“Then how come you had his keys and not her?”
“She didn’t take it very well. I’m sure you understand. When it all went down, we all knew he had a brother back in Canada. Someone had to get your information and give it to the hospital, right?”
Steven had never considered how they had found him. The phone call came and, once he had the news, he didn’t bother to think about how they’d gotten his name and number. “So you got my number from his place?”
“Yeah, plus I had to go. I was his PB.”
“His what?”
“His PB. ‘Porn Buddy.’ ”
Steven furrows his brow and stares at D.Wash. Steven has no idea what he’s talking about.
“Aw, man,” D.Wash says, reading the confused look on Steven’s face. “You never had a porn buddy?”
“Do I want to know what this is?” Steven says, and tries not to imagine his brother and D.Wash and the petite Asian bartender doing God knows what in this apartment he hasn’t even seen yet.
“Aw, man,” D.Wash says again. “A porn buddy is a friend who agrees that, if anything terrible should happen to you, he’ll go over to your house afterward and get rid of all the porn. So no one else finds it, like a family member or a girlfriend.”
Steven almost spits out his wine. It’s a brilliant idea, and he never would have been so clever as to think of such a thing. But it sounds just like Scotty.
“Gotcha,” Steven says. “And did you do that? Get rid of his porn?”
“Didn’t matter; he didn’t have any. Didn’t even own a computer.”
Steven smiles and thinks that Dania, whoever she is, must be one hell of a wildcat for Scotty to not need any outside entertainment. Robin was no slouch in the bedroom, but that didn’t change the fact that Steven still subscribed to Playboy and had a couple of DVDs in the back of his sock drawer. In fact, he probably kept them still because he knew it annoyed her a little.
“So Dania doesn’t live there?” he asks.
“Nah. I don’t know where she lives. Just where she works.”
“I’ll have to go and find her,” Steven says. “At least to let her know everything. And thank her. You know.”
“Yeah, I do. You taking his body back home?”
“Ashes.”
D.Wash winces, as if the thought hurts him. As if he can feel the heat from the crematorium under his feet. “Good luck, my man. You know where to find me if you need anything, right?”
“Thanks.” Steven finishes his wine and extends his hand.
“Just one thing,” D.Wash says, and looks over his shoulder at his little Asian lover. Then he leans in closer and gives Steven a stern look. “Dania’s really cool.”
“But?”
“Don’t go doing anything foolish. Don’t get involved with her.”
“Involved?”
“Yeah, you know.”
“Involved like how?”
“Like Scott.”
Steven sits back and chuckles to himself. It seems like such a strange thing for someone to say. He’s on his way to see his dead brother’s girlfriend and talk about money problems and scattered remains. It hardly seems romantic.
“Is that what happened?” he asks, wondering if his brother’s history repeated itself. “Did Scott fall in love with her?”
D.Wash sighs and smiles in a way that seems more sad than anything else, his large eyes peering from behind his glasses and right through Steven.
“Not just Scott, my man,” he says, and raises his glass.
6
The smell in the hallway hits Steven right in the face the second he walks up the narrow flight of stairs to Scotty’s studio apartment. It’s a combination of spiciness and smoke, as if a bonfire is cooking a wild boar right in the middle of the tiny apartment building. Steven imagines a thick broth with bits of meat and rice and peppers all thrown into one big pot, simmering over an open flame. It smells absolutely delicious. The irony of it all is that he probably just smells a TV dinner being warmed in a microwave. But it’s a very exotic TV dinner, to be sure.
Scotty’s apartment is on the second floor of this walk-up duplex that has four units in it. His is in a small nook of the building directly above a travel agency. As Steven opens the door, he can immediately see why Scotty liked living here so much. It’s not very big, but it’s obviously cozy. In one large room, there’s enough space for a queen bed, a loveseat, coffee table, little TV, and a small kitchenette. There’s not much space, but it’s more than enough for a guy like Scotty, who probably spent more time out in the city than he ever spent here. The random books and magazines on the coffee table and nightstand are the only real proof he stuck around long enough to relax and do a little reading.
Steven walks into the studio and gives it a good look. The furniture obviously came with the place, as did the paintings on the wall, which are just cheap prints of ocean views. None of it is particularly Scotty’s style, which tells Steven that his brother rented it “as is” and then never changed a thing. Even when he wanted to stick around somewhere for a while, Scotty always lived as if he were about to leave. The entire time he lived in France, he never unpacked his suitcase.
It’s freezing in the apartment, which tells Steven that Scott shared his hatred for the boiling climate. The small room doesn’t have much going for it, but excellent air-conditioning is at the top of that list. Once inside, there is no trace of Singapore or even Asia in this place. It’s quite plain, and has the silly beach photos all over the walls. He doesn’t know why, but Steven had pictured Scotty in some beachside hut with open windows and a mosquito net hanging over his bed. Even in the fridge, the cans of Diet Coke and half-eaten pizza slice betray the image of a world traveler that Scotty seemed to portray.
Making his way the entire fifteen feet it must be from the kitchen to the bed, Steven opens the small closet door and takes a look inside. Not surprisingly, there isn’t much to see. Several button-down shirts are slung half-assed from wire hangers in various stages of wrinkle. There are several T-shirts hung there, as well. On a small shelf are just as many pairs of jeans and shorts. Inside two garment bags are what appear to be the only suits Scotty ever owned. Steven inspects them and figures they will fit him, but he leaves them where they are. One has a sharkskin collar, and the other comes with a three-button blazer. He’s not a fan of either.
Steven looks in the mirror at his own reflection and smiles. He prefers the one-button jacket he’s wearing. It’s the one with the peaked lapel. The one that even Robin thinks makes him look like a member of The Rat Pack. Scotty never could wear a jacket like Steven could. Steven could wear a white sports jacket and look like a polo player, but Scotty just wound up looking like a waiter.
Steven looks on the shelf inside the closet and pulls out a stack of CDs that are piled in the back. There’s some good stuff here, from Michael Jackson to Barenaked Ladies. Then there’s stuff that Steven absolutely hates, too. Scotty could listen to the loudest, most annoying drivel. Of course, those are the same words Scotty used to describe the jazz and swing music that Steven constantly had playing around the house. If it was Springsteen, the two of them got along. If it was Sinatra, there would be an argument.
Steven puts the CDs away and takes down a shoebox that has been shoved to the back. It’s heavier than it looks, so he walks over to the bed and sits down. Inside is a bunch of worthless knick-knacks that Scotty probably picked up somewhere during his travels. A PEZ dispenser. An Eiffel Tower bumper sticker. Then there are random things Steven recognizes, like old photos and a pair of their father’s cuff links. Steven thinks about keeping them, but he knows he’ll never wear them. They would find their way into a drawer in his condo and just sit there, like they probably sat in this shoebox for years.
Steven laughs when he flips through some of the old photos. Scotty and old girlfriends, some of whom he bragged would be the women he would marry. There were at least three of those who came and went. Steven always teased Scotty by referr
ing to them as “The Fiancées,” even though none of them ever got a ring. Each one only lasted a few months before Scotty got bored with either them or where he was living at the time.
Steven flips through the photos until he comes to one that he remembers the most clearly. It’s a picture from when they were eighteen. There’s Scotty, standing in the driveway of the house they grew up in. He’s wearing his baggy uniform from when he was a delivery guy for Pizza Pizza. Standing next to him are both of their parents, looking proud that their son actually has a job and was supposedly serious about going to university. Steven winces a little and feels that pain again, just like he did in the morgue a few hours earlier. In the photo, everyone is standing in front of the old Buick they were in the night they were killed.
Steven feels that churning in his stomach again and swallows hard.
He remembers getting the phone call and driving to the hospital and finding out his parents were gone. He still can see Scotty with his mouth wired shut because of his jaw being broken. Steven had to help him drink through a straw for weeks. Then there was all the physical therapy and watching Scotty walk with a cane. It was months before he would even get in a car, let alone ride in the front seat. Steven always looked like his chauffeur.
Scotty’s having his broken jaw kept him from speaking at the funeral, but he wouldn’t have said anything anyway. Steven remembers looking over while he gave the eulogy and being surprised at how blank the look on Scotty’s face was. Steven was always a few minutes away from crying, but Scotty just looked blank. He nodded and grunted and tried to communicate as best he could, but it was as if he were still lying in the hospital bed. He didn’t even look shocked when he woke up that day and Steven had to tell him their parents didn’t survive the crash.
Headaches, Steven thinks to himself. You never did like wearing your glasses, Scotty.
Steven flips to the next photo in the stack, which makes him laugh again. It’s Scotty, probably a year or two ago. He’s wearing a foam arrow through his head and has his eyes crossed and his tongue stuck out. In his hands, he’s holding a sign that reads DEFANATELY DRUNK. Steven grins as he shakes his head and puts the photos back in the box.
Steven picks up a notepad and pen lying on the tiny nightstand next to the bed and takes a look. He immediately recognizes Scotty’s chicken-scratch handwriting. A long column down the side of the notepad has a bunch of letters and numbers, and Steven can’t really figure out what any of it means.
MICK: 1K
STUDIO: 1K
RE: 5,000
EPM: 3K
D: 500
There are several more items in the column, but Steven can’t read any of them. He can’t even make out what letters or numbers they are supposed to be. He figures some of it is names, some of it phone numbers, but he can’t make any of it out. He looks at scribbling again and again, trying to figure out what it means. After a couple of minutes, he figures that it’s all about money.
“Studio: 1K” is obviously the apartment Steven is sitting in, and it apparently costs one thousand dollars a month to rent. But he has no idea what “RE: 5,000” is supposed to be about or how much money it refers to. Steven wonders if “RE” stands for “regarding” or a person’s name. He also wonders if Scotty owed someone named “Mick” a grand. He tears the piece of paper off the notepad, folds it in half, and puts it in his left breast pocket.
That’s some of the money, at least, he thinks. It still doesn’t explain fifteen grand or why Scotty owes so many people money. He didn’t need to borrow it in the first place. There was still plenty of cash in the bank.
Tossing the notepad aside, Steven opens the little drawer in the nightstand and takes a look inside. He finds a couple more pens, some random change, and a couple of condoms. A few receipts for groceries are crumpled up and tossed in there, although why Scotty kept them remains to be seen. At the back of the drawer is a photograph from a Polaroid Instant Camera, the kind that comes right out of the camera and everyone shakes while it develops. Steven holds it up to the light coming in through the window and gives it a good look.
The photo is a bit yellow and easily twenty years old. Steven can tell this not just because it looks so old, but also because the boy in the photo is wearing clothes that haven’t been in style forever. He’s a thin, Asian man, probably Singaporean, and couldn’t be older than sixteen. He’s sitting on a porch swing, waving and smiling broadly to the camera. The photo is a bit worn and has seen better days, and Steven wonders if it even belongs to Scotty at all or was just left in this drawer by a previous tenant. He puts it into the pocket of his sports jacket anyway.
Getting up from the bed, Steven gives the place another once-over. It’s really a small apartment. Probably the size of a hotel suite. That’s pretty much how Scotty used it, he figures. The place he’d stay until he got tired of Singapore and moved on to the next place he was going to stay.
On top of the TV, there is a framed photo of Scotty with a very attractive Asian woman. Standing in front of the ocean, the two of them seem ridiculously happy and look like something out of a magazine. Scotty with his long hair and tattoos, and the woman with her light brown skin and what appears to be a slender figure. Steven reaches in his pocket and pulls out the note that D.Wash wrote him. He remembers the girlfriend’s name.
Is this the mysterious Dania? he thinks.
Steven looks again at the photo and sees exactly why men must fall for her. From this picture she seems quite beautiful. And she certainly had Scotty wrapped around her finger. Steven takes the photo out of the frame and puts it in his pocket with the other one.
Standing in the doorway, he turns around and gives the place one last look. Even though Scotty is gone and stuffed in a cardboard box back at the hotel, Steven feels a weird punch in the gut as he closes and locks the door. It’s as if he says good-bye to Scotty a little more each place he goes and with every little thing he does. It makes him impatient to get home and put it all behind him and move on with his own life.
He looks at his phone, but there’s still no message from Robin. He’s texted her four times, at three bucks per message due to the international rates, and still hasn’t heard back. He’s begun to realize that she’s not mad. She’s left him.
Walking down the stairs, Steven knocks on the door right by the entrance to the small building. When the building manager answers, he looks confused for a second and then nods his head.
“You his brother?” the man says. He’s a gruff-looking Singaporean man, wearing a blue shirt and blue pants. An ample belly hangs over his belt, and he looks like he was in the middle of dinner by the way he’s still chewing his food. Steven notices the man’s hands are dirty.
“Yeah,” Steven says, and hands over the keys to Scotty’s apartment. “The place was furnished, right? It’s all your stuff?”
“Yes, the TV he bought. And the clothes.”
“You can have them. Or donate them. Whatever.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Steven says. The man nods and smiles politely, as if he understands.
Steven reaches in his pocket and takes out the twenty-year-old photo of the boy. “Any idea who this is?”
The manager takes the photo and thoroughly looks it over, first holding it far away and then holding it close. “No,” he says. “Very old.”
“Not an old tenant?”
“No, apartment not that old.”
Steven takes the photo and puts it back in his jacket pocket. “Did my brother have a lot of visitors? People hanging out with him?”
“Not home very much. Spent most of the time with girlfriend.”
Steven holds up the photo of the woman who he thinks is Dania. The manager nods his head and smiles. Apparently everyone thinks she’s good on the eyes.
“Thanks for everything,” Steven says, and starts to walk away. He turns around in the doorway. “How much was his rent here?”
“Twelve hundred.”
“Did he ow
e you any money?”
“No,” the manager says, and Steven admires his honesty. “He was always on time. Good tenant. Good man.”
“Thank you very much,” Steven says, and opens the front door to the building.
“Excuse me,” the manager calls after him, and Steven peeks his head back in the door. “The apartment. I clean it out. What if I find money?”
Steven smiles, again. He knows that, if there were any cash in that place, Scotty wouldn’t have come asking for the fifteen thousand. Besides, there was nowhere it could have been hidden in that tiny place. “You won’t,” he says.
“But if I do?”
Steven smiles. “Merry Christmas.”
7
Steven is surprised to find a Hooters restaurant in Singapore but, sure enough, there it is. Right along the brilliantly named Singapore River, in an area just as cleverly referred to as the Riverwalk, a string of restaurants, bars, and tourists traps awaits unsuspecting travelers such as himself who may be seeking a little reminder of their home turf. There is an American joint called The Burger Shack, which is blasting The Beach Boys’ Christmas album on its front deck overlooking the water. Then there’s G. Golly Molly’s, with photos of Little Richard and Elvis plastered all over the place. Next to the requisite Starbucks sits a hot dog stand and, just a few doors down is Hooters, complete with an orange neon owl hanging outside. If he wanted to feel like he were anywhere but the Far East, Steven has come to the right place.
Up the river a little bit, he sees a person standing on a tall makeshift tower that rises easily twenty stories above the ground. Just a tiny figure in the distance, the person wears a helmet and a harness and, clipped to the harness, a bungee cord. He can hear the sound of a grown woman screaming as she steps off the tower and falls toward earth. Suddenly, the bungee cord snaps into action, and the woman bounces back up into the air, still screaming as if she narrowly avoided certain death. Steven smiles because, essentially, she really just did. That, and he can’t believe that people still bungee jump. Of all the touristy things he would do in Singapore, he can’t imagine flying all the way across the world to go bungee jumping.
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