The Feng Shui Detective's Casebook (8 page)
‘Make me hungry only.’
As they stepped out of the elevator they heard shouts.
‘Murderer!’ a man’s voice shrieked. ‘You killed my spotted plectropomus!’
The door was unlocked. They entered the room to see Tik Sin-cheung swinging a large, dead leopard-spotted fish by its tail. He was brandishing it threateningly at Joyce McQuinnie, who for some reason had stripped to her undergarments and trainers. Wong found her freckled, almost colourless skin repulsive; it looked like raw chicken.
There was some sort of fight going on. The young woman was gamely holding her own. She held her fists in front of her. ‘You touch me with that and I kick this bloody thing in RIGHT NOW.’ She tapped her Adidas sneaker threateningly against a glass tank of rare pineapple fish.
‘You dare! You just dare,’ roared Tik.
‘Bloody
will
,’ Joyce spat, kicking it again.
‘Ahem.’ Wong coughed to interrupt the argument.
The young woman turned and spotted her boss. ‘This guy’s gone mad, just because I fell onto one of his bloody fish. I couldn’t help it. He shouldn’t lock his flat up when people are trying to get in, should he? Tell him.’
Tik Sin-cheung lowered his spotted plectropomus. He had suddenly noticed the police officer standing in the doorway. His face fell. He looked around at all the tanks of fish.
‘They’re all mine,’ he said. ‘They’re my family. They come to me. They call my name. I get people to liberate them, you see.’ He dropped to his knees and put his hand in a tank of brightly coloured creatures, which fluttered away from him. ‘These fish are Bodianus peppermint wrasse. They weren’t being well cared for. So I got my people to rescue them for me. And all the others. I don’t keep them. I find better homes for them.’
Wong barked: ‘Joyce. You better come with me.’
‘And you’d better come with me,’ said Inspector Tan.
In all aspects of life there are mysteries. The crafty will take
advantage of them. Even Zen masters do this sometimes. A
commentary on Zen teacher Wang Shou-jen (1472–1528)
tells this story:
Once a scholar went as a guest to a Buddhist temple. The abbot let him come in. But he was given no special
honour. He was given no particular respect.
Then a prominent official arrived.
The abbot gave the official great respect. He bowed
low. He escorted him around the temple himself. He
arranged for the best food and the best drink to be given
to him.
Then the official left the temple.
Afterwards, the scholar went to see the abbot. The
scholar said: ‘Why did you give me no respect but you gave
the official great respect?’
The abbot replied: ‘To give no respect is to give respect. To give respect is to give no respect. That is way of Zen.’
The scholar used his fist to hit the monk hard in the
face.
The abbot said: ‘Ow! Why did you hit me?’
The scholar said: ‘To beat you up is to not beat you up. To not beat you up would have been to beat you up. That
is the way of Zen.’
Blade of Grass, some people use crooked arguments to fight
you. When they do this they are giving you a weapon. They
have stepped off the path so the advantage is with you.
In his book,
The Great Learning
, Confucius said:
‘The way of truth is like a great road. It is not hard to
find. Trouble is only men will not look for it.’
From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’
by CF Wong, part 32.
The gymnasium was filled with contradictions. Scented and bright, it was a soft and luxurious haven with a deep carpet and fine wallpaper. But at the same time, there was a hardness about it: the carpet was grey and the equipment was mostly steel with a dark, matt coating. The fixtures oozed class, consisting largely of shiny, ornamented brass fittings set into expensive Andaman padauk wood. Yet on the polished pine table on one side was scattered an untidy heap of dog-eared magazines and used paper cups.
Heavy air-conditioning kept the room uncomfortably chilly, but the man running on the treadmill was bathed in sweat.
Club executive manager Kees Luis de Boer had been running for seventeen minutes at 10.5 kilometres an hour and was well into his stride, although his jerky speech was starting to betray a certain breathlessness.
‘He’s . . . here? Tell him to . . . come in.’
‘He’s already in the gym, sir, right behind you.’ The membership secretary discreetly made an open palm gesture towards the visitor.
De Boer swivelled his bouncing head as much as he could to the left, which wasn’t much.
Wong, trying to be helpful, leaned forwards to catch the manager’s eye. ‘Good morning Mr de Boer,’ he said, pronouncing it
Deebo.
‘I am Wong.’
‘It’s d’Bo-
er
. Thanks for . . . coming. I’ll be with you in a . . . few minutes. Just got to get up . . . to twenty. I’m out of sorts all day if I . . . don’t get my run in, you know how it is . . . with the old endorphins.’ The rhythmic thudding of his feet gave his words a staccato feel.
‘Oh,’ said Wong. He turned a questioning gaze to the woman next to him as if to say:
I’m afraid I do not know the
Old Endorphins. Is this a problem?
The membership secretary, a small grey-suited woman named Maria Runick, had a more urgent matter on her mind. She also tried to lean into de Boer’s line of sight. ‘Mr de Boer? A couple of the members are here at reception and they want to know whether they can come in. There’s a sign up saying that it’s closed from ten for an hour, but they are very, you know, insistent. And I already asked Mr Wong, and he says that he doesn’t mind them being here while he’s working.’
De Boer said nothing. The thump of his feet hitting the floor was the only sound in the gym for half a minute. ‘Are they angry? Who are they? Anyone . . . important?’
‘Yes, they are a bit . . . difficult. They say they didn’t get the email notice saying that the gym would be closed for two hours today. Their names are Anthony de Cunha and Roger Eliott. I think you know Mr de Cunha.’
‘Yes, yes, the petroleum guy.’ He lapsed into silence. ‘Shit.’
She glanced at the window between the gym and the reception area, where two unsmiling men in dark suits were waiting. After a polite pause, Ms Runick tried to press her superior again for an answer. ‘Shall I let them in?’
‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking. My brain . . . works a little more slowly when I am . . . running. But the answers it . . . gives are usually the right ones. If the word gets out . . . that we are having the place . . .
feng shui-
ed, people are going to ask . . . why. So we had better keep . . . people out.’
Ms Runick slowly breathed out and then breathed in again. She appeared to be attempting to gather courage to disagree with her boss. ‘Yes, sir. But the news is already out. About the, er unfortunate incident of last week. It was being discussed in the restaurant yesterday, and there was talk in the members’ bar at lunch. I think if we let them know that we are dealing with the problem, it will be better in the long run. They’ll all find out eventually. Three of our members work for newspapers, remember? And we have an ABC guy.’
She leaned over to catch her boss’s eye for an answer.
It was difficult to tell if Mr de Boer was nodding, or if the vertical movement of his head was due purely to the fact that he was a heavy man pounding thunderously along a conveyor belt.
‘I said . . .’ he began with some irritation but then paused abruptly. The counter in front of him ticked over to the figure 20:00. ‘Ah,’ he breathed, and raised his hand to the sweat-stained console in front of him. He pressed an image of an arrow pointing downwards.
Beep!
it went. He thumped it repeatedly with his finger.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.
The high-pitched whine of the treadmill changed to a lower tone as it gradually slowed down.
‘Okay . . . let them in, you’re probably . . . right, you usually are,’ de Boer said, his mood abruptly changed by his having completed his morning exercise.
It took another thirty seconds for the machine to gradually wind down to a complete halt. After that, the silence seemed heavy and uncomfortable. Wong stood by quietly, while Ms Runick scurried back to the reception to tell the members that they were after all going to be allowed to do their workout sessions, although a
feng shui
master would be working in the room at the same time.
De Boer used an enormous, monogrammed fluffy white towel to wipe his neck, where most of the sweat appeared to have gathered. ‘I won’t shake your hand, Mr Wong. But thank you for coming.’
The
feng shui
master gave a short bow. ‘My pleasure,’ he said.
Kees Luis de Boer, general manager of The Players, a high-class restaurant and sports club in a modern office complex in Perth, lowered his voice as he turned his eye to the door of the gym.
‘It’s all very negative when someone dies in a gym. We try to keep quiet about it. But at the same time, we do the right things. We had the police here. We had the family in for a party-wake-sort-of-thing, on the house. And we’ve got you here to clean out the bad vibes, get some good ones in. I know you won’t mind me saying this—I’m an honest man, that’s my biggest advantage and also my biggest shortcoming—but I don’t believe in any of this sort of thing. I’m only doing it for the members. These days they’re all into this bloody new-age stuff, crystals and
feng shui
and stuff. Need to keep the campers happy.’
With a creak, the door started to swing open.
‘And talk of the devils, here they come now.’
De Boer put on a corporate smile and raised his eyes to the inlaid double doors, but the new arrival turned out to be a gawky young woman of about eighteen with her shirttail hanging out from under a shapeless sweater.
‘Who . . . ?’
‘My assistant,’ the geomancer explained.
‘Hi guys! Sorry I’m late!’ Joyce said cheerfully. ‘I went through into the gym office instead of the gym and got talking to this guy—Jimmy? He’s one majorly cool dude.’
De Boer’s face twitched at the sound of the name. The corners of his mouth perceptibly turned down.
Wong wondered how to react. Who was Jimmy? One needed the birth dates of the managers of any facility to do a full reading of prospects for the business. ‘Mr Jimmy is who?’
De Boer snorted his breath out through his nostrils. ‘Mr Jimmy is no one. Today is his last day. He
was
the gym master here, but we feel his part in last week’s, er, incident, was not satisfactory. The reception staff will be running the gym for a while, and we’ll get a new personal trainer/manager as soon as possible. An advertisement goes in the paper tomorrow for a replacement.’
Wong nodded, pleased. So he could probably manage without Mr Jimmy’s birth date. One less thing to think about.
De Boer gave Wong and McQuinnie a short, Teutonic bow and marched off to the shower rooms.
‘Pants,’ whispered Joyce, stamping her right foot.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just—well, it’s just a shame that that Jimmy guy isn’t going to be sticking around. He’s like really nice! He’s got this dimple—never mind.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the dimple-chinned young man, wringing his hands. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be a very good lunch companion. I’m too, like, shell-shocked.’ Despite his exaggeratedly masculine body, Jimmy Wegner’s voice was light and somewhere in the alto range.
‘That’s all right!’ said Joyce, a little too cheerfully.
I don
’
t mind if you don
’
t say anything. I’ll just sit here and gaze at you.
She suddenly felt her face tingle and wondered whether she had spoken out loud.
Jimmy did not react, so apparently she hadn’t.
Phew.
‘Er. No worries! We can just sort of relax, and get into a state of, you know, like, relaxation!’ She seethed inwardly at her inability to utter a half-intelligent sentence in front of this young man.
‘Life stinks,’ Jimmy said.