He rushed at my throat, but I dodged away and backed off toward the car.
‘Why don’t we just do this?’ I said, loosening up. ‘My guess is, you’re all talk. Let’s find out, and get this over with. If you kick my ass, and you’re prepared to shake and be friends, I’ll be happy to admit you’re the better man. If I win, you stay the fuck away from me and mine. Sound fair to you, Govinda?’
‘Yes, boss,’ he answered automatically.
‘Shut up, you fool,’ Concannon snapped.
‘I think your gunman has his conscience on safety,’ I said. ‘Let’s do this without a gun, Concannon. Sound fair to you, Govinda?’
‘Shut up!’ Concannon shouted. ‘Shut up everybody!’
He looked me up and down for a while.
Am I right? Am I right, now, when I look back to that smile on my enemy’s face, and see reluctance, in a man who loved to fight?
‘Okay, if it’s a fight you want, Convict, then you’ve come to the right place. You don’t mind if I play a little music, do ya? I always play music, when I’m beatin’ a man black and blue. I’ve been thinking of bringin’ out an album, of my favourite hits, like.’
He snapped on a disc player, connected to speakers in the car. Irish music kicked from the red Pontiac. Concannon shaped up, his hands in front, on guard.
‘Let’s have at you, then,’ he said.
I ran at him, falling to the ground, and punching at his thigh, exactly where Abdullah had shot him. I got in two hard shots as I passed. He yelped in pain, and dropped his knee.
I scrambled up, and shoved in under his guard, reaching up for one of his eyes. I let him swing at the back of my head. I felt the blows hit, but didn’t feel any pain. I closed my fingers, digging into his eye socket.
He jerked away quickly. I scratched one socket enough to make him close it, blinking blood.
One eye closed, one knee bent, he swung at me in a combination from habit, just as Naveen had warned me. I dodged, ducked, and came in close enough to put my fingers in his collarbone. I pulled it down, putting all my bodyweight in a dead fall to the floor. The bone came loose and he screeched, his arm swaying in the pain.
Prison fighting isn’t about fighting. Prison fighting is about winning, and dead.
‘So, it’s like that, is it?’ he asked, trying to dance away from me, and rubbing at his eye.
‘Yeah. It’s like that.’
He danced back again, but I dropped to the floor and grabbed at his balls, twisting as I fell. I didn’t let go. He fell awkwardly, trying to protect his legacy.
I scrambled to my knees, and hit him as hard as I could. It wasn’t enough, so I hit him again.
He swayed in place, sitting on the floor. He was laughing, and still holding his balls with his good hand. He laughed, rocking back and forth like a baby on a blanket.
‘You cheated, as this man is my witness,’ he said, pointing at Oleg.
‘And that piece of lead you hit me with last time? What was that, Marquess of Londonderry rules? The twenty-four-hour contract you put on my life? That was fair and square? This is your chance to shut up and listen for a change. Leave me alone, Concannon.’
‘You cheated, son,’ he said, trying to laugh. ‘You’ll have to confess that sin, you know.’
‘If you don’t stop coming after me, I’ll have a bigger sin to confess.’
‘You know, boyo, I liked you a lot more when you were dead,’ he laughed, one eye closed and bloody. ‘Govinda, shoot this fucking convict. Shoot the cunt in the head.’
It happened fast. Govinda moved his hand. Oleg pulled a knife, slashed him across the face, and pulled the gun from his hand before shock hit the floor.
Govinda screamed in pain, knowing that his movie-hero face had been recast. Oleg hit him with his own gun, and he was quiet.
The Afghan still had his cards in his hand, like a tiny fan. I had my knife in my hand. Oleg had the gun.
‘If I were you, friend, I’d run,’ Oleg smiled, the gun at his side. ‘No matter how good your hand is.’
The Afghan dropped his cards and ran.
‘You’ve dislocated me collarbone, ya cunt,’ Concannon said, his head lolling to the side. ‘I can’t even raise me arm. If I could, I could knock you out with a single blow, we both know that.’
‘Leave . . . me . . . alone.’
‘Lovely, lovely, lovely Lisa,’ he said.
I hit him again. He went backwards until the floor stopped him, his arms at his sides, but he wasn’t out.
What do I do? I thought. Can I kill him? Not unless he’s trying to kill me. Concannon was lying on the floor with one eye closed and a busted collarbone. He hadn’t even tried to get up. He was still talking, though, and chuckling, as if it was a joke he couldn’t stop telling himself.
Oleg didn’t like it. He wanted to gag him, but I pointed out that the karmic burden would be his, if Concannon choked to death on the gag.
Oleg hit him, instead, and he was good at it. Concannon slumbered, and we left him in the care of the injured Govinda. I warned him that he’d lose more than a cheek, if I ever saw him in the south again.
‘I’m taking your gun,’ Oleg told him. ‘If you want it back, I’ll kill you with it.’
We jogged back to the bike in silence. I stopped him, when we reached it, to thank him.
‘The six thousand from tonight,’ I said, handing him the money. ‘I’ll have the rest, and a bonus, tomorrow. I’ll be at Leo’s at five. What you did back there, I owe you.’
‘I would hate to see that Irishman drunk,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder.
‘I hope I never see him again in any condition. You did really good, Oleg.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling.
‘You smile a lot, don’t you?’
‘I’m happy, most of the time. It’s my cross, but I try to bear it with good humour. I have my sadness, but it doesn’t stop me from being happy. You want to work on a short story with me?’
‘Are you really a writer?’
‘Of course.’
‘Those were some pretty snappy lines, back there.’
‘Lines?’
‘Telling the Afghan to leave, no matter how good his hand was. Telling Krishna that you’d kill him with his own gun.’
‘Russian movies,’ he said, frowning. ‘You mean, you don’t know dialogue from Russian movies? You’ll love it. It’s great material.’
We rode back to Colaba. I shook Oleg’s hand, and left him outside a tourist hotel, on the strip.
Vanity hides in pride. I left Oleg standing by the side of the road, after he’d saved my life, telling myself that I didn’t need anyone, not even a good man like him. But the truth was that I left him because I liked him, and knew that Karla would probably like him as much as I did, or more. It’s a shame, my shame, to admit it, but I left that good man on the street because I was a little jealous of him, and Karla hadn’t even met him.
Chapter Sixty-One
I had to find Abdullah. I had to know whatever he had or hadn’t done with Concannon. I rode to the Nabila mosque, and Null Bazaar, and all the other places where Abdullah found comfort in the comradeship of hardcore criminals. I was angry. My fists were bleeding. I wasn’t polite, even to people I liked.
‘Where’s Abdullah?’ I asked, again and again, the engine of my bike growling.
Hard men who put their lives on the line demand respect, and there was some blowback.
‘Fuck you, Lin. You wanna look down my gun? He might be hiding in there.’
‘Fuck you. Where’s Abdullah?’
I found him singing at an all-night festival of Sufi singers. They were doing a long chant of Ali Munna, and I knew it could go on for hours, the singers passing chillums in glowing baton circles.
I caught Abdullah’s eye, and he stood at once,
threading his bare feet delicately among the seated singers.
We walked outside to a dusty, gravel parking area, bordered by trees.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ he said, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek.
‘Wa aleikum salaam. What the fuck, Abdullah? Did you kill someone with that Irishman, Concannon? Is that why you shot him twice, that day? To shut him up?’
‘Come with me,’ Abdullah said gravely, leading me by the arm.
We walked a few paces to a space beneath a wide arch of magnolia branches, dancing the occasional breeze in slow time. We sat on a row of large stones, left in the open space as barriers for parked cars.
The singers continued in the tent, a few metres away. A crow, out too late or too early, called from a branch above our heads.
Two bright lights strung on a tracery of wires showed the entrance to the singers’ tent. It was an impromptu devotion, assembled from time to time in different places, wherever permission was given, and disassembled without a trace soon after dawn each time.
It was peaceful, and safe, because everyone believed that to disturb such pure devotion, once begun, would bring a curse on seven generations. It was a risk that no-one was willing to take, not even rival gangsters. Sometimes, it’s the unborn generations that protect us.
‘We took contracts from outside our own Company,’ Abdullah began. ‘It was Sanjay’s decision. I think that he had political motives, but that is only my thought. The first job was the killing of a businessman.’
He stopped, and I gave him time. I’d ridden a long way, and it had been a hard day’s nightmare.
‘The Irishman was offering himself to every Company. Sanjay hired him, and sent me with him, to see that it went well.’
He stopped again.
‘But it didn’t go well,’ I prompted.
‘His wife and daughter were at home. They were not supposed to be there. They saw us, and could identify us, but I could not kill them.’
‘Of course not.’
‘But . . . Concannon killed them, and I let him kill them, and I listened to it, as he did it, and I am cursed by it.’
Abdullah, Abdullah, invincible Abdullah. I felt him slipping away from me, as love does, sometimes, when the bridge is too far, and the earth on the way to it becomes sand.
‘What have you done, man?’
‘He cut their throats,’ he said.
‘Oh, God.’
‘It was in all the newspapers. You must have seen it.’
Husband strangled, wife and daughter killed, money stolen: I remembered the story. I remembered not liking the story.
‘After that,’ Abdullah said, ‘I told Concannon that if I ever saw him again, I would kill him. I cut his connection to the Company, and Sanjay sent our contracts to the Cycle Killers, instead.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? The guy put a contract out on me, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I was ashamed,’ he said.
‘Ashamed?’
Ashamed. I knew shame. And he was my brother, and brotherhood has no sky.
‘You should’ve told me, Abdullah. We’re brothers.’
‘But, if you had shunned me, for my shameful acts?’
Fate makes you a judge, as often as you’re judged. I was an escaped convict, doing black market business on the streets, and Abdullah lifted me to the bench, gavel in hand. I wanted to hit him with it.
‘You should’ve told me.’
‘I know,’ he said, hanging his head.
‘No more secrets,’ I said. ‘You and Didier, I swear, you love your secrets, both of you.’
‘No more secrets,’ he repeated.
‘On your oath, as a soldier?’
‘On my oath.’
‘Good. Keep your eyes open. I visited Concannon tonight, and he’ll either back off, or he’ll come out of the cave biting.’
‘You went without me?’
‘I was okay. I had some help.’
‘Did you beat him?’ Abdullah asked, brightening again.
‘It got messy. Keep your head up.’
‘I am proud of you, Lin,’ he said.
‘That makes one of us,’ I said. ‘It shouldn’t have happened, but he’s a hard man to reason with.’
‘Shall we go in, and join in the singing?’ he suggested.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve gotta get home. Karla might be there. See you soon, brother.’
I rode back toward the Island City, swinging through long, wide Marine Drive before heading back to the Amritsar hotel. The road was deserted. The sea wall was deserted. The houses on my left were sleeping, sending peace into the ocean.
Then I saw a man, playing the guitar. He was sitting under a streetlight in the partition on the centre of the boulevard.
It was Oleg. I pulled up beside him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Playing the guitar,’ he said happily.
‘Why are you playing the guitar in the middle of the road?’
‘The acoustics are perfect here,’ he smiled, infuriatingly. ‘The sea behind me, and the buildings in front. It’s perfect. Do you play guitar? We should play here together. We could –’
I rode away and reached Nariman Point before I turned back, and drew up beside him again.
‘You wanna get drunk?’ I asked, the bike rumbling.
‘With you?’ he asked, suspiciously.
I rode away again and reached Nariman Point before I turned back, and drew up beside him again.
‘Yes! I’d love to get drunk,’ he said.
‘Get on the bike, Oleg.’
‘Can I drive?’
‘Don’t ever talk about my motorcycle like that again.’
‘Okay,’ he said, climbing up behind me, the guitar slung at his side. ‘Just so long as we know where the boundaries are.’
‘Hang on tight.’
‘Are we going to fight someone, when we get drunk?’
‘No.’
‘Not even each other?’
‘Get off the bike, Oleg.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ll stay sober if we’re going to fight each other, because you fight dirty.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘We Russians can’t fight dirty. That’s why we’re such pushovers.’
‘Oleg, if you say the word Russian once more, I’ll throw you off in a curve.’
‘What am I supposed to say? I’m Russian, after all.’
‘Let’s call them R-people.’
‘Got it,’ he said, holding on. ‘We R-people are quick on the uptake.’
He was a good passenger, and it was fun, riding with him. I was in a good mood as we parked the bike and climbed the stairs to my rooms at the Amritsar hotel.
Just as we approached my door, Karla opened hers, going somewhere else.
She was in a sleeveless evening dress, and high sneakers. Her hair was twisted into a knot, and fixed with a swordfish rib-bone she’d bought at the fish market. She’d cleaned it, polished it, and fixed one of her jewelled rings to the wider end. It reflected the lights of the room behind her.
‘Wow,’ Oleg said, peering into the Bedouin tent.
‘Karla, this is Oleg. He’s a Russian writer, and a good man in a bad corner. Oleg, this is Karla.’
Karla looked me up and down, her head tilting like the woman in the glittering black burkha in the Tuareg’s house of arches. Something was wrong: more wrong than usual. She looked at Oleg. She smiled.
‘Bad corners, huh?’
‘Karla,’ Oleg said, kissing her hand. ‘What a lovely name. I have a special love, and I call her Karlesha. It’s my love name for her. It’s an honour to meet you. And if I flirt with you, your boyfriend says he will cut me.’
‘Oh, he will, huh?’ Karla smiled.
>
‘You know what,’ I said, ‘Oleg and I came here tonight to get drunk, in my room. It’s been a long night. A rough night. Would you like to join us?’
‘Would I like to, or would I be willing to?’
‘Karla.’
‘It’s a fair question,’ Oleg said.
I looked at him.
‘I’m only saying . . . ’
‘No, thanks,’ Karla said, switching off the lights, slamming shut the door to her room and locking several locks. ‘But, you know what, I’ve got an offer for you, Oleg.’
She turned to face him, all sixteen queens.
‘What kind of an offer?’ Oleg asked amiably.
‘We need field agents, and you look right.’
‘Field agents?’
‘Let’s open that bottle of oblivion, Oleg,’ I suggested. ‘And get drunk.’
‘We’ve got a bureau, one door along from mine,’ Karla said, leaning against the doorframe. ‘And we need field agents with spike. Have you got spike, Oleg?’
‘I can be spiky,’ Oleg said. ‘But what makes you think I’ve got the right stuff?’
She jerked her thumb at me.
‘He wouldn’t introduce you to me, if you didn’t. Are you in?’
He looked at me.
‘Will you cut me, if I accept?’
‘Of course he won’t,’ Karla said.
He looked back at Karla.
‘Great!’ Oleg said. ‘Fired and employed twice, in the same day. I knew I’d get rich in this city. When do I start?’
‘Ten,’ Karla said. ‘Put on a nice shirt.’
Oleg smiled engagingly. Karla smiled back. I wanted to choke Oleg with a nice shirt.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So, I’ll see you soon.’
I went to kiss her, to hug her, to smell the ocean, to go home, but she held me back, her hands on my chest.
‘Go inside, Oleg,’ I said, throwing him the keys.
He opened the door, and gasped.
‘Holy minimalism,’ he said, alone with my decor. ‘It’s Solzhenitsyn in here, man!’
‘What’s going on, Karla?’ I asked her, when we were alone with whatever was going on.
She looked at my face as if it was a maze, and she’d found her way out of it before. She stared at my lips, my forehead, and my eyes.
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