Singapore Noir

There were two of them, and in the narrow corridor already crowded with potted plants and now a dismantled gate, they had to stand one behind the other. They looked so ordinary. The one in front looked like anyone he could have met in the building, a man in his thirties or so, not so tall, but stocky. His face was pale and flabby, like the pig’s head on their door the previous night. Pig Face.

The one behind was much younger, taller, and slimmer, like any teenage punk with dyed hair, piercings in his earlobes, and tattoos — pretty ones he probably thought made him look cool. The old man knew what actual Triad tattoos looked like. The boy was just a punk. It was strangely quiet, as if all the neighbors had gone into hiding.

“Pay,” the first collector had said. “Don’t waste my fucking time.”

The old man had nodded and took out the wad of cash from his shirt pocket. The collector snatched it from him, removed the rubber band, and began counting. His beady eyes were angry when he looked up again.

“Fucker, you trying to waste my time, is it? This is not enough.”

“That’s everything you put in her account.”

“I didn’t put. My boss put. He tells me to collect how much, I collect. This is not enough. Interest?”

The old man had said nothing. He merely shook his head.

“That means you still owe my boss.”

“She owes you nothing,” he said. Then more deliberately: “Tell your boss to fuck off. And if he tries that again—”

“Try what again? What are you going to do? You fucking useless old man, what are you going to do?”

He had already known the outcome of this exchange. He had heard enough stories. Loan sharks, like every other Singaporean, really wanted permanent passive income. A dividend they could collect forever from a small initial investment.

“You think you can fucking protect this woman, those boys? You’re a fucking old man, you got no fucking balls anymore, what are you going to do?”

He would have let an insult go, but not a threat to harm the woman and the boys. He was losing his calm, his peace. Then, to make his point, Pig Face slammed his palm into the old man’s chest and he staggered back. Pig Face had stepped across the threshold into the flat and the woman screamed. The old man recovered his balance and reached behind his back for his gun, tucked into the waistband of his loose trousers, hidden under his shirt. Pig Face saw the movement and thought the old man was going for a knife.

“I also got,” he spat, and drew out a knife from his back pocket, but even as he began to open the blade, he saw the tiny, glaring red light and quickly backed toward the door. “Run!” he yelled.

The teen with the dyed hair, piercings, and tattoos bolted down the corridor. Pig Face stumbled as he turned around. He tripped over the bars of the metal gate that they had so recently taken down and landed heavily on the ground. The old man loomed over him, the gun in both his hands, that wicked red eye glaring down at the guy.

“Please,” the collector had whimpered. “They made me do this. I owe money also. I can’t pay. They made me do this. I have a family.” He slowly got up.

The old man watched him, following him with his gun, tracking the collector’s face with the red laser dot. He knew it was the end. His gun was no longer a secret. And life as he knew it was over. One chance, and he had been forced to waste it on these punks. The collector turned around as he lowered his gun. The old man felt the anger and the heaviness return as the collector moved down the corridor as quickly as the pain would allow him.

Only one thing to do. He squeezed the trigger. He heard the bang and the echo as the sound ricocheted around the surrounding blocks, he heard the collector yell as the bullet hit him in the butt, he heard the woman and the boys shouting, the neighbors screaming in fear. The whole world had erupted in sound, but he heard only a calm silence in his own soul.

The collector struggled down the corridor, groaning from the pain and trailing blood, and the old man followed, the red laser spot on his back the whole time. He got to the stairs, fell down a flight, picked himself up, stumbled painfully down all three floors, the old man just behind him, as if seeing a guest out. It was a good feeling, to usher someone out this way, usher out all the bitterness, all the anger, all the frustration, all those feelings of helplessness. He had not felt so good, so strong, so powerful, in a very long time.

The collector reached the ground-floor lobby, right next door to the now empty and dark People’s Action Party branch office. Downstairs neighbors had rushed toward the sound but screamed and ran when they saw the old man’s gun.