Singapore Noir

His rivals in geomancy preferred to work for stupid rich people, who would pay them vast sums for visiting their luxury homes. They worked in mansions, sipping silver tip tea and sitting on designer sofas as they spouted random platitudes about chi and the flying star school and the flow of good luck. And these days, they usually got paid more than he did.

So Wong had decided to taste the easy life. Step one had been to muscle his way into the “designer” feng shui business, offering his services to event organizers.

After weeks of pitching, he had been hired to oversee the geomantic side of the arrangements at a major car racing event. This wasn’t Singapore’s famous Formula One race. This was a grudge-match-as-spectacle showdown between Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson, who were among the world’s greatest racing champions. The men had long been archrivals, although it was hard to tell whether they really hated each other or were just media-savvy enough to know that finger-wagging and fist-thrusting attracted TV cameras.

Wong had checked the feng shui of all the venues, including this gorgeously decorated pink-walled room at the luxurious hotel on Beach Road — an avenue at the heart of the urban district, many kilometers from the nearest beach. The only major negative he had found was a grotesque clash between the event date and the birthday of the main sponsor, a businessman named Lim Cheong Li. But that had been solved easily enough. Arrangements had been made for the official opening of the event to be led by a Buddhist abbot named Sin Sar. This man had the perfect birthday in terms of earth roots and heavenly pillars. His presence would ensure the event would not just go well, but be an unforgettable triumph.

Wong had promised the abbot a big lunch and a small fee, and gave him strict instructions: “Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just sit there. Pretend you don’t know English. When they give you a bell, just ring it. Then sit down and shut up. Shut up all the time. Got it?”

The man had nodded, but not without an audible sigh. “I’m not stupid,” he said, in his oddly high singsong voice.

Wong had responded with a fake smile. The man was not stupid. But he was an idiot, all the same.

The event opened smoothly. Wong sat at the staff table at the back and watched the VIPs take their places at the top table. Abbot Sin Sar sat down and smiled stupidly at everyone. He accepted a big glass of red wine and grinned.

Wong started mentally counting his money. He had given them a big invoice and had inserted a 20 percent “contingency fee” for unexpected events. Now all he needed to do was to create some plausible difficulty which would enable him to write in the 20 percent surcharge. No way was he letting that get away from him. This was going to be a good day. He sat back in his chair and reached for his tea.

Which was when someone tapped his shoulder.

“C.F., gotta talk to you,” said a voice he knew meant trouble.

“Go away,” he spat, without turning.

“This is important.”

“Go away. THIS is important.”

“Alberto’s dad is freaking out,” said Joyce McQuinnie, his assistant, who was suddenly standing next to him. She was talking in a stage whisper, much too loud, catching the attention of others at the table. “He’s totally lost it. I dunno what to do.”

Wong paused for a moment. Alberto Siu Keung, a small fat young man obsessed with food, was always in and out of trouble — but his dad was the wealthy recluse Sigmund Siu Keung, a client who paid every bill, however absurdly inflated, without ever examining any of them. “I call him back later.”

“It’s urgent. He says Alberto’s been arrested for killing two people. He said that if you don’t handle this now, he’ll go off and find some lawyer to take his money instead.”

Wong rose to his feet.

Ten minutes later, the two of them were in the luxurious Marina Bay home of Sigmund Siu Keung, known as the hilltop hermit because he almost never left his home, and had once lived on a hilltop.

“My son has been arrested. You find him,” Keung said, sitting so far away from his guests that the conversation almost had to be shouted.

“Where is he?”

“In a place with a palm tree on the pavement,” said the nervous old man, thin but solid as he sat on a distant oversized armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown.

This sounded like the beginning of a longer utterance, but turned out not to be.

“Like, can you give us more details?” Joyce asked. “Like what street, what district, what area, what building, et cetera?”

Keung looked annoyed. “How can I know that? I am agoraphobic. You can’t expect me to know these things. I don’t know anywhere.”

“Can you call him? We need the address. He must have a mobile?”

The old man seemed exasperated now. “If I could call him, I would. Whoever detained him turned off his phone. I saw the man snatch the phone out of his hand.”

Wong was confused. “You saw him?”

“He sends me Facetimes.”

The feng shui master looked blank.