He had known since Morocco that he didn’t really care about his uncle’s murder; the guy was a thief, a killer, and who knows what else, and he ran with a rough crowd. Every job has its hazards. And he also knew he’d never find the diamond. Things like that don’t just turn up. But he also knew he wanted to solve the mystery, not for Edna and certainly not for Uncle Russ. He wanted to solve it for himself. Before this summer he’d done nothing, seen nothing, accomplished nothing that a thousand other guys from Pottsville hadn’t already done. After Singapore he’d go home, apologize to Edna, and within a month be back in the rut he climbed out of when he climbed aboard that first flight out of central Pennsylvania. This was it, and he knew it. Lose now—and that seemed all but guaranteed—it would set the pace for the rest of his life.
But there was always Aisha.
He reread the note and tried to read between lines that weren’t even there. She must have gotten the message he was finally able to leave with the front desk, but she sure took her time calling back. What was it about her? She was self-absorbed, superficial, conceited, and condescending and she knew just what to say to make a guy feel like a complete idiot. What did he see in her, anyway?
That’s a stupid question, he thought. He knew exactly what he saw in her.
The question was, what did she see in him?
Doug put the baseball glove on and tossed the ball up towards the blades of the ceiling fan. As always, he found his mind drifting off and within five minutes he was making the game-winning catch in game seven of the World Series, flat on his back in Three Rivers Stadium.
***
Doug decided it was time to go when the Raffles staff started to ignore him.
At first they had jumped every time he approached the front desk, waiting for him to ask to use the house phone before nodding at the phones at the end of the counter. After the first half hour they merely smiled and after that, they did their best not to notice his pacing.
The note said she wanted to see him and gave a room number, and Doug assumed she’d be waiting for his call. He went from being anxious, to worried, to bored, to frustrated, to mad, to indifferent. He dialed 7-120 one last time, listened for the six rings and the click signifying the call was being transferred to the hotel’s operator, before heading out of the hotel. The staff behind the desk watched him leave without raising their heads from their paperwork.
It was a hot and humid night and Doug felt beads of sweat rolling down his back as he walked towards the quay. Fifty years ago it was a nasty warren of warehouses, brothels, and opium dens where ships from around the world bellied up to its docks. Savvy entrepreneurs snapped up the real estate while it was still reasonable and converted it into a charming warren of theme bars, souvenir shops, and seafood restaurants. The crowds were larger now and less dangerous and businesses in the area made more money, but no one seemed to be having as much fun.
Doug grabbed a #54 from a mom and pop restaurant located near an arching footbridge, and flipped the pages of a Singapore At Night! magazine he found on the subway. He rested the frosted mug of his Singha beer against his forehead. The heat didn’t seem to be bothering anyone else, he noticed, as they strolled through the crowds, snapping family photos and chewing on sno-cones. Some older men dabbed the back of their necks with handkerchiefs, and one younger guy a few tables over looked ready to keel over, but the average person seemed unfazed by the weather.
The guidebook had said that Singapore was a mix of several ethnic groups and that, from time to time, tensions ran high between the Chinese and Malay people of the island. He was smart enough not to admit it, but to Doug everybody looked alike. He was sure it was the same for them—seen one white guy, you’ve seen them all—but mandatory sensitivity training at the brewery had taught him that admitting this was a proven way to get yourself fired. He took a long pull on his beer and wondered if he had a counterpart at the Singha plant, an average Joe—or Chang—who plodded along, day after day, only to get fired for no known reason. Hopefully Chang had an Edna to bail him out.
Doug flipped through the magazine. It was a Friday night, he was a young single guy in a foreign country, he had a hundred U.S. worth of pink Singapore dollars in his wallet and the magazine showcased places to spend it. So what if he got stood up, it had happened before. A full-page ad for The Big Red Door promised an all-night party with drink specials. He was going out.
Chapter 31
The phone picked up on the second ring. “He’s going into a nightclub. Alone.” He wiped a wet bandana across his forehead, pushing the sweat back into his hair. The voice at the other end said fine, but added, “stay with him” before hanging up.
Oh great, he thought, The Big Red Door at eleven-thirty on a Friday night. There was the main entrance, the big, red door of the name, but there were three other doors as well. If the American had gone to The Lair or 2Loud, just down the street, he could have stayed outside and waited for the guy to come back out. And there was a nice breeze just picking up, too.
He let the American get inside before he crossed the street. He didn’t worry about being spotted since he figured that, to the American, all Asian people looked alike. Hell, all white people looked alike to him, why wouldn’t it be the same for that guy? It was hot inside, naturally, hotter and more humid than it was out front. The American had already worked his way to one of the bars.
He hated places like this. No dart board, no video games, a tiny pool table on a cramped loft where no-talent punks played eight ball and drunk chicks danced on the bar. It was smoky and they played a mix of European techno and Hong Kong pop, all at the same glass-rattling levels. The girls were underage, sarong party girls, breaking curfew, or office workers shouting TGIF. The guys were beefed-up wannabes, drooling over the sarong girls, or office geeks, still in their white shirts and solid color ties. And it was hot. It was already crowded and it would get more crowded and that meant it would get even hotter. He tried to find an open spot under an AC vent while keeping an eye on the American, the tallest, whitest guy in the place.
The American made his way up to the loft where he quickly won five games in a row. Even from this far away, he could tell that the American was an average player at best, but compared to the competition, he looked impressive. The American seemed to make friends easily, chatting with the guys in white shirts and the office girls like he’d known them for years. He was always amazed that someone could walk up and start talking with a total stranger. He couldn’t do that. He knew the person would probably start asking all sorts of questions, like what do you do and where do you live and why are you sweating so much, and he just couldn’t be bothered. The American ordered a couple of pitchers of Singha and teamed up with one of the office girls to play a game of doubles against more office geeks. The bouncers at the door kept letting more and more people in and the air conditioner, if it was ever on in the first place, wasn’t even noticeable anymore.
Two hours later the American and the office girl were still dancing, but how anybody could dance in this fucking heat, he didn’t know. And then the deejay puts on some song that everybody seemed to love and the next thing the whole place is bouncing up and down, trampling whatever cool air there was left in the building, and his beer was getting warm and that was a mistake since he knew better than to drink beer when it’s this fucking hot, and, Jesus, he felt weak all of a sudden and why is that chick looking at him that way, yes, I know I’m sweaty, he wanted to yell but didn’t and maybe the AC finally came on because he felt a cold chill race across his back and he looked up for the vent and saw the ceiling and then saw the wall, then saw that chick step away from him, holding her drink tight against her chest, then he saw the floor come towards him, and it was cooler there, just like he thought it would be. Between all the legs of the bouncing dancers, he watched as the American headed towards the exit, his arm around the short-haired office girl. Lucky bastard, he thought, as he closed his eyes.
Chapter 32
The first
SMRT train from Queenstown didn’t pull out until five forty-five a.m., so Doug had enough time to grab a cup of coffee and a doughnut from a twenty-four hour 7-Eleven. By all rights, he should have been exhausted, but the two-hour nap seemed to be enough. He didn’t want to rush out, that was Jang’s idea—“Trying to explain you to my roommate…” she said as she shook her head was all she offered as an explanation. It was a good line and Doug had used it before himself, but he would have preferred staying a bit longer.
“This is going to sound like bullshit, but I don’t usually do things like this,” she said when she invited him in for a drink.
“I mean it,” she continued when Doug said nothing, “you’re the first guy I’ve brought here since I moved in six months ago. Okay, second, but he doesn’t count because…well…he just doesn’t.”
Doug complimented her on her decorating—1960s retro— her music selection—the Stones—and the wine—pink. He had already complimented her on her outfit—LBD—her haircut—short and spiky—and her perfume—“Christmas gift from Mom.” She said thanks in all the right places as she lit an end table-full of candles. They talked about Singapore, travel, friends, and jobs.
“I never met anyone so interesting,” she said. “Honest. Why are you laughing? That’s why I wanted you to come up for a drink, you’re different from the guys I know.”
“You must know some real losers.”
“Not really. They’re all pretty successful, some even have their own homes, and in Singapore, that’s saying a lot, but they’re so, so…” she looked around the room for the word, finding it in among the candles, “predictable. They will live and die at the same jobs they got right out of university. Same handful of clubs, same drinks, same vacations, same everything. I dated a few of them and believe me they are all the same. Here you are, taking a summer off, traveling around the world. That’s amazing.” She grabbed the wine bottle on her way past the kitchen and plopped down on the couch, her legs across Doug’s lap. “Now, tell me more about Egypt.”
Doug hadn’t said anything about being a detective on a case and knew if he added it in now she wouldn’t believe him. He said that a friend of the family had wanted him to look up some old acquaintances here and there and that he had grown bored of the brewery anyway. It wasn’t far from the truth, in fact it probably was the truth. In any case, Jang found him interesting just the way he was. And as he rode the first train towards the Geylang district, hiding his open cup of coffee under his shirt to avoid a five-hundred-dollar fine, he thought a lot about that.
***
Chong Kim Siap was waiting at the door of ZRZ Publishers and Tourist Hotel, Ltd. when Doug walked up the street. He spotted Doug and half-jogged down the block to meet him. “That’s a strange hotel you picked, but you guys probably like those out-of-the-way places.”
“Out of the way? Isn’t this the heart of town? How you doing, Kim?” he said as he shook the young man’s hand.
“Late night on the case?” he said, pumping away on Doug’s arm.
“In a way. I was out at The Big Red Door and I met this girl….”
“Say no more, say no more,” he said, then added, “You guys. Geeze.”
“You’re here early. You find something important?”
“You tell me,” he said, handing Doug a thin white envelope. Inside was a photocopy of a mimeographed form, the blanks completed in a slanting cursive.
“This is it?” Doug said, holding up the paper.
“That’s it. They weren’t as obsessed with paperwork back then.”
Doug sighed and put the paper back into the envelope. “Thanks, Kim.” He knew the kid wanted to watch him mine clues from the report but he didn’t feel like play acting this early in the morning. “What do I owe ya?”
“Professional courtesy. Just do me a favor,” he said, handing Doug a card. “If you get any breaks in the case, give me a call.” Chong Kim Siap was neatly hand printed on the Singapore Police Department card, the whiteout barely visible under his name.
Chapter 33
Just as Edna was saying that she’d accept the collect call, the delivery truck began backing down the street, its warning beep echoing off the buildings as it inched its way past the phone booth.
“I’m sorry about the mix-up the other night,” Doug was shouting into the phone. “I still don’t get that time difference thing.”
“It’s only nine p.m. now, so I guess you have it right. How are you doing, Doug? You really should call more often. What have you found out?”
Doug looked up into the cab of the delivery truck. The driver was leaning forward to be closer to the lone mirror, his eyes wide open and his tongue working back and forth across his upper lip in time with the beeps. Doug forced his finger deeper into his ear and pushed the receiver tight against his head.
“I’ve been going over the police report,” he said, holding up the photocopy for her to see, “and I have to tell you that, well, I don’t see anything here.”
“What does it say?” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the beeps.
“The report says that he, uh, Russell Pearce, was found in Room 302 of the New Phoenix Hotel, and they give a street address but it doesn’t match anything on the street map I have. It looks like that whole area was torn down and built over since there are office buildings there now. Anyway, it says he was shot once in the neck and he bled to death in the room. They figure it happened close to midnight but nobody heard anything.” From down the street came a dull thud as the backing truck bumped up against the front of a parked Toyota. The beeping stopped, replaced by the two-octave whine of the car alarm.
“They found the gun. It was a Russian pistol, a…” he double-checked the report, then sounded out the word, “a ‘To-ka-rev,’ model TT-33. 7.62.”
“That would be the caliber,” Edna said. “It’s a common size.”
Doug could barely hear the car alarm now, the police car’s siren blotting out most of the noise on the street. He leaned into the corner of the phone booth, which, despite the laws, smelled of urine. “Edna, it was Charley Hodge’s gun.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was. His initials were on it,” Doug said, and under the police siren but still distinct, he could hear Edna drawing in a deep breath.
“It was not Charley’s gun,” she said, each word clipped off clean so there would be no mistake.
“Edna, I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it looks like Charley and my uncle got into a fight over that damn diamond and Charley shot Uncle Russ. All the evidence points to it.”
“What evidence, Douglas? You haven’t found a thing.”
“I’ve got the police report right here,” he said, holding it up again. “It says, where does it say it, ah, here, it says ‘Witnesses agree’—down below it lists these Raffles hotel people as witnesses—‘that the victim was expecting one Charley Hodge the day of the murder.’ And then they find the gun with his initials and the gun matches the bullet they find at the scene. Edna, come on, be realistic here.”
“I know what I know, Douglas. Charley Hodge did not shoot your uncle.” Her voice sounded different, a tone she had not used before, maybe the same tone Nasser Ashkanani heard in his shop all those years ago. “I know I don’t have the proof, that’s what I sent you there to find.”
“Yes, Edna, I know,” Doug shouted into the phone, just as the police siren stopped. The sudden silence and his own voice surprised him. He paused and started again. “I know why you sent me on this trip.”
“Well if you know what to do, do it. Find the evidence that clears Charley and figure out who murdered your uncle.”
“I’ve tried, really, I have tried, but I just can’t do it. I’m not cut out for this.”
“I have spent a small fortune flying you around the world….”
“I never asked you to. You insisted.”
“…and now you’re saying that you just feel like giving up….”
“I neve
r said that.” He was shouting again, but there was no police siren in the background.
“…and you haven’t even tried to find out what happened….”
“What? I went to frickin’ jail….”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Oh geeze,” he said, resting his forehead against the phone booth door. A minute of static hissed in his ear before Edna spoke again.
“Can we start over?” she said, the sharp edge missing from her voice.
“Let’s,” he said, and for the next ten minutes they talked about the weather, shopping malls, jet-lag, and Raffles. It was Edna who said, “Tell me about the police report.”
“Okay. There’s only one page and it doesn’t look like there was any follow-up. There’s a line at the bottom that says Status but there’s nothing written there. What I’m thinking is that the first guy took a report and that was it. They didn’t even try to find any leads and just assumed that this drifter guy was killed by his friend.” He didn’t believe it as he said it, but when he was done saying it, it sounded plausible.
“I can’t say I’d blame them. I’m sure there were a lot of unsolved crimes at that time and if some foreigner gets himself killed in a flophouse, that’s his tough luck.”
“Did my uncle write to you from Singapore? Any cables?”
“Yes, and I showed you that last note in Toronto, remember? It was that short letter he wrote on the Raffles stationery. Let me get it quick.”
Doug listened to the steady hiss of the intercontinental static. Down the road the truck driver, the cop, and the car owner were exchanging paperwork in a quiet and orderly manner. Across the street a shop owner was hosing down his sidewalk, singing along to a Chinese rock band on the radio.
“Here’s all that it says about the diamond,” Edna said as she picked up the phone. “‘Don’t worry, I still have that third eye. It’s not on me but I keep it within my reach.’ The rest of the note is just pleasantries, things about the weather, how he misses people….”
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