Singapore Noir

For a long time after, Saiful sits on his bed trying to calm himself. The stamp has been passed down through four generations and he is determined to keep it. It doesn’t matter if no one else cares; it is about legacy and family history. Saiful looks out the window and sees that the sun is rising. A new day, and hopefully a better one. He changes into a fresh set of clothes and sets out to find Mr. Rao.

The temple looks very different in daylight, and except for a few colorfully dressed Indian devotees deep in prayer, it is bereft of activity.

“Mr. Rao!” Saiful shouts at no one in particular. The words bounce around the room and merely attract stares from the devotees. There is no sign of the man. Saiful shouts again and this time the midget appears.

“Leave now or else I call the police,” says the man in a surprisingly deep voice.

Saiful cannot help but laugh at the comical sight. But then the midget pulls out an impressive-looking machete. One of the devotees starts to scream and in the blink of an eye all of them have vanished. The midget stands in front of Ganesh with his weapon, looking like a figure from a Disney cartoon.

“As I said, leave now or else I call the police.”

Saiful assesses the situation calmly and decides to retreat. He will come back later that night and take Mr. Rao by surprise. He will have the last laugh.

On his way to the nearest bus stop, he walks past a long row of parked cars. In the middle is a beat-up Mitsubishi Lancer. Saiful does a double take — the color, the condition, and especially the deep scratches are all unmistakable — this is Babu’s car. Saiful does a quick 360-degree scan and immediately spots Babu sitting at a nearby sarabat stall, drinking tea. This is his chance.

Approaching from behind, he swiftly puts the unsuspecting boy in a headlock. Babu starts to struggle; but the more he does, the harder Saiful applies the pressure. After a while, when it is clear that resistance is not getting him anywhere, Babu simmers down.

“I can break your neck, but I’m not going to do so. When I release you, you’re going to cooperate and write down Mr. Rao’s home address for me. Is that understood?”

When there is no response, Saiful realizes that Babu has not heard a word. He has to spell it out. Motioning to the sarabat stall owner, who is cowering behind the service counter, Saiful gets ahold of a piece of paper and a pen. As he releases Babu to start writing down the instructions, the boy picks up his cup of tea and flings the remaining hot liquid into Saiful’s face.

Saiful grabs his head and screams in pain. By the time he recovers, Babu is gone. Left on the table is a written note.

Fucking loser, it says. Saiful grabs the paper and crumples it. He can only curse at his bad luck, yet again.

Later that evening, recharged and with a renewed sense of purpose, Saiful makes his way back to the temple. The moonless sky is full of stars, so quiet that they seem to be part of a larger conspiracy. He tries the door up front, but finds it locked. After a quick search, he locates a side entrance with a wooden door. That door is also locked, and as he tries to figure out what to do next, a shadow appears behind him. Saiful quickly turns around, and finds himself face to face with Madame Zhang.

Standing almost five feet nine and with a sharp angular face, Madame Zhang is an unmistakable presence. Saiful sees that she is carrying her fake good-luck Gucci handbag.

“You’re still alive,” Madame Zhang proclaims in broken Malay, revealing her two gold front teeth.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Suddenly a thought occurs to him. “Mr. Rao wants to take over your business, but I can protect you if you help me get my stamp back.”

“Stamp? What stamp?”

“It’s mine, but he took it.”

“Mr. Rao is a religious man,” Madame Zhang says, apropos of nothing.

Several things then happen in quick succession. Madame Zhang lets out a whistle, and four Chinese men appear, wielding machetes. They proceed to knock down the side door, and in no time everyone is in the temple.

As the men fan out in all directions, Madame Zhang takes a compact from her handbag and starts to powder her nose and forehead. One of the men comes right back with the midget, a machete placed against his tiny neck. Soon, two others are escorting Mr. Rao out from the depths of the temple. Fernando the cat is nowhere to be seen.

The negotiations begin. Though Madame Zhang has the upper hand, she remains a shrewd businesswoman. She quickly outlines how her black market operations can be expanded, especially given the Indian community’s predilection for ayurvedic preparations, many of which are banned. Madame Zhang has no doubt that a mutually beneficial agreement can be reached. Of course, she wants an above-market commission; and, in fact, she already knows of at least one supplier in Kenya who can ship the illicit merchandise.