“Yeah, I guess,” Cheow said as he started to fix Doug a second Hurricane, “but you can make clogs, eight, ten centimeters tall. This big,” he said, holding up a large shot glass.
“I’ve never been a Japanese soldier,” Doug said as he drained the last of the first Hurricane and transferred his straw to the second big, blue drink, “but I think I might have found it suspicious if there was a British guy named Smith prancing around in high-heel wooden clogs, hauling a big milk can half filled with water everywhere.”
“After the war Guido comes back to Singapore and Smith gives him the jewels and the experts say that there was no damage at all.”
“So the moral of the story,” Doug said, holding up his really strong drink, “is that if I’m hunting for jewels I should look in milk cans and wooden shoes.”
“Sure, why not,” Yeo Cheow Tong said as he blended up a big batch of Singapore Slings for the next round of tourists.
Chapter 27
A dedicated team of research scientists could spend the better part of a hefty government grant determining the specific combination of alcohol, jet-lag, nap time, sugary tourist drinks, salted peanuts and won-ton soup (purchased from a street vendor near the ZRZ Publishing House and Guest Hotel) that would induce an otherwise exhausted traveler to pop wide awake at four-thirty in the morning. By chance, Doug had hit on that specific combination and he was using that bonus time to catch up on adobe.
“This versatile building material was developed independently in arid and semi-arid climates across the globe. A mixture, in various combinations, of clay, sand and silt, adobe can be formed into bricks or applied in thin layers. The use of adobe pre-dates human history and was most likely first adopted in areas where wood, suitable for building, was in short supply. It may have also been favored for its qualities as an insulator against both heat and cold.”
As fascinating as this was—and he really did find it fascinating—Doug was simply killing time until the security system would let him leave his room.
“I really feel bad about this,” Dexter Lee had said last night when the COBRA Security Company’s Rapid Response Team representatives had finally taken the shackles, blindfold, gag, black hood, and their polished black boots off of Doug. “I forgot all about the security system. Naturally, there will be no charge for tonight.”
Doug had found the hotel without a problem and had remembered the four-digit access code number he had to punch in before he used his key. Sure, he had made a left turn at the end of that first hallway, but he had only walked ten feet before he realized his mistake and turned back towards the freight elevator, tripping for the second time the silent electric eye alarm which set in motion the crack task force and the automated phone call to Lee.
And there probably wouldn’t have been any trouble—certainly wouldn’t have been any screaming or mad chases or smashing English countryside prints or slamming of bodies into plastic potted plants and filing cabinets—if Doug had known that, in most of the world outside of the U.S., the second floor of a building is usually called the first floor. The first floor, which he assumed would be called “the first floor,” often has no number associated with it at all. And if he had known that to get to his room on the first floor—his second floor, their first—he needed to push one not two, then Dexter Lee would not have had to apologize and Doug would not feel obligated then to stay another night. But when the Rapid Response Team found an unknown individual wandering around on the second (third) floor, trying doorknobs and peeking into rooms, and when that individual, upon seeing the black jump-suited, riot helmet-wearing, flashlight-mounted, gun-toting paramilitary professionals creeping around the corner, screamed and ran off, it set into motion a series of linked events, culminating with Lee’s apology and Doug’s assurance that he was not upset and that it was all his fault and that of course he wouldn’t be checking out of such a friendly hotel.
“Adobe walls and structures need to be built on top of a solid, waterproof foundation, such as fieldstone or concrete. If not, capillary action (see Vol. 2) will draw groundwater and the lower section of the structure will disintegrate. Properly maintained, adobe can last centuries.”
Fascinating.
Doug was showered, shaved and fully dressed and packed and reading up on letter A topics, when the four loud beeps of the building’s security system told him that the alarms had been deactivated and that it was safe to leave his room and put into effect Plan B. Taking the stairs, he exited into the cubicle/lobby section and was greeted by the phone lady, who gave Doug a hug, saying, “You nice man. You not leave us.” So much for Plan B.
The Friday morning traffic looked just like the Thursday morning traffic and the weather, hot and humid, was the same all day long. There were days like this in Pottsville, maybe one or two a summer. Doug tried to imagine the same sunny, hot weather three hundred sixty-five days a year, no brisk autumn mornings, no pristine blankets of new-fallen snow, no chilly spring afternoons, just hot weather, blue skies and a predictable and short afternoon rain. It sounded pretty good.
He re-checked the guidebook map—his only purchase during his mall adventure—picking the quickest way to the main police building. The guidebook had noted that crime was almost nonexistent in Singapore, thanks in small part to cultural traditions and in a much larger part to the draconian laws and the swift and sure justice system. “Our advice is simple,” the guidebook said, “don’t get arrested.” Doug had already seen the tee shirts with “Singapore: A FINE, FINE city” silk-screened on the front, and running down the back, in two small-print columns, lists of various criminal activities and the fines they would earn. Some were strange: five hundred dollars for spitting on the sidewalk, not flushing a public toilet, or cutting in line at a taxi cab stand. There were some things on the list that Doug knew from experience would get you in trouble in central Pennsylvania: don’t litter, don’t vandalize, don’t wander around the streets late at night like a drunken fool, alternately singing “I am Ironman” and crying that Stacey Moore dumped you for that stupid jock, Tommy Roth.
The shirt didn’t say that exactly but the idea was there.
Then there were things that, if they weren’t already illegal, sure ought to be, like urinating in an elevator or breeding rats. Doug thought that a five-hundred-dollar fine was a bit low for these offenses.
Of course there was the famous No Chewing Gum rule on the list, but Doug had seen dozens of people chewing gum and didn’t recall a single cop wrestling these felons to the ground. He hadn’t seen any gum for sale in the store, though he really hadn’t been looking. But he had noticed that all the sidewalks were free of those black splotches created when spit-out chewing gum morphed into that nameless material that was harder and longer lasting than the concrete it fused to. Yes, Singapore was a spit/dog shit/gum free place where you were never greeted by someone else’s bowel movement, where you could ride an elevator without fear of being pissed on, where law breakers—easily caught thanks to the omnipresent security cameras and legions of police and military types in riot gear—were given the choice between paying the fine or getting whacked on the ass by a bamboo pole. When he thought about it that way, Singapore did seem a bit restrictive. But then he remembered Cairo, where, if you were lucky, you’d only find someone pissing in an elevator, and then Singapore didn’t seem so bad.
The police headquarters was easy to find and the receptionists efficient and friendly, but it still took over an hour to finally locate someone who could help. Sort of.
“Can I get you a cuppa coffee? A doughnut? Geeze, what am I saying, you guys don’t eat that crap. I can probably find you a whiskey, but it might take a few minutes.”
“It’s ten in the morning,” Doug said as he watched his arm get pumped like a car jack.
“Oh yeah, it is. Right. Well you never know with you guys.” The “you guys” twenty-year-old intern Chong Kim Siap kept referring to were private detectives. American private detectives. And Kim knew all about private
detectives.
“Still, if you change your mind, just give me a nod,” Kim said as he led Doug to his cubicle that doubled as the photocopier supply room at the end of a dead end corridor. Doug had started off talking with the duty officer, a lieutenant, who handed Doug off to the desk sergeant, who referred him to a rookie patrolman, who passed him down the line until a temp secretary waved over Kim. And there was no way Kim was going to let go of this private detective. This American private detective.
“Sorry about the clutter, Doug. Can I call you Doug? Cool. Yeah, just push this stuff out of the way—a bunch of cases I’m helping out on. You know the drill, paperwork for everything.” Doug watched as Kim stacked up and swept off notices about coffee filters, parking spaces, and T.V. raffles mixed in with copies of Guns and Ammo, Soldier of Fortune and Maxim. “Not for you guys though, I bet.”
“Oh, there’s a bit,” Doug said, massaging blood back into his forearm. “Actually it’s paperwork that brings me to see you.”
Kim beamed at that direct reference to himself. “Whatever I can do. Professional courtesy and all.” You see, Kim had explained to his kid brother just last week, private detectives often help the police solve cases. They gather evidence on their own, work out all the complex connections without having to worry about “procedure” and “the rules,” confront the criminal in his lair, and arrange it so the police get there just in time to hear the confession, which the detective may have had to beat out of the guy. Sometimes the criminal was a woman and the P.I.—“that’s the lingo for a private detective”—had to get the information out of her in a different way. But Kim only smiled knowingly when his brother asked “What different way?” “It’s a thing that goes with the territory,” Kim had said. “Cops and the P.I.s. You wouldn’t understand.”
“So what kind of case is it? Murder? Robbery?” Kim tried not to look too excited. He remembered how his teachers used to seem nervous when he started to get excited. He leaned back in his chair a bit to show how relaxed he was.
“Both,” Doug said, and Kim shot forward, knocking over a box of paperclips.
“Whew,” he tried to whistle, “that’s some case.”
“Yeah, I guess it is. But it happened way back in 1948. I’m trying to see if I can find anything out but it’s been tough.”
“Gone cold on ya, huh?” Kim smiled and shook his head as if to say, Buddy, ain’t we all been there. “Why don’t you fill me in—I know, ‘client privilege’—but just give me what you think I need, I can fill in the blanks.” He flipped over a memo (RE: Department policy on decorative ties) and prepared to take notes.
Doug told Kim what he knew about his uncle’s murder, which was next to nothing, but left out any mention of Al Ainab. He remembered Aisha’s comment about international art theft not having a statute of limitations and figured that it was best left unmentioned. He made it sound as if the theft of some “compromising photographs” were somehow connected to the murder. Kim’s smiled widened at this but he didn’t press for details.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Kim said when Doug had finished. “You need copies of any police files related to the murder of one Russell Pearce, American, in the summer of 1948. Wow. It’s a safe bet that there won’t be too many cases fitting that description. I’ll dig around here and see what I can come up with.”
“That’d be great. I owe you one.”
“Wow. Really? Say, what are doing now? Want to go grab a beer and some lunch?”
“They don’t mind you just leaving like that?” Doug asked, hoping they would.
“Me? Heck no. They understand that investigative work means all sorts of strange hours and contacts and that stuff. Come on, there’s a place not far from here, The Stowaway, I think you’d like. Not at all like the tourist places near the quay. Kindda rough, but I’m sure you’re used to that. Hey, Elena,” Kim half-shouted as he guided Doug out of the dead end corridor, “I’m taking an early lunch with this private detective from America. Take my calls, will ya?”
The temp didn’t even look up as they walked past.
Chapter 28
Doug resisted the urge to reach over and close Kim’s mouth and instead reached for his bottle of Singha beer.
Chong Kim Siap balanced at the edge of his seat, leaning so far forward that Doug had had to move his beer off to the side to prevent Kim from knocking it over with his chin. His open-mouthed stare morphed into a full-faced grin, but his face couldn’t contain his excitement. He shot out of his chair, sat back down, raced both hands through his thick, black hair, slapped the table and chugged the rest of his beer, all in a five-second burst of pent-up adrenalin.
“God-damn!” Kim said, and just to make sure everyone in the nearly empty bar heard him, he said it again. “God-damn!”
The Stowaway bar was nearly empty since it wasn’t even noon and the drink prices could only attract a better class of drunk. That and the possibility that Kim had scared the others off. The kid made Doug a bit nervous.
But he was a good listener. Doug had told him about “the case,” substituting photos—“The old blackmail scam,” Kim nodded—for the diamond. He left out some of his suspicions about Aisha, the fact that Russell Pearce was probably the bad guy, and any reference to his own inexperience and self-doubt, but in general he stayed close to the truth. Kim seemed to like it.
“God-damn!” he said as he slapped the now-wobbly table. “That’s the kind of life I want.”
“My life? I don’t think so. It’s not as exciting as you think.”
“Not exciting? In the last month you flew halfway around the world, been in four countries, slept with an heiress, been stalked, jumped, and shot at, got thrown in the hoosegow, been in a car chase—with a big crash—scored the winning try in a rugby tournament and slept with the cheerleaders….”
Okay, maybe not that truthful.
“Sure sounds exciting to me,” Kim said. He shot out of his seat again but this time came back with two more beers.
“Compared to my life,” Kim continued, handing Doug a Singha, “it’s exciting. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got it pretty good at the force. Some of the cases I’m involved with, well, they’d even shock a guy like you. But it’s the, I don’t know…the routine of it all that’s driving me batty. Same shit, different day. I got a bumper sticker in my desk drawer, that’s what it says, Same Shit, Different Day. I need a job like yours.”
“That’s funny,” Doug said. “When I get done here in Singapore and head back to the States, I’ll be looking for a job like yours.”
“Yeah, right. You couldn’t do a job like mine.” Kim’s smile dropped and he fumbled on. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean you could do it, but you just couldn’t do it. What I mean is that guys like you, you just can’t do a dull job, it’s not in you. You’re used to the adventure, living by your own rules, every day something different and no paper-pushing desk-jockey telling you to get her coffee or un-jam the photocopier.”
Doug looked at his half empty beer bottle. “You’d be surprised at the jobs I’ve done.”
“Exactly! That’s what I want. I want surprises. There’s no adventure in my life.”
They sat for a few minutes. Doug played with the paper label of his Singha. It slid off the bottle intact. Too much water in the glue, he thought. He smiled and looked up at Kim.
“Kim, there’s a room in the middle of one of the pyramids and there’s nothing in it but a light bulb. People go there and get all disappointed since it wasn’t adventurous enough for them, but they forget about how hard it was to get there.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a journey, Kim, not a place.”
“So there is no room in the pyramid?”
“No, there is a room, but that’s not what’s important, what’s important is….”
“That there’s a light bulb?”
“No, ah, well yes, there is a light bulb but the important thing is that people are disappointed.”
&nb
sp; “Disappointed? Why is that important?”
“Because they need to be disappointed to understand why it’s important that there’s nothing in the room.”
“But you said there was a light bulb.”
“That’s not why they are disappointed.”
“They don’t want a light bulb there?”
“No they do want a light there, I mean it’d be really dark if they didn’t, but they want more there and they are disappointed that there isn’t more there.”
“How big is the room?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is if you want to figure out how much more you can put in.”
“They don’t want to put anything else in, Kim, they….”
“But you just said that they wanted more and if they don’t know how big it is, then they’ll be really disappointed. I mean if I hauled a sofa up there and it didn’t fit….”
“How much was the beer?” Doug said, sighing. He dug a wad of light pink bills from his pocket.
“Whoa, hold on, pal. This is my town and my bar. Your money’s no good here. It’s on me.” Kim beamed as if he had been waiting years to say something like that. “Geeze, look at the time. I gotta get back. Big meeting this afternoon. Besides, I have some old files on a 1948 murder to dig up for a P.I. friend of mine. I’ll walk you to the subway, it’s on the way. So anyway,” Kim said as they headed for the door, “how do they turn the light bulb on if there’s nothing else in the room?”
***
The man in the corner store was disappointed to see Doug and the unknown police officer exit The Stowaway bar since now he had to leave the air conditioned store and start walking. Although he grew up in Singapore, he never got used to the weather. It was always too damn hot, too damn sticky. The heat drained the life out of you, made you old before your time. Just look at old Chinese people and then look at old Europeans, especially those Scandinavians. The only difference is the weather. He kept the AC going full blast in his apartment, cold enough to hang meat, his friends said. Go ahead, make jokes, we’ll see who lives longer.
Relative Danger Page 21
