MURDER ON ORCHARD ROAD

BY NURY VITTACHI

Orchard Road

His New Year’s resolution was to give up murders. Murders were horrible, messy, smelly, difficult, heart-rending things. And not nearly as profitable as they used to be.

“Red or white?” the waiter asked.

“Tea,” C.F. Wong responded.

The feng shui master sat at a table at the ballroom of the Raffles Hotel, thinking about the trajectory of his career. For many years, he’d been a geomancer specializing in scenes of crime. He had masterfully cornered the niche, aided by the fact that no one else wanted it. Which was not surprising. His competitors had conditioned themselves for years to recoil from anything that could even metaphorically be associated with death, from kitchen knives to broken bowls.

So crime was Wong’s patch alone. Tenant murdered? The landlord would pay Wong to “do his feng shui thing,” to cleanse the place so it could be rented out again. Gang wars in your district? Wong would fix the bad vibes so that all the negative energy would move out of the area.

But lately, his job had started to depress him. He began to realize what his young assistant meant when she said that murders were “real downers.” The dead body and the room in which it was found were often in a highly unpleasant condition. You spent your time in dark corners, breathing foul air, dealing with unhappy people, one of whom might be an actual killer.

The money had compensated for that, but even this delight was seeping away. Property prices had risen so high in Singapore that people no longer shied away from renting places where horrible things had happened. Some tenants even sought them out for the discount from the market price. Thus, Wong’s share of the pie was shrinking daily.

His rivals in geomancy preferred to work for stupid rich people, who would pay them vast sums for visiting their luxury homes. They worked in mansions, sipping silver tip tea and sitting on designer sofas as they spouted random platitudes about chi and the flying star school and the flow of good luck. And these days, they usually got paid more than he did.

So Wong had decided to taste the easy life. Step one had been to muscle his way into the “designer” feng shui business, offering his services to event organizers.

After weeks of pitching, he had been hired to oversee the geomantic side of the arrangements at a major car racing event. This wasn’t Singapore’s famous Formula One race. This was a grudge-match-as-spectacle showdown between Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson, who were among the world’s greatest racing champions. The men had long been archrivals, although it was hard to tell whether they really hated each other or were just media-savvy enough to know that finger-wagging and fist-thrusting attracted TV cameras.

Wong had checked the feng shui of all the venues, including this gorgeously decorated pink-walled room at the luxurious hotel on Beach Road—an avenue at the heart of the urban district, many kilometers from the nearest beach. The only major negative he had found was a grotesque clash between the event date and the birthday of the main sponsor, a businessman named Lim Cheong Li. But that had been solved easily enough. Arrangements had been made for the official opening of the event to be led by a Buddhist abbot named Sin Sar. This man had the perfect birthday in terms of earth roots and heavenly pillars. His presence would ensure the event would not just go well, but be an unforgettable triumph.

Wong had promised the abbot a big lunch and a small fee, and gave him strict instructions: “Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just sit there. Pretend you don’t know English. When they give you a bell, just ring it. Then sit down and shut up. Shut up all the time. Got it?”

The man had nodded, but not without an audible sigh. “I’m not stupid,” he said, in his oddly high singsong voice.

Wong had responded with a fake smile. The man was not stupid. But he was an idiot, all the same.

* * *

The event opened smoothly. Wong sat at the staff table at the back and watched the VIPs take their places at the top table. Abbot Sin Sar sat down and smiled stupidly at everyone. He accepted a big glass of red wine and grinned.

Wong started mentally counting his money. He had given them a big invoice and had inserted a 20 percent “contingency fee” for unexpected events. Now all he needed to do was to create some plausible difficulty which would enable him to write in the 20 percent surcharge. No way was he letting that get away from him. This was going to be a good day. He sat back in his chair and reached for his tea.

Which was when someone tapped his shoulder.

“C.F., gotta talk to you,” said a voice he knew meant trouble.

“Go away,” he spat, without turning.

“This is important.”

“Go away. THIS is important.”

“Alberto’s dad is freaking out,” said Joyce McQuinnie, his assistant, who was suddenly standing next to him. She was talking in a stage whisper, much too loud, catching the attention of others at the table. “He’s totally lost it. I dunno what to do.”

Wong paused for a moment. Alberto Siu Keung, a small fat young man obsessed with food, was always in and out of trouble—but his dad was the wealthy recluse Sigmund Siu Keung, a client who paid every bill, however absurdly inflated, without ever examining any of them. “I call him back later.”

“It’s urgent. He says Alberto’s been arrested for killing two people. He said that if you don’t handle this now, he’ll go off and find some lawyer to take his money instead.”

Wong rose to his feet.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the two of them were in the luxurious Marina Bay home of Sigmund Siu Keung, known as the hilltop hermit because he almost never left his home, and had once lived on a hilltop.

“My son has been arrested. You find him,” Keung said, sitting so far away from his guests that the conversation almost had to be shouted.

“Where is he?”

“In a place with a palm tree on the pavement,” said the nervous old man, thin but solid as he sat on a distant oversized armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown.

This sounded like the beginning of a longer utterance, but turned out not to be.

“Like, can you give us more details?” Joyce asked. “Like what street, what district, what area, what building, et cetera?”

Keung looked annoyed. “How can I know that? I am agoraphobic. You can’t expect me to know these things. I don’t know anywhere.”

“Can you call him? We need the address. He must have a mobile?”

The old man seemed exasperated now. “If I could call him, I would. Whoever detained him turned off his phone. I saw the man snatch the phone out of his hand.”

Wong was confused. “You saw him?”

“He sends me Facetimes.”

The feng shui master looked blank.

“It’s an app,” Joyce said. “No, wait. Never mind. You won’t know what that is.” She tried to think of the right way to describe it. “It’s like a video-phone thing? Like on Dick Tracy? You see someone’s face and they see yours? On the screen?”

The geomancer said nothing.

Keung explained: “Alberto was going to a job. He’s a food taster. Perfect job for him. I called him. He put me on Facetime, that’s a video-phone thing like this girl says. Says he has a job and can’t talk now. I don’t know anything else until an hour later, when he calls me again. This time he is frantic, worried. Before, the first time, he was outside, near a palm tree. Now he’s inside a building, all dark. Dad, he says, I’m being arrested. Get help. They say I poisoned two people. And then someone grabs his phone and it goes dead. So I called your office.”

Wong nodded slowly. “So where is he? Where is he working? His job.”

“I told you,” said Keung. “In a place with pavement out front and some palm trees.”

“But that could be anywhere in Singapore.”

“You are detectives. You find it.”

Joyce leaned forward and gave the old tycoon her most winning smile. “Mr. Keung, we’d love to help. When Alberto was talking to you the first time, could you see where he was? Can you give us any details about the pavement, the trees, the buildings? What color were they, for example?”

Keung thought for a moment. “The pavement was pavement-colored, sort of light-grayish, what else could it be? There was a building which was sort of darkish-brownish, or maybe gray. And the trees, well, they were tree-colored, of course—green leaves, gray trunk—what other color can trees be?”

Wong stood up. “I have a very busy day today. We need to get this finished. We need a taxi. Find this place. You look around, tell us when we get there.”

Keung was horrified. “No way. I have agoraphobia! You know that. I never leave this house. Nothing you say will make me go out that door.”

* * *

The sun was hidden by clouds as they drove through the central business district of Singapore. Sigmund Siu Keung lay down in the back of the car curled up in a fetal position, his hands over his face, still in pajamas and dressing gown. He swore under his breath.

Wong sat next to the driver, his lips a tight line. The sports event seemed to be going okay. Maybe he didn’t need to be there. If he could help Keung with his son’s problem, he might be able to get an extra fee today. This could be good. Yet he didn’t feel celebratory. There were still too many variables.

He turned around to stare at the old man huddled up on the backseat. Joyce, squashed against the door, was absently patting the shoulder of the hermit tycoon, as if he was some kind of large dog.

“Mr. Keung?” she said. “Every time we get to a palm tree in front of a brownish building we’ll stop, and you sit up and take a look, okay?”

Keung howled: “I am not going to open my eyes until you take me home again, you horrible bullies. I could sue you for kidnapping, do you realize that?”

Finding the right spot turned out to be tricky, they discovered over the next twelve minutes. The problem was that Singapore appeared to consist entirely of palm trees, and every one of them had a brownish building in the near vicinity. The only helpful factor was that occasionally the pavement was pink, so those streets could be ignored.

After several stops produced negative responses, Joyce tried to fish out more information. “Mr. Keung, can you remember anything else at all? Like sounds, were there any noises in the background?”

“No,” the old man said. “Of course not. If there were I would have told you before.” Then his eyes shot open and he glanced at her. “Wait. Maybe.” He closed his eyes again. “There was a shhhhh sound. Like a tap, or water. Alberto raised his voice to speak over it. Probably a fountain behind him, or next to him.”

“Good boy,” said Joyce, patting his head. “Okay, that gives us more to work with—a brownish building with palm trees and maybe a fountain in front.”

The hermit rearranged himself so that his head was now on Joyce’s lap. She absentmindedly played with his hair.

They traveled slowly down Orchard Road. They passed several places that seemed promising. And then Joyce jerked to attention and pointed out the window to her right. “There. Look,” she said. “That could be it.”

Singapore’s overbright sun chose that moment to peek out from behind the clouds and shoot a laser death-ray into the car—and right through Keung’s eyelids. He groaned and curled himself up more tightly. “I want to go home,” he whined, cupping both hands over his face. “I’m an agoraphobic. I could have a heart attack. Then you two would be locked up for murder.”

“Like your son,” growled Wong.

“There, there,” said Joyce, patting the old man’s head again. “If this is the right place, we won’t have to drive around anymore. Just open your eyes and have a look. It’ll only take a second.” She spoke in the tone of a kindergarten teacher coaxing a recalcitrant child to do something. “I’ll say, Three, two, one, and then you jump up and take a look. Then you can put your head down again. Three. Two. One. Up you go!”

She grabbed his shoulders and heaved him upward.

They had stopped in front of Ngee Ann City, a shopping mall on Orchard Road. It had dark brown walls. There was a wide expense of gray pavement in front of it, a small fountain, and several palm trees. Joyce wound the window down so they could hear the fountain.

“Yes, that’s it. Go inside and find him. Can I go home now?” Keung closed his eyes and lowered his head back into Joyce’s lap.

Wong told the driver to move ahead slightly, where some construction was underway. The line of trees and stone buttresses preventing drivers from parking on the pavement was interrupted by a pile of pipes. The car edged onto the pavement just behind a road work sign.

The geomancer scanned the scene. “Wait here,” he told the others. “I go see.”

It didn’t take long to find the right place. Two police officers were hurrying into the building. Recognizing one of them, Wong followed.

* * *

The case was open-and-shut, said Detective Inspector Jonathan Shek, who was given to using ancient clichés from crime movies. As they moved up the escalator, the officer explained that it was a special day for the victims: “Today is Lap-ki and Hester Wu’s annual dinner. I think we all knew it was only a matter of time before that little tradition turned dark.”

Wong nodded.

The Wus were a “colorful” couple often described as “known to the police.” Lap-ki Wu had moved to Singapore from Southern China forty years ago as an industrious young man. There, he met a pretty actress called Hester Lum. They had married and enjoyed an astonishing run of luck on the shadier side of the business world. They moved five times in their first two years, upgrading each time. By their second decade together, he was an influential property developer, his land bank boasting holdings in several prime areas.

But their relationship had been increasingly fiery, and they eventually learned to hate each other. Divorce was the obvious option—until they got the idea, probably planted by one of Wong’s colleagues in the feng shui industry, that doing so would ruin their luck. The pair was led to believe that their legendary good fortune would instantly vanish. So they separated, but did not divorce—and agreed to meet once a year for a token dinner, which they had been advised was the least they could do to keep the luck alive.

As the years had gone by, each became convinced that if they died, the other would have somehow “won.” So they started to fear poisoning. Thus, they agreed to take turns organizing the food at the annual dinner, and an independent consultant provided a taster: this year, it was the young gourmand Alberto Siu Keung, who had actually taken a course in this unusual skill.

As the two men marched toward the restaurant, Shek said: “I’ve had a full report from my men at the scene. Alberto Siu Keung tasted all the food, pronounced it clean, and watched it be taken into the room where Mr. and Mrs. Wu were having their annual dinner. The couple ate it, and seemed to be getting along reasonably well—in that they were stabbing their steaks, not each other. But after about ten or twelve minutes of eating, or so Alberto says, something went wrong. Lap-ki Wu started groaning and rubbing his stomach. Then whatever it was hit Hester Wu, and she started moaning too. The husband fell forward into his meal, spilling the drinks and smashing a glass. Mrs. Wu dropped her cutlery and her glass and slumped off the chair onto the floor. My man arrived just before the ambulance. He thought one or both of them had already stopped breathing. Extremely powerful poison.”

Wong put his hand on the police officer’s upper arm. “Wait. So each one expects the other to be the killer. But both get killed at once?”

“Yes. And the obvious candidate is the food taster, who we understand has been in and out of trouble all his life.”

“Except he didn’t do it.”

“How could you know that?”

“He’s my client’s son. And besides, if he’s like his father, he’s too stupid.”

Shek turned and gave Wong a wry smile. “Perhaps he rose to the occasion.”

* * *

The geomancer’s mobile phone rang.

“Wong? Where are you? Have you left the hotel?” It was the voice of Lim Cheong Li at the race’s gala lunch. He sounded irate.

“No, I’m here,” Wong lied. “Er, in the bathroom.”

The businessman spoke in a screech: “I need you back in the ballroom immediately. Your monk friend has messed the whole thing up.”

Wong’s heart sank. “Sin Sar? What he say?”

“He was supposed to open the event by clanging his holy bell, right?”

“Yes. He forgot the bell?”

“No, he didn’t forget the bell. He had the blasted bell. But he forgot that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and jangle the thing. Instead, he made a little speechette and then jangled the bell.”

“Oh. He said something bad?”

“Yes. He said something very bad indeed.”

Wong sighed. “He’s a monk. You have to expect people like that to talk all sorts of rubbish.”

Lim said: “Sin Sar told us the race should be spiritual. It should be a race of the heart. It should be a competition about who can crave less than his neighbor.” The man spoke in a whiny, mocking tone. “It should be a race about giving money and glory away to others, not grabbing money and glory for yourself. He said it was wrong to worship money.”

“Clearly rubbish, but no harm done,” Wong offered.

“Well get this. He said that many scriptures, including the Buddhist and the Christian ones, dictate that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. So he declared that good fortune would only continue to prevail if the title and the money and the trophy went to whoever came in LAST, instead of whoever came in first.”

There was silence. “Er, interesting,” said Wong, wondering how he could put a positive light on this. “Makes your race very unique and unusual and historical. You are very lucky.”

“Lucky?” said Lim, sounding close to apoplexy. “It’s a disaster. The last person wins the money and the glory. The idiot monk has turned it into a slow race, like those bicycle races where you have to go as slowly as you can. The winner is whoever is last, and the loser is whoever is first. Do you understand what this means, Wong?”

“I think so. Maybe small small problem.”

“It means that Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson are going to drive as slowly as they can. That’s the only way they can get the title and the money. They might not finish until next Tuesday. They might never finish. It means there is going to be no race. It means there will be nothing for the millions of TV cameras and viewers and sponsors to look at. It means the whole event will be a multimillion-dollar disaster.”

“Ah. I see. Can’t you just ignore what Sin Sar said?”

“He said it in front of the whole crowd and the TV cameras and everything. It was so unexpected that everybody laughed and cheered, not realizing what it really meant. Even the drivers were amused at first. It was only when he sat down that we realized the race would be destroyed.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes, it is too bad. Especially for you, since YOU are going to pay for it.”

“Huh?”

“You brought the blasted abbot into this process. If the whole thing goes belly-up, you’re paying for it.”

“Oh. Maybe I talk to Sin Sar,” the feng shui master offered.

“You’d better. They’re serving the last few courses of the Chinese banquet now. That means you have about ten or fifteen minutes.”

Wong pressed the red button to end the call.

The abbot’s birthday meant he had practically been born for this event. How could he have been a bad choice? This made no sense. And what would happen? Was Wong’s huge payoff going to turn into a massive bill? Should he leave the country immediately? What else could go wrong?

Detective Inspector Shek marched up to him, turning off his own phone. “Just got word from the hospital. Lap-ki Wu was declared dead on arrival. The wife is expected to follow shortly. We’re now talking about murders.”

Shek spun around on his heels and headed to the restaurant kitchen where Alberto Siu Keung was waiting.

Wong, not knowing what else to do, stood at the door and eavesdropped.

“Really, I don’t know what happened,” the young man said. “I did my job properly. I tasted every dish. It was all fine. The poison didn’t come from the kitchen. I swear. I’ll bet my life.”

“You are betting your life,” the detective said. “How does it work? Do you actually eat a bit of everyone’s steak right off their plate?”

“No. There’s a system that food tasters use.”

“There is?”

“Yes, we’re professionals. You think we’re like mothers with toddlers, tasting the food and feeding them? It’s not like that.”

Wong could hear Alberto sigh. Even when he breathed you could hear a vibrato tremor. The young man was trying not to cry. He sniffed twice, and then continued.

“I’ll tell you my system. Each dish is served from the cooking service onto an intermediary platter, preheated to keep it warm. I select a piece at random from each dish and give it a smell test. Sometimes I do a chemical test too. But if it smells fine, usually I just take a small bite. Then I wait to see if there’s any reaction. After a short wait—I can usually tell immediately if something’s wrong, but I usually wait two minutes, to see if anything develops—I take another bite. Most strong poisons you can detect surprisingly easily. There are a few which are tasteless, but most of them have a slight smell. It’s not a foolproof system, but it works. Once all the items have been tasted, it’s our job to look after the chain of custody, just like a police officer monitoring his evidence. We watch to make sure the items we’ve cleared are served onto the diners’ plates and handed to them.”

“So you did all that?”

“Of course. In this type of situation, where individuals are genuinely scared of being poisoned, I take a lot of care. I tasted everything. All the meat, every vegetable.”

“Drinks?”

“Even the drinks. I pour a little out of each into a separate cup, and smell it and taste it. I don’t let it out of my sight until it reaches the diners.” The young man started to weep. “Please believe me, wherever the poison came from, it wasn’t from anything they ate or drank.”

Wong found Alberto’s story believable. He turned and sniffed the air. Could some sort of gas be the culprit? Or a poisoned umbrella tip? Or a radioactive teapot? He’d done the reading. He knew how creative villains were these days.

His mobile phone rang. It was Joyce outside in the car.

“He’s freaking me out.”

“He’s freaking out?”

“No, he’s freaking me out. He says he wants to spend the rest of his life with his head in my lap. He’s creepy. I think he’s smelling my crotch. I’m standing outside the car. I said I was going to go and get drinks for the two of us. I got no money on me. Where are you?”

Wong told her which restaurant they were in. A minute later she appeared, and asked the bartender for two cold drinks.

The feng shui master sat down to make plans to escape from the slow-motion disaster that was unraveling at the hotel around the corner. Option one: go straight to the airport and leave Singapore forever. Option two: contact Sin Sar and get him to rescind his decree immediately. Better try that first.

He called the monastery and got the staff to give him the abbot’s phone number. He dialed it with growing anger, stabbing at his phone.

“Sin Sar, this is Wong. I am not in the room. I had to go out. Urgent business. But I heard about your decree. Last one gets the prize. You have to get up, tell them you were joking.”

“I wasn’t joking,” the monk said in his high, singsong voice, giddy with delight. “People here love the idea. You should have heard the laughter.”

“But that’s because they didn’t realize that you were spoiling the race. These guys famous for driving cars fast. Slow race no good. Makes bad TV. Sponsors very angry. Race organizer very angry.”

“It’s still a race. But the loser gets the prize. That’s the Buddhist way.”

“That’s not the Buddhist way.”

“Well, it’s the Abbot Sin Sar way.”

“Change it. I order you. Otherwise they will make me pay for everything. It cost millions of dollars. I can’t pay.”

“Look, Wong, I have to go. The next course has arrived. The food here is so good. Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”

“You are my friend. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I am not doing anything to you. I am doing something good for the people here. They are competitive in the worst way. They always want to win win win. Everything has to be bigger, stronger, faster. I am teaching them something good.”

“They are not bad people. You don’t have to spoil their race.”

“They have competitiveness in their hearts. That’s bad. They have a craving for money and glory. Those are poisons that will seep out and destroy their lives. I am doing them a favor.”

“Don’t talk to me about poison,” Wong growled.

The abbot hung up.

At that moment, Joyce stomped back into the restaurant, irritation on her face. She placed one of the drinks on the counter. “He won’t drink it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a boiling hot day but he wants it with no ice. He’s crazy.”

She waited until the barman made another gin and tonic, and then headed back out. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Oh, and by the way, we got a parking ticket. The driver says you have to pay it.”

Wong winced. She disappeared.

The barman looked over at him. “And that’s three drinks your lady friend ordered. You’ll have to pay for them too.”

“Aiyeeah,” cursed Wong. “Why do the gods hate me so much?”

The barman gazed down at the ice-filled drink that Keung had refused to accept. “You want to drink this? You look like you need it.” He slid the drink over.

Wong glared at it, as if it was responsible for all his troubles.

And then his eyes widened.

* * *

The clouds were clearing as C.F. Wong, Joyce McQuinnie, and Sigmund Siu Keung sat in the car, inching through the traffic on their way back to the Raffles Hotel.

“Driver, take me home FIRST,” said the tycoon, his head on Joyce’s thigh. “Marina Bay.”

“Later,” Wong said. “First, Raffles.” The feng shui master pulled out his phone and called the police detective. “Shek. I just want to ask you one question. Mr. Wu is dead, right? But Mrs. Wu is okay, recovering in hospital? Is it right?”

“C.F.? Yes, that seems to be the case.”

“What were they drinking at the meal?”

There was silence for a few seconds. “Not sure. Scotch, I think. Lap-ki Wu is from a Cantonese background. Probably cognac.”

Wong nodded. “I think I know what happened. Mrs. Wu puts poison inside ice cubes. When Alberto taste the drinks, they are fine. Poison locked inside the ice cubes. But after five minutes, ice cube melts. Mr. Wu drinks poison. He dies. Old system. Seen it before. Common.”

“But Mrs. Wu is also sick. Why would she poison herself?”

“You forget. Mrs. Wu is an actress.”

“Was an actress.”

“Is an actress. They never forget. Like bicycles, elephants.”

As the car pulled up outside the Raffles, Wong leaped from the passenger seat and sprinted through the lobby and into the ballroom.

He arrived puffing to find the room full of raised voices. It was clear that people had now realized that Abbot Sin Sar’s stricture meant the race would be unlikely to go ahead at all.

Lim Cheong Li was onstage, trying to maintain order.

The feng shui master marched up the tiny stage staircase and took the microphone from him. “So sorry, Mr. Lim,” he said. “Must just fix this small small problem for you.” C.F. Wong tapped the microphone hard, twice. Then he started speaking: “Excuse me, rich people, sponsors, businessmen, and et ceteras, I want to say something.”

He continued to tap the microphone and call for attention. The crowd’s attention was eventually caught by the skeletal man on stage with the thick Chinese accent. Conversations died down.

“Ancient Chinese legend says exactly what Abbot Sin Sar said,” Wong explained. “The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I know this is also in the Bible. But Bible originally was Chinese, as everyone knows. As Sin Sar says, whichever car crosses the line first will be declared the loser. Whichever car crosses the line last will be declared the winner. But Sin Sar forgot to say one important thing: Chinese legend says that racing-horse riders should ride each other’s horses. This is the traditional way.”

He glanced down at an event program before continuing. “So Mr. Emerson Brahms will drive the car belonging to Mr. Andreletti Nelson. And the vice will be versa. Mr. Andreletti Nelson will drive the car belonging to Mr. Emerson Brahms. The car which crosses the line last will be the winning car. This is the Buddhist way. This is the Singapore way. This is the best way. Thank you. Goodbye and good night.”

There was silence. People took a few seconds to ponder the implications of the change he had outlined. Slowly, the room broke into laughter and applause.

As Wong carefully climbed down the steps from the stage, he wondered how long it would take for the drivers themselves to realize what his proposal meant. If Brahms and Nelson were driving each other’s cars, each would do his damndest to try to get that car into the most UNdesirable position: first place. Each would drive with as much speed and skill as he could muster. And there was a certain Zen quality about the paradox that would give the race a truly Asian flavor.

The heavens had been right when they guided Wong to select Sin Sar.

Lim saw immediately that it would work. He followed Wong offstage. “Nice going, feng shui master. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I like iced tea,” Wong said. “But no ice cubes.”