“I’m really sorry about your brother,” D.Wash says. “I’m sorry we had to meet this way.”
“I appreciate that.” Steven takes Scott’s keys and gives them a look. There’s nothing much exciting about them or anything out of the ordinary. Three keys and a bottle-opener keychain. Steven recognizes one of the keys as one to his condo back in Toronto. Scotty was allowed to come and go as he pleased, even though he had never been there.
“Everybody liked him,” D.Wash says.
Everybody did like Scott. What was there not to like? He had money to spend, but never looked like it. He bought most rounds at most bars. He had funny tattoos of women with big breasts. If you didn’t like him, he’d buy you a drink anyway, and then eventually you would. How can you not like a guy who lives like a hippie but is secretly a yuppie?
“Thanks,” Steven says, and nods. He’s not sure really what to say to D.Wash. Instead, he looks at the keys again, as if they suddenly are going to teleport him back to Canada.
“Lemme buy you a drink, huh?” D.Wash says. “Then we can talk a bit about your bro.”
“That’s alright,” Steven says. “I’m not really much of a beer drinker.”
“I’ve heard.” D.Wash raises an eyebrow above his rimless glasses and reaches down beneath the bar. When his hands come back up, he’s holding a very nice-looking bottle of Penfolds. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s better than any of the beer in the bar and probably not cheap enough to be the house red. “How about this?”
“Much better,” Steven says. “So you know.”
“Sure, man. Your brother talked about you all the time. Said it was one of those things he learned from you.”
“Wine?”
D.Wash winks. “Drinking.”
With a huge grin, D.Wash walks around the bar, nodding to a small Asian girl to take over the drink slinging. She nods and jumps up from her stool and immediately takes his place. D.Wash holds the bottle of wine by the neck, and it looks tiny in his enormous hands. He must weigh nearly three hundred pounds. He looks like a professional wrestler.
“Have a seat.” D.Wash points to a small table nearby with two very uncomfortable looking wooden chairs. Steven wonders if the barstool would have been better. He sits down at the chair that faces the street and lets D.Wash sit with his face to the bar.
There are many white people in the bar, and Steven wonders how many of them are locals, tourists, or people on business. D.Wash is obviously American, and Steven wonders if most of his clientele are, as well. He read that there are many British and European expats living in Singapore. He just didn’t figure they all hung out together. Now that he sees it, he thinks it makes sense that they’d all frequent the same places.
The sound of the cork snaps Steven out of whatever he was thinking, and he watches D.Wash carefully pouring them each a glass. D.Wash raises his by the stem and holds it in the air. Steven takes his cue and does the same, waiting for the toast.
“I’m sorry we have to meet this way,” D.Wash says. “I’m really sorry, man.”
“Me too,” Steven says, and hopes it’s a quick drink.
“To Scott.”
“To Scott.” Steven touches his glass to D.Wash’s. D.Wash proceeds to down what is at least seven ounces of wine in one long gulp. Steven takes a very small sip of his wine and sets the glass back down.
“What?” D.Wash says. “No swishing? No swirling? No twirling the glass or any of that stuff?
Steven shakes his head. “I’m off duty.”
“Fair enough.”
“Are you American?” Steven asks. He holds his glass by the stem and, without realizing it, slowly shuffles it around on the table in tiny circles. The wine just barely swirls in the bowl, its red legs running down the sides of what is actually a white wineglass.
“Is it that obvious?” D.Wash says, and lets out a long, deep laugh. It sounds volcanic. If the accent didn’t give him away, the over-the-top laugh would have definitely pegged him for a Yank.
“It’s the accent.”
“Ah, yeah. And you, Canadian. Scott had it, too. Always said ‘oot and aboot.’ ”
Steven cringes. He always hates it when people say that Canadians say “aboot.” He’s never known a single person in his life who said “oot and aboot,” and he’s positive Scotty would certainly never say it. He hated Canadian stereotypes, and never found them funny, even on TV.
“How long have you been here?” Steven asks.
“Almost seven years.”
“Wow. You move here to open this bar?”
“Aw, hell, no. This is just my side biz. Three days a week I teach.”
Steven raises his eyebrows. “Really? What do you teach?”
“Screenwriting.” D.Wash smiles and nods with a look that obviously says can you believe that?
“Here in Singapore?”
“Yup, that’s what I did back in the States. Out in LA. I was writing for TV for years. You remember a show called Mister Malcom’s Homeroom?”
Steven does indeed remember the show. It was an awful program, masquerading as a sitcom for teenagers. Mister Malcom was a black teacher in a stuffy white prep school. He taught the mostly white rich kids how to loosen up, learn to respect each other, and occasionally just learn not to be little assholes. It starred David Davis, who before and since was a very highly paid stand-up comedian. The show was on for years and was simply dreadful.
“That was a great show,” Steven lies and takes a sip of his wine.
“It was shit.” D.Wash smiles, and his eyes go wide. He pauses for a few seconds and waits for Steven to smile before he continues. “But it paid me crazy and wasn’t hard work. Anyway, after that was over, I did some other shit and taught some classes in LA and whatever. Then I got an offer to come out here and teach for NYU.”
“New York University?”
“That’s the one. There’s a satellite campus right here in Singapore City.”
Steven doesn’t know what to say. “So, you teach Singaporean students . . .”
“How to be sitcom writers, yeah,” D.Wash says, and nods as if he can’t believe it himself.
“How do you like it?”
“Singapore City? Love it.” D.Wash leans in closer. “You get used to the heat.”
“Really?”
“Nope,” D.Wash says, and laughs again. It’s a hearty laugh, fit for a guy his size. Steven laughs, too, and takes another sip of his wine. He sees why Scott liked this guy. Steven’s not one for drinking with strangers, but D.Wash makes it seem like that’s something he does on a daily basis.
“How did you meet Scott?” Steven asks.
D.Wash taps his index finger on the table. “He was a regular. He liked to watch the comedy.”
“I saw that. You have comedians here?”
“Arguably,” D.Wash says. “It’s mostly amateurs. Some are good. Some are absolute crap. A lot of them are my students. And there are some Brits and a couple of Aussies, too. A little bit of everything. That’s why Scott liked it. Every week, he sat upstairs and watched the show.”
Steven nods and sips his wine. It sounds exactly like something Scott would have been into. When they were kids, they used to love watching comedians. Scott got ahold of some old George Carlin tapes, and they both had them practically memorized. When they were old enough and at university, they used to go hang at Yuk Yuk’s Comedy Club in midtown Toronto and watch the show. Steven smiles when he realizes that the club is long gone, but his condo is only two blocks away from where it used to be. He and Scotty spent more than one night getting drunk there.
“Did he perform?” Steven asks.
“Scott?” D.Wash looks surprised. “Never. Was that his thing at some point?”
“No,” Steven says. “Just curious.” He asks because, in a way, it is exactly like Scotty. As much as the two of them loved to go and watch stand-up comedy, Scott was way more into it than Steven ever was. While Steven could probably quote any number of routines by George Carlin
or Eddie Murphy, it was Scotty who was the connoisseur. He knew obscure guys from the eighties who had never even become TV stars. He could tell you random jokes he had heard twenty years ago and still make them just as funny. Scotty probably spent five nights a month at Yuk Yuk’s, even after Steven got tired of going. He knew as much about comedians as Steven knew about wine.
But Scotty never went onstage. Not once. He could tell dirty jokes, and he could make a roomful of people smile and laugh. But Scotty never so much as gave a speech in high school. He was great in a crowd, but horrible under the spotlight.
“He had a lot of friends?” Steven asks.
D.Wash shrugs his shoulders. “I guess. Scott seemed to talk a bit to everybody, you know. He was a social butterfly. Always going from one person to another. But it wasn’t like he had a usual group he hung out with, you get me? He would come in alone and leave alone. But he was never alone while he was here.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“He was a good guy. Goddamned shame.”
Steven takes another sip of his wine and, as he puts the glass back down, D.Wash refills it before he can refuse. He’s actually glad. He has been wanting something to take the edge off since he got here. After the day before at the morgue and now sitting here talking about Scott, it’s just what he needs. If D.Wash is going to keep pouring the drinks, Steven’s going to keep drinking them.
“What happened?” he asks, and the look on D.Wash’s face tells him he was expecting the question to come sooner or later.
“I don’t know, really,” D.Wash says. “I wish I could tell you more. One minute he was fine and the next . . .”
“Right.”
“It all happened really fast.”
“That’s what the hospital said.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Were you there?”
“Yeah,” D.Wash says, and pours himself another glass of wine. This time he swirls the glass around a bit instead of just tossing the wine back like a shot of whiskey. “Sort of. I wasn’t in the room when it happened.”
“Did it happen here?”
“Oh, no.” D.Wash shakes his head as if the thought of Scott’s dying in his bar is ludicrous. “This was over at Orchard Towers. Middle of the night. I got up to get a drink and when I came back he was on the floor.”
“Jesus,” Steven says, and feels his throat start to stick.
“Yeah.” D.Wash takes a sip of his wine. “Like I said, it happened very fast.”
Steven looks at the keys in his hand again. The bottle opener is a stark reminder that Scott was always more of a beer guy than a wine guy. It’s funny that D.Wash had a nice bottle of red waiting for Steven. Scotty would definitely have been more comfortable drinking that Tiger whatever beer.
“He live far from here?” Steven asks.
“Five blocks,” D.Wash says. “Easy walk. Especially in such lovely weather.”
D.Wash winks, and Steven smiles. “I’m not good with the heat,” he says.
“No one is, my man.”
“The doorman at my hotel was dressed as Santa Claus. Full costume and everything. Even the beard.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I’ve seen more Christmas here than I will back home all December.”
“They love it here,” D.Wash says.
“Why is that?” Steven asks. “Isn’t Singapore Buddhist or something like that?”
“Sure,” D.Wash says, “but there’s a ton of Christianity up in here, too. And Muslims. And Hindu. A little bit of everything. But Singaporeans love festivals. They love celebrations and holidays. It doesn’t matter what the occasion is; they love a really festive holiday.”
“Hence the love of Christmas.”
“You got it,” D.Wash says. “And not just here. Over in Jakarta, it’s eighty percent Muslim. But you wouldn’t know that if you walk down the street this time of year. Everywhere you go, it’s Santa Claus this and Merry Christmas and shit.”
“That sounds crazy.”
D.Wash laughs. “It really throws you off the first time you see it. My first Christmas here, I sat outside on my back porch, sweating into my bathing suit, watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas in Mandarin on TV.”
“You speak Mandarin?”
“Nope,” D.Wash says, and they both laugh.
Steven feels a nice buzz coming on. This was just what he needed. He doesn’t want to have to deal with anything else and, for at least the time he’s been here, he hasn’t thought about Robin. No sooner does she pop into his head then he pushes her right back out again. Maybe it’s the company. Or maybe it’s the wine. Either way, it’s a good feeling. He barely notices that D.Wash slurps his wine and makes a loud gulping noise each time he swallows.
“It sucks that this is what brought you here,” D.Wash says after another gulp of his wine. “I bet you’d like it if you stuck around a bit. There’s a lot of great shit to see in this city.”
“I’m sure.”
“Have you seen much of it?”
“Hardly any,” Steven says. “I feel a bit out of place.”
D.Wash smiles and raises his eyebrows again. “Now you know how it feels to be an Asian man walking around anywhere in North America.”
“You may have a point.”
“Or what it feels like to be black right here,” D.Wash says, and laughs again.
Steven smiles and looks out the window. So many people are constantly walking down the street. The foot traffic never seems to end. Even here, just beyond the patio outside, dozens of people make their way in front of The Blue Bayou. Steven wonders if Scotty stood out when he was here or found a way to blend in with the crowd. For a guy who had a tendency to make such an impression, Scotty was very good at being invisible when he wanted. It’s one reason he traveled so well.
“I need to ask you something,” Steven says after a few moments of their saying pretty much nothing. “About Scott.”
“Go for it,” D.Wash says.
“Last week, he came to me asking for money. A lot of it. Any idea what he needed it for?”
D.Wash rubs a hand over his completely shaven head and looks confused. “Damn,” he says. “I wouldn’t have a clue. Scott never seemed like he needed money. Hell, he barely spent it. I don’t know how he could have been hurting.”
“I don’t know, either,” Steven says. “But he asked me a couple of days before . . . this.”
“I’m sure it’s just coincidence, man,” D.Wash says. “I was there, you know? It just happened. Just like I said.”
“Right,” Steven says. “Still, it was a lot of money.”
“Maybe he knew he was sick?” D.Wash says, and shrugs. “Like he knew that this headache shit he was dealing with was bad.”
Steven shakes his head. “No, he had the headaches for years.”
“Wouldn’t wear glasses,” D.Wash says, and Steven nods. “Not that it’s any of my business, but Scott could have asked me for money. You mind if I ask you how much we’re talking, here?”
Steven figures there’s no harm in it, although he’s never liked talking about money. Not with Scott; not with Robin. Not even with his accountant. But he feels instantly at ease with D.Wash, and goes for broke. “Well over ten grand.”
D.Wash almost chokes on his wine. “Damn, you ain’t kidding.”
“You see my dilemma.”
“Yeah.” D.Wash rubs his head some more. “I don’t know, man. Maybe he was looking to buy a car.”
“A car? Here?”
“Yeah, it’s a real big deal here, you know?” D.Wash waves a hand at the street outside. “It’s not like back home where you just buy one and hit the streets. In Singapore, having a car is a big deal. It costs a shitload of money, too. Take what a car costs back home and double it. Maybe triple. Then, on top of that, you have to get a license, which is not free or even cheap here. Then you’ve got to get insurance and special permits. It can easily run you twenty grand just to have some piece of shit beater
.”
“That’s nuts, but I assure you he wasn’t looking to buy a car.”
“No?”
“No chance,” Steven says. Scotty hadn’t driven in almost fifteen years. Steven doubted he was suddenly going to start in a city where he didn’t need to and the traffic was scarier than skydiving. And on the left side of the road, no less. If it was true, and Scotty had been looking to get a car, he certainly hadn’t been looking to drive it.
“Well, I couldn’t possibly tell you,” D.Wash says. “But I know you should probably talk to Dania.”
Steven tilts his head back and lets out a long sigh.
“What is it?” D.Wash asks.
“How did I know there was a girl?” Steven says.
Because there was always a girl. Scotty was into entertainment more than wine, and women more than entertainment. And it happened no matter where he went. There was the interpreter when he backpacked across Europe. There was the scuba instructor in Australia. There was some annoying earthy girl way back in Alaska. There was always a girl. Scott didn’t go anywhere without getting laid, and he often found a way to fall in love. He did both very easily.
“Well, it always comes back to a woman, doesn’t it?” D.Wash says.
“When?”
“Always.” D.Wash motions his head at the very petite Asian girl acting as bartender. He gives a wink to Steven.
“Really?” Steven says, realizing that D.Wash is pointing out that he’s involved with the girl in question.
“Almost two years. I don’t just stay here for the nice weather.”
“So I see.”
“Scott and I had more in common than beers and funny people, my man.”
Steven looks at the petite girl and wonders how D.Wash can possibly be in the same bed with that woman and not break her in half. Instead of saying anything, he simply raises his glass, which D.Wash lightly touches to his.
“So how do I find . . .”
“Dania,” D.Wash says. “She works over on the Riverwalk. I’ll write down the name of the place for you.”
“Thanks,” Steven says. “Was she with you and Scotty when it happened?”
“She was always with Scott.”
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