by Vish Dhamija
Well, everyone made mistakes, he finally acknowledged. But he had to be exceptionally vigilant in future. A fresh frisson of fear passed through his body. This must be serious if his mystery client made him follow a target and then hire another team to follow the same target.
He decided he would not send his client any response, as it made no sense in explaining himself or apologising at this point. He also decided he'd speak to DCP Rita Ferreira — or better still Jatin who was a little friendlier than that arrogant woman — and ask them not to follow Honey Singh, as that would jeopardise his business. Should he mention the threat? No, he decided, not for now. He didn't think it was needed, and that was Handlebar's first mistake. Had Rita Ferreira and Co. known there was another set of people following Honey Singh, perhaps they would have caught up with them and have known who Sishir Singh or Mr Raja's elusive client was.
Handlebar's second and even bigger mistake was that he decided to play James Bond and call the shots from then on. He concluded he had to get into the game wholeheartedly and expose the identity of his mystery client, after all.
But when you are a textbook idiot and your IQ was the same as the RPM of a long playing gramophone record and you want to fight a nameless, faceless opponent whose wicked genius is so off the charts that it has baffled the Interpol think tank, such resolution was not simply dangerous; it could be lethal. David and Goliath is a fable, and Santa Claus isn't real, but Mr Handlebar Joginder Raja was determined, overconfident and a lot unrealistic.
Pollyannaish is the word Sexy would have used to describe Mr Handlebar Joginder Raja: unrealistically optimistic.
It was past dusk when Rita left the office; even the shadows were long gone. The night was black, the breeze cool. Stars shone and the night sky over the Arabian Sea was clear, but the sea was anything but quiet. The waves splashed against the rocks and the promenade hard enough to be audible, even with the windows in her white Jetta 1.4 petrol rolled up. Surely, the Germans took the Indian small-engine-fuel-economy penchant very seriously. However, the small 1.4 litre engine was nippy.
Rita was lost in her thoughts — the case, for once, taking a back seat. From the moment she had re-met Ash Mattel — decades after college — she was cognisant that there could be no long-term-forever-me-and-you relationship. The awkward part was that the transience had outlived her anticipation and was now beginning to accord a sense of permanence. Both of them had to move on, and she was aware that it had to culminate at some point, hopefully with civility. Love on separate continents wasn't feasible or advisable. When she wasn't prepared to give up her career for her first love — the one that breathes in you, the one who you dream of, that love, unfortunately, only happens once in a lifetime, all else is a beautiful compromise; didn't they repetitively say that? Why would she sacrifice her career now? She had for long played the joker in the circus of love. She fitted everywhere and nowhere. A poster girl for failed romances. She sounded like a bad case of Mills & Boons. She shook herself out of the disheartening thought. There wasn't any purpose in keeping the past alive unless you were a masochist.
Nevertheless, she believed in love; as much as she could with a twice-broken heart. Frighteningly, though it wasn't love, it felt special. She couldn't pinpoint how or why, like sometimes you can't. Most men couldn't close their eyes and explain purely in words how to tie a good knot around their necks; that didn't mean those men couldn't wear ties. That meant they couldn't describe it. It is a well-known fact that no one could really describe how it felt to have a sneeze or an orgasm; that didn't mean people didn't have either.
The Oberoi's is a legendary hotel. As she drove to it in the light traffic she wondered who were these conference organisers that had the wherewithal to spend that kind of moolah to fly guests from all over the world and then park their Armani-clad arses at The Oberoi. And if they, indeed, discussed criminal psychology sitting around the table with expensive pastries, sandwiches and coffees, why were the police never invited to these sessions? Maybe she could bring real life experience into these. Or maybe she could learn some new theory that could be practised.
She arrived at the hotel at nine minutes past eight. As anywhere else in Mumbai there seemed a competition for parking spaces. She was quite pleased when the valet took her car and gave her the token. She smiled at the doorman and briskly faded into the hotel crowd. The hotel staff was either busy or uninterested in a lady walking into the lobby. Why should they? It was a public place, albeit rights of admission reserved, but Rita didn't look like some street urchin or a hooker.
***
Ash was true to his word. He finished the dinner with the other conference guests, said his byes and goodnights and rushed out of the restaurant. Eight-thirty-seven. He rushed to the hotel lobby to check if Rita was waiting for him. Nope. He walked to the reception to check if he had had any visitor, any messages. Nada. He wandered in the lobby for a few minutes, his eyes glued to the entrance to catch a glimpse of Rita before she saw him. He gave up after ten minutes and decided to go up and wait in his room.
Out of the elevator he slid his card-key into the slit and opened the dark door.
'Hands up.'
He felt the cold barrel of a gun on his back, but he smiled; he didn't freak out or pass out with fear.
***
'Wowo-wo! How did you get in here?'
Ash wore a natural linen suit, open-collared white shirt and shiny tan shoes. He looked every bit ready to go out on a date. Or come to see her as it were.
'I turned on my charm, what do you think?' Rita lied. She had unscrupulously used her police badge, albeit not enforcing it but proving her credentials.
'Really? And they let you in?'
'Yes. I told them I'm your local Mumbai girlfriend.'
'Local Mumbai girlfriend?' Ash mused. 'As opposed to girlfriend from...?'
'The one from England.'
'I have no girlfriend in England at this point in time.'
'Scotland then?'
'Nope.'
'Northern Ireland?'
'Nope.'
'The Netherlands.'
'That's not even in the United Kingdom.'
'But you have someone there?' Rita raised her eyebrows for effect.
'No. What's this now, an interrogation into the life and times of Ash Mattel? I thought you had an important case you were working on.'
'I am a woman, I am programmed to multi-task.' Rita took off her linen jacket, the gun in holster showing.
Ash turned around and took her in his arms.
The kiss lasted several minutes. Tongues met, entwined, explored each other's mouth, performed a serpentine ballet while their hands explored the bodies till Ash's slid down and traced the gun in the holster.
'I always wanted to see an attractive woman carrying a gun in just her lingerie,' he said as the mouths detached after the oral probing.
'You've watched too many episodes of Xena the warrior princess.'
'She didn't wear just lingerie.'
'She didn't wear much if I remember correctly.'
Rita unhooked her Smith & Wesson, pointed it towards the ceiling and carefully unloaded the cartridges while doing a mental count to ensure she didn't leave any inside the chamber. Ash hadn't used the safe locker provided in the room yet, so she placed the gun and cartridges inside the solid steel receptacle and locked it for the night.
'There I've just killed your dream.' Rita gestured towards the locked safe.
'Only part of the dream I hope.'
They kissed again.
The room was actually a suite. Rita always wondered why hotel rooms had such serious looking furniture made of solid wood. She got the wear-and-tear part but wouldn't they want to change stuff every so many years? An ornate writing desk that no one used these days. A bed strong enough that elephants could make love on it. The bed wasn't facing the window; the window with the view was on the left. And the view wasn't just another ocean view, it had the ocean as the only view unless one came
really close to the windows and looked down at the street and the traffic. Both of them drifted towards the window and admired the seascape. Rita stood in front, Ash behind her with his arms around her trim waist. The sun having retreated, it was dark outside now. The famous Queen's Necklace was visible down below, the lights diffused in the slender mist that tended to envelop everything when it was adjacent to the sea. Mumbai went to bed and got up early; it didn't sleep, it merely took power naps. There were still vehicles on the road below but the vertical distance between the traffic and them on the fifth floor muted all unwanted sound. The iconic Gateway of India, which was roughly two kilometres from the hotel, was right behind them in a straight line. Till the far vista it was only dark waters with a few twinkling lights of patrol boats.
'So is it a sea or an ocean?' Ash asked. Rita could sense his fingers unfastening the top button of her shirt.
'It's rhetoric. It isn't like land that humans own and create boundaries. How can anyone really determine where the Arabian Sea ends and where the Indian Ocean starts or draw a line between any two bodies of water for that matter? It's not like the colour changes as one crosses that imaginary line.'
Rita's shirt was totally unbuttoned now. She felt Ash's breath on her neck as he raised her arms and slipped her out of it. From there on it was a matter of minutes before he unbelted her and let her jeans drop like they were several sizes too big. She stepped out of them like a coy Barbie, still facing the sea or ocean despite him having unfolded his arms around her; the clang of the metal buckle and the rustle of clothes behind her back conveyed to her he was undone too.
'You look spectacular,' he softly murmured in her ear.
Rita closed her eyes.
'The Lord Almighty did a real major design fault,' Ash whispered when both were absolutely sans clothes with him still behind her.
'Do enlighten me.' For some strange reason both had dropped their voices to whispers. It wasn't like someone stood outside Ash's hotel room with one ear to the door to hear what they discussed. Or did.
'You see, he should have made a woman taller than the man.' He explicated, his hands now on her waist and moving upwards.
'I'm not sure I am following you.'
'With the woman being taller than the man, the man wouldn't have to bend.' His tongue was in her ear like a viper lapping into a rabbit burrow. 'But, I guess man has improvised on God's design, that's why women wear high heels, isn't it?'
'What—' Rita was already in a pleasant delirium with Ash's hands and tongue all over her; her body was several degrees warmer now than when she had arrived at the hotel. She had wanted to ask what he meant by bending, but his next action left no room for questioning. Ash had bent his knees to align his torso beneath her, pulled her closer with his right arm around her abdomen and with his free hand he steered himself into her. Rita let out an involuntary gasp, she stretched her arms, splayed her legs a little and rested on the reinforced windows to bend her torso forward and provide Ash the leverage. Within seconds, both were in a sort of symphony of moment.
The lovemaking was intense, feral. They came like teenagers. Like some fountain that had been abeyant for a while and then, unexpectedly, the main valve broke somewhere and passion pushed open the gates with the enormous pressure. A much craved release of animalistic lust. Rita hadn't been with anyone since she had been with Ash last. Ash's breathing showed he hadn't been sleeping around either. She pressed her lower lip under her teeth to stifle the scream. His seed gushed in and, with her still vertical, navigated out and rolled down her thigh. Despite the air-conditioning both of them were sweating. And spent. He finally withdrew and she pirouetted and came into his arms.
How long could this last? Rita was reminded of all she had pondered while driving to the hotel in the evening, in the throes of passion when Ash was moving in her she had almost cried out love you but Sinatra had warned of such circumstances for generations now: “don't go and spoil it all by saying something stupid”.
'It was amazing,' is all she said.
'I'm off to New Delhi tomorrow, and will be back over the weekend,' Ash mentioned when they lay on the bed. Still sans clothes, but refreshed after the lovemaking.
'Is that an invitation for me to revisit you?'
'Why don't you stay with me over the weekend?'
''My boyfriend might not like that.' Rita yanked his chain again.
'You have a boyfriend?'
She burst out laughing. 'OK Ash Mattel, you have had your dinner, I haven't and I'm starving. Order something for your date while I have a shower please.'
'What'll you have?'
'Eggs, beans and toast.'
'And Champagne?'
'I can be persuaded,' she smiled.
Ash picked up the room service menu from the bedside table. Rita thought about covering herself with a sheet or walking in the nude. The clothes still lay commingled in a pile near the window where they had come off. She contemplated for a minute, then got up without covering herself and started walking towards the en suite bath.
'Has anyone told you you've got an ass to die for?' Ash had the room service menu in his hand still, but he was gazing at her rear.
'Thanks, that makes my day.'
'Thought it would be impolite not to compliment.'
'I wouldn't have minded at all.'
'Yes. I thought so but, your ass might.'
'Asshole.'
'Thank you. So that's how you take a compliment, girl.'
The bathroom was stocked with more soaps and shampoos and conditioners and moisturisers and lotions than Rita or Ash could possibly consume. What a waste of resources. Rita stepped into the shower and turned it on. As the first sprays hit her she reflected, once again, on her relationship with Ash. Sex with Ash Mattel was frighten-ingly good; it heightened her pathos of solitude further, the feeling of falling even deeper into the lonely crevasse. In her opinion, sex was much maligned when it was the purest of natural acts. But where was it headed? One day, she knew, she'd get a phone call from Ash telling her he'd found someone else in London. What then? She wasn't getting any younger, and she had no plans to die a spinster. And there were only as many times she could find an old college friend to romp with.
She stepped out of the shower. There was an overabundance of towels too. Possibly finest Egyptian cotton. White and thick. Thick enough that if one laid five of them on top of each other it would become a mattress. She dried herself and looked in the full-length mirror. Smooth, toned and in shape. She could see her effulgent self, looking back at her; she was happy and she looked it. What was wrong with that?
She walked out in the bathrobe.
'I ordered your dinner.'
'Thanks. Ash, let's make a pact…'
She could see Ash straighten up like he saw something serious in her eyes.
'What kind of pact?'
'If we're both single when we hit forty one of us will quit and move to the other.'
'You mean if we do not find someone else by then?'
'Yes.'
'Don't know about you, but I have too many women chasing me all over the world.'
'You're such a bastard. I'm being serious here.'
'You know, I've always liked smart, strong women, not daft and delicate ones. I truly appreciate your candour, your straightforwardness, I like that you know what you want. And I concur. It's a deal. But remember what they say: be careful what you wish for.'
'But what happens if I still want to work?'
'I will quit. I can always sit home, write papers, and travel as required.'
'That's the best thing someone's said to me in years. Thanks.' She kissed him, but before anything could happen there was a knock on the door.
'Room service.' Ash got under the sheets. Rita wrapped the bathrobe tightly and opened the door.
***
The eggs and beans and toasts were over. The Champagne was almost finished too. Both sat in bed. Ash still hadn't bothered to get back into his clothes, and Rita stil
l donned the bathrobe.
'So what's bothering you?' Ash began.
'The current case.'
'Care to tell me about it?'
Rita pondered a moment. Could she involve an outsider in a current investigation? She had in the past, but that had been with blessings from her then supervisor, Joshi. She couldn't just pick up her phone and call Sexy to check if she could consult a criminal psychologist without explaining. And what would she say she was doing with him at this hour? “We're part time lovers... strangers by day, discussing criminal cases by night?”
She decided to consult. Ash had been a great help then, Ash could be a great help now. She trusted him. To hell with the textbook.
She summarised the case to Ash carefully: Sishir Singh, his murder in Brussels, and his doppelgänger Honey Singh. She also narrated about Handlebar following Honey Singh, and that Handlebar had no idea who was making him perform that task. She told him about the computer wizardry.
'And you were chosen to lead this case because...? Ash asked when she finished.
'I'm told it was based on merit, but past success can be really scary sometimes. Sexy doesn't recognise that success is the coming together of skill and luck, and who would underwrite luck for me every time? I'm sure you know sometimes it's all about luck, and talent — or whatever you might want to call it — just gets a free ride. But, the downside of success is that it sometimes gives a false feeling to others about you being invincible. They think whatever goes up doesn't feel like it would ever come down. I haven't got a fucking clue how to crack this one. Seriously. Tell me what you think?'
Ash sat quiet for a few minutes like he was filing the information in his brain, shelving it in proper order to make sense. When he spoke his voice was very measured, his countenance serious, business-like.