by Ning Cai
“Don’t play play,” Charlie says with a proud grin, leaning back in his seat. “My mentor very solid siah? He’s damn clever and good at what he does!”
“Guilty as charged,” Amberlyn says. She purses her lips, turning her hard gaze towards the pinned pictures of the Spectre’s crime scenes.
“A magician is an actor playing the role of the conjuror,” I mutter.
Charlie gives me a blank stare.
“That’s the quote you shared with me the other day,” I say. “Remember?”
“And I’m pretty sure that’s what your ‘amazing mentor’ said to you.” Ashraf glowers at a confused Charlie. “Clearly, we’ve all been misdirected by a master magician.”
*
“Wah piang eh, why y’all don’t believe me?” Charlie sighs as he jiggles his keys at the door of The Little Magic Shop, his strong Singlish accent even more pronounced with an edge of frustration. “You have it all wrong and you’re wasting time, okay? The fella you should be arresting right now is that evil pastor, not Uncle Eddie. The Lyes are all guilty of fraud and embezzlement. I don’t understand why their followers don’t see it. It’s like they all bak chew tak stamp!”
“Bak chew tak stamp?” I echo. I’m not even sure if I could possibly get Google Translate to understand what this actually means in English.
“Hokkien expression that says in ang moh: your eyes covered by postage stamps,” the handsome Ah Beng patiently enlightens me. “Means: you blind issit?”
“Just open the door,” Uncle Glen says. “You see ginnah.”
“Remember, bro, you promised to behave,” Ashraf says sternly.
Uncle Glen sighs and softens his gruff voice. “Please, Charlie. Thank you.”
Charlie unlocks the door and we shuffle in after him, triggering the soft chime of the shop’s electronic bell. Uncle Glen glances at the security camera blinking red, shaking his head in annoyance when Charlie points out the hidden black-and-white security monitor just under the glass demo counter.
Eyeing the dusty magic props and novelties displayed in the cramped space, Amberlyn immediately gets to work photographing packs of poker cards with red winged cherubs printed on their backs, books about illusion-building and chemical magic, instructional videos on escapology and knife throwing, along with bottles of slush powder and instant snow.
We exchange looks when she picks up balled-up flesh coloured pantyhose from the top of a small stack of Crossfront Church leaflets with the pastor’s smiling face on them. The image of Mrs Nancy Lye’s face, lips twisted askew as she lay poisoned to death in her bed, suddenly flashes through my mind.
“The Spectre.”
The framed picture of the twins in their youth catches my eye again. Opening the door of the musty display cabinet, I pick up the old framed photograph and wipe the dirt from the glass to see their faces better. It intrigues me how both brothers are exactly identical except for their eyelids. Standing next to me, Uncle Glen picks up the wooden puzzle chest inside the glass cabinet.
“You know, I used to have one of these things when I was a little boy,” Uncle Glen muses as he fiddles with the configuration of the different parts of the clever handcrafted magic box, which closely resembles some sort of irregular Rubik’s Cube. “When you finally solve the puzzle, the box automatically unlocks and you can pop open the lid to keep your precious items in the secret space inside. Ingenious.”
His busy fingers work on the box, and suddenly we all hear a sharp click.
“There we go.” Uncle Glen forces a smile as he flips open the lid. “Ta-da!”
Inside the puzzle box lies a strange, eclectic collection of unmatched objects: a necklace of luxurious pearls that seem to glow, a small bunch of keys on a plastic aeroplane keychain, a single glittering hot-pink ear-stud, an elaborate crucifix with the figure of Jesus, a dull silver ring with Jolin Kong’s name engraved on the inside, and an unmarked envelope.
Ashraf carefully tips out the contents of the envelope onto the top of the glass counter.
Five poker cards stare back at us, all missing a corner.
Charlie stares hard at the four aces and the Queen of Hearts, before lifting his gaze to me. “I, er, I think I know where your best friend is.”
FOURTEEN
THE TIME ON Ashraf’s blinking clock radio reads 5.20am, and my mind is traveling at a million miles a second as I gaze out the window of our speeding car. CK has to be still alive. If the Spectre had killed him, one of CK’s things would have found its way into the puzzle box used to store all the sick little trophies he took from his victims.
“How do we know we can trust you, Charlie?” Uncle Glen seethes from the front seat. “How can we be sure that you’re not in cahoots, leading us now on a wild goose chase? Time is running out for Chun Kiat. Lenny Lye is a dangerous man!”
“You gotta admit, it’s very dodgy. You pulling out this address all of the sudden,” Ashraf says as he navigates the way, turning onto Old Tampines Road as directed by the GPS.
Sitting between Amberlyn and myself, Charlie heaves a sigh. “Okay, paiseh, sorry I didn’t think of it earlier but you guys really need to trust me on this. We’re heading to the right place. I know they’re there. I just didn’t believe my boss could do this. A part of me still can’t.”
“If it turns out you’re making us lose precious time, Charlie Jiang, I swear I’ll strangle you,” Uncle Glen growls. “With my bare hands.”
“How did you find out about this place?” Ashraf asks. “You said you’ve never been there. So how did you know the address?”
“Show not tell,” Charlie says and stretches out his hand, sticking it between the two police inspectors sitting up front in the SUV. “Borrow me your phone.”
“What?”
“Lend me your phone,” Charlie tells Uncle Glen. “All your personal info is stored inside, right? I’ll show you how I did it. I don’t need your face or thumbprint or passcode.”
Reluctantly, Uncle Glen hands Charlie his mobile phone just as we stop at a red light. We watch the young magician as he takes the locked device in his hands, angling the dark mirror towards the light before blowing hot breath over it. The smudge of natural oils from Uncle Glen’s finger reveals the exact pattern needed to unlock the phone.
The magician deftly traces out the screen unlock pattern in a flash, successfully unlocking the police inspector’s mobile phone, showing an old picture of a young CK hugging his smiling mother. Uncle Glen quickly snatches the phone back, just as the light turns green and we start moving again.
Charlie looks out the window. “The chance to find out more about that hao lian pastor’s illegal activities finally came after many months of me working for his brother, when Uncle Eddie went to the toilet one day and left his phone in the shop. I took the chance to snoop around, hoping to find something I could use against Lenny Lye. That’s when I found out about this old warehouse Uncle Eddie’s adoptive parents left behind after they died, cos the pastor liked it there and they met there often. I don’t know if Lenny Lye is keeping your son there, but it’s worth a shot since it’s the only other address I remember. It’s Warehouse 52; the unit number shares the same date as my mother’s and sister’s death anniversary. Papa told me a long time ago that they both drowned on the fifth of February. And there’s also fifty-two cards in a deck, minus the two jokers, of course.”
Amberlyn finally looks up from her screen. “Charlie’s story checks out. I just finished running a search and he’s right. The warehouse was purchased by the couple who adopted Edgar. The Lams ran an import/export business and used the warehouse to stock their goods.”
Our car turns onto a small, dimly-lit lane flanked by old dilapidated warehouses. It is still dark everywhere, with flickering yellow light from old, faulty street lamps casting creepy moving shadows of the tree branches on the dirty grey walls. “You have arrived,” the GPS cheerfully informs us.
Climbing out of the SUV, I survey the place. A large colony of bats unexpec
tedly shriek out from the tall rain tree behind us, and I barely contain a scream as the dark cloud of flapping creatures of the night flies over our heads. A sudden breeze blows over, giving me goosebumps as I look at the menacing two-storey building that has seen better days. It looks like the perfect venue for a psycho serial killer’s hideout.
Amberlyn quickly unzips her bag and takes out what looks like a toy helicopter with a small camera attached. She switches it on and starts flying it with the remote control in her hands, surveying what it sees through the incredibly sharp monitor screen.
“Wah, solid lah, cool drone.” Charlie gives a low whistle of appreciation as he looks over her shoulder. “Seems easy enough to fly. Is it see-buay expensive?”
Amberlyn ignores Charlie’s chatter. The flying machine spots a familiar vehicle that is empty; a damaged maroon van parked on the other side of the warehouse. Lowering the drone skilfully, she focuses its wireless camera on the vehicle’s licence plate and zooms in. She gives a nod and the police inspectors unclip their pistols. We creep forward. Carefully, Uncle Glen tries the door handle of Warehouse 52, but its front door is locked.
Charlie makes a quick gesture, pointing to himself. Reaching into his wallet, he extracts the same lock picks I saw him use before at Pulau Ubin. With nimble fingers, he slips the two metal pieces into the keyhole of the front door, lightly raking the small pins within the inner chambers of the cylinder lock while maintaining the right amount of tension. Sweat beads on his upper lip and his face is scrunched up in concentration. We finally hear a satisfying click and Charlie is able to twist his tension tool, successfully unlocking the door of the warehouse.
My eyes meet Charlie’s and he smiles back. Thank you, I mouth.
“So, is this how you took those documents from the church?” Ashraf whispers.
Charlie returns a sly grin as we quietly push open the heavy metal door.
The very first thing we see is a chilling graveyard of prosthetic legs; used, broken, damaged, abandoned and stacked carelessly like severed body parts near the table where a large 3D printer is noisily spinning filament into a new artificial limb. We walk past the creepy collection of discarded limbs and an abandoned rusty wheelchair, and the beautiful iconic melody of “Tian Mi Mi” by the late Taiwanese singer Teresa Teng can be heard playing deep inside the warehouse. A male voice is crooning along to the well-loved Chinese classic.
We make our way farther in with Uncle Glen in the lead, and pass giant aquatic tanks filled with exotic fishes lining the tall walls. The interior of the warehouse is a labyrinth of pallet racks, stuffed to overflowing with boxes that must have been left over from the Lam import/export business. Passing rack after rack, we edge closer to where the music is coming from. We come to a corner and Uncle Glen raises a hand to stop us; the music is much louder here, only instrumental now. We suddenly hear the voices of two men in conversation.
“Are you sure everything is going to be okay?” Lenny Lye clearly says and sighs wistfully.
“Mm-hmm,” his brother replies reassuringly.
“Thank you for always looking out for me, Eddie,” the pastor’s deep velvet voice booms. “Ever since that day she left us at that awful orphanage. You’re the best brother and I love you.”
“I love you too, little brother. You know I’ll help you kill them. Every last one of them.” Edgar Lam’s mellow voice articulates in perfect round tones, with no sign of that terrible stutter he displayed at the shop when we first met. “All of them, Lenny, fell for my award-winning performance depicting the classic archetype of a pathetic, handicapped, old fool… I’m s-s-so very s-s-sorry. I guess I’m getting too o-old for this… Oh my dearest brother, you should have been there to see their faces!”
We exchange wary looks as Edgar laughs, and the music stops playing.
Uncle Glen leaps forward from his position and yells, “CID! You’re both under arrest. Put your hands up now, where I can see them. Both of you! Hey, where the hell is your brother? He was just here a second ago!”
Ashraf and Amberlyn quickly step forward to assist, and I peek around the corner to see them flank Uncle Glen with their pistols aimed ahead. Standing alone at the very top of a tall step-ladder and looming over all of them, Edgar Lam is fitted with two 3D-printed prosthetic legs which wear a pair of all-too-familiar sneakers featuring Super Mario’s smiling face. Edgar is wearing CK’s shoes! No longer badly hunched over like a cooked prawn, the veteran performer now sports a white fitted tank top that shows off his toned muscular arms and elegant torso. He calmly lifts his hands in response to the raised weapons, while easily keeping his balance with a straight back. The cheap plastic glasses are gone, replaced with trendy frames. His salt-and-pepper hair smartly slicked back, Edgar’s face looks far younger than when we first met him at his magic shop. The aura he now carries is completely different.
Next to the stepladder is a French-style guillotine, its heavy blade raised high in position, with a still figure kneeling in the stocks underneath it, his neck wedged between two heavy wooden blocks directly below the blade. He’s bound and shackled, and a heavy black cloth bag obscures his features, but it has to be CK!
Charlie and I nervously step out from our hiding spot, and Edgar’s face suddenly brightens to a smile when he notices his young protégé. “Why, hello, Charlie my boy!”
“Oh my god, Chun Kiat!” Uncle Glen cries, rushing towards the still, quiet figure. He quickly whips the cloth bag off my best friend’s damp head, and we see a torn card corner taped to his cheek. CK is unconscious and barely seems to be breathing.
Spinning around, I look around the large, cluttered warehouse. Where on earth is Lenny Lye hiding?
“Glen, the suspect has something in his hand!” Amberlyn shouts. “A remote control!”
“Put it down,” Ashraf orders. “Now!”
“Absolutely, if you insist.” With a smile playing at the corners of his lips, Edgar pushes a button on the mini keychain remote and drops it to the floor. A green light briefly comes on at the front of the slim metal box set on the very top of the large guillotine.
“No!” I cry, but I am too slow and too far away to catch it.
The remote bounces off the hard concrete floor but thankfully does not shatter or activate the angled guillotine blade set in place just above CK’s neck. A cold shiver runs down my spine as I recall what this same cutting edge did to the watermelon in that taped magic show. Right under CK’s head is a metal bucket and Uncle Glen is freaking out, unsure how to release his son from the instrument of death.
“Come down now!” Ashraf growls at Edgar.
The elderly magician descends the tall ladder and jumps off the last steps, landing lithely with bent knees, then lifts his hands back up in the air. Uncle Glen snatches up the small remote control and aims his pistol at Edgar again. “How do you deactivate this?”
“You push the button, of course,” Edgar says helpfully.
“Which button? There are two.”
“The bottom one.”
Uncle Glen hesitates.
“Oh, by the way, it’s timed to go off in ninety seconds,” Edgar says. “You really should stop it now before it’s too late.”
“Don’t trust the man,” Amberlyn says. “He’s lying. Push the top button, Glen.”
“Really?” Edgar lifts both eyebrows. “Why would you want him to kill his own son?”
“He’s playing mind games,” Ashraf yells. “Don’t let him mess with your head, bro!”
“Tick tock,” the magician laughs. “What’s it going to be?”
Uncle Glen looks at CK, and then back at the remote in his hand. There is a frenzied look in his eyes. I grab the bewildered boy next to me and shake him. “Charlie! What should we do?”
“Siao liao. I-I’m really not sure about the remote control. Pushing the top button might really activate that blade and make it fall on your friend,” Charlie splutters, utterly flummoxed. “But I do know that there’s a way to manually disengage the p
rop. You need to access that metal box on top of the guillotine.”
“Quick,” Uncle Glen says. “Get up there now, Charlie.”
Charlie scampers up the tall ladder just as the green light starts flashing. Edgar looks on with keen interest. “Careful now, Charlie. You need steady hands. And if that boy wakes up now and moves, even the barest of centimetres, it will also cause the guillotine blade to fall. Just imagine, that heavy stainless-steel blade plummeting down from such a great height, crushing his brittle, little neck bones. Hopefully severing it all the way so he doesn’t have to die so painfully.”
“Shut up!” Uncle Glen shouts, his gun hand shaking.
Carefully perched on top of the tall stepladder, Charlie flips open the panel of the black box, but loses his balance and the plastic lid drops, cracking into pieces as it hits the hard concrete floor. Keeping her pistol level, Amberlyn swiftly rushes to support the base of the ladder and Charlie steadies himself.
“Time is of the essence, my dear inspector.” Edgar nods his chin towards the green light at the top of the guillotine, now blinking faster. “Are you sure you don’t want to just push the button and save your boy?”
Charlie gives a frustrated cry. “I don’t know which wire to pull to stop this thing.”
“It’s the red one, Charlie,” his mentor advises him. “It’s always the red one.”
“No more games, old man,” Ashraf says, advancing forward. “I am warning you. This is your last chance. Stop this nonsense now!”
“I’m trying to help, but you won’t let me,” Edgar says, grinning like a wolf.
“Guys.” Amberlyn points at a thick steel pipe lying by the wall. “C’mon, hurry.”
Setting the remote control carefully on the floor, Uncle Glen joins Ashraf in lifting the bulky metal piece, while Amberlyn keeps Edgar covered. The pipe is much heavier than it looks and they struggle with the weight of it.