The Singapore Wink

“That the Lozupone girl had been killed and that you were getting in over your head and had refused any offer of assistance. He strongly recommended that I come out and lend a hand.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, I must confess he was rather vague about that.”

“Dangerfield’s here,” I said.

“The FBI man?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Lending a hand.”

“Oh,” Trippet said and gazed out the window at the Singapore scene as we threaded our way through the Indian section that lined Serangoon Road. “It hasn’t changed,” he said as we rolled slowly through the treeless, grubby neighborhood, entire sections of which could have been transplanted intact from Bombay or Calcutta or Jubbulpore. Ghee and tal cooked in pans over cow dung fires and their odors mingled with those of oil and urine and incense and rose water. Men in white dhotis chewed betel and stared at nothing and everything. Women in bright, even brilliant, saris rattled their gold bangles and a Hindu wise man, his arms smeared with ashes, wandered through the crowd. A Parsee leaned against a post, picked his teeth with a sharp knife, and sneered at the Hindu. An old man hobbled by with the aid of a malacca cane, his mouth wrapped in gauze, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“What’s the one with the gauze over his mouth?” I said.

“Must be a Jain,” Trippet said.

“Afraid of germs?”

“Not at all. He’s probably orthodox. The gauze keeps insects from committing suicide by flying into his mouth. Notice how carefully he walks; he doesn’t want to step on any of them either.”

Just past Balestier Road which takes you to the Singapore Island Country Club, if you can afford the dues, the traffic became spotty and the driver urged his aged car on to new efforts. We must have been making forty when the black, four-door Chevelle pulled up alongside and stayed there. Our driver slowed, but the Chevelle dropped back with us. When the Chevelle’s rear window started to roll down, I caught Trippet by the shoulder and gave him a hard, abrupt shove towards the floor. I dropped flat on the seat and one of the two shots plunked into the far door about eight inches from my head while the second one, fired at an angle as the Chevelle pulled ahead, knocked out the taxi’s rear window. The glass wasn’t shatterpoof and a few shards fell on the seat.

Our driver shouted something and then slammed on his brakes. I rolled off the seat onto Trippet. He squirmed under me and I managed to get back to a sitting position and noticed that a crowd was gathering.

“The neighbors are here,” I said.

Trippet raised up to look around. “So they are. Any damage?”

“The rear window and my nerves.”

“Do you have any money?”

“Sure.”

“Give me fifty dollars.”

The driver was now outside of the car, explaining to the interested bystanders how it had happened and his gestures were a pleasure to watch. Trippet got out the left door and walked up to the driver and said something into his ear while pressing the bills into a hand that momentarily was not in flight. The driver peeked at the denominations, smiled, and hurried around to open the door for Trippet The crowd watched us drive away. A four- or five-year-old boy waved for no good reason and I waved back.

“It was an accident, sir,” the driver said.

“I’m sure of it,” Trippet said.

“But the rear window.”

“A sad loss, but fortunately replaceable.”

“Perhaps after all one should inform the police.”

“It would only inconvenience them,” Trippet said.

“If only I could be certain it was indeed an accident,” the driver said.

Trippet stretched his hand out to me, palm up, and I laid two Singapore twenty-dollar bills across it. Trippet folded them and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Perhaps this will give you the certainty you seek,” he said.

The driver’s right hand came up over his right shoulder and his fingers closed over the bills. He didn’t turn his head. He glanced down at the numerals on the bills and then tucked them into his shirt pocket “Truly,” he said, “it was a most regrettable accident.”