Bill Pronzini: The Jade Figurine

The hell with it. The choice hadn’t been mine to make, not in the beginning, not at all. Circumstance piling on circumstance, fate manipulating the invisible strings that bind every man to the worldly puppet stage. I hadn’t wanted any part of Van Rijk or Marla King or Dinessen or Tiong or the Burong Chabak — I had gone out of my way to free myself of entanglements-and now I was everybody’s favorite scapegoat. So you run, or they find you and pen you up a few yards from the chute leading to the slaughterhouse. No, you don’t have a choice and you never had one. Fate had this one all set up from the start. No choices at all.

Buggered by destiny.

The bitterest pain in the ass of all…

I sat up and shook myself mentally. The kind of thinking I had just been doing-the malignant, self-pitying cry of “Why me”-was pointless and ultimately self-destructive. I couldn’t afford it, not now, not if I wanted to get out of Singapore alive and a free man. This was my home, sure, but I had no real ties here, no family, no woman, no steady work-and one part of Southeast Asia is pretty much like another. Singapore or Sumatra or Jogjakarta-a matter of degree, not of kind. And I would be alive. And free. And my conscience would remain as clean as it had been the past two years.

The Samurai thing had come back on, and the clock said 6:50. An hour and a half. Not bad now. I smoked and watched the warriors battle to a bloody conclusion, and the clock said 7:30. I watched the opening and disorganized segments of the supernatural detective film, and the clock said 8:00. On the screen a Japanese cop began chasing some poor bastard through the streets of Tokyo, and the irony was virulent. But I had managed to shut out the devils of self-pity; I had no time for the indulgence any longer.

When the clock said 8: 15, I got up and went through the lobby and out to Victoria Street. It was dark now and the sidewalks were slick with wetness from another early evening thundershower; headlamps on passing cars glistened in fragmented points of light in the multitude of rain puddles, and tires made hissing sounds on the wet pavement. As usual the early evening crowds were heavy, and I blended with the westward stream on the Victoria Street artery leading into the heart of the city.

We crossed Stamford Road and passed Fort Canning, approaching the river. The gnawing was persistent under my breastbone now, and I decided it would be a wise idea to eat something before keeping my appointment with Wong Sot; there was no telling when or where I would be getting my next meal. I stopped at a Malaysian food stall and hurriedly ate mutton satay and rice cakes and peanut curry from a paper container. Cheap and filling, and no one paid any attention to me in the milling crowds. More importantly, I saw no police constables in the vicinity.

I walked to the river and followed its northwesterly course to where it widened considerably just prior to the bridge at Clemenceau Avenue. The same odors lingered in the darkness that lingered in the sunlight: garbage and salt water and gasoline and burning rubber and raw spices and a dozen subtler, less immediately definable smells. Most of the lighters and motorized barges lay silent at their moorings under canvas coverings or bamboo awnings, and there was little activity along the waterfront itself. Most of the godowns were closed for the night, and darkness formed thick pockets in the area.

I located Wong Sot’s godown and moved along the side of the small, iron-roofed building toward the rear. There did not seem to be any light burning inside, and I wondered if Wong Sot was going to be late-or if he conducted his business in total darkness. Well, maybe he was just being careful; I knew about him by word of mouth, not personal experience.

I reached the rear of the godown and started along the cement seawall there-and that was when the two of them came out of the surrounding black on either side of me.

Hands like trap jaws gripped my arms and pushed me up against the rough stone wall, pinning me there. Pain burst in white-hot splinters through my injured right arm, and I swallowed an involuntary cry. The coldness of metal touched my cheekbone. “This is a gun, tuan,” a soft, almost dreamy voice said. “Stand very quiet.”

And the other one said, “Or else we kill you right here and now, make no mistake.”

Malayan and Eurasian.

Van Rijk’s hirelings.

I thought: Wong Sot, the son of a bitch, sold me out.

Oh Christ, I had walked into a trap like a bloody goddam amateur! Van Rijk knew his way around Singapore as well as I did, and he would have put the word out on me. So many dollars guaranteed for the delivery of Dan Connell. And with Wong Sot, it wouldn’t have taken many dollars at all. He’d called Van Rijk as soon as I’d hung up this afternoon, and Van Rijk had dispatched his two orang sewaan-sewaan to keep the rendezvous. I was just no good at this kind of game any more; I had stopped thinking the way the brotherhood thought-foolishly, suicidally.

The Malay moved the gun high along my cheekbone, pressuring it. A sharp edge on the barrel gouged into my skin and I felt a quick cut of pain and then the warmth and wetness of blood. “We will go now, tuan,” he said. “No sudden movements, yes?”

I felt the pressure lessen on my right arm. I stood motionless, my teeth set against the pain. The hand released me cautiously, and when I didn’t move, the Eurasian backed off two steps. He had a gun, too, and it would have been useless to try anything in this situation. I didn’t think they would kill me just yet-Van Rijk would want to see me first — but I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to work on me with gun barrels and fists and shoes if I tried to resist. And a beating would destroy any subsequent chance I might have for escape. Passivity was the role I had to play now; the frightened co-operative.

The Malay shoved me away from the wall, still gripping my left wrist. The gun burrowed into the softness beneath my rib cage on that side. We went around the corner and along the side of the darkened godown, the Eurasian hanging back a couple of steps; they were a pair of professionals, all right.

On the street fronting the string of godowns, a thousand yards from the entrance to Wong Sot’s, the English Ford was parked in heavy shadow. The Malay pushed me into the rear seat and got in next to me; the pressure remained hard on my wrist, and the gun-a Mauser, I saw in the dome light-still nuzzled my side in mute warning. I could smell stale curry and sour wine on his breath. The Eurasian slid under the wheel in front, and a moment later we moved away rapidly into the night.

The ride lasted twenty minutes, all of them silent. I turned my head away from the Malay’s breath, but otherwise I held my body still. We went over to Orchard Road and along there toward the exclusive Tanglin sector of the city, and then turned onto a quiet residential street lined with palms and well-landscaped villas and colonials. Upper-class Singapore, where the Chettiar bankers and the Chinese towkays and the British and American investors and businessmen lived. Money and gentility and quiet luxury. And Van Rijk.

The Eurasian brought the small car smoothly to the curbing before one of the homes-a large villa with light visible behind drapery across a long front window. He stepped out to cover my exit. When he was clear of the car, the Malay released me for the first time and shoved me out, following fluidly to replace the gun muzzle under my ribs. We passed through an iron-framed gate and followed a path lined with Ixora plants and red jasmine and jungle ferns. Night birds sang softly in the surrounding growth, and purple bougainvillea grew lushly across the wide front veranda. I held my breath against the mawkish sweetness of the flowers’ scent as the Eurasian rapped three times on the front door, opened it. The Malay shoved me inside.