Raj continued his investigation by doing Neal's chart. His instincts were correct: Neal was a boy of unquestionably good moral character. Would have a happy family life. Three children. And, of course, lots of wealth. How to play this out? Raj wondered. He felt he was still missing something and so he'd sleep on it. He dreamed all night of Miss Little India, Queens.
Raj woke up with a plan that made him feel young. He knew where his destiny lay. He did not doubt the stars. He went to the electronics store and haggled a digital camera. He knew where Ritu lived and went to her apartment building five blocks away. Soon enough, he saw her. She wore a skirt that covered her knees and a simple pink top. No makeup. Flat sandals. Just the sight of her made his heart beat faster. He moved to the other side of the street.
And took her picture.
Dear Mr. Sharma,
I have started the surveillance you requested. The girl in question is difficult to track and will require many days of observation. I attach a photo of her I took just this morning.
RK
For the first time in years, he was hungry for something. His brain-which, as a young man, had been routinely praised for its discipline and quickness-was perhaps going to be used again. Maybe it had just been resting till now. Wearing a hat and dark glasses to obscure his appearance, he went in search of the couple. It wasn't hard. He waited outside her building, and soon he saw Neal buzzed in. They came out together not ten minutes later, and he took photos of them walking. They went to lunch at Chat Hut. He slid into the table behind her, and she never noticed him. How could she, when all she did was look at Neal and smile? They were chatting about this and that, in the meandering way young couples do when smitten. He had a paper due, she had a job interview; he wanted to go to a movie that night, she said earlier was better. Neal was eating channa with purl and she had a dahl chat plate. She fed him a spoon full of her chat.
"Ritu, I can't wait to take you to the chat place in Delhi, baby, you will love it," Neal said as they got up to leave.
Raj waited a few days and sent the photos to Manny. With an email:
Dear Sir,
I am distressed to inform you that your son is in fact seriously entangled with the girl in question. Their contacts are substantial and plans of going to India together were discussed. If you advise, I will speak to this girl, who is known to be greedy, to see what I can work out-for the sake of your son and your family honor.
RK
Manny replied instantly:
Understood. Range of $25,000-$50,000 approved. Send details for money transfer.
Raj e-mailed again two days later-at night so it would be received early in the morning in Delhi:
Dear Sir,
I met with the girl and had to go the maximum range of the offer as she was determined to get more after marriage or possible divorce. So you see how she thinks. If approved, she wants funds quickly and will move away from this city.
RK
Almost immediately, Raj received a response:
My son's happiness is my duty to ensure. Thus, $50,000 is my obligation to pay. Send details and wire transfer will take place. Thank you for your diligent service.
The money was in Raj's account within twenty-four hours.
He put on his best suit with the red tie and first went to the Lakshmi Temple when he knew there'd be no long, drawn-out prayer ceremonies under way. He wrote a check for $201 and left it in the donation box. Bowed to Lakshmi, took a bit of parshad to sweeten his mouth, and left. He knew the right thing to do. And God blessing him for doing the right thing would bring good karma.
Time to visit Miss Ritu. He had with him her astrology chart. Ritu lived in a small studio apartment. It was simple and tastefully decorated. She had taken his call and his request for a visit in a relaxed way. "So nice to hear from you again," she'd said. She's all class, he thought.
"Mr. Raj, would you like some tea?" she asked when he arrived. He accepted her gracious offer. When they were seated at the dining table, he opened up the astrology chart.
"Dear Ritu, I have some news I must share with you," he said. "With the moon on the eclipse and the house of Rahu on the cusp, I urge you to marry quickly. If you need help find ing a suitable mate, I will help. You should be with a doctor or businessman. . ."
She was listening intently. "No, no, I appreciate your offer of help-but I'm-"
"Oh, so you are involved?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good news. Good. Then arrange hastily, if you must. Arrange quickly to marry. It is so written and must be done before the full moon or you risk ... Let's not discuss that. Marry immediately, you must." He noticed how her delicate fingers twirled the silky strands of her hair as he spoke. He departed then, leaving the chart behind.
Four months before, he had been the judge for Miss Little India, Queens. He had been one of the sponsors of the contest-having given $550 to place his name prominently in the advertisement for the event. For his money he had expected flirting from the contestants, hints of romance, some ego stroking-and these of course had come-but nothing prepared him for the pressures of the final round. It ended up that for the last stretch of the two-day contest, he was the sole judge. So he decided that the five girls in the finals would each dance to a song from the Hindi classic film, Pakeezah. It was enchanting, haunting music that Meena Kumari, the loveliest actress to ever grace the big screen, danced along to with stunning grace. Raj had picked his favorite movie and favorite actress as the challenge. There could be no greater challenge, as the audience, too, knew every gesture and movement that Meena Kumari danced in the film. It was the highlight of Indian cinema-the beauty of the camera movement, the music, the story, Meena Kumari.
During the day of the event he was visited by two contestants, and the fathers of two others. He drew a bit more than just attention from one of the two girls. Her breasts were round and firm and he enjoyed lingering there for a moment. The other, a young woman named Geeta, had kissed him and he'd put his hand on her thin waist when she leaned into him. The fathers left envelopes with cash. One $350, and one $500. Only the fifth contestant failed to visit him or send her father.
And, of course, she won.
It wasn't just that Ritu didn't visit: It was the dance. Ritu seemed to possess the characteristics of the Ideal Indian Woman. Her curves were generous, her movements minimal. She didn't strive too hard, instead the music just swayed her. She smiled at him from the stage, which had excited him even more than the touching or the money. It was the warm smile of innocence untouched by the crass world. He avoided her after that, lest she disappoint him. Or perhaps he would disappoint her. But he thought of her often, alone in his bed.
She deserved abundance-and to be married to the rich only-son of one of India's wealthiest families. That bastard Manny couldn't appreciate a classy girl like Ritu. He represented all that was wrong with these situations: the brutish man keeping his son from happiness.
Of course, Raj knew that he, like all the other players, had a predestined role. He was to teach Manny Sharma some humility-and if that humility came with humiliation, so be it. He was to help Ritu in her life. First the contest, then the husband. And he was being rewarded for his good deeds. But it wasn't just the money; it was knowing that he, not Manny, was in charge of the way this would end. When he was in charge, the good won out. Don't rest on your laurels, he reminded himself. Destiny was calling.
He turned on his computer and started by changing his e-mail and PayPal accounts. Then he opened a file entitled Wealthiest Indian Bachelors and considered Davinder Shah, son of the pig-headed Minister of Defense, Terjinder Shah. Years of graft had left the family very well off. Davinder, the eldest son, was also enrolled in the Stern School at NYU. Raj had noted his presence among the young men hanging out with Neal Sharma. Raj plugged Davinder's vital dates into his computer program and printed out his astrology chart. While anyone could run numbers to get a chart, an analysis of the planet positions, the lunar asterism, the asce
ndants-understanding their relationships with one another was a gift that few possessed. And clearly, Raj knew, he was one of the blessed.
His chart showed Davinder as a weak man, tending to be swayed easily. No great intellect. A bit lazy. Not a great person, petty really. Of course, Raj would find his match. There is, after all, a match for every person. Raj consulted his folder marked Eligible Indian Girls, studying the photo of Geeta. He studied her curves and her look, which was a tad cheap-though he had no regrets about enjoying her wet kiss. He had only chosen her as a runner-up, but he would make it up to her now.
He e-mailed her immediately.
My Dear Geeta,
Good news is coming your way. I have a perfect match for you. Please do visit my office tomorrow at noon. I will discuss specifics and plans with you then.
RK
Then he e-mailed another:
Your Excellency, Minister Shah,
I write to offer my humble services to you. I believe your son may be in some entanglement that does not suit the son of the honorable Minister of Defense. Please advise if you seek my assistance to avoid the agony of such an embarrassment.
RK
Later, as he watched India-Vision in his office, Raj was interrupted by a knock on his door.
Ritu and Neal walked in, arm in arm.
"How do you do, young man?"
"So nice to see you again, Mr. Raj," Neal said.
"Yes, yes, we did meet at the Miss Little India pageant, right?"
"Yes. And thanks to you, I met Ritu that night."
"Oh no, these are all events that fate has ordained," Raj demurred.
"Mr. Kumar," Ritu said, "Neal and I were married this morning at City Hall."
"Congratulations, congratulations."
"We need your advice. You see, Ritu and I, well, we . . Neal began.
"We got married ..." Ritu added.
"Blessings, blessings."
"... without my father," Neal continued. "Well, he doesn't know yet and I want to seek your advice to smooth things over.
"Oh, I see. But your wife is a blessing to your family."
"Yes sir. But my father-"
"I will tell you, young man, that only a few get to be married to a girl as lovely, honest, and wise as your bride. Treasure her. Once you have children, I guarantee you all will be well."
"Children?"
"Yes. I know Ritu's chart. And all happiness unencumbered by obstructions will be yours in this union. Wait till you have good news of a grandchild and then go to India. All will be well."
"I shouldn't tell my father then?"
"No. Wait a few months. Then you will have two good things to tell him."
Ritu looked at Neal and gave him that sweet smile that Raj knew so well.
"Go and enjoy each other," Raj counseled. "Give it time. All will be well. All will be well."
Neal reached for his wallet, "Can I give you something?"
"Oh, please. Please ... it's my pleasure."
Neal shook Raj's hand, and the happy newlyweds left his office.
Raj watched the couple from his second-floor window. As they walked away, arm in arm once again, Ritu turned to look up at his window. She met his gaze for a moment and held it. She nodded slightly and then turned her attention once more to her husband.
He was now alone in his office above 74th Street, with all the hustle and flow of life below. With his posters of Meena Kumari. With his foldout chairs. With his TV and DVD player on a stand. He flicked off the Open sign outside his window.
From his desk drawer he took out the DVD. He needed some pleasure too-life could not only be work. He dimmed the lights and sat on the floor cushion, as he always did to watch. Nothing could interrupt him for three hours. He put on the movie Pakeezah. The music stirred and then there she was. Looking for her love. Full of grace. Dancing her pain away. Her soul unappreciated by the wealthy patrons. She is a courtesan who doesn't get to be with her love, the prince. The callous king forbids it. She has no one to help her. And Raj weeps for her once again as he hears his beloved sing:
VIERNES LOCO
BY K.J.A. WISHNIA
Corona
is never good when you open your front door and the first thing you see is uniforms. Only this time, they were military dress green, not 110th Precinct blue, and lucky for its they wanted the house next door. Bad luck for the Mantilla family, whose oldest boy, Freddie, joined up seeking the fast track to citizenship. And now he's going to get it-posthumously.
The following Thursday I'm standing with the family as the flag-draped coffin is about to be lowered into a hole overshadowed by the Long Island Expressway and a recycling plant. The last notes of "Taps" float by on the wind, mingling with the Doppler, shifting wee-oo-wee-oo of a passing police siren. Someone's not at peace with the Lord out there.
A white-gloved finger presses the play button on a boom box, and the crash of angry Spanish ghetto rap rips the stillness to shreds. Freddie chose this music as his final shout-out to the world, and, if I know Freddie, as a final screw-you to all the white boys in his unit who would have gone with "Amazing Grace." The honor guard salutes stiffly as cars roar by on the overpass.
I go up to the cops who brought Freddie's uncle here, and ask them to take the guy's handcuffs off for five minutes so he can hug his family. It takes a moment, but they do it for me.
"You on a case?" says Officer Sirota.
"Friend of the family."
"Uh," he grunts. "Say, you know what that's about?"
There's a group of mourners dancing around a grave across the street in Mount Zion Cemetery. I tell him it's a splinter sect of Orthodox Jews who believe that their former leader, Rabbi Aaron Teitelboym, is the Messiah, so every year they gather at his grave on the anniversary of his death to celebrate his imminent resurrection.
"That so?" says Sirota. "How long's he been dead?"
"Nine years."
"Nine years? Man, it only took Jesus three days. So I guess that's one up for our side."
The lieutenant presents Freddie's mom, Irene, with the purple heart and bronze star, and salutes her. She presses the medals to her chest, and hugs a color photo of her smiling boy, the sharp-eyed soldier who waved his comrades away from the roadside bomb that shattered his skull and left a smoking crater of that handsome young face. It was a closed casket service.
Too soon, they snap the cuffs back on Uncle Reynaldo and escort him to the squad car. I wait my turn as close relatives go up and hug my neighbor. She's clutching Freddie's brother Felipe, who's already sprouting a teen mustache and getting pretty big for a twelve-year-old.
Felipe wrenches his arm away from her and seeks out the masculine ritual of swapping greetings with his cousin Ray Ray, who I once helped dodge a graffiti rap that could have gotten nasty if the cops had felt like pressing it. Just being caught with "graffiti instruments" is a Class B misdemeanor, and it doesn't help that in order to get proper respect as a graffiti writer in the barrio, the supplies have to be stolen. Reparations were costly, but worth it, since that dark-skinned Dominican kid is now working on a twenty-one-game hitting streak carried over from his previous season at Newtown High School, and the rumor is that he's being scouted by the Mets.
That night we climb up onto the roof so Felipe can look at the glittering crown of Shea Stadium on the horizon.
"Yo, Filomena," he says. "I hear los Mets are gonna put their game on real thick this year."
"They definitely have a shot at it."
"Remember the subway series when that cabron de Yanqui Clemens threw the broken bat at Piazza?"
"Sure."
"Freddie got some tickets for me and Ray Ray. We was in the upper deck, the three of its doing mad daps all around." He points at the bright lights as if the exact spot is marked for all time, which I suppose it is, in a way. I know what he's thinking, but he says it anyway. "Some day Ray Ray gonna be playing center field out there."
The next morning, I'm training my new part-time office
assistant, a tanned and freckle-faced sophomore at Queens College named Cristina Gonzalez. They're putting her through the wringer at that school, making her take two semesters of Composition, which is encouraging since half the college kids I see lie to me on their resumes and think they can get away with writing crapola like, My mother's a strong women and roll model for all American's, which doesn't look too good in a report.
The last applicant didn't mention his credit card scam and drug convictions when I asked him if there was anything unusual in his past that I should know about. When I caught it on a routine background check, he said, "Hey, in my neighborhood, that's nothing unusual."
"You mean, I beat out a convicted felon for this job?" says Cristina. "Gee, thanks."
It's hard to find good help for $6.50 an hour, which is all I can afford to pay. But striking out on your own is risky at my age, and I wouldn't even be able to pay that much if my former bosses at Davis & Brown Investigations didn't toss a few heavy bones my way, continuing a long-standing American business practice of subcontracting out to cheap immigrant labor like me.
So I'm sitting in my eight-by-fourteen storefront office, directly beneath the flight path of every other jet approaching LaGuardia Airport, trying to debug the Hebrew font we installed for a case involving an Orthodox congregation in Kew Gardens Hills. The font's right-to-left coding has defeated the security protocols and migrated to some of the neighboring programs, causing system commands to come up randomly in Hebrew.
Oy vey, couldn't it have at least been Yiddish?
I look up as a man in a light gray business suit who I've been expecting knocks on the glass. I buzz the door open for the junior executive, who looks like he's worried about contracting malaria through the soles of his wingtips from walking on these cracked sidewalks.
"Miss Buscarella?" he says.
"Close enough. It's Buscarsela."
He doesn't seem to be listening as he sits in a chair that was once bright orange and hands me his card, which says his name is E Scott Anderson, and his title is Assistant Director of Product Security for the Syndose Corporation.
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