Singapore Noir

“I’ll tell you my system. Each dish is served from the cooking service onto an intermediary platter, preheated to keep it warm. I select a piece at random from each dish and give it a smell test. Sometimes I do a chemical test too. But if it smells fine, usually I just take a small bite. Then I wait to see if there’s any reaction. After a short wait — I can usually tell immediately if something’s wrong, but I usually wait two minutes, to see if anything develops — I take another bite. Most strong poisons you can detect surprisingly easily. There are a few which are tasteless, but most of them have a slight smell. It’s not a foolproof system, but it works. Once all the items have been tasted, it’s our job to look after the chain of custody, just like a police officer monitoring his evidence. We watch to make sure the items we’ve cleared are served onto the diners’ plates and handed to them.”

“So you did all that?”

“Of course. In this type of situation, where individuals are genuinely scared of being poisoned, I take a lot of care. I tasted everything. All the meat, every vegetable.”

“Drinks?”

“Even the drinks. I pour a little out of each into a separate cup, and smell it and taste it. I don’t let it out of my sight until it reaches the diners.” The young man started to weep. “Please believe me, wherever the poison came from, it wasn’t from anything they ate or drank.”

Wong found Alberto’s story believable. He turned and sniffed the air. Could some sort of gas be the culprit? Or a poisoned umbrella tip? Or a radioactive teapot? He’d done the reading. He knew how creative villains were these days.

His mobile phone rang. It was Joyce outside in the car.

“He’s freaking me out.”

“He’s freaking out?”

“No, he’s freaking me out. He says he wants to spend the rest of his life with his head in my lap. He’s creepy. I think he’s smelling my crotch. I’m standing outside the car. I said I was going to go and get drinks for the two of us. I got no money on me. Where are you?”

Wong told her which restaurant they were in. A minute later she appeared, and asked the bartender for two cold drinks.

The feng shui master sat down to make plans to escape from the slow-motion disaster that was unraveling at the hotel around the corner. Option one: go straight to the airport and leave Singapore forever. Option two: contact Sin Sar and get him to rescind his decree immediately. Better try that first.

He called the monastery and got the staff to give him the abbot’s phone number. He dialed it with growing anger, stabbing at his phone.

“Sin Sar, this is Wong. I am not in the room. I had to go out. Urgent business. But I heard about your decree. Last one gets the prize. You have to get up, tell them you were joking.”

“I wasn’t joking,” the monk said in his high, singsong voice, giddy with delight. “People here love the idea. You should have heard the laughter.”

“But that’s because they didn’t realize that you were spoiling the race. These guys famous for driving cars fast. Slow race no good. Makes bad TV. Sponsors very angry. Race organizer very angry.”

“It’s still a race. But the loser gets the prize. That’s the Buddhist way.”

“That’s not the Buddhist way.”

“Well, it’s the Abbot Sin Sar way.”

“Change it. I order you. Otherwise they will make me pay for everything. It cost millions of dollars. I can’t pay.”

“Look, Wong, I have to go. The next course has arrived. The food here is so good. Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”

“You are my friend. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I am not doing anything to you. I am doing something good for the people here. They are competitive in the worst way. They always want to win win win. Everything has to be bigger, stronger, faster. I am teaching them something good.”

“They are not bad people. You don’t have to spoil their race.”

“They have competitiveness in their hearts. That’s bad. They have a craving for money and glory. Those are poisons that will seep out and destroy their lives. I am doing them a favor.”

“Don’t talk to me about poison,” Wong growled.

The abbot hung up.

At that moment, Joyce stomped back into the restaurant, irritation on her face. She placed one of the drinks on the counter. “He won’t drink it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a boiling hot day but he wants it with no ice. He’s crazy.”

She waited until the barman made another gin and tonic, and then headed back out. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Oh, and by the way, we got a parking ticket. The driver says you have to pay it.”

Wong winced. She disappeared.

The barman looked over at him. “And that’s three drinks your lady friend ordered. You’ll have to pay for them too.”

“Aiyeeah,” cursed Wong. “Why do the gods hate me so much?”

The barman gazed down at the ice-filled drink that Keung had refused to accept. “You want to drink this? You look like you need it.” He slid the drink over.

Wong glared at it, as if it was responsible for all his troubles.

And then his eyes widened.