by A. X. Ahmad
The other drawers are empty, so he looks in the closet, unfolding the saris to see if there is anything in their folds, and even putting his hand into the toes of the shoes lined up below them. Nothing.
Leela is half turned to the door, her ears straining to hear. “Are we done? Anything? Shit, you didn’t find anything?”
“Just a second. Please.”
He looks back at the room, recognizing Shabana’s mess from the Dakota. What was it about her psyche that made her feel at home when surrounded by dust and filth?
He stares hard, trying to look at the room through her eyes. Everything here is impersonal: the walls are blank, there are no vases, no postcards stuck in the frame of the mirror, no photographs, other than the one of herself in the white salwar kameez. He remembers that she had a similar photograph at the Dakota—why is this image so important to her? Does it symbolize something, a time of innocence perhaps?
Walking over, he sees that the silver picture frame is old and heavy. The back is secured with a series of metal tabs that hold a piece of cardboard in place, and he undoes these, and slides away the stiff square of cardboard. Nothing behind it, except for the photograph. Damn it.
There are footsteps outside in the corridor, and Leela turns to him, raising a finger to her lips.
“Leela? Hey, Leela, are you in there?” It is the bored tone of one of the dark-jacketed men. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Leela turns a pale, questioning face to Ranjit.
His voice is a whisper. “Go and see what he wants. If you don’t come back in a few minutes, I can find my way out of here. There are just the two security guys, right?”
“I think so. Are you sure?”
He nods, and she opens the door a crack and slips out.
He hears her speak, using a tone that he hadn’t heard before, light and flirtatious, and hears the man laugh. Forcing his attention back to the room, he surveys the mess, conscious of the rapid beating of his heart.
He closes his eyes, and opens them again, and that is when he sees it: the cardboard backing from the frame is lying on the dressing table, and even from here he can see a marking, a red graphic of a house: the same stamp he saw on the boxes at Nataraj.
“… okay, okay, fine. Just give me a few minutes. I got to fix myself up, you know?”
Leela enters the room, slams the door shut, and leans heavily against it. The footsteps outside retreat down the corridor.
“Lateef is coming. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” Leela is sweating and he can smell the fear on her, acrid and hormonal. “He wants me to have a drink with him. Which means he’ll get drunk, then take me back to the hotel.” She looks wildly around the room. “Did you find anything? What’s that in your hand?”
“It could be something … I don’t know.” He grabs an empty plastic bag lying on the floor and fills it with the square of cardboard, the keys, pills, and the skein of human hair.
“You don’t know? All this for nothing? Last time Lateef slapped me around, and this time it’s going to be worse, he wants me to wear one of Shabana’s saris. He liked to beat her with a belt.”
“You don’t have to do this. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“No. I can’t make Lateef angry … he’ll … my mother, Dev … no.”
He grips her shoulder. “Lateef leaves in a livery car, right, without his bodyguards?” He can see the panic glazing her eyes. “Did you see the driver? Was it an old Indian guy, gray hair?”
“I think so. There’s a dark partition, it’s hard to see—”
“Where does he take you?”
“The Maritime Hotel, in Chelsea.” Her eyes are far away, already anticipating what will happen to her.
“Listen to me. I’ll figure a way to get you out of there. Just get Lateef away from the club. You have your cell phone? I’ll text you. Put it on vibrate.”
She nods her head blindly. “Okay. You have to leave now. Go back down the stairs, out the back door.”
“Leela.” He grips her shoulder tightly and forces her to look at him. “You’re not alone in this.”
He slips out of the dressing room and down the empty corridor. Reaching the catwalk that runs along the atrium, he stays against the wall, praying that he will remain unseen. The bright floodlights have been replaced by dim, recessed lighting, and the circular red sky-booths float in the gloom. From down below comes the throb of house music, murmured voices, and the clinking of glasses.
Ranjit moves quickly along the atrium, reaching the safety of the concrete staircase. He hurries down it, runs down the first-floor corridor, and opens the door into the back alley. It is still raining, a steady thin drizzle, and the moist night air feels like nectar.
He gets to Thirty-seventh Street just in time to see a black limo at the end of the block: there is no mistaking Tiwari’s nervous driving as he seesaws the car into a parking space. Ranjit hangs back for a few minutes, pulls out his cell phone, and sends a text message to Leela. It seems like an eternity before she sends back a single word: OK.
Walking quickly, Ranjit heads down the block. For the first time in all these confused days and nights, he knows exactly what he has to do.
* * *
A group of hipsters in straw fedoras have taken over the counter of the diner. Anil Tiwari sits alone in a red leatherette booth, eating from a plate piled high with pancakes and links of sausages, drenched with maple syrup. He takes a sip from a tall takeout container of coffee, then uses his knife and fork with a surgeon’s accuracy.
As Ranjit enters the diner, Tiwari is chewing rapidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His shabby blazer hangs off his thin shoulders, and the collar of his white shirt is so loose that the knot of his tie hangs low on his chest.
“Anil Sahib. So this is your regular spot, hanh? I see you’re still a fan of the lumberjack breakfast.”
Tiwari is so startled that he almost chokes on his mouthful of sausage. Without waiting for an invitation, Ranjit sits down and orders a cup of black tea from the sullen waitress.
“I see that you are staring at my arm.” Ranjit smiles again. “The damndest thing happened. I was taking a shortcut through an alley near here—right after we met—and these two guys beat me senseless.”
Tiwari glances at Ranjit’s cast, then looks away. “This bloody city.” He purses his thin, bloodless lips. “It’s a nightmare. A living, breathing nightmare.”
“The funny thing is…” Ranjit’s voice is conversational. “… those guys, they broke my arm, but they didn’t take my wallet or anything. Strange, hanh?”
“People here are going crazy. They take out their anger on us foreigners.”
“But here’s the funniest thing of all. The guys who beat me: they were Indian. You’re not eating, Anil Sahib?”
Tiwari sits with his knife and fork clutched in his hands.
“Actually…” Tiwari makes a flapping gesture at the street outside. “It’s nice to talk, but I have to go. My client will be ready to move soon. I better eat in my car.” He gestures to the waitress. “Madam, can I have this in a box?”
“That?” She looks down at Tiwari’s heaped plate and sniffs. “You said it was for here. If you want it in a box, ask for it in a box.”
She slides the whole sticky mess into a Styrofoam box, and Tiwari pays, then gets up and puts on his peaked chauffeur’s hat.
“Nice to see you, Ranjit. Sorry about your arm.” Tiwari heads toward the door, clutching his box of food, but his tall container of coffee sits on the table.
Ranjit reaches for it, opens it, and tips in four white tablets. He waits till Tiwari is out the door, then knocks loudly on the plate glass, gets Tiwari’s attention, and points to the coffee. Face reddening, the man returns, swoops up his coffee, and hurries away down the street, gulping it down.
That’s it, Tiwari, drink your coffee, drink it all. Ranjit settles into the booth, takes a sip of his vile, tannic tea, and looks out at the dark street. High up inside Ghu
ngroo, Lateef is busy getting drunk with Leela at his side, swaddled in a silk sari. If Ranjit’s plan is going to work, Lateef has to remain inside the club for at least half an hour.
Ranjit feels calm now. This is how it was before going into combat: he was nervous beforehand, but when it really started he was always cool, able to take in the whole situation and make split-second decisions. It is good to know that this old self still exists.
The minutes tick past. The hipsters at the counter let out ironic cries of joy when the waitress brings them their greasy meatloaf and fries. Ranjit looks out into the darkness and waits.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Tiwari’s Lincoln Continental is still parked at the curb, its metallic black paint wet with rain. Ranjit raps on the driver’s window, but there is no answer. He cannot see through the tinted glass, but when he tugs at the door, it clicks open.
The keys are in the ignition, and Tiwari is slumped over in his seat, his face ashen, his arms hanging down limply. He must have been still eating when he passed out: the box of pancakes and sausages has overturned in his lap, and a stream of syrup runs down his left leg, puddling on the floor.
Please let him be alive. The dosage label on Shabana’s bottle of sleeping pills had said not to exceed one pill a night; Ranjit had quadrupled the dose. He tugs at Tiwari’s shoulder and the man’s head lolls back, but a thin stream of air comes out of his pinched nostrils.
Reaching into Tiwari’s jacket, Ranjit fumbles around, then finds the man’s cell phone: there are no calls in the last thirty minutes. Thank the Guru for that. Most of the calls to Tiwari’s phone are from the same Manhattan number: it has to be Lateef, calling for pickups.
Ranjit pushes Tiwari backward and tugs off his blazer, and then takes the peaked cap from his head. It rains harder, and the street remains deserted. When he hauls Tiwari out of the cab, the man feels as light and hollow as a bird.
* * *
Ten minutes later, just as Ranjit finishes cleaning up the sticky mess from the driver’s seat, Tiwari’s cell phone rings. It is the same Manhattan number.
Lateef’s arrogant voice says, “Five minutes. In the back,” and hangs up.
Taking the sling off his right arm, Ranjit slips on Tiwari’s blazer and jams the chauffeur’s cap onto his head. With his broad build and beard, there is no way that he can pass as Tiwari, but as long as Leela does her part, all Lateef will see is the silhouette of a driver in a peaked cap.
He pushes a button and the smoked glass partition slides up, separating him from the passenger seats. The Glock sags in the right-hand pocket of his blazer. Murmuring a prayer under his breath, he starts the car, and its headlights sweep through the darkness.
Everything now depends on the next few minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA, 2008
The lights dimmed, signaling the end of the show.
The audience applauded thunderously as Shabana walked offstage at the Allphones Arena in Sydney. At forty-one years old, these three-hour variety shows exhausted her, and she was shiny with sweat, her legs trembling. She had just performed in front of an expatriate Indian audience, reprising monologues from her old films and lip-synching songs, all while wearing a see-through outfit made entirely of lace.
Just before the performance she had done two lines of coke, and now she was coming down from it, and felt cold and clammy. Hurrying to the dressing room, she changed into a sweatsuit and removed her thick stage makeup with cold cream, trying to avoid looking at her reflection.
Though her figure was still lithe, the face in the mirror bore only a faint resemblance to the one that had graced the screen. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips turned down at the corners.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ruksana walked in, her voice bristling with irritation. “You missed two cues, and mixed up the lines of the Laila Aur Paul dialogue.”
Shabana winced. “Leave me alone. Nobody noticed. Most of these fools don’t even speak Hindi.”
“You’re pushing it.” Ruksana peered at her sister’s face. “Your nostrils are all red. I don’t care what you do, but wait till after the show, okay? And we still have to go to the party at Manuraj Pandey’s.”
“Why? Why do I always have to go to these damn things?”
“Because.” Ruksana leaned in. “These rich Indian expats sponsor these shows for you. Thanks to them, we’re making money again. You want to be broke? Have you forgotten what it was like when our father died?”
“I remember.” Shabana wiped off her remaining makeup and threw the crimson-stained cotton ball into the trash. “Now leave me alone.”
Half an hour later she had changed into a lime-green silk sari and once again resembled her screen image. In the car on the way to the party, she realized that she’d had no film roles for almost three years now. The only acting she did was to impersonate herself in variety shows for expatriate Indian audiences in Sharjah, Johannesburg, Fiji, Guyana, and Singapore.
Her film career had come to an end after that fateful trip to Dubai. When she returned to Mumbai, she saw a photograph of herself on the front page of The Times of India. The Don’s arm was tight around her shoulders, crushing her mauve blouse, and above the image, in big letters, the headline said: SHABANA SHAH: THE DUBAI DON’S MOLL?
The other movie stars in that photograph had all issued statements distancing themselves from the Don, leaving Shabana in the spotlight. And then an aggressive young journalist, buoyed by public opinion, had decided it would be a good career move to investigate further.
After digging through the real estate records, he held a press conference where he revealed that Shabana’s Bandra apartment had been bought by one of the Don’s shell companies. The journalist questioned the financing of her films, the timing of her trips to Dubai, and especially her investments in mob-controlled real estate. He hinted that Shabana’s frothy, romantic films were financed by money that the Don made from drugs, extortion, and murder.
The phone rang late one night and Shabana heard the Don’s raspy voice.
“Don’t worry, beti,” he said. “I will take care of this maderchod reporter. He has a wife, two kids—and a boyfriend. Everything will be back to normal very soon.”
And indeed, a few days later, the young reporter was on television, his thick glasses glinting in the glare of the spotlights as he shamefacedly retracted his statements, saying that he had been misled by complex changes in the tax code. Two days later, he was found dead of an overdose of sleeping pills.
The Don’s move was so brazen that no one was fooled. Rumors flew that he had lost control, that clumsier, stupider underlings were running things now. In any case, the young reporter had died in vain: in the new India of blogs and Web sites, there were simply too many voices to be silenced.
An anonymous source posted two decades of Shabana’s tax returns online, showing her entanglement with the Don’s shell companies, and challenged the government to act. Desperate to protect higher-up ministers, the tax department levied huge fines on Shabana, and confiscated all her property.
This just added oxygen to the red-hot scandal, and the rumors began to flow: Shabana had been the Don’s mistress since she was thirteen. She had a love child by him, kept hidden in her apartment. Journalists kept a watch on everything Shabana did, and photographed her as she ran into her house, her face shielded by a raised forearm.
Shabana’s advertising gigs dried up, as the Swiss watchmakers and designer brands scrambled to disassociate themselves. She completed the two romantic comedies she was filming, but when they were screened, the audiences jeered and shouted out, Don ke raandi, the Don’s whore.
The film world suddenly concluded that Shabana was too old and too fat for the roles she had been playing for years, and Julie Chaddha, with her defined abs and pretty, vacant face, was given the parts that usually went to Shabana.
Retreating to her Bandra apartment, Shabana stayed hidden from view. The
Don remained in Dubai, and expressed his rage through a renewed gang war: if he couldn’t take back his city by love, he would do it with surgical killings and car bombs that would remind Mumbaikers who was in charge.
Two years went by, then three. Ruksana said that they were going to run out of money soon, and concocted a tour of expatriate Indian communities. The shows were awful—attended by large, unruly crowds who sometimes clambered onstage—and afterward, Ruksana insisted that Shabana attend dinner parties at the homes of local Indian bigwigs.
Tonight the party was at a vast penthouse apartment on Bridge Street, overlooking Sydney Harbor.
“Miss Shah! You are gracing us with your presence! Welcome!” Manuraj Pandey greeted her as she stepped out of the elevator, bowing as much as his plump stomach would allow him. He had made his money importing plumbing fixtures, and now was puffed up with importance.
As was her practice, Ruksana melted away into a corner. Shabana stood alone in the middle of the room, and when someone put a gin and tonic in her hands, she gulped it down gratefully.
The other Indian guests remained clustered in a corner: the men were too frightened to talk to Shabana, and their wives, sweating in heavy silk saris, shot her looks of envy. Shabana looked around warily, hoping there was no microphone; sometimes these parties were charity events, and the host would raffle off fifteen-minute blocks of her time, when the purchasers would ask her to sing their favorite songs.
Tonight, though, there was no microphone, and plenty of booze. As soon as her glass was empty, it was replaced with another. She turned around to thank the bearer of the glass, and saw a tall young man in a black suit, wearing his white shirt disco-style, its wide collar splayed over his lapels. He had wide, gym-built shoulders, and his hair was cut short and gelled straight back, but his face was pitted with old acne scars.