Singapore Noir

“No, he didn’t forget the bell. He had the blasted bell. But he forgot that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and jangle the thing. Instead, he made a little speechette and then jangled the bell.”

“Oh. He said something bad?”

“Yes. He said something very bad indeed.”

Wong sighed. “He’s a monk. You have to expect people like that to talk all sorts of rubbish.”

Lim said: “Sin Sar told us the race should be spiritual. It should be a race of the heart. It should be a competition about who can crave less than his neighbor.” The man spoke in a whiny, mocking tone. “It should be a race about giving money and glory away to others, not grabbing money and glory for yourself. He said it was wrong to worship money.”

“Clearly rubbish, but no harm done,” Wong offered.

“Well get this. He said that many scriptures, including the Buddhist and the Christian ones, dictate that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. So he declared that good fortune would only continue to prevail if the title and the money and the trophy went to whoever came in LAST, instead of whoever came in first.”

There was silence. “Er, interesting,” said Wong, wondering how he could put a positive light on this. “Makes your race very unique and unusual and historical. You are very lucky.”

“Lucky?” said Lim, sounding close to apoplexy. “It’s a disaster. The last person wins the money and the glory. The idiot monk has turned it into a slow race, like those bicycle races where you have to go as slowly as you can. The winner is whoever is last, and the loser is whoever is first. Do you understand what this means, Wong?”

“I think so. Maybe small small problem.”

“It means that Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson are going to drive as slowly as they can. That’s the only way they can get the title and the money. They might not finish until next Tuesday. They might never finish. It means there is going to be no race. It means there will be nothing for the millions of TV cameras and viewers and sponsors to look at. It means the whole event will be a multimillion-dollar disaster.”

“Ah. I see. Can’t you just ignore what Sin Sar said?”

“He said it in front of the whole crowd and the TV cameras and everything. It was so unexpected that everybody laughed and cheered, not realizing what it really meant. Even the drivers were amused at first. It was only when he sat down that we realized the race would be destroyed.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes, it is too bad. Especially for you, since YOU are going to pay for it.”

“Huh?”

“You brought the blasted abbot into this process. If the whole thing goes belly-up, you’re paying for it.”

“Oh. Maybe I talk to Sin Sar,” the feng shui master offered.

“You’d better. They’re serving the last few courses of the Chinese banquet now. That means you have about ten or fifteen minutes.”

Wong pressed the red button to end the call.

The abbot’s birthday meant he had practically been born for this event. How could he have been a bad choice? This made no sense. And what would happen? Was Wong’s huge payoff going to turn into a massive bill? Should he leave the country immediately? What else could go wrong?

Detective Inspector Shek marched up to him, turning off his own phone. “Just got word from the hospital. Lap-ki Wu was declared dead on arrival. The wife is expected to follow shortly. We’re now talking about murders.”

Shek spun around on his heels and headed to the restaurant kitchen where Alberto Siu Keung was waiting.

Wong, not knowing what else to do, stood at the door and eavesdropped.

“Really, I don’t know what happened,” the young man said. “I did my job properly. I tasted every dish. It was all fine. The poison didn’t come from the kitchen. I swear. I’ll bet my life.”

“You are betting your life,” the detective said. “How does it work? Do you actually eat a bit of everyone’s steak right off their plate?”

“No. There’s a system that food tasters use.”

“There is?”

“Yes, we’re professionals. You think we’re like mothers with toddlers, tasting the food and feeding them? It’s not like that.”

Wong could hear Alberto sigh. Even when he breathed you could hear a vibrato tremor. The young man was trying not to cry. He sniffed twice, and then continued.