The Last Taxi Ride

by A. X. Ahmad

  “Sir, I already have a lawyer, he is handling this—”

  “Tell me.” Patel’s voice hardens into a command.

  For the third time in twenty-four hours, Ranjit finds himself recounting the events of that evening.

  * * *

  Patel leans in, listening intently, and when Ranjit finishes, he speaks, his voice low and modulated again.

  “So … the police asked you about your job at Nataraj. And you told them?”

  “They wanted to know about the shipments—how many, when they arrived, where they came from. I told them nothing that they couldn’t find on a shipping manifest.”

  “I see.”

  Patel sits silently, his eyes closed. The bhajan plays in the background, the Sanskrit words filling the dark room. Is Patel meditating? Ranjit wishes he could see better, but in the dark all he can make out is the sheen of the man’s shaved head.

  “Ranjit.” Patel opens his eyes and his voice is hard. “I want you to find this Mohan Kumar. Find him, and bring him to me.”

  “Sir?”

  “You bring him to me, and I’ll take care of all this. The police will hear what they need to, and you will be free of this mess.”

  In heaven’s name, why is Patel getting involved in a murder investigation?

  “Sir, I don’t understand … you want me to bring Mohan here, to the motel? Why?”

  “I have my reasons. That’s all you need to know.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to find him. This is a huge city, he could be anywhere.”

  “I hear you have certain skills, from your military days.” The smile is back on Patel’s face. “Look, my friend, you must understand the reality of the situation. This lawyer of yours—Thompson, correct?—what is he going to do for you? He’s used to fixing parking tickets. He’s also been brought up in front of the bar twice for disciplinary measures. You think that fool can handle a grand jury?

  “And the police. You think they will find Mohan? They will go into Jackson Heights, into Curry Hill, flashing his picture, and no one is going to talk to them. They are white men, with guns, and half our people are illegal. And as you know, Mohan has connections with the shipping lines. What is to stop him from getting on a ship to Japan? Once he disappears, you are all that the cops have. They will put you in jail for a long time.”

  Patel’s eyes bore into Ranjit. “You are going in front of a grand jury in a week. To them, you are not a citizen, you are just another brown immigrant, you are riffraff. Of course it will go to trial, which will take, what, at least a year? So all that time you sit in Rikers, and then a prison sentence—at least three years—after which they will deport you. Much better that you find Mohan. Find him and bring him to me.”

  Ranjit feels the fear in the pit of his stomach. He must acknowledge the truth of what Patel is saying.

  A sitar strums in the background, and a plaintive voice sings over it. “… Guru brahma, guru vishnu, guru devo maheshwara, guru sakshat parabrahma…” The Guru is Brahma, the Guru is Vishnu, the Guru is Shiva. The true Guru is the Highest, formless god. I prostrate myself before the holy Guru …

  Ranjit rises unsteadily from the cushion and pulls on his boots. “I have to think about this.”

  Patel Sahib stands up in one quick movement. “Think fast, then. You don’t have much time. And here’s a little additional motivation. If you find Mohan, I will give you a reward. Fifty thousand, cash.”

  Seeing Ranjit’s stunned expression, Patel places a bony hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be stupid about this. Who can you trust? Some washed-up American lawyer, or your own people? I am offering you my help, Ranjit. If you turn me down, you are at the mercy of the American people.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “The American people, God help you.”

  He gestures to the door. “You may leave now. My car will take you back.”

  As Ranjit walks out of the room, Patel has opened his laptop and is staring into the screen, its blue light washing over his face. The bhajan is still playing in an endless loop, soft and hypnotic, the words of hope and surrender traveling through hundreds of years: “To the elephant-faced one, we pray day and night. To the one with the single tusk, we pray day and night…”

  * * *

  The same driver takes Ranjit home and the journey seems interminable.

  Fifty thousand dollars to find Mohan? Patel must want him very badly—but why? What do a doorman and a multimillionaire hair importer have in common? The link is Shabana, poor dead Shabana, with her beautiful face and stalled career, living in her expensive apartment, soothing her sorrow with her shopping sprees. Patel’s eyes had welled up with tears when he talked about her—does he want to avenge her death and find Mohan? But it makes no sense for a legitimate businessman to get involved in a high-profile murder investigation …

  They cross the George Washington Bridge and speed across the northern tip of Manhattan. Skirting the Bronx, they cross back into Queens, and the storefronts begin to have Hindi names as they approach Jackson Heights.

  The limo screeches to a halt by Ranjit’s apartment, and he climbs out into the heat of the afternoon.

  “Wait.” The driver powers down his window and hands over a bulky manila envelope. “Patel Sahib said to give you this.”

  “What is it?”

  “How the hell do I know?” The man sneers. “You want it or no? Should I take it back and say you rejected it?”

  Ranjit tucks the package under his arm and watches the car drive away, noting its number plate.

  When he’s inside his apartment he rips open the envelope and empties the contents onto his tangled sheets. Out falls a white envelope and a gray plastic-looking handgun with three extra magazines taped to its textured grip.

  Despite its lightweight polymer construction, Ranjit knows that it is a standard police-issue Glock 17. In the envelope is a firearms license authorizing him to carry the weapon, a stack of hundred-dollar bills, about three thousand dollars total, and Jay Patel’s business card with a phone number scribbled on it. There is no mistake about it. He is now firmly in Patel’s employ.

  The panic rises in his throat. He pulls out his cell phone and dials Thompson.

  “Krumholtz and Thompson. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. This is Ranjit Singh. Sandy Thompson is my lawyer. I need to see him right away. Where is your office?”

  “Mr. Singh, Mr. Thompson is a very busy man. He’s going to be in court till late this evening. Maybe he can call back then.”

  “When?”

  The voice takes on an edge of exasperation. “I couldn’t say exactly. He has many clients. Now, please leave a message.”

  “Forget it.”

  Ranjit disconnects, picks up his laptop, and looks up Krumholtz and Thompson’s Web site. It has testimonials in a cheesy Comic Sans font and a post box number, but no street address. He thinks about the lawyer’s stained clothes, and then it hits him—Thompson has no office. He probably works out of his car, and sees clients in the back room of Pham’s Pho. Maybe Patel was right: putting his life into the hands of a man like that is useless. And if Thompson bills at two-fifty an hour, what does a real lawyer cost?

  Patel wants him to find Mohan. In this city of eight million people, he has a week to find one man. How is he going to do that?

  What day is today? Friday. The days and nights have blurred together, but he feels an old surge of excitement when he thinks about tonight. Of course: he was supposed to get together with Mohan and his friends at the club downtown, and meet that girl, Leela.

  Mohan’s buddies will definitely know about the murder by now—it’s all over the news—but what if some of them show up at the club? It sounded like the Friday nights at Club Izizzi were a ritual.

  Thompson has told Ranjit to mind his business, to stay out of trouble, but there is no law against going to a club. It’s worth a shot.

  Ranjit slumps onto his unmade bed. Across the room his reflection looks back at him, haggard and exhausted. Lying on the
unmade bed next to him is the crisp bundle of hundred-dollar bills and the brand-new handgun.

  Almost without thinking, he reaches for the Glock. It feels light, almost like a toy, but the magazines are real enough, seventeen rounds of 9mm Luger bullets that have real stopping power. He slides one in and feels it click into place. Holding it, he feels better. Whatever he’s heading into, at least he will be armed.

  Putting the gun carefully on the table, he sets his old digital alarm clock, strips off his clothes, and lies down; he must get some sleep before tonight, but his mind keeps racing. He tries to imagine the Golden Temple, aching to enter its calm, sacred space, but today the memory will not resurface.

  How long has it been since he has been true to his faith? There are plenty of gurdwaras in New York City, but never has he entered one. He has been aloof from his community, and proud and vain and sinful.

  He desperately tries to pray, but the scrap of prayer that comes to his mind is like a rebuke:

  In the fourth watch of the night, when the Grim Reaper comes to the field,

  When the messenger of death seizes and takes you away,

  No one will know where you have gone. So think of the Lord now!

  All your weeping and wailing later is false. In an instant, you will become a stranger. You will obtain exactly what you have deserved …

  Turning toward the wall, it takes him a long time to fall sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  SIXTY KILOMETERS OUTSIDE BOMBAY, 1992

  “Are they still there?” Shabana’s lips barely moved as the makeup man leaned over her, powdering her cheeks. At twenty-five years old, she needed very little makeup, but still, it took forever. “Are those people still outside?”

  In a corner of the canvas tent, Ruksana put down the sketchpad that she was drawing on. It was very hot, and the portable fans only sent forth gusts of warm air. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I mean. Go and take a look, please.”

  Ruksana shot her sister a dirty look, slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and walked outside. The tent was pitched on top of a barren hill, looking down onto a brown, sluggish river, spanned by a wooden footbridge. It was now set up with camera crews and reflectors, and on the far side of the river, the hillside was covered with hundreds of people squatting patiently in the hot sunlight: all the inhabitants of the neighboring village had come out to see the shooting of Shabana’s first high-budget film, Amerika Ke Kahanie. S. K. Nagpal’s initial idea had been fleshed out into an elaborate script that allowed for plenty of glamorous scenes shot in New York, Amsterdam, and Paris, but it would all begin here, in this dusty village.

  One of the villagers spotted Ruksana and a shout went up. The hillside erupted in waving arms and cries of Shabana zindabad, Shabana forever!

  They had mistaken Ruksana for her sister. She stood for a minute, her red sari fluttering in the wind, savoring the attention, and waved grandly back at the villagers, who cheered even louder.

  Heading back into the tent, she reported to her sister, “They’re still there. Hundreds of them.”

  “Oh God, how am I going to act with those yokels staring at me? They all smell of sweat and smoke.” Shabana’s voice thickened with distress. “I heard them shouting. They thought you were me, right?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ruksana slumped down in her corner, her face reddening, and the scar on her left cheek began to throb. At first, Shabana had treated her fame as a lark, but lately she had begun to put on airs, showing up late on set and acting like a diva.

  Outside, the voices on the hillside rose to a crescendo.

  “What is it now? Has Vineet arrived? Go and see, no?”

  Vineet Gokhle, Shabana’s costar, was to play the American-born playboy who hit her with his car, then fell in love with her.

  Before Shabana could send her sister out again, S. K. Nagpal swaggered into the tent. In the year since Shabana’s first movie, S.K.’s hairline had receded, and he had put on weight, but he still strutted confidently in his high-heeled boots.

  “You look like a queen.” S.K. half-bowed to Shabana.

  Sitting in her corner, Ruksana watched as S.K. fawned over Shabana. They had become close and often spoke in whispers when Ruksana was around. S.K. acted as though that first screen test had never happened, as though he had not chosen Shabana over her.

  Ruksana touched the scar on her cheek, hidden by a thick layer of makeup. Shabana said that it wasn’t noticeable, but Ruksana always felt as though people were staring at it, that they could see how ugly she was. What did it matter, anyway? Shabana was the star, and she was the invisible one.

  If only the milk hadn’t been so hot … if only she had just stepped aside … Ruksana shut her eyes and tried to will away the memory, but her left cheek began to redden and throb.

  “… he drove all the way from Mumbai to wish you well,” S.K. was saying to Shabana, his voice light and joking. “Come and meet him, na?”

  “If I go outside, all my makeup is going to run.” Shabana pouted and her lower lip protruded, emphasizing its fullness. “Why is this old man so important, anyway?”

  All the jolliness left S.K.’s voice. “This old man, as you call him, is the main backer of your film.” He snorted. “I’ll wait outside for you, five minutes. Don Hajji Mustafa expects to be kept waiting by a star, but any longer, he’ll get angry. And you don’t want to make him angry.”

  “Don Hajji?” Shabana’s eyes widened. “You said you were going to get financing from the banks. You said—”

  “Sweetie, the amount that the bank was willing to lend us wouldn’t even have covered your costumes. The Don is a professional, he won’t interfere with the film. I’ll see you outside.”

  S.K. left, and Shabana stared at herself in the mirror.

  “Ruki.” Her voice was soft now. “Come with me, na? I don’t want to meet these people alone.”

  Curiosity overcoming her anger, Ruksana slipped on her sunglasses again and covered her head with her dupatta. She trailed Shabana down the hillside, watching her sister’s walk change, shift into a slower, seductive rhythm, as though she were listening to some faraway music. Shabana’s chaste white sari and modest, plaited hair—she was supposed to be portraying a village girl—only emphasized the sexiness of her walk.

  On the hillside across the river, the villagers stirred, but they did not utter a sound. The name of Don Hajji Mustafa had a dampening effect on them. Everybody in the state of Maharashtra—and many beyond—knew his name. The Don now owned a huge construction company and a garment exporting business, but the faint odor of his past still followed him, like dog shit stuck to a shoe.

  An open tent was pitched at the bottom of the hill and Don Hajji Mustafa sat within it on a red plush couch that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, surrounded by his entourage. With his nondescript round face, paunch, and cheap aviator shades, the Don could have been one of the thousands of anonymous clerks who toiled in offices in Bombay.

  Seeing the man, Shabana’s shoulders stiffened, but she smiled and salaamed prettily.

  “Salaam aleikum, Uncle,” she said, using the honorific.

  The Don took off his aviators and gazed at her. His dark eyes had a fierce, burning gaze, like the eyes of a dying beggar, or one of the emaciated mystics who stood on riverbanks. They were the eyes of a person who was barely there, who inhabited his own, fiery world.

  Shabana gulped, and Don Hajji Mustafa slipped his sunglasses back on.

  “Waalekum as Salaam, beti.” The Don’s voice was surprisingly soft and gentle. “Ah, you are a star, but so well mannered. As well mannered as your father, Noor Mohammad. I used to know him, many years ago. A shame that he didn’t live to see your success. It must be hard for your family, three women and no man. This is your sister? The resemblance is—”

  Hidden by her sunglasses and dupatta, Ruksana felt her heart race.

  “Oh, she is a simple girl. She doesn’t li
ke acting and all that.” Shabana smiled again. “She is my manager.”

  S.K.’s boots clacked as he stepped forward eagerly. “Don, thank you for gracing our humble set—”

  “Humble?” Don Hajji Mustafa gave a thin-lipped smile. “This is the most expensive film I have ever financed. But my accountant here, Jayram Patel, he convinced me that you will not fail. He is a big fan of yours.” The Don turned to a tall, thin man in white trousers and a white shirt. He was painfully thin, and had thick black hair. “Jayram is my right-hand man. Without him, I am lost.”

  Patel slouched forward and put his hands together in a namaste. “Pleasure … you are a true artiste, madam. Anything you need, please let us know.”

  The Don waved at a dark-skinned, squat man with a handlebar mustache. “And this is Veenu Gopal. Our nickname for him is ‘the Hammer.’ He will be helping you with security for your film. Not just crowds, also these saala-gandu journalists. On our last film, this journalist fellow, he sneakily took some pictures of our star while she was bathing…”

  “And he is still in the hospital.” The Hammer smiled and shook Shabana’s hand. His white T-shirt could barely contain arms as thick as tree trunks. “You have nothing to fear, miss. We will protect you.”

  “And this…” The Don waved his arm tiredly at a gangly youth standing beside him. “This is Lateef, my nephew, my late brother’s son.”

  Acne covered the youth’s forehead and chin, and he was wearing a silky blue tracksuit, with fancy American sneakers that would have cost one of the villagers a full year’s income.

  “Shabana-ji, what a pleasure.” The youth leered at her. “I heard that there will be nudity in your film? Will it need an adult certificate?”

  “Chup.” Quiet. The Don cut off the youth and smiled tiredly. “Lateef is my nephew, but I treat him like a son, I spoil him. So sometimes he says stupid things. Don’t you, Lateef?”