Koko

Poole went through the entrance and the shopping mall disappeared. Fanning out before before and below him was an enormous fantasy that looked like tea time on the grounds of a Mississippi plantation. On the other side of the desk, hostesses led couples down to ranks of round white tables of ornate cast iron, and seated them on white cast-iron ice-cream chairs. The floor and walls had been painted flat black. Other ice-cream chairs and tables sat on the mezzanine and risers on both sides of a busy, crowded bar. In the middle of the floor, surrounded by the tables, a boy in an illuminated fountain spouted water from his mouth.

The woman at the desk led him to a small white table on a platform beyond the bar. Poole ordered a beer. Young homosexual couples who wore suits and looked like MIT graduate students shuffled around on a small dance floor in front of the stage. Other couples like them occupied most of the seats in the club—boys in round glasses gripping cigarettes and trying not to look self-conscious. Scattered through the club were a few Englishmen and Americans earnestly making conversation with their Chinese and Eurasian escorts. Most of the couples drank champagne, most of the boys, beer.

A few minutes later the quiet music suddenly ceased. The boys dancing in front of the stage grinned and applauded as they went toward their seats. The telephone rang very loudly, and the cash register went bing!, and a few voices obliviously rose up before they, too, ceased.

Four chunky Filipinos, one Eurasian, and a slender Chinese boy bounced onto the stage. From the opposite side, a stagehand pushed on a bulky synthesizer and rolled it past the drums. All the musicians but the Chinese were dressed alike in blousy yellow shirts and tight red velvet vest-and-trouser outfits. They carried their instruments onstage with them—two guitars, a conga drum, an electric bass—and began playing a bland, processed version of “Billie Jean” as soon as the drummer and keyboard player had reached their instruments. The Eurasian and the keyboard player had short curly hair and sunglasses like Michael Jackson, and the others had John Lennon’s droopy hair, round glasses, and sly sidelong glances. It was clear that they had been a band long before Lola hired them: Poole imagined that if he came back to Singapore in twenty years, he would see the same musicians grown older and paunchier, no less mechanical, and probably in the same clothes.

It was Michael Jackson’s year, and Lola too had adopted the mass of curls and sunglasses, as well as a single white glove. He wore glittery Spandex tights, glossy high black boots, and a loose white off-the-shoulder blouse. Heavy earrings glittered in the curly hair, and a clutch of heavy bracelets slithered up and down his arm. The boys at the tables in front of the stage clapped and whistled, and Lola pranced through an energetic but lifeless version of Michael Jackson’s dance moves. From “Billie Jean,” they went into “Maniac,” then into “MacArthur Park.” Lola’s costume changes drew claps and whistles.

Poole picked up the request card folded at his table, flattened it out and wrote I like your act. Would you be willing to talk to me about an old friend from Bugis Street? He raised his arm and the waitress took the form and went down the steps to wind through the tables to pass the slip up to Lola.

Still singing “Cross My Heart” and dressed now in a red long-sleeved blouse and a necklace of heavy purple glass beads, Lola snatched the card from the waitress and twiddled it flirtatiously through his fingers before opening it. His face was still for no more than half a second before he spun around, stamped his foot, extended his arms and rattled his bracelets and sang out “Cross my heart!”

After nearly an hour Lola left the stage bowing and blowing kisses. The MIT boys stood up and applauded. The band took an almost mockingly low bow.

Poole waited for his check after the lights went up. Some of the young Chinese boys had gathered around a door at the side of the stage, and occasionally someone opened the door and let them in and out.

When the boys had left or returned to their tables for the second performance, Poole knocked on the flimsy black door. It swung open. Crowded into a small, smoky lounge, the musicians looked up from the floor and the ancient sofa. The room smelled of tobacco, sweat, and makeup. Lola half-turned from the mirror before him and peered out from beneath the towel that covered his head. He held a flat case of black powder in one hand and an eyebrow brush in the other.

Poole stepped into the room.

“Close the door behind you,” one of the musicians said.

“You want to see me?” Lola asked.

“I enjoyed your performance,” Poole said. He stepped forward. The fat conga player pulled back his legs to permit Poole to move forward another step. Lola smiled and pulled the towel from his head.

He was smaller and older than he appeared onstage. Beneath the makeup, a network of knifelike little wrinkles had chipped into the girlish face. His eyes were tired and cautious. Sweat still sparkled in his springy hair. He nodded at the compliment and turned back to the mirror.

“I sent the note about Bugis Street,” Poole said.

Lola’s hand came away from his eyes and he very slightly turned his head to take in Poole.

“Do you have a minute?”

“I don’t remember ever seeing you before.” Lola’s English was nearly accentless.

“This is my first time in Singapore.”

“And you have something extremely pressing on your mind.”

One of the musicians guffawed.

“I heard about you from a man named Billy,” Poole said. He seemed to be missing something, some secret that the others knew.

“And what were you doing with Billy? Looking for entertainment? I hope you found some.”

“I was looking for a writer named Tim Underhill,” Poole said.

Lola startled him by slamming down the little case of mascara with enough force to raise a dingy cloud of powder. “You know, I thought I was ready for this, but I am not ready for this.”

He thought he was ready for this? Poole thought. He said, “Billy said you might have known Underhill, or might even know where he is.”

“Well, he isn’t here.” Lola stepped forward. “I don’t want to talk about this. I have another show to do. Leave me alone.”

The other musicians watched with good-natured indifference.

“I need your help,” Poole said.

“What are you, a cop? Does he owe you money?”

“My name is Michael Poole. I’m a doctor. I used to be a friend of his.”

Lola pressed his palms to his forehead. He looked as if he wished that Poole was a dream that would simply go away. He peeled his hands away from his head and rolled his eyes upward. “Oh. God. Well, here it is.” He turned to the conga player. “Did you ever know Tim Underhill?”

The conga player shook his head.

“You weren’t on Bugis Street at the start of the seventies?”

“We were still in Manila,” the conga player said. “We were the Cadillacs in 1970. Played Subic Bay.”

“Played all those bars,” said the keyboard player. “Great days, man. You got anything you wanted.”

“Danny Boy,” the keyboard player said.

“Danny Boy. Sailors got Danny Boy.”

“Can you tell me where to find him?” Poole asked.

Lola noticed that his fingers were dusty with black powder, and gave himself a disgusted look in the mirror before plucking a tissue from a box on his table. He deliberately, slowly, wiped his fingers while gazing at himself in the mirror. “I don’t have anything to hide,” he told the mirror. “Quite the reverse, in fact.”

Then he glanced again at Poole. “What are you going to do when you find him?”

“Talk to him.”

“I hope that isn’t all you’re going to do.” Lola exhaled loudly, clouding the mirror’s surface. “I’m really not ready for this yet.”

“Just name a time and a place.”

“A time and a place,” sang the keyboard player, “give me the time and the place.”

“Subic Bay,” said the conga player.

“Ah, do you know Bras Basah Park?” Lola asked.

Poole said that he could find it.

“I’ll meet you there tomorrow at eleven, maybe.” Lola again confronted himself in the mirror. “If I’m not there, forget all about it. Don’t come back. Okay?”