Misdirection
Page 8
“Is that your brother you’re speaking with?” Ashraf points to the man’s phone. “May we have a word with Pastor Lenny Lye please?”
The stooped magic shop owner peers up at us, the crinkle of his friendly smile pushing his cheap plastic spectacles up a familiar hooked nose. His straggly salt-and-pepper hair is undyed, unstyled and uncombed, and his threadbare button-down shirt also looks like it has outlived the number of wash cycles universally allowed for fabrics. Chuckling, he quickly bends back to his small brick of a phone. “Chat later, Lenny, I have c-customers at the shop! Buh-bye!” And before anyone can stop him, he ends the conversation with his brother and puts the phone back in his pocket.
Uncle Glen is just about to say something when the elderly magic shop proprietor manoeuvres himself up to the shop’s counter in a rusty, squeaking wheelchair. And even more surprising is that he is a double amputee, both legs stopping just below the knees. “H-hello there, I’m Uncle Eddie!” he says with a smile. Despite his unfortunate stutter, he still speaks in a cheerfully bright voice befitting an entertainer. “Welcome to The Little Magic Shop. Would you like to see some m-mmagic tricks that you can learn to impress all your friends?”
“We’re not here to—” Uncle Glen starts, but the old magician immediately shoves a fan of poker cards in his face and excitedly requests that he choose a card. After a short hesitation, Uncle Glen obliges and the rest of us lean in close to peek at the card selection before he slots the card back into the pack in Uncle Eddie’s trembling, age-spotted hands.
“N-now then young man. Have you ever b-been hypnotised?” He raises a hand and makes a feeble attempt to snap his dry, crooked fingers. Uncle Glen shakes his head. Wheezing, the old man shuffles the cards sloppily, almost dropping some on the floor. “Tell me, what was your c-card?”
“The Five of Clubs,” CK’s father says with a grimace, as if watching the pure innocent love he has for his childhood hobby start to burn to the ground.
“F-five of Hearts!” the apparently deaf old man roars triumphantly.
“No! Five of Clubs!” CK shouts. Clearly not a fan of magic, my best friend rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Face palm.”
“Yes, yes, I h-heard you, young man. Now, watch!” Uncle Eddie’s eyes crinkle up in merry laughter, and I noticed a mismatched pair of eyelids, one double and the other single. With a grand magical gesture, he then dribbles through the pack of cards in his shaky hands, showing us that every single card has now transformed into Uncle Glen’s chosen Five of Clubs. “Ta-da!”
It is all quite impressive until he suddenly sneezes and everything goes flying. Cards scatter everywhere, dropping on the glass counter and spilling over the table onto the floor. Despondently, the old man ducks his head in shame. “I’m s-so very s-sorry. I guess I’m really getting too old for this.”
“No, it’s a pretty good trick,” Uncle Glen offers kindly, as we help to gather all the fallen Five of Clubs cards on our side of the demonstration counter. “But we’re here on police business about your brother.”
Ashraf flashes his CID badge and bends forward, politely studying the old man’s deeply puzzled face. “Are you identical twins?”
“Oh d-dear, you’re not customers?” Uncle Eddie raises his wild unkempt eyebrows as his tired back slouches and his shoulders lower in dejection. The police inspectors shake their heads. “I’m actually older than Lenny by about f-five minutes,” Uncle Eddie says and blinks slowly, his voice mild. “How may I assist the p-p-police?”
CK and I exchange looks. The physical resemblance is so uncanny; the twins share the exact same features, but the vanity of grooming and choice of clothes truly make a world of difference between them.
Uncle Glen rubs at a smudge on the glass counter. “We couldn’t help overhearing you both chatting just now on speaker. We really need his help with an ongoing investigation. Can you please tell us where can we find Pastor Lenny? Mrs Lye says it’s been five days since she last saw her husband. His family is very worried about him.”
“Well, I’m Lenny’s f-f-family,” Uncle Eddie says as his clumsy old fingers fumble with slotting the mess of cards back inside their flimsy cardboard box, finally managing to close the flap. “And my b-b-brother is not here.”
“He’s left the country?” Ashraf asks. “When? Where did he go?”
“My b-b-brother is somewhere he wishes to remain undisturbed. I wish I could help you, but Lenny gave very clear instructions not to t-tell anyone where he is. Especially not Nancy. S-s-sorry.”
I suppose that the old adage is true: magicians do keep the best secrets. The dull wall behind Uncle Eddie is decorated with faded posters showing magic legends like Harry Houdini and someone by the name of Chung Ling Soo (obviously a white man with distinct Caucasian features, dressed in imperial Chinese robes and sporting a queue). Below the posters stands an old glass cabinet displaying props and curios: faded red crochet balls with three copper cups that have lost their shine; a magic wand made of some kind of painted wood, now warped into a curve due to Singapore’s unforgiving heat and humidity; poker cards encased inside a clear glass bottle with a neck too narrow for them to possibly have gone through; a puzzle box made of cheap plywood; and more.
Something catches my eye.
Next to the wooden puzzle box is a framed photograph of the brothers in their youth. With their lustrous dark hair smartly slicked back, the dapper identical twins are handsome mirror images smartly dressed in Western tuxedos and matching polished shoes. Standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders, one twin arches his eyebrow and holds in his right hand an impressive display of fanned ESP cards printed with different symbols, while his jovial brother holds in his left hand a cheeky pot-bellied puppet wearing a straw hat. The picture, yellowed with age, is dated with their names below: Lennard and Edgar Lam, 1975.
Uncle Eddie sees me looking at the photo and says, “All my b-brother wanted in life was to be happy. B-b-but his wife cares only about money, power and status. No one’s seen him struggle the way I have. Lenny is a good man and p-people always try to cheat him. Please let him be.”
The bell chimes again, and a teenager in full black, “guy-liner” and a mean-looking ear stud saunters in like he owns the place, carrying a plastic bag of takeaway. Loud music plays from his earbuds: a fusion of R&B, rap, classical music and yet distinctly Chinese; it’s not a song I know, but I immediately recognise Jay Chou’s distinctive slurred enunciation and unique cross-cultural music style. With his attention fixed on the noisy game on his mobile phone, the Criss Angel wannabe appears completely oblivious to the fact that there are other people in the shop.
My heart skips a beat as he passes me, and I catch the fierce intensity of his gaze, even though it is locked on his screen. His profile reminds me of Takeshi Kaneshiro’s romantic rogue in Mom and Dad’s favourite movie, House of Flying Daggers by Zhang Yimou. It is uncanny how this beautiful boy shares the Asian superstar’s deep-set eyes, finely chiselled bone structure and thick dark hair.
He sets the bag of hot food on the counter top, which creates a white ring of steam on the surface of the glass. “Nah, Uncle Eddie, your char kway teow. I tell the towkay no cockles, no lard.”
“Charlie, we have guests!” the old man admonishes, throwing us a deeply apologetic look.
The goth boy lets out a grunt of frustration; from the sound of things, he has just lost the game. Tucking his phone away, Charlie looks up and seems genuinely surprised to find four other people standing with him in the small space. His curious eyes linger on mine, as most people’s do when they notice a biracial girl with her Chinese mother’s face and Caucasian father’s blue eyes. Raising an eyebrow, he squares his jaw and nods his chin at me while puffing up his chest. “Sup.”
I nod a hello, quietly amused by the disappearance of his strong Singlish accent.
Yawning sleepily, Uncle Eddie picks up his packed lunch. “I’m off. L-let Charlie know if you need anything before he c-closes the shop.”
Tapping at something on display under the glass counter, Uncle Glen tells the young apprentice to ring up his purchase: an ordinary-looking deck of cards with red backs. “Are these very common?”
Charlie nods.
“All you magicians use them?”
“Just the cool ones. Four dollars, cash only.”
“Hey, can you show us a magic trick?” Ashraf asks, as Uncle Glen digs into his trouser pockets for loose change. “With those magic cards.”
“Erm.” Charlie blinks. “It’s not a trick deck. Just, regular poker cards.”
“That’s okay, it’d be nice to see something,” I ask nicely. “Please?”
He looks at me and then gives a shy smile. Pulling out a blue version of the cards Uncle Glen just paid for, the young magician touches Ashraf’s thick wrist, indicating that the police inspector give the cards a good mix. When the shuffled deck is returned, Charlie deftly fans the face-down cards with nimble fingers, offers it to me and turns his face to the side.
“Miss? Please pick a card, any card. And then show it to all your friends.”
I take my time looking through the selection before finally sliding one card out and showing it to everyone except Charlie. He pulls a sad puppy dog expression that throws me off-guard. “Aww…I’m not your friend? Just kidding. Watch.”
With a flourish, he produces a very familiar-looking watch. Ashraf’s eyes go wide as he snatches his dangling Tag Heuer back from the smiling young magician. “Oei! That’s my watch! But how?”
Just as we grapple to understand how it all happened, Charlie languidly seems to pull a black marker out of his right nostril. He makes a huge show of sniffling as he hands the marker to me. Swivelling around, he turns his back to us. “Please open the Sharpie and write your full name on the face of your chosen card.”
I do so, wondering what this is all leading up to, mouthing my name as I write it. Charlie must hear me because he says, “Schooling? Like Joseph Schooling, our Olympic gold medallist?”
I blink. “We won gold in the Olympics?”
“Yah! Singapore made world news when our Eurasian swim hero beat the Michael Phelps!” Charlie squints at me, an incredulous look on his face. “Wah biang eh, how come you don’t know?”
“Schooling is a pretty common ang moh surname too, actually.” I try lamely to change the subject as I finish my scribble, regretting that I opened my mouth in the first place. “I’m not related to Joseph Schooling, sorry.”
“Oh. You not local ah?”
Before I can inform Charlie that I am proudly Singaporean, CK clears his throat loudly. “May we puh-leaze continue with your magic trick?”
I give my best friend a small smile of thanks as the magician shrugs.
“Okay, now this is a very, very important step.” Charlie pauses for dramatic effect. “Miss, I need you to please write down your telephone number.”
The guys all burst out laughing. I smile in spite of myself, and decide to be a good sport about it; I do as the smooth magician requests.
“Now, I’m going to turn around, so please make sure that your card is faced down so I can’t see it.” Turning back to us, Charlie grins, his eyes twinkling as they meet mine. “Please return your card back to the deck. Yup, you can slot it in anywhere.”
I push my signed card somewhere in the middle, carefully making sure no part of the pasteboard is sticking out. We watch in awe as Charlie’s quick hands start doing an impressive series of fancy cuts and elegant dribbles. And then, with an expert flick of his fingers, a single card shoots out from the pack. Charlie catches it in mid-air without even looking, his eyes fixed on mine. He winks at me. “Please name the card you’re thinking of.”
“Uh, Ace of Spades?”
His smile fades. “What?”
“I’m thinking of the Ace of Spades.”
“No, no,” Charlie furrows his brow. “The card you picked.”
“I don’t understand, you asked me to think of a card?”
“Forget it.” The charming showman is gone. “Nicely played okay? I really thought you wanted to see magic but you’re just a heckler out to troll me.”
“Huh?” I scratch my head, not sure what I did wrong.
“You ruined a perfectly good card trick. Happy?” Charlie throws the card down on the table. It is the same one I signed. He flicks it towards me with a fingernail, his voice now flat and his eyes cold and unfriendly. “See, Two of Hearts. Not Ace of Spades. What’s your problem?”
“Okay, this is awkward.” My face flushes red hot. “I did pick and sign the Two of Hearts but I was thinking of the Ace of Spades when you asked. I guess I kinda got confused—”
“Please get out.” Charlie turns away. “We don’t want hecklers.”
“But it’s true,” I say, hating that feeling of being wronged and misunderstood.
“Salty,” CK mutters as he takes me by the elbow.
“C’mon, Schooling, time to leave.” Ashraf angles his head at the front door. “It’s almost one o’clock. You said you’ve got a family lunch appointment, right? I’ll drop you off at your aunt’s.”
“Deepest apologies about the mess,” Uncle Glen tells Charlie in Chinese, right before knocking over a display rack of plastic Halloween masks on his way out of the shop, accidentally on purpose. I balk, feeling absolutely terrible right now.
CK wraps a protective hand on my forearm and gently steers me away. This, I remind myself with a wry grin, was the scrawny, swallow-faced kid I saved from the school bully when we were six years old. “Dude, let’s go before this sad man-child starts to cry,” CK says, throwing a look of unmasked disdain at the sullen goth boy just before we walk out the door. “Reality check: magicians are losers. Seriously, grow up, man. It’s such a lame cliché trying to impress girls with your stupid magic tricks.”
Charlie looks stung and his face changes to the colour of beetroot. He appears just about to come back with a biting retort, but my best friend pulls me out of The Little Magic Shop, and the dirty glass door swings shut behind us.
Joining the two police inspectors waiting for us outside, we watch as Uncle Glen tears away the clear plastic wrap of his newly acquired purchase, carefully unboxing the contents. Checking out the mess of poker cards in his large hands, we recognise its unique back design.
Red winged cherubs stare right back at us.
EIGHT
“THANK YOU FOR the ride!” I holler and wave. The guys have made plans to pick up some WiFi surveillance cameras to install at my place; as usual, it was my favourite geek monkey’s suggestion, to help keep tabs on things while I’m not at the house. Ashraf said that he knew of a reliable cleaning agency who could get my place sorted right away, and Uncle Glen offered to stock up my fridge. I think they still feel bad for me.
Walking towards My Sayang, I pass an elderly rag-and-bone man stacking a modest pile of flattened cardboard boxes on his rusty old trolley. We exchange polite greetings and when he waves back, I notice that the old man is missing his left pinkie; I wonder if it was from an unfortunate industrial accident during his youth, when people mostly laboured with actual machines and not computers.
I am just about to step into the restaurant when my phone rings. Pulling it out from my snug jeans pocket, I realise it’s my uncle in Sydney wanting to FaceTime. Swiping the screen to accept his call, I waggle my fingers at the man’s pink, sun burnt face.
“G’day, Maxi Pad!” he says with a salute, probably thinking that his annoying nickname for me never gets old. “How is my favourite niece doing?”
“I am your only niece,” I correct my uncle. “And please don’t call me Maxi Pad.”
I see my face reflected in the mirrored surface of his polished Ray-Bans and I can’t help but think how different Uncle Kayne is compared to my science-nerd father. Dad suffered anxiety attacks whenever he was required to make a speech or some sor
t of public appearance. His younger brother, on the other hand, is a flamboyant concert organiser/ rave DJ/restaurateur, who now sports a man bun to quite obviously hide his bald spot. He seems to be on a yacht out at sea, where a loud party is happening. He gives a wide smile, showing off his pearly white veneers.
“I just wanted to check in on my favourite niece because I’m not the uncle you deserve, but the uncle you need.”
He laughs at his own meme joke as I roll my eyes. A voluptuous blonde in a skimpy white bikini, most likely Uncle Kayne’s latest Russian model girlfriend, steps into frame to hand him a cold beer. Even though my uncle is a good decade younger than Dad, all his late-night partying and drinking is starting to show on his otherwise rakishly handsome face.
“So have you given some thought about what we talked about last week, Max? Like I said, that extra bedroom in my penthouse is all yours. Just come down under and start a new life. New beginnings. Share a pint with me. And the Biebs. Or Taytay. You know I can get you backstage passes for just about anybody.”
I raise an eyebrow at my uncle and he removes his trippy sunglasses.
“Seriously, kiddo. Just say it. You know I’ll give you anything you ask for. It’s really chewing me up inside, how you’re all alone and so far away without family. Work keeps me here in Sydney, else I’d be with you in the infamously fine city that bans chewing gum.”
Our eyes meet and I crack up. “All right, Uncle Kayne. You had me at chewing gum. Sydney’s nice but leaving Singapore to live in Australia is a super epic step to make, so give me more time to think about it?”
“Okay. Stoked that we talked about this.” My uncle nods his grave approval. “Won’t hold you up any longer. I know you’ve got plenty of boys lining up to kiss you. Live life to the fullest for me, okay? YOLO. DJ Kayne, over and out!”