Singapore Noir

The clouds were clearing as C.F. Wong, Joyce McQuinnie, and Sigmund Siu Keung sat in the car, inching through the traffic on their way back to the Raffles Hotel.

“Driver, take me home FIRST,” said the tycoon, his head on Joyce’s thigh. “Marina Bay.”

“Later,” Wong said. “First, Raffles.” The feng shui master pulled out his phone and called the police detective. “Shek. I just want to ask you one question. Mr. Wu is dead, right? But Mrs. Wu is okay, recovering in hospital? Is it right?”

“C.F.? Yes, that seems to be the case.”

“What were they drinking at the meal?”

There was silence for a few seconds. “Not sure. Scotch, I think. Lap-ki Wu is from a Cantonese background. Probably cognac.”

Wong nodded. “I think I know what happened. Mrs. Wu puts poison inside ice cubes. When Alberto taste the drinks, they are fine. Poison locked inside the ice cubes. But after five minutes, ice cube melts. Mr. Wu drinks poison. He dies. Old system. Seen it before. Common.”

“But Mrs. Wu is also sick. Why would she poison herself?”

“You forget. Mrs. Wu is an actress.”

“Was an actress.”

“Is an actress. They never forget. Like bicycles, elephants.”

As the car pulled up outside the Raffles, Wong leaped from the passenger seat and sprinted through the lobby and into the ballroom.

He arrived puffing to find the room full of raised voices. It was clear that people had now realized that Abbot Sin Sar’s stricture meant the race would be unlikely to go ahead at all.

Lim Cheong Li was onstage, trying to maintain order.

The feng shui master marched up the tiny stage staircase and took the microphone from him. “So sorry, Mr. Lim,” he said. “Must just fix this small small problem for you.” C.F. Wong tapped the microphone hard, twice. Then he started speaking: “Excuse me, rich people, sponsors, businessmen, and et ceteras, I want to say something.”

He continued to tap the microphone and call for attention. The crowd’s attention was eventually caught by the skeletal man on stage with the thick Chinese accent. Conversations died down.

“Ancient Chinese legend says exactly what Abbot Sin Sar said,” Wong explained. “The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I know this is also in the Bible. But Bible originally was Chinese, as everyone knows. As Sin Sar says, whichever car crosses the line first will be declared the loser. Whichever car crosses the line last will be declared the winner. But Sin Sar forgot to say one important thing: Chinese legend says that racing-horse riders should ride each other’s horses. This is the traditional way.”

He glanced down at an event program before continuing. “So Mr. Emerson Brahms will drive the car belonging to Mr. Andreletti Nelson. And the vice will be versa. Mr. Andreletti Nelson will drive the car belonging to Mr. Emerson Brahms. The car which crosses the line last will be the winning car. This is the Buddhist way. This is the Singapore way. This is the best way. Thank you. Goodbye and good night.”

There was silence. People took a few seconds to ponder the implications of the change he had outlined. Slowly, the room broke into laughter and applause.

As Wong carefully climbed down the steps from the stage, he wondered how long it would take for the drivers themselves to realize what his proposal meant. If Brahms and Nelson were driving each other’s cars, each would do his damndest to try to get that car into the most UNdesirable position: first place. Each would drive with as much speed and skill as he could muster. And there was a certain Zen quality about the paradox that would give the race a truly Asian flavor.

The heavens had been right when they guided Wong to select Sin Sar.

Lim saw immediately that it would work. He followed Wong offstage. “Nice going, feng shui master. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I like iced tea,” Wong said. “But no ice cubes.”

About the Contributors

Monica Bhide’s work has appeared in Food & Wine, the New York Times, Parents, Bon Appetit, Saveur, and many other publications. Her food essays have been included in the Best Food Writing anthologies (2005, 2009, and 2010). She has published three cookbooks, the latest being Modern Spice: Inspired Indian Flavors for the Contemporary Kitchen. In 2012, the Chicago Tribune picked her as one of seven noteworthy food writers to watch.

Colin Cheong was born in Singapore in 1965 and graduated from the National University of Singapore in 1988. His debut novel, The Stolen Child, was awarded the Highly Commended Fiction in English Award by the National Book Development Council of Singapore in 1990. His novella Tangerine was awarded the Singapore Literature Prize in 1996, and he also won the Merit Award in that competition for his novella The Man in the Cupboard in 1998.