The Scarlet Pimple
A Singaporean Detective Story

Disclaimer : the following is a complete fabrication. Any resemblance or resemblances to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental, except where intentional.

Detective Tarcy Pee was bored. It was a slow day at Pee & Pee P.I.s Ltd. He drew back the blinds and flinched. Another scorching 30 degree day outside in the sweltering little hellhole they called Singapore. Not a good place to be working as a private investigator. There was too much law in this country, that was the problem. Tarcy and his recently bereaved brother, Tarcen, a hapless victim of a random crazed attack by a rogue Gotcha! squad led by Moe Alkiff himself, had been relegated to tracking down imaginary wive's lovers for jealous husbands since the start of their careers. He sighed and looked at is watch. It was 3.33pm on the 29th of December, 1999. Time for another fag. The walls of his office glowed red for an instant as hit lit up, before fading back to black, the colour of darkness which he kept his office in, to minimise electricity bills.
Suddenly, the door flew open with a crash. Tarcy flinched as light flooded the room, temporarily blinding him. A gust of hot air joyfully burst into the office, chasing out in an instant what little cold the airconditioner had strained the whole morning to create. Against the brightness a silhouette stood, framed dramatically in his doorway. A woman's silhouette. A very, Tarcy realised as his vision began to return to him, attractive young woman at that. She was tall and had long, sun-bleached hair and large, dark eyes. Dark eyes that had been crying, he noted. He noted also the elegant grey trenchcoat she was wearing and the tapered black gloves in her hands. A lady with simple but exquisite tastes. A rich lady with exquisite taste. A potential client, with rich lady tastes. An exquisite lady with rich... okok you get the idea. Tarcy cleared his throat and did his best to raise his right eyebrow dramatically. He'd never really had the knack, but he'd been practising hard in front of the mirror recently and it was worth a shot.
The lady gazed around his tiny, unkempt office doubtfully before fixing her attention on Tarcy. "Detective Tarcy Pee". It was more a statement than a question. Her voice was melodious and pitched rather low. Not quite low enough to be husky, just enough to suggest it; and not too high as to be irritatingly sweet in a saccharine Fann-Wong way. Tarcy tasted her words in the back of his throat - she had a trace of a foreign accent. Perhaps english. Perhaps australian. It was hard to tell from three words, two of them not even english ones at that.

"Yes ma'am, Tarcy Pee P.I. at your service. What can I do your for, erm do for you?"

The woman looked Tarcy square in the eyes. (Nono that's different from square eyes)

"It's my husband. He's dead. I want you to find out who killed him." Tarcy felt his pulse quicken. At last. A real case. A real, publicity-attracting, media-magnet of a case... this could be the launching platform of his...

"I'll pay you three million dollars if you locate the killer"

...retirement in a massive Condominium with a Real GREEN American Express Credit Card and a shiny silver-grey BMW Roadster Car and a gold-plated Coffee-maker cum Carrot-juicer cum popCorn-popper and all sorts of other wonderful things starting with the letter C. (for those of you not in the know, ask any Singaporean about the national obsession with the 5 Cs - now 6 or so I've heard)

"I'll get right to it, ma'am."

****

Tarcy closed the door of his Proton Saga and got out onto the sidewalk opposite Madame Jo-Jo's. He looked at his watch. It was 3.33pm, 29 Dec 99. This was where the Mysterious Woman, Mrs M.W. had told him to start looking. He reviewed what little he knew of the case. Mr M.W. had been a wealthy businessman before his untimely and tragic death under the wheels of a 12-speed supercharged BMX racer. It had been a hit-and-run case. Literally. The cyclist had had to leave on foot since the bicycle had wrapped itself around Mr M.W's neck, choking him to death before help could arrive. "Police suspect foul play", the nation's only attempt at a tabloid, the Newd Paper had proclaimed. A fully-justified suspicion given the 12 stab wounds also found on Mr M.W's body at the time of post-mortem. Witnesses described the attacker as being either a large A&W bear, or else a person dressed in a large A&W bear suit, wielding a blood-stained disposable plastic knife. This was going to be a toughie. Tarcy shuddered... could it be that the A&W bear had finally turned evil?
Mrs M.W. had also mentioned that Mr M.W. had had a secret mistress who worked part-time at Madame Jo-Jos as a full-time transvestite. She had suggested he stop by the place and interview Mr Mo-Jo, Mr M.W's mistress's boyfriend, also a full-time employee at Madame Jo-Jo's. It was obviously a textbook case of jealous boyfriend/girlfriend stabbing girlfriend/boyfriend's lover to death an of A&W root-beer drunken rage exacerbated by a bad case of heat-rash from the A&W root-bear suit. Perhaps this wasn't going to be such a difficult case to crack after all.
Tarcy steeled himself and stepped in.
Some time later he stepped back out, somewhat shakily and much enlightened. He had learnt for one to suspect stray soap-bars lying innocently about the dance floors of seedy pub-bars. More importantly, he had learnt that Mr Mo-Jo moonlighted as an A&W bear after work at Jo-Jo's, and had been unable to account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. All he needed now to put away the rogue bear was evidence of some kind. Tarcy got into his car and thumbed his Oxford Handbook of Amateur Sleuthing to page 302. Gathering evidence against a she/he to prove guilt in a bicycle murder case. Step 1. Trail the suspect. Hmm. This was going to be a long day. Tarcy slouched back into his seat and pulled his fedora low over his eyes. Outside, a little boy tugged at his mother's skirt excitedly and asked her what that man in the Proton Saga was wearing on his head. "I don't know, boiboi. Don't kaypoh other people's business."
At last. Mo-Jo was stepping out of the club. Tarcy looked at his watch. It was 3.33pm on the 29th of December, 1999. He gunned his engine and began to discreetly follow Mo-Jo's black Ford Mondeo (which he had gotten into and was driving off in, in case you haven't figured out by now).
What seemed like hours later, Mo-Jo pulled into The Dark Alleyway. Yes, the only dark alleyway in the whole of Singapore. It's at CENSORED BY GOVERNMENT road, between CENSORED BY GOVERNMENT building and CENSORED BY GOVERNMENT shopping centre. Didn't you know? Tarcy drove on for a bit before pulling over quietly by the roadside. He opened the door and stealthily crept out back towards his unsuspecting He/She prey in the alleyway. Nearby, a parking attendant stepped out from behind a tree and steathily crept forwards towards her unsuspecting Proton-Saga prey illegally parked in an hourly parking lot with no coupon displayed...
Mo-Jo was standing in the alleyway beside his car, dressed in his A&W bear suit, talking furtively to a tall shadowy figure in a trenchcoat and fedora hat. Something about that trenchcoat looked vaguely familiar. Tarcy would have mistaken the figure for another P.I. had it not been wearing black shiny Harrod's of London shoes. P.I.s only ever wear Nike Air Hi-cuts. It's part of the uniform. Don't ask.
The bear was mumbling. "...stabbing... excessive... Joseloin Yoo (Mr M.W's mistress aka Mo-Jo's GF/BF)... P.I. onto me..."
Tarcy couldn't make out the words. He crept a little closer, accidentally stepping on a stray cat as he did so. It yowled and sped off, knocking over a trashcan in the process. The bear and shadow froze and looked his way. He had been spotted.
With unbelievable speed, the bear whipped out an M-16 from under its garish orange sweater and began firing a Tarcy. Tarcy ducked behind the trashcan and swore. Dammit. That was illegal. Possessing firearms in Singapore is a crime punishable by death, or at least a $1000 fine. Tarcy drew his own magnum .44 (bought from malaysia) and grimly returned fire. The first shot caught the bear clean in the little fuzzy bob at the top of its hat. The second hit the A&W logo in the middle of its belly. Both shots were fatal. The bear slumped over, dead, and stopped firing. (they tend to when they're dead) Tarcy breathed a sigh of relief and looked at his watch. 3.33 pm. Not bad timing for an ex-NSF marksman. Oh whoops. What about that shadowy figure.
Tarcy spotted the shadow swooping swiftly but subtly around the corner and doggedly gave chase. Whoever this was moved with incredible grace and light-footedness. A bullet whizzed by his ear. Hmm. Whoever this was was also armed, apparently. Damn. Where were the police when you needed them.

***

Plainclothes police Inspector Sim strolled down Orchard Road whistling merrily to himself. Maybe he'd stop for a cup of Starbuck's coffee... no, howabout Coffeebean and Tealeaf... No, Borders...

***

End of the line. The Shadow had run out of places to run. The dark alleyway had turned into a dead end, as all alleyways invariably do in stories. This time though, the villain was on the wrong end of it, and Tarcy took a moment to gloat under his breath.

"Give it up! You're trapped. You can hide but you can't run!" he shouted. A salvo of gunfire was his reply.One of the shots took his fedora off his head. Gosh dang it, that thing cost $349.90, an entire year's salary (and 90 cents). That was the last straw.

"You're gonna pay for that!! That was a Mark's and Spencer's, you foul fiend!!" He screamed, pulling his second magnum .44 from his underwear and standing up from the shelter of his trashcan. The shadow opened fire immediately, but Tarcy had seen enough Stephen Chow movies to know what to do. He flung himself to the left, doing a half-roll gracefully in mid-air whilst letting loose a ferocious double-fisted volley of shots. All 23 shots found their mark.(have you noticed that? Hong Kong actors never seem to hit anything when they're standing with their 2 feet firmly planted on the ground, but suspend them in the air and they can hit a baddie 200 of 200 times in 10 seconds from 40 feet away) The shadow fell agonizingly slowly to it's knees and it's bloodstained fedora fell off dramatically to reveal tresses of sun-bleached hair. Tarcy gaped.

"Mrs M.W... it's YOU! But... why?"

Mrs M.W. fell onto her side and coughed demurely. A tiny drop of blood trickled prettily out the left corner of her mouth and dripped cleanly into a little puddle on the ground, obediently avoiding her nice shiny-grey trenchcoat.

"Mo-Jo and I arranged the whole thing... Mr M.W. was going to write out a will bequething all his assets to Joseloin Yoo... I couldn't let that happen... all his money belongs to me... Mo-Jo agreed to kill M.W for money... I was going to set him up... you weren't supposed to implicate me you fool... I was going to pay you three millio..." She coughed again, and then with a gentle sigh laid her head to the ground and became still.
Tarcy stood over her for a long while after that, contemplating many things. He thought long and hard on human cruelty and greed that would lead a woman to arrange her husband's death. On the transience of life and how important it is to live life for the moment before you lost it. On how he'd never see an A&W bear the same way again. And on the strange twist of fate that had led him to kill the beautiful woman who had employed him. He also reflected on the innate wrongness of killing, and how counter-intuitive it is, and how people just don't seem to realise the reality of shooting someone to death. It doesn't happen like in the Westerns. They don't just fall down dead and twitching. They talk to you. They bleed. They beg sometims for mercy or help. They speak about their pain. They writhe. They fight for life. It was a horrible business, this. Private Investigator. A dirty job, but someone had to do it.
He looked at his watch. It was 3.33pm, 29/12/99. He decided it was time to get a new watch.