Three Marketeers

by Ajeet Sharma

  ‘He’s already there,’ informed Vidu. ‘But it’s only 8.30 a.m. there at present and he must be sleeping. Shinde told me Kabir was hitting every casino in town and returning very late.’

  ‘Not a problem. I’ll call him later. What time does he return?’

  ‘Yesterday he returned in the morning at seven.’

  46

  Las Vegas.

  It was the last day of the shoot. Kabir arrived at the set after making everyone wait for more than two and a half hours.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ bellowed Anwar, as Kabir loomed out of the thick hedges of Flamingo Park—their location for the day.

  Not regretting the delay in the least, Kabir, like a tired man, fell into a chair and gestured to Sam D’souza for water. Sam, quelling an urge to punch him, got up and handed him a bottle. Kabir had spent another night at various casinos and strip clubs, and returned to the hotel when others were finishing their breakfast.

  He drank some water and lay motionless, his head resting on the backrest and eyes closed. Anwar took a close look at him—baggy eyes, unkempt hair, and a swollen and unshaven face. What a tragedy, he thought, and motioned to a makeup artist to restore the star’s look. They had to wait for another hour before the shoot began.

  One of the casinos Kabir visited the previous night was owned by an old acquaintance who was, once upon a time, a car racer. Happy to meet the actor after years, the racer invited him to dinner at his place.

  As the shoot ended that evening, Kabir reckoned he had some time at his disposal to visit the racer’s place. ‘I’m going out to meet an old friend,’ he informed Shinde, exuding a woody fragrance.

  Stress began to show on Shinde’s face. ‘Don’t be late. We have our flight tomorrow at four in the morning,’ he reminded. ‘And please, Kabir, keep your phone on.’

  ‘Relax. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Which part of the city are you going to?’

  ‘Told you. Won’t be long.’ Kabir’s old habit—not telling anyone where he was going.

  He took a cab and it sped off towards his destination. On the way, he did not forget to switch his phone off.

  Basilio Narvaez, a Spaniard and a year younger than Kabir, was once a successful motor racing driver. He lived with his American wife in an opulent Andalusian house in Canyon Gate, Las Vegas. Julianne was seventeen years his junior and was a top model in New York before she married the racer.

  Kabir had first met the Spaniard in Macau. During those days, Basilio was at his best in his career, finishing first in many European and Asian championships. He retired early and for the next couple of years, was a commentator in the Formula One Series. In Macau, the car racer had told him that he would one day buy a house in Vegas and settle there for good. Within a few years, he did just that and bought not only a house but also a casino. He couldn’t be more satisfied in life.

  Basilio maintained a fleet of some of the best sports cars a man could lust for. After finishing many rounds of drinks, Kabir decided to have some fun with his host. He proposed to have a race. The host agreed and suggested they go to Summerlin Parkway, a road a few miles away from his home.

  They started their beauties. Kabir chose a Dodge Viper, a cobalt-blue coupe, while Basilio and his wife settled inside a metallic black Porsche Cayman. In a few minutes, they reached the Rampart Boulevard Entrance of the parkway from where their race would start.

  They came out of their cars to light up and enjoy the pure and balmy breeze. It was a peaceful night and not a single vehicle was visible. Kabir appreciated the open space and serenity around the area and thought of building a house there for himself. It would be a Mughal-style building, he made up his mind.

  Basilio instructed, ‘The race starts from here, the Rampart Boulevard Entrance. We take the parkway and pass by the first two exits on it: the Durango Drive and then the Buffalo Drive. Then, after we reach the Rainbow Boulevard Exit, we take the first U-turn and race our way back to the Rampart Boulevard Exit, where our race ends.’ He pointed towards the other side of the road.

  Basilio then extracted a small glassine bag containing white crystalline powder. He dropped some of it and spread it on the bonnet of his Porsche. The two then, along with Julianne, snorted the powder to their heart’s content.

  They took their positions in their cars. The race began.

  In less than ten seconds, the two-door Dodge Viper gathered 125 miles per hour. Kabir gasped. What a take off! Within a minute, he was at least a hundred metres ahead of the Spanish racer, until the Porsche Cayman—also a two-door coupe—emerged from behind a curve on the road. Kabir steered the fine American machine along the long curves, experiencing a feeling that added to his high.

  He passed by the Durango Drive Exit on his right. As he drove up a crest of the road and glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw Basilio’s Cayman now trailing about fifty metres behind him. Before Kabir could fix his eyes again on the road ahead, the Cayman passed by his car like a leaf in the wind and he guessed Julianne waved teasingly at him as it did. Not wanting to lose, he jammed the gas pedal down under his shoe, as though he were crushing a spider. The car almost lifted off the road.

  He passed by the Buffalo Drive Exit. But the Cayman was nowhere to be seen. Did I overtake him? Kabir was not sure as he drove on, shooting a quick glance at the speedometer, which indicated his lady was flying above 140 miles an hour. Seven seconds after he crossed the Buffalo Drive Exit, the Cayman came into view before him. What speed is he at? Two hundred? Kabir slowed down as he saw a signboard showing the direction for the Rainbow Boulevard Exit—the point of return—and watched Basilio’s Cayman go for a killer U-turn. He followed him and took the turn to reach the other side of the road. Basilio had disappeared again.

  Kabir squinted at the well-lit road. Again, he pushed the gas pedal down to the floor and within seconds, the vehicle attained the speed of a hurricane. Wickedly, he smiled. For a few seconds, he flew at 150 miles an hour. ‘Man!’ he uttered, slowing down after sucking in the thrill and hitting the steering wheel with the mount of his palm.

  The impact was so strong that the Dodge Viper veered off the road. Kabir jammed his foot on the brake pedal but the sports car went skidding over the gravel along the road, its wheels making a crashing sound on the silver stones. He was sure he was going to die. The car did not stop and skidded towards a herd of trees. He steered away, yet it hit one of them. The forceful collision turned the vehicle 180 degrees, slammed his face into the steering wheel, and threw his foot off the brake pedal. It moved a few metres more before juddering to an abrupt halt, about ten yards off the road.

  ‘Where on earth is he, Shinde? It’s one o’ clock in the morning,’ cried Anwar.

  ‘Again you’re turning to me for an answer I don’t have. He never told me where he was going and as usual, his phone is off too. I’ll have to cancel our flight if he doesn’t return in time,’ said Shinde helplessly.

  ‘What?’ objected Priya. ‘You can’t do that. I have shoots lined up in India.’

  Sam, Sarika, and Jayant looked on, agreeing with her.

  ‘Then I suggest all of you carry on. I will stay back and wait for him,’ said Shinde.

  Anwar was fuming. ‘What a tragedy!’ His usual remark about the actor. For the past one hour, they had been trying to contact him. ‘I suggest all of you, along with the crew, head to the airport. Shinde and I will stay back, as Kabir could be in trouble.’

  The cast exited the room to get ready for the flight.

  Basilio Narvaez had finished the race and he eagerly waited with Julianne for their guest at the Rampart Boulevard Exit. Sometime later, they decided to go and find him.

  ‘What could be the problem?’ asked Julianne, as Basilio drove to the starting point of the race.

  ‘Can’t say. Maybe he took a wrong exit.’ He turned his head from one side to another. ‘Or worse, met with an accident.’

  ‘It’s possible the car broke down …'

  ‘Did you see any when we
raced back?’ asked Basilio.

  ‘Come on, Basy. How many times, when you’ve driven me at your jet speeds, have I been able to see even the nearest building outside?’ Then facing him, she asked, ‘You overtook him after the Durango Drive Exit, didn’t you?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I lost him for some time and just before reaching the Rainbow Boulevard Exit, I saw the Viper coming behind me. That was the last time I saw it, after which I took a U-turn. Then I must have raced at more than 160 miles an hour for a few seconds.’

  ‘That means he never crossed our car and finished the race before you.’

  Basilio Narvaez turned to his wife and thought she must be out of her mind to say something so funny.

  Kabir was unconscious for about an hour before he moved between the airbag and his seat. He bled from his nose and his head ached. He took some time to recall what happened and checked his watch. It was 2.06 a.m. It was the first time, since he left the hotel that evening, he realised that he should have saved Basilio’s phone number. Kabir had surprised the racer when he had showed up at his house that evening without even bothering to call and inform him. He hated using a phone.

  Not caring to switch it on and inform someone at the hotel, he slid his seat back, reached into the glove box, and took out a flashlight and a first-aid box. Slowly, he shifted out of the car and, putting the flashlight on, went round it. The right headlight had crashed and the front fender of the same side had wrinkled up like a piece of cloth. The left headlight was on.

  He was sweating profusely. Going back to his seat, he opened the first-aid box and extracted an antiseptic bottle and a cotton roll. There was an internal injury in his nose. Though the bleeding had stopped, it pained as he pressed its bridge to examine it.

  After he wiped the drying blood around his nostrils with the antiseptic, he shut the door and turned the ignition on. The Dodge Viper started as if nothing ever happened. He let out a heavy sigh and accelerated the damaged car. As it moved, he could hear the knocking of a metallic object coming from somewhere around one of the front wheels. Not caring, he steered it to the road and drove in the wrong direction. He did not remember the name of the exit where the race was to end and drove mindlessly, hoping to find his way back to Canyon Gate where Basilio lived.

  Kabir lowered the front windows. The wind was cool. After taking many turns and U-turns and driving without a sense of direction, he reached an intersection and saw a signboard that read, ‘Gragson Freeway’. ‘Could that be the road to Canyon Gate?’ he asked himself. He was sleepy and still high. The flight is at four. Abbas must be going insane. He sniggered as the director’s wailing face flashed before his eyes. He drove on confidently like a native of the place until he noticed another signboard, indicating for a left turn. It read, ‘Kyle Canyon Road’.

  ‘Is this the one for Canyon Gate?’ he asked himself again and steered towards the road.

  After some time, a signboard baffled him. It read, ‘Mount Charleston Base, 20 miles’. ‘Mount Charleston? God, where am I?’ He faintly recalled watching a travel programme on television about the mountain. Mt Charleston is the highest mountain in the Spring Mountains, its summit 12,000 feet above sea level. He checked the gas indicator. It was still almost full.

  He drove ahead with one headlight on.

  The road got steeper and the trees greener as he drove up. By the time he had covered fifteen miles more, the temperature had dropped by at least twenty degrees and the surroundings were like a hill station.

  At around 5.30 in the morning, Kabir reached what looked like a small village at the base of Mt Charleston. He was now 8,500 feet above sea level and it was like winter. After crossing a ski and snowboard resort, he decided to stop. ‘I’ve got to drive up to the damn peak,’ he muttered, his head still in an intoxicated daze as he adjusted his seat for a nap.

  A group of four villagers—sturdy men in faded jackets and muddy jeans—watching from a distance, approached the car and knocked on its window. Startled, Kabir sat upright. He had barely closed his eyes. By the look on their faces, he was sure they did not believe in hospitality. He lowered the window on his side.

  ‘Hey, ya need some help?’ asked the tallest of them.

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘Whatcha doin’ here?

  Kabir faked a calm look. ‘Am on a long drive.’

  ‘Lon’ drive? Ahaan …’ The man could see the car was damaged. ‘Where’re ya from?’

  Kabir disliked answering questions. ‘Mars,’ he said.

  ‘Kid, you gotta answer what the presiden’ is askin’,’ advised the man’s comrade standing behind. He had a guttural voice and a bushy moustache.

  The other two began to hit the car with the sides of their fists, as if to see if it was a tough one. Kabir was aware he wasn’t a celebrity in this part of the world. Even if he told them he was a movie star in India, big as DiCaprio, they would not believe him and that would only provoke them more.

  ‘Hey, come out!’ shouted the tallest man.

  Kabir ran his eyes around. The road he had driven on had merged into a man-made, flat, and circular ground where his car stood. About thirty yards from there, in front, was a deep trench. He realised he had parked himself on top of a cliff. Within seconds, he started the car and applied all his force on the gas pedal. The Dodge Viper’s wheels sprang off the ground. Trying to stop him, the man with the moustache grabbed Kabir’s shoulder, but the vehicle had moved. The sudden movement wrenched the man’s hand and he cried in pain.

  He braked a few feet before the end of the ground. The wheels skidded to the edge. While he steered the vehicle to his right to stop it from falling into the trench, the front wheel on his side went off the edge and hung in the air. The men came after him and one of them opened fire. Kabir ducked under his seat and the movement made the right rear wheel of the coupe go off the ground. Like a seesaw, the sports car lurched a few times diagonally over the brink of the cliff … and began to glide down.

  The men ran to the point and watched the Viper go down like a toy car … into the pit of the trench.

  ‘What a maniac. Died for nothin’,’ said one of them.

  47

  Delhi.

  Fotedar had been in jail for more than a week. Many other ministers and politicians involved in the exploitation also faced imprisonment. Mahendra Mattoo was arrested after he recovered and in his defence, he stated that the story was a political conspiracy against him based on a tampered video. The story hung for days and reached the farthest areas of the country.

  A close friend visited Fotedar in jail and informed him about Freedom’s film on air, which was shot at his welfare home. Without delay, Fotedar rang up Jaggi Balraj. He had bribed the authorities to keep his phone with him.

  ‘Hello, Mr Fotedar. How’s everything?’ asked the builder merrily from the other end.

  ‘Balraj, you’ll have to do my job now.’

  ‘And what about my job? Did you speak to Jaskirat Singh?’

  ‘I did. But the bastard doesn’t respond.’

  ‘Weren’t you so confident about him?’ scoffed Balraj. ‘Anyway, now sit back and wait. I’ll do your job once he gives me his nod for the buyout.’

  ‘Sit back and let those guys strip me in public? Have you watched their message on TV in support of the inmates?’

  ‘The whole world has been talking about it. Yeah, I have. Mr Fotedar, let things settle down at your end first. You don’t want more trouble. Do you?’

  ‘But Balraj—’

  ‘Hold on, you senseless man!’ The builder lost his temper. ‘Be careful of your surroundings before you take names.’ Then he apologised, ‘I’m sorry, but jail is where the best snoopers are.’ Balraj couldn’t have dared to talk to the MP in that manner earlier. ‘My honourable member of Parliament, think. In the current scenario, if Karan Jaani goes, who will come under suspicion? Not me.’

  ‘You think. If he goes, the other two lads won�
��t take long to wind up and go on a pilgrimage. That’ll help me walk out of jail faster. Only then I’ll be able to do your job. It is Jaani who’s behind everything and I want him out of my way—at once.’

  After a momentary silence, Balraj said, ‘I’ll think over it and get back to you.’

  ‘When?’

  Balraj had ended the call.

  48

  Harish Shinde, who was still in Las Vegas with Abbas Anwar, helping the investigation teams by providing details about Kabir, was tired of answering calls from various film producers and directors.

  It had been more than forty-eight hours since the Dodge Viper fell into the deep trench, but the local police were unable to trace Kabir or his dead body, despite intense ground and aerial searches.

  Some scattered remains of the car were extracted from the pit of the trench. Basilio Narvaez identified them and confirmed it was his car. The Indian government urged the US, more out of media and public pressure, to intensify the search.

  After carrying out more unsuccessful searches in the other parts of the Spring Mountains, the investigation teams concluded that Kabir had, most probably, died in the accident and the wild animals in the pine forest had preyed on his dead body.

  ‘Kabir Raja feared dead’—the news stunned the people of India and the actor’s fans all over the world. Those who idolised him and stood by him in his struggles, now earnestly prayed for his life. That was no age to go. The producers of films, which the actor had signed, could lose more than two hundred crore rupees if he was declared dead. Vikram Shah had already decided to produce a film on Kabir’s life. He knew there wouldn’t be a star like him ever again.

  The media milked the suspense endlessly. Daily, several versions of the superstar’s survival or death were created and dismissed. Kabir’s critics had turned into his supporters for once but could not refrain from commenting about his indulgences, which, they said, possibly led him to where he was.