DIM SUM AT DEREK'S
XIE SHI MIN
Illustrations by Shelley L.
So I was staring at the corpse of the city's most respected food critic, thinking, “Wow, someone must really hate him.” Clarence Lam had a cleaver embedded in the middle of his head, and it lolled onto the table, like an art installation gone wrong. Nearby, the soup he was drinking had spilled onto the table, soaking the peony pink tablecloth. Death by Dim Sum Chef, it would read. Okay, maybe it was a morbid joke, but I’d seen enough death to know that it happened every day. Being immortal does that to you, I suppose.
“Wow, someone must really hate him,” Inspector Xia muttered, giving me a knowing look. My intern, Ruyi, shook her head as they took the body away.
“I know,” I said, when they were out of earshot. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Then, we walked out into the night. Even without very much light, my intern’s round face was as pale as the xiao long baos she had eaten that night. I’d skipped those, since I was uncomfortable with eating pork. I wasn’t Muslim, but I didn’t like the smell. Luckily, I was there with her. At least I could write the review for Derek Wong’s Kitchen, if she wasn’t feeling up to it. Admittedly, the food was good, but paired with that scene of a dead body? Not so much.
In case you weren’t in the know—Derek Wong’s restaurant closed down last year because of a pest infestation, and now it’s opened up again. However, that was just the cover story. All of us knew that the chef was washed up, and his menu wasn’t what it used to be, ever since Clarence Lam had written such a disparaging review. Now, he was trying to revive his business. Ruyi did notice the rat poison in traps as she walked around the red and pink rooms of the place, so I suppose there was some truth to that. There was also the awkward meeting of Derek, Clarence, and some exterminator guy. Like, oh boy. You could cut the air with one of those Wusthof knives. Naturally, as a reporter, I overheard them.
“Well well,” Clarence drawled, “if it isn’t the Monkey.”
Derek almost stepped in between them, but hesitated. Clarence’s hair had started to grey, and liver spots had started to emerge. Yet, he sounded like an eight-year-old with this taunt.
“Come off it. It’s my restaurant, and I hired him to do a job,” Derek stepped forward. I hated admitting it, but Monkey did look like a monkey. Swarthy, skinny, with ears that stood out, this slightly hunched man wouldn’t look out of place if he was in a zoo.
“Yeah. Still with your father’s exterminator company?” Clarence smirked, swirling his wine glass. Somehow, that was enough for “Monkey” to lunge forward and to grab Clarence about the collar.
“Uh, Derek?” I asked. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he smiled, playing host again. He glared at Clarence once more, and led me away. “I’m sorry you had to see
that, Winston.”
*
Anyway, I managed to snap myself out of it and briefed the intern. “Go home and wash up,” I instructed. “Take the day off tomorrow, if you need to.” I knew we had deadlines coming up, but I understood that she would be affected by it. Only… I was wrong.
The next day, she was up and early in the office, and she'd handed in the event listings and pictures over to the art department. Despite the yawning and the eye bags, I could see that she wanted to talk about last night.
“No one's getting away with killing Clarence Lam,” she growled. “Not if I can help it.”
“What?” I almost spat out my drink. All of us had gotten some free organic Açaí juice from some salad place in the CBD, and it tasted like dead childhood dreams.
“I could investigate. There’s no reason why he should die,” she chirped, eyeing the The South Sea Post on the table. Naturally, the main headline was about his death—“Wanton Wonton Murder,” it read.
“Ruyi, you’re a magazine intern, not a trainee cop. I still need that food review,” I sighed, “and I need to proof your listings. We barely have time and money to produce a magazine, even if no one reads it.” It was a little harsh, and I saw her face fall. But I knew I had to do it. Business was business.
I was also more interested in the power vacuum that Clarence left behind. With him out of the picture, someone else at The South Sea Post would fill that position. Pity it wasn’t me, though. Lily Koh would look at my resume and scoff. I only had five years, and who was I, back then, bursting in on the so-called scene as though I knew everything? Sure, I was bold and daring, but I’d acted as though I could come in here and do whatever I wanted without paying my dues. Six internships and a promotion later, here I was. This was a long shot, but I sure as hell had to ask.
*
“No,” Lily was brusque over the phone. “Clarence named me his successor, Winston, and I have over fifteen years in the industry. I deserve this job,” I could hear her smug smile over the phone. “But of course, if you wanted, you could take my job as sub-editor.”
“Sure, why not?” I lied. I found myself agreeing to lunch, sitting opposite her while her long, brown hair hung around her face like limp spaghetti noodles. We were at the Estate of Beans, having afternoon coffee, and she seemed to think that I was about to grovel to her. It was, after all, the place where all these famous lifestyle bloggers Instagrammed their #ootds.
“I’m going to be honest with you,” she started, “the pay increment isn’t all that much.”
“Isn’t it a state-funded paper?” I argued. “Surely there must be more revenue from… somewhere.” We were all scrounging around for cash, it turned out.
“We’re doing more native ads, just like you, Winston. When Clarence was last at his desk, he had so many obligations to clear up. I don’t even know where to begin,” she sighed dramatically, as though Clarence’s duties were the worst thing to do. I knew that she’d been gunning for the job since forever, so I guess she had a motive for killing him? I shook my head and blinked. Nah, this wasn’t my business. I just wanted the job. I’d originally thought that the The South Sea Post would gain me lots of money and prestige but I was too naïve. They clearly had their own problems.
I suddenly felt a sharp stab in my gut. What was going to happen to the staff, and more importantly, to Ruyi without me? I was her recommendation to full time staff.
“It’s your call, Winston. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Everything’s going online, and if your publication doesn’t do anything to get its web numbers up, it’ll fold. Last I checked, no one’s visiting your website.”
I scowled but held my ground. How dare she insinuate that I wasn’t doing my job. I knew that Ruyi was publishing news bites around the clock on Facebook and Twitter, and that our reach was growing. It didn’t matter that my publisher sent me a memo asking about web traffic numbers.
“Oh and by the way, stop wearing bright floral prints. They make your pot belly look worse.”
I didn’t have to deal with this. We split more than just the bill.
*
Of course, Ruyi had done her own research, and tried to bounce in after I entered the office. I could see that she was in a food coma, but she put on a happy face. I dragged her into my office. Thank goodness sales was at work and the art department was laughing at some cat video.
“Guess what I found!” she blurted when I’d finally closed the door. I sighed. I did not have time for this. I had to finish several native ads before the sun went down, but that was highly unlikely. Good thing I didn’t need sleep.
“So you remember the time when Madame Liu opened her own Cantonese restaurant and Clarence Lam sung praises about it?”
“Yeah, so?”
“And that simpering article about how she should have gotten a Michelin accolade?”
“Uh-huh?”
“My friend said that Madame Liu offered the meal on the house!”
“Ruyi, is there a point to this?” I asked. “This happens all the time. We get to go for tastings, and if we like it, we say we do. We are not obliged to say that something is good, when it isn’t.”
“But Clarence did!”
“It’s a matter of taste. Sometimes, he was off, but most of the time, he was spot on.”
Ruyi shook her head, and her short bob cut swung about this way and that. “Winston, you don’t understand. Madame Liu has been plying him with gifts.”
“All right, all right,” I raised my voice. “I get it. I have a source who corroborates this information, somewhat.” It was true. Just to show off, Lily had sent me, via email, an image of all the free goodies that Clarence had received. A lot of it was from Madame Liu. Lily was right. Going through all those and those freebies were chores, though it did tempt me to jump ship.
“That’s not all,” she smirked. “I have intel that Madame Liu paid for that five star review, and the glowing recommendation.”
All right. Now that got me. That was a serious breach of editorial integrity because if someone paid any amount of money, really, those articles were supposed to be ads. Yet, I supposed Clarence got away with whatever he did, because, well, he was writing reviews since he was in diapers, or something like that. So what if he was a jerk? I repeated to myself that it wasn’t my business, and for good measure, I told it to Ruyi, too.
“We’re moving on, Ruyi. We’re magazine writers, not investigators.”
Although I admitted to myself that it wasn’t my business, I went to scrutinize the article in my office. That is, after writing the native ads. Clients were throwing money at us for hits, and I should be grateful that this job still paid the bills.
Later, as the moon rose up, I tucked into some of Uncle Chin’s authentic chicken rice, and thought about it some more. It was too garlicky and dry, but it served its purpose. Hawker fare was always thinking fare, and the recipe had changed for the better in the last hundred years or so.
*
I’d brushed away what I knew about this event until two weeks later, when we were at a food delivery launch. The CEO was holding court with all of us, demonstrating all the tie-ups he’d done with. Lily held a glass of wine, smirking in one corner, while some relative unknowns gossiped behind me.
“Ugh, so glad that scumbag is gone,” I heard a smooth and soft voice.
“Ssssh! All the industry players are here. Aren’t you afraid you’ll be implicated?”
“What? Print is dying. I told Clarence so, and he refused to believe it. The old fuddy duddy is gone for good,” the first speaker said. I wanted to turn around, but saw, through a mirror, the Internet famous Tara and Julia. I wish I could have slapped them, at the very least. Sadly, I was fettered by this joke of a body, and my weapon was missing. There was nothing I could do. There was also no admission of guilt, so I came up empty.
But Ruyi didn’t, of course.
When we left the event just after everyone was getting hyped—we don’t stay too long in case we look eager or too desperate—and it turns out that Ruyi had wrangled some information from Derek Wong, the chef at, well, Derek Wong’s Kitchen. Obviously, she got on well with him, since she made the dumb rookie mistake of sending him the review. Interns.
She was lucky that he did not request to make edits. I also had to cut in when I found out, and inform the food industry veteran that this shouldn’t happen. Man, he should have known better. I noticed that he and Ruyi were getting along suspiciously well, despite the age gap.
“Apparently, he, Clarence and Monkey went to school together!” She practically glowed. Ah. That explained some of it.
“Clarence and Derek were rivals at school, and our esteemed food critic always made it a point to diss his restaurant. Makes sense!”
Ah. Of course it did. Now we really knew why Derek’s restaurant needed the sprucing up. All right, could he be the one who murdered Clarence? Old classmates, revenge, which made for an intriguing murder mystery.
“But so what? We have no evidence.”
“Hah! I knew it! You wanted to solve it, too!”
There was silence, and my face felt like it was being pan-seared by some Michelin-starred chef. I nodded. I hated doing this, but I supposed the only way now was asking Inspector Xia. I guess it was handy to know someone from the police force, even if he wasn’t always on the right side of the law.
*
“You can’t be serious,” he said. We were standing in his office, and normally dark face looked a lot worse, since he usually worked the night shift. Unlike me, he had had no pretensions, and my usual garb of flashy clothing and sunglasses was a stark contrast with his blue uniform. (Well, he didn’t have a choice, since he was a policeman.) I was fat and pale; he was tan and muscular. Somehow, we still got along enough, Inspector Xia and I. Luckily for me, he was working on the case.
“This stuff is classified,” he grumbled. “I’m not letting you in. We are still gathering evidence.”
“Come on, let me have a crack at this case,” I wheedled. “If I don’t solve it, I swear I’ll—.”
Inspector Xia raised a thick and bushy eyebrow, amused.
“Eat some bak kwa?”
Ruyi gasped softly behind me, and I narrowed my eyes. I’d get back at him for that, later.
“Well, do you have a report or something?”
With a sigh, Inspector Xia tossed the findings and the autopsy report to me. Ruyi cringed, but I flipped through the pictures and notes like it was nothing. The smell of coffee in his office perked us up a little, and I half expected to see a board with notes tacked on it, joined together with red string. You know, like those TV shows.
There were no CCTV cameras, so they had to go about this the old-fashioned way. According to the report, Clarence Lam had requested, beforehand, for a special meal to be delivered to a private room in the restaurant. There had been a squabble with the owner, Derek, about food critics being too much like prima donnas, and everyone else cowering. Then, there was the big fuss of him stepping in rat poison, and how he made a big show of being disdainful about it, because it ruined his loafers. Then, when one of the waiters served him some soup, everything went wrong. Witnesses did not remember seeing anyone sneak in. I took a look at the forensic report. And I had my answer.
“The money’s on Monkey,” I told Inspector Xia.
“What? Monkey? Our older brother?”
I almost growled at him. “No, Monkey, Derek’s other classmate. He was with Derek in the kitchen when I saw them, and was the only one who handled rodenticide. Slip a few in Clarence’s drink, and he’s out like a light. Plus, years of bullying really makes people hold grudges.”
“B-but, I thought Derek plunged the knife in his skull!” Ruyi gasped. “That was why I was trying to work him!”
“Nah, he either took it with him in case the poisoning didn’t work, or sank it in for show.” I shrugged. ”Urgh, that was nasty.”
“That’s not all we solved today,” Ruyi grinned. “I know who you are, Zhu Bajie.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“At first I thought it was weird that you ate all kinds of meat except pork, and that you didn’t seem to need sleep. You don’t even have eyebags!” she exclaimed. “Inspector Xia and the mention of Monkey, your older brother, helped me put everything together.”
Oh shoot. Was I that obvious? She seemed to read my mind and shrugged.
“You know, you really should think about joining the force,” Inspector Xia remarked. I shrugged.
*
A few days later, The South Sea Post ran an article about them catching the murderer, and somehow, I felt bad. Clarence wasn’t a real nice guy in real life, but why did I still want to mete out justice? Was it because I was an actual immortal, and keeping balance was a part of me, no matter what? I thought I was done with all of this, but fate has strange ways of telling me that I wasn’t.
“So how about promoting me to full-time staff?” Ruyi asked, barging into my thoughts. We were enjoying a celebratory drink at the Fool Rooftop Bar, and the chill beats they were playing tonight helped me think.
“Let me talk to management,” I replied. There were bigger problems than the loss of the city’s food critic, and I was glad we were moving on.
“Wow, someone must really hate him,” Inspector Xia muttered, giving me a knowing look. My intern, Ruyi, shook her head as they took the body away.
“I know,” I said, when they were out of earshot. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Then, we walked out into the night. Even without very much light, my intern’s round face was as pale as the xiao long baos she had eaten that night. I’d skipped those, since I was uncomfortable with eating pork. I wasn’t Muslim, but I didn’t like the smell. Luckily, I was there with her. At least I could write the review for Derek Wong’s Kitchen, if she wasn’t feeling up to it. Admittedly, the food was good, but paired with that scene of a dead body? Not so much.
In case you weren’t in the know—Derek Wong’s restaurant closed down last year because of a pest infestation, and now it’s opened up again. However, that was just the cover story. All of us knew that the chef was washed up, and his menu wasn’t what it used to be, ever since Clarence Lam had written such a disparaging review. Now, he was trying to revive his business. Ruyi did notice the rat poison in traps as she walked around the red and pink rooms of the place, so I suppose there was some truth to that. There was also the awkward meeting of Derek, Clarence, and some exterminator guy. Like, oh boy. You could cut the air with one of those Wusthof knives. Naturally, as a reporter, I overheard them.
“Well well,” Clarence drawled, “if it isn’t the Monkey.”
Derek almost stepped in between them, but hesitated. Clarence’s hair had started to grey, and liver spots had started to emerge. Yet, he sounded like an eight-year-old with this taunt.
“Come off it. It’s my restaurant, and I hired him to do a job,” Derek stepped forward. I hated admitting it, but Monkey did look like a monkey. Swarthy, skinny, with ears that stood out, this slightly hunched man wouldn’t look out of place if he was in a zoo.
“Yeah. Still with your father’s exterminator company?” Clarence smirked, swirling his wine glass. Somehow, that was enough for “Monkey” to lunge forward and to grab Clarence about the collar.
“Uh, Derek?” I asked. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he smiled, playing host again. He glared at Clarence once more, and led me away. “I’m sorry you had to see
that, Winston.”
*
Anyway, I managed to snap myself out of it and briefed the intern. “Go home and wash up,” I instructed. “Take the day off tomorrow, if you need to.” I knew we had deadlines coming up, but I understood that she would be affected by it. Only… I was wrong.
The next day, she was up and early in the office, and she'd handed in the event listings and pictures over to the art department. Despite the yawning and the eye bags, I could see that she wanted to talk about last night.
“No one's getting away with killing Clarence Lam,” she growled. “Not if I can help it.”
“What?” I almost spat out my drink. All of us had gotten some free organic Açaí juice from some salad place in the CBD, and it tasted like dead childhood dreams.
“I could investigate. There’s no reason why he should die,” she chirped, eyeing the The South Sea Post on the table. Naturally, the main headline was about his death—“Wanton Wonton Murder,” it read.
“Ruyi, you’re a magazine intern, not a trainee cop. I still need that food review,” I sighed, “and I need to proof your listings. We barely have time and money to produce a magazine, even if no one reads it.” It was a little harsh, and I saw her face fall. But I knew I had to do it. Business was business.
I was also more interested in the power vacuum that Clarence left behind. With him out of the picture, someone else at The South Sea Post would fill that position. Pity it wasn’t me, though. Lily Koh would look at my resume and scoff. I only had five years, and who was I, back then, bursting in on the so-called scene as though I knew everything? Sure, I was bold and daring, but I’d acted as though I could come in here and do whatever I wanted without paying my dues. Six internships and a promotion later, here I was. This was a long shot, but I sure as hell had to ask.
*
“No,” Lily was brusque over the phone. “Clarence named me his successor, Winston, and I have over fifteen years in the industry. I deserve this job,” I could hear her smug smile over the phone. “But of course, if you wanted, you could take my job as sub-editor.”
“Sure, why not?” I lied. I found myself agreeing to lunch, sitting opposite her while her long, brown hair hung around her face like limp spaghetti noodles. We were at the Estate of Beans, having afternoon coffee, and she seemed to think that I was about to grovel to her. It was, after all, the place where all these famous lifestyle bloggers Instagrammed their #ootds.
“I’m going to be honest with you,” she started, “the pay increment isn’t all that much.”
“Isn’t it a state-funded paper?” I argued. “Surely there must be more revenue from… somewhere.” We were all scrounging around for cash, it turned out.
“We’re doing more native ads, just like you, Winston. When Clarence was last at his desk, he had so many obligations to clear up. I don’t even know where to begin,” she sighed dramatically, as though Clarence’s duties were the worst thing to do. I knew that she’d been gunning for the job since forever, so I guess she had a motive for killing him? I shook my head and blinked. Nah, this wasn’t my business. I just wanted the job. I’d originally thought that the The South Sea Post would gain me lots of money and prestige but I was too naïve. They clearly had their own problems.
I suddenly felt a sharp stab in my gut. What was going to happen to the staff, and more importantly, to Ruyi without me? I was her recommendation to full time staff.
“It’s your call, Winston. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Everything’s going online, and if your publication doesn’t do anything to get its web numbers up, it’ll fold. Last I checked, no one’s visiting your website.”
I scowled but held my ground. How dare she insinuate that I wasn’t doing my job. I knew that Ruyi was publishing news bites around the clock on Facebook and Twitter, and that our reach was growing. It didn’t matter that my publisher sent me a memo asking about web traffic numbers.
“Oh and by the way, stop wearing bright floral prints. They make your pot belly look worse.”
I didn’t have to deal with this. We split more than just the bill.
*
Of course, Ruyi had done her own research, and tried to bounce in after I entered the office. I could see that she was in a food coma, but she put on a happy face. I dragged her into my office. Thank goodness sales was at work and the art department was laughing at some cat video.
“Guess what I found!” she blurted when I’d finally closed the door. I sighed. I did not have time for this. I had to finish several native ads before the sun went down, but that was highly unlikely. Good thing I didn’t need sleep.
“So you remember the time when Madame Liu opened her own Cantonese restaurant and Clarence Lam sung praises about it?”
“Yeah, so?”
“And that simpering article about how she should have gotten a Michelin accolade?”
“Uh-huh?”
“My friend said that Madame Liu offered the meal on the house!”
“Ruyi, is there a point to this?” I asked. “This happens all the time. We get to go for tastings, and if we like it, we say we do. We are not obliged to say that something is good, when it isn’t.”
“But Clarence did!”
“It’s a matter of taste. Sometimes, he was off, but most of the time, he was spot on.”
Ruyi shook her head, and her short bob cut swung about this way and that. “Winston, you don’t understand. Madame Liu has been plying him with gifts.”
“All right, all right,” I raised my voice. “I get it. I have a source who corroborates this information, somewhat.” It was true. Just to show off, Lily had sent me, via email, an image of all the free goodies that Clarence had received. A lot of it was from Madame Liu. Lily was right. Going through all those and those freebies were chores, though it did tempt me to jump ship.
“That’s not all,” she smirked. “I have intel that Madame Liu paid for that five star review, and the glowing recommendation.”
All right. Now that got me. That was a serious breach of editorial integrity because if someone paid any amount of money, really, those articles were supposed to be ads. Yet, I supposed Clarence got away with whatever he did, because, well, he was writing reviews since he was in diapers, or something like that. So what if he was a jerk? I repeated to myself that it wasn’t my business, and for good measure, I told it to Ruyi, too.
“We’re moving on, Ruyi. We’re magazine writers, not investigators.”
Although I admitted to myself that it wasn’t my business, I went to scrutinize the article in my office. That is, after writing the native ads. Clients were throwing money at us for hits, and I should be grateful that this job still paid the bills.
Later, as the moon rose up, I tucked into some of Uncle Chin’s authentic chicken rice, and thought about it some more. It was too garlicky and dry, but it served its purpose. Hawker fare was always thinking fare, and the recipe had changed for the better in the last hundred years or so.
*
I’d brushed away what I knew about this event until two weeks later, when we were at a food delivery launch. The CEO was holding court with all of us, demonstrating all the tie-ups he’d done with. Lily held a glass of wine, smirking in one corner, while some relative unknowns gossiped behind me.
“Ugh, so glad that scumbag is gone,” I heard a smooth and soft voice.
“Ssssh! All the industry players are here. Aren’t you afraid you’ll be implicated?”
“What? Print is dying. I told Clarence so, and he refused to believe it. The old fuddy duddy is gone for good,” the first speaker said. I wanted to turn around, but saw, through a mirror, the Internet famous Tara and Julia. I wish I could have slapped them, at the very least. Sadly, I was fettered by this joke of a body, and my weapon was missing. There was nothing I could do. There was also no admission of guilt, so I came up empty.
But Ruyi didn’t, of course.
When we left the event just after everyone was getting hyped—we don’t stay too long in case we look eager or too desperate—and it turns out that Ruyi had wrangled some information from Derek Wong, the chef at, well, Derek Wong’s Kitchen. Obviously, she got on well with him, since she made the dumb rookie mistake of sending him the review. Interns.
She was lucky that he did not request to make edits. I also had to cut in when I found out, and inform the food industry veteran that this shouldn’t happen. Man, he should have known better. I noticed that he and Ruyi were getting along suspiciously well, despite the age gap.
“Apparently, he, Clarence and Monkey went to school together!” She practically glowed. Ah. That explained some of it.
“Clarence and Derek were rivals at school, and our esteemed food critic always made it a point to diss his restaurant. Makes sense!”
Ah. Of course it did. Now we really knew why Derek’s restaurant needed the sprucing up. All right, could he be the one who murdered Clarence? Old classmates, revenge, which made for an intriguing murder mystery.
“But so what? We have no evidence.”
“Hah! I knew it! You wanted to solve it, too!”
There was silence, and my face felt like it was being pan-seared by some Michelin-starred chef. I nodded. I hated doing this, but I supposed the only way now was asking Inspector Xia. I guess it was handy to know someone from the police force, even if he wasn’t always on the right side of the law.
*
“You can’t be serious,” he said. We were standing in his office, and normally dark face looked a lot worse, since he usually worked the night shift. Unlike me, he had had no pretensions, and my usual garb of flashy clothing and sunglasses was a stark contrast with his blue uniform. (Well, he didn’t have a choice, since he was a policeman.) I was fat and pale; he was tan and muscular. Somehow, we still got along enough, Inspector Xia and I. Luckily for me, he was working on the case.
“This stuff is classified,” he grumbled. “I’m not letting you in. We are still gathering evidence.”
“Come on, let me have a crack at this case,” I wheedled. “If I don’t solve it, I swear I’ll—.”
Inspector Xia raised a thick and bushy eyebrow, amused.
“Eat some bak kwa?”
Ruyi gasped softly behind me, and I narrowed my eyes. I’d get back at him for that, later.
“Well, do you have a report or something?”
With a sigh, Inspector Xia tossed the findings and the autopsy report to me. Ruyi cringed, but I flipped through the pictures and notes like it was nothing. The smell of coffee in his office perked us up a little, and I half expected to see a board with notes tacked on it, joined together with red string. You know, like those TV shows.
There were no CCTV cameras, so they had to go about this the old-fashioned way. According to the report, Clarence Lam had requested, beforehand, for a special meal to be delivered to a private room in the restaurant. There had been a squabble with the owner, Derek, about food critics being too much like prima donnas, and everyone else cowering. Then, there was the big fuss of him stepping in rat poison, and how he made a big show of being disdainful about it, because it ruined his loafers. Then, when one of the waiters served him some soup, everything went wrong. Witnesses did not remember seeing anyone sneak in. I took a look at the forensic report. And I had my answer.
“The money’s on Monkey,” I told Inspector Xia.
“What? Monkey? Our older brother?”
I almost growled at him. “No, Monkey, Derek’s other classmate. He was with Derek in the kitchen when I saw them, and was the only one who handled rodenticide. Slip a few in Clarence’s drink, and he’s out like a light. Plus, years of bullying really makes people hold grudges.”
“B-but, I thought Derek plunged the knife in his skull!” Ruyi gasped. “That was why I was trying to work him!”
“Nah, he either took it with him in case the poisoning didn’t work, or sank it in for show.” I shrugged. ”Urgh, that was nasty.”
“That’s not all we solved today,” Ruyi grinned. “I know who you are, Zhu Bajie.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“At first I thought it was weird that you ate all kinds of meat except pork, and that you didn’t seem to need sleep. You don’t even have eyebags!” she exclaimed. “Inspector Xia and the mention of Monkey, your older brother, helped me put everything together.”
Oh shoot. Was I that obvious? She seemed to read my mind and shrugged.
“You know, you really should think about joining the force,” Inspector Xia remarked. I shrugged.
*
A few days later, The South Sea Post ran an article about them catching the murderer, and somehow, I felt bad. Clarence wasn’t a real nice guy in real life, but why did I still want to mete out justice? Was it because I was an actual immortal, and keeping balance was a part of me, no matter what? I thought I was done with all of this, but fate has strange ways of telling me that I wasn’t.
“So how about promoting me to full-time staff?” Ruyi asked, barging into my thoughts. We were enjoying a celebratory drink at the Fool Rooftop Bar, and the chill beats they were playing tonight helped me think.
“Let me talk to management,” I replied. There were bigger problems than the loss of the city’s food critic, and I was glad we were moving on.