period,” he says. He thinks of his passport and the handful of stamps he has acquired over the years. Italy, France, the States. Then pretty much nothing. He chased wine while Scotty chased women. Scotty had tons of stamps in his passport.
“Lovely,” she says. Her English is perfect. It doesn’t really surprise him, since he read that it’s pretty much the main language here. “You will love it here.”
“Don’t know if I’ll be around long enough to fall in love.”
“Ah, yes. You are leaving in two days, I see.”
“Indeed I am.”
“Well, you never know. Just maybe we’ll make you stay a while, yes?”
He smiles. “Not if it’s always this hot, you won’t.”
“Afraid so,” Nicole says. “Guess we’re going to just have to miss you, then.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Nicole smiles again, and Steven thinks for a second that it’s not just hotel employee courtesy. It seems genuine. “You have a message waiting for you, sir,” she tells him before he can walk away. “Let me print it out for you.”
She steps around the corner, and Steven wonders just what it could be. He grins a little when he realizes that it’s probably from Robin, wondering if he has arrived safely and telling him to get in touch as soon as he is in his room. A comforting sense of relief falls over him. He was pretty sure, by the time he left, that she was never going to speak to him again. For the first time in the past twenty-four hours, he feels a twinge of hope. A moment later, Nicole returns and hands him a small printout. The message has been typed out for him, which is impressive. He takes the paper, folds it in two, and places it in the inner pocket of his blazer.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Nicole asks as she slides a keycard in a small envelope across the counter. She raises a hand that motions toward the elevators directly behind Steven and smiles again. “Do you need a map or directions or a wake-up call?”
“No, thanks.” Steven shakes his head and smiles as he wheels his luggage to the elevators and makes his way to the fourteenth floor. He likes to stay on the highest floor possible whenever he stays in a hotel. It makes him feel safer for some reason. Something about the lower floors in a hotel feels slummy to him. Given the choice, he’ll always take a top floor.
The room is small, but just what he needs. He figured it wouldn’t be huge, as it seems the rest of the world stays in smaller hotels than what he’s used to in North America. He remembers the hotels in Italy when he was finishing his degree, with their tiny washrooms and the even smaller beds. He is not even six feet tall, and his feet hung over the bed. The hotels in France weren’t much bigger. This room in Singapore City is small, but makes those rooms look like closets by comparison.
He looks out the window and notices that the skyline is busier than the one in downtown Toronto. Singapore City is so much bigger than he thought it would be. The view is a bit overwhelming, but he likes it. He’s always been a city guy.
Steven puts his suitcase on the rack next to the desk and unzips it. Immediately, he pulls out the two sports jackets he packed—inside out—and gently unfolds them. Then he turns them right-side-out and carefully gives each of them a once-over. He’s impressed with how few wrinkles either has. He’s always been pretty good at packing his suitcase, and the wrinkle-free Oxfords he packed are further proof. The extra pair of brown wingtips at the bottom of the suitcase are a nice alternative to the black ones he’s currently wearing, but he wonders why he packed them at all. He likely won’t wear them during his brief stay here. But he also knows that, if he’d left them at home, he would have felt like he came unprepared.
Taking off his tweed jacket, he looks at the back of the collar to see if his sweat soaked into it at all. He kicks himself a little bit for not wearing a wool jacket like he knows he should have. But it was so cold when he left Toronto he didn’t even think about it. He is about to hang up the jacket when it hits him that he has not read the message Robin left for him. He reaches into his right-side breast pocket and retrieves it. With his jacket draped over his arm, standing in front of the hotel bed, he suddenly feels his stomach churn a little bit.
The message is not from Robin.
Steven sits down on the bed and reads the brief note. Then he reads it again. Neither time does it make any sense.
I have your brother. OK. 1200 Singapore and I will give them to you.
Call me. 65 6738 1334–Dwash.
Steven looks at the message again and, for no reason, looks at the back of the piece of paper. It is, of course, blank, and offers no clues.
You have my brother? he thinks as he reads it again. And all I have to do is give you twelve hundred bucks in Singaporean cash and I get him back?
He decides it may very well be the stupidest ransom note he’s ever seen. Granted, it’s the only ransom note he’s ever seen, but the fact that someone would attempt to extort such a little amount of money out of him is ridiculous. What’s worse is that the thing being ransomed is apparently his brother, who, last Steven checked, was dead and waiting to be identified in a morgue somewhere. Is this a ransom note from a morgue thief? Is there such a thing as a morgue thief?
Steven thinks that “Dwash” is an idiot. The ransom note is supposed to come before the person is dead, not after. Everyone knows that. As usual Scotty seemed to hang around with some very stupid people.
Mostly, however, he’s annoyed because he was really hoping for a note from Robin. He tosses the worthless ransom note aside and picks up the hotel phone.
“Good day, Mister Kelly,” a polite voice on the other
end says.
“May I have an outside line for an international call, please?”
“My pleasure.”
There is a pause, and Steven waits through about ten seconds of on-hold music. Then, the same cheerful voice comes on again.
“Number, please?” the voice says, and Steven realizes he can’t tell if it is a man or a woman to whom he is speaking. He gives Robin’s cell phone number and waits. There’s another ten seconds of music and then a click. Then, there is the faint sound of the phone ringing. He plugs his left ear and waits.
“Hey, this is Robin,” her voice mail says to him. “Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.”
Dammit, Steven thinks as he waits for the beep. It’s like 1 a.m. there. Where the hell are you?
“Hi, it’s me,” he says. “Just wanted you to know that I’m here, and I arrived with no problems and everything. It was a long flight, but I’m alright. I just thought I would call and let you know.” He looks out the window and wonders if he should just hang up and leave it at that. “Anyway, that’s it, I guess. Oh! I’m in room 1412 here at the Furama hotel. If you need to reach me. I don’t know the number because it’s international. But, you know, if you need to reach me, I guess you can probably find it online or whatever, you know. So, yeah.” He rolls his eyes at his own stupidity. “So, that’s it. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. I was thinking about you and everything on the plane and, you know, I just felt really bad. That’s all. I just wanted to tell you, you know? So. Anyway. I hope you’re okay. And I miss you. So, I’ll talk to you later, okay? E-mail me or something, and let me know you got this or something. Bye.”
Steven hangs up the phone and resists the urge to punch himself in the crotch.
All That's Left Page 2
