Rich kill poor kill, p.6
Rich Kill. Poor Kill, page 6
When he was undercover as Ah Lian, Low was once with Dragon Boy at a steamboat restaurant when a rival gang member made fun of his tattoos. Dragon Boy picked up the steamboat and poured its boiling contents over the joker’s arms and shoulders. Now they both had something on their arms to laugh about. Dragon Boy returned to his table and finished his fish head soup.
“Like that lor,” the gangster shrugged.
“Still busy?”
Dragon Boy flicked his cigarette box around the table.
“Eh, you called me, so you know I don’t care, right,” Low said. “You knew what I was already before you called me.”
“Yah lah, I know what you are, basket.”
“So why you call me?”
“Owe money, pay money, right.”
“You know we don’t pay money.”
“I pay you.”
“What?”
“Last time, after Tiger, you never tell me who you were, never arrest me some more.”
“No need. Tiger enough, got all the big fish.”
“So? I’m ikan bilis is it?”
“No.”
“You don’t think I’m big time is it? Insult me ah, kan ni na.”
“No. I figured no need.”
“You saw things last time. I did some fucked-up stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“But you never arrest me. Why?”
“No need. We both saw things, right or not?”
“That’s why.”
Dragon Boy spun his phone around and smiled. “You remember that fat one ah, Queenstown, damn jia lat, never pay so long already. Tiger tell us throw red paint against door. Remember?”
“Of course.”
“And then what happen?”
“He opened the door.”
“Fucker opened the door as I throw red paint. He looked like a fucking traffic light, chao chee bye.”
Both men laughed. Low pointed at both phones. “Busy time ah?”
“Always, man. EPL season finishing already and La Liga some more. Plus casinos. Casinos the best, boss. Every fucker lose money one. Can make more than last time. Need three phones already.”
“Eh, come on lah. You know I cannot hear this. Close one eye. Cannot close two.”
“Please lah, you know how many policemen come to me. I got three on east side.”
“Is it?”
“Of course, cannot make it at casino. Lose so much money. Idiots. And Gahmen the best, you know why?”
“Why?”
“CPF.”
“CPF?”
“That’s why. They hold back the savings right, cannot release, so I got all the aunties and uncles coming to me for money.”
“Serious?”
“I’m serious, boss. Should pay the Gahmen commission I tell you. Each time they push back CPF, old people cannot retire, come straight to me, borrow money. It’s the best I tell you. You should see me at coffee shop man, old people everywhere. It’s like reunion dinner.”
Low laughed loudly. He felt alive again with Dragon Boy. He felt a pulse. “Bugger, I should come back.”
Low heard the beats of silence and cringed. The joke was poor and obviously hurt his friend. In a sudden rush of euphoria, the bastard bipolar had gone too far and pulled down the façade. They were no longer old friends reminiscing. They were cop and criminal, the betrayer and betrayed. The stupid joke cut through the pretence and the genuine warmth, and re-established the boundaries of their current, colder relationship.
“Yeah, well, cannot anymore.”
Low sighed. There was nothing to hide anymore.
“No, not after Marina Bay Sands. Too high profile. After Tiger, it was still OK, can hide a bit, but Marina Bay Sands was a different story, much bigger, too many people involved, no more Ah Lian after that.”
“You miss him ah?”
“Tiger?”
“Ah Lian.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know … I liked him.”
Low didn’t know what to say. He felt empty, exposed. “So did I,” he said finally.
Dragon Boy sat up, as if suddenly asserting himself.
“So, bastard, you want this ang moh or what?”
“Why?”
“What you mean, ‘why’?”
“Why you care?”
“I’m here, right? I should be in Changi, talking cock with Tiger.”
“So?”
“Please lah. You help me last time.”
“You help me with Marina Bay Sands.”
“But this ang moh bastard cannot tahan already. He’s a banker right, stays around Chinatown?”
Low shrugged.
“Yah lah, you know he is. And I know who he is, typical FT, so hao lian one, works in Marina Bay, so much money, buy our women, fucker lah.”
“You know his name?”
“No.”
“Then how you know him?”
“One time I see him with the xiao mei mei with the siu mai.”
“Siu mai?”
“Small tits lah, like pork dumplings.”
“You saw them together?”
“The siu mai?”
“No lah, basket. The ang moh and the girl.”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“Cannot.”
“Why?”
“This one cannot.”
“Why? You show me where and finish already.”
“No lah, this one cannot save me one, no bargain.”
“What are you talking about? It’s murder.”
“Still cannot.”
Like a guilty schoolboy, Dragon Boy couldn’t sustain eye contact. He flicked at his cigarette box again. Low leaned back and rubbed his face.
“You dealing shit ah?”
Dragon Boy refused to look up.
“Eh, come on lah, that’s the only way you meet ang moh bankers. They don’t need you for money or women. Please tell me I’m wrong.”
Dragon Boy couldn’t speak.
“Ah, shit, that one I cannot protect you. Class A, you’re finished. Even if you catch him, people will ask the connection, or the ang moh will tell everyone. That one I cannot save you, man.”
“No, it’s OK,” Dragon Boy said suddenly. “I get you his name, finish. I get his name and everything settled already.”
“But you don’t even know it’s him. This girl was probably seeing more than one ang moh.”
“It’s him I tell you.”
“OK, so what you going to do?”
“I get his name and pass you lah.”
“And how you do that?”
“How you think? Next time, when I …”
“No, cannot,” Low interrupted. “Don’t tell me. Dealing cannot. They’ll screw you and then they’ll screw me for not screwing you.”
“OK, OK, understand.”
Dragon Boy opened his cigarette box. “I’ll still get his name.”
“How?”
“Please lah.”
“Without …”
“No problem.”
“Yeah, right.”
Dragon Boy grinned and waved his arm at a drinks seller. “Come on, Ah Lian. You want a beer or not?”
Chapter 15
The Minister of Home Improvement’s office was deliberately sparse. A tidy office gave the appearance of a tiny mind, but clutter also contained sensitive information for the prying eyes of visitors. They didn’t need to know about his work or his family life, beyond the necessary ministerial prerequisites. He needed to be married with kids. He had to support the traditional family model, promote filial piety, and publicly endorse Asian values. An occasional lapse behind closed doors was once tolerated, accepted even, as a perk for all that selfless national service. The Minister had been a successful Asian businessman with an expense account to entertain the region’s economic whales. Entertaining and servicing prospective clients were in the job description, but extra-curricular activities were frowned upon now. Social media and an upcoming cleansing of the Cabinet’s old guard meant a clean slate was imperative. Singapore’s stringent political regeneration policy supposedly stopped ministers from turning stale. It also stopped them from playing. Besides, some of his colleagues actually believed all that stuff about the traditional, nuclear family. It was a bit too Old Testament for the Minister’s tastes, but he championed calm exteriors.
So, he kept the framed photo of his wife and daughter on the desk, half facing outwards for the benefit of any audience. Visitors got his wife’s profile. He got to see his daughter beaming back at him. His fundamental, unshakable faith in positive eugenics had served his little girl well. He had married a barrister, the daughter of a property tycoon, and they had reproduced a similarly smart offspring to serve the nation.
The Minister smiled at the photo. He loved his little Gabriella. After Raffles Girls’ School and the National University of Singapore, she had become a leading paediatrician at Raffles Hospital. When others in the Cabinet questioned his decision to only have one child, he always had his little girl’s profession as backup. His child served the children of the nation. She was engaged to a wealthy venture capitalist with three successful apps to his name, so the Minister’s grandchildren might further improve on their genes, adding a greater entrepreneurial zeal. Positive eugenics was a simple cocktail really, just a matter of throwing in the right ingredients.
Of course, the shake-up occasionally went awry and poured out men like Deputy Director Anthony Chua into the country’s petri dish.
The Minister pushed his intercom. “Send him in please.”
Chua tried too hard from the moment he opened the door.
“How are you, Minister, thanks for your time,” he said, practically bowing. “This won’t take long.”
“It’s OK. Have a seat.”
The Minister watched a bead of perspiration make its way through the deputy director’s oily hair. They were always insecure in his presence. Their nervous disposition validated his belief. Most men would always be inferior to the genetically superior few. It wasn’t politically correct, but a government that built a country on political correctness built on sand. Singapore’s system made the most of its limited gene pool. A man like Anthony Chua couldn’t be a great man, but he could be a good one. He could punch above his weight. The trouble was he lacked the natural intellect and confidence to shake off the inferiority complex to question, challenge and improvise. He ticked boxes. And after the Marina Bay Sands debacle, the Singapore Police Force needed fewer investigators and more box tickers.
Chua rubbed his sweaty palms against his trousers. “Nice office.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s your daughter there?”
“Yes.”
“She’s very pretty ah.”
“Thank you.”
“Studying?”
“No, working already, Raffles Hospital. She’s a doctor.”
“Wah, fantastic, ah. I got two boys, primary school. Boys are such a handful.”
“Great. How can I help you, Director?”
“Ah, it’s Deputy Director actually sir.”
“I know, but Deputy Director is such a mouthful and I know you’re doing very well.”
Chua felt the blood sting his cheeks. “Ah, well, I do my best.”
The Minister nodded towards the clock on the wall, beside the framed photographs of the President of Singapore and his wife. “It’s a very busy day for me, so, er …”
“Yes, of course. Well, it’s a bit delicate actually.”
“Go on.”
“Do you know Stanley Low, Detective Inspector Stanley Low, now working in Technology?”
“Our paths have crossed.”
Chua thought he heard sarcasm in the Minister’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure. He struggled with ironic humour. He was a very literal man.
“Ah, OK. He can be, well, how to say ah, he can, maybe he’s not such a good team player.”
“Isn’t he in Technology now, as you mentioned?”
“Yes, but he’s been getting involved with this murder case.”
“What murder case?”
“Oh, we got a foreign worker killed in Chinatown.”
“A construction worker? It’s not Indian, is it?”
“No, no, this one’s Indonesian, probably killed by her boyfriend.”
“Oh, that one, yes. The bloggers are getting very excited about that one. So how?”
“So, Low has been helping and …”
“Wait, why is he helping? He was put in Technology for a reason, right?”
Chua was certain he heard a hint of apprehension that time.
“Yah, but my officers, well some of my officers and not really my officers actually, the ones I got leftover from Inspector James Tan’s team, seem to listen to him, some even look up to him.”
“He did settle some big cases in the past.”
“But he’s undermining my authority, sir. I don’t think he should be involved with this case.”
“Then get rid of him. Send him back to Technology.”
“He doesn’t really do what he’s told.”
The Minister stared at the personification of negative eugenics, struggling to conceal his contempt.
“You are the Deputy Director of CID. You oversee eight divisions, including Major Crime and Technology. And, frankly speaking, you’re making him sound like a five-year-old boy peeing on your classroom carpet.”
“Could you fire him, sir?”
“Could I? … I think it’s probably better if we both pretended that just never happened. Right now, all we need to focus on is calm exteriors. We have an election around the corner and rather than have the Singapore Police Force washing its dirty linen in public, I think it’s better if we keep it in a spin cycle. We’ve got hate speech and slander all over the place. We’ve got teenage anarchists thinking they’re Guy Fawkes. We need calm. Low has his flaws, but he’s keeping an eye on Harold Zhang. You heard of him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s got more followers on Facebook than the Prime Minister.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Minister stood up. The meeting was over.
“Anyway, you just focus on your Malaysian victim for now.”
“She was Indonesian, sir.”
“Right. Thanks for coming in, keep up the good work.”
Chua thought about saying something else, but the Minister had already returned to his laptop.
Chapter 16
Low sat on the very edge of his seat. He was jittery and talking too fast, but retained the remarkable lucidity that came with his manic episodes. Lai straightened her trousers and struggled with the guilt. Her patient was experiencing a high in her office. He would relapse later. But for now, he was a fidgeting guinea pig for her bipolar research. The psychiatrist couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“So you felt no guilt after each outburst?”
“Guilt? What for? I got something from all of them. The ang mohs told me about this guy being a banker and then Dragon Boy confirmed he was an ang moh banker. And now he’s going to get the name of a potential suspect. Not bad, right?”
“But what did you gain from the meeting with your boss, this deputy director?”
“He’s not my boss. He’s an idiot. I exposed him. I showed them what he really is.”
“What is he?”
“You know what he is. He’s the guy running every department in the country. He’s your boss and my boss. He’s a scholar boy, an arse kisser, a number cruncher, he’s everything we think we need and nothing we ever want. He’s a robot. He’ll go any direction you want as long as you tell him where to go first.”
“But why is it your job?”
“My job what?”
“To expose, as you say, these people.”
“Because no one else has got the balls.”
“You use that word a lot. Do you define all men by their masculinity?”
“Not just men. You got balls, because you ask questions. You think differently, you probe people. You got balls.”
“Thank you.” Lai adjusted her trousers again. “But why must we probe anyone?”
“Coming from you, that’s like a bear asking why we shit in the woods.”
Lai’s eyes sparkled. He could be entertaining when he was manic.
“Fair enough. But does it not make you judge and jury? You size someone up, you dissect him and then you destroy him. Why?”
“To see through them, to get to the truth, I don’t know. It’s what Ah Lian does. And let me tell you OK, nobody else in the police force does it better.”
“What does it feel like in those moments?”
“When I’m really firing? There’s nothing like it; sex, drugs, alcohol, nothing comes close. I can take down anyone. When the old Ah Lian instincts kick in, I speak faster, think quicker and get the job done.”
“Do you think it’s ironic that these manic episodes … ”
“They are not manic episodes, they are my life skills. When a carpenter bangs away with his hammer, do you call that a manic episode?”
“It depends if he’s abusing the people he works with.”
“He does when he whacks his thumb with a hammer.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And so do you. I’m not putting up a kitchen cabinet. I’m catching bad people. If I’m not in the right frame of mind, I’m finished.”
“Which brings me back to my original question. Do you not think it’s ironic that these manic episodes usually occur when you are with …”
“Sick bastards? No. That’s the point. They’ve all got balls the size of durians.”
“Can we stop talking about balls?”
“Look, the deputy director cannot make it. So I crush him. I smell weakness, like Dragon Boy and Tiger last time. I need to pick up the scent or I’m dead.”
“OK, stay with that. Let’s assume that’s true. You need to behave a certain way in your job. I understand that. But you seem to enjoy behaving that way.”
“Of course. It’s the best. I never feel more alive than when I’m Ah Lian.”
“But you’re essentially being someone else.”
“That depends on your point of view. The paper shuffler sitting in front of a desk and reading shitty blogs, he feels like someone else. He’s a stranger.”
