by Amit Nangia
Quickies /kwi-kk-eez/
1. Noun (or maybe not) :
a short fight wherein the hero shows off his abs more than beating up the villain.
✓ Inspector Abhay Pandey had indulged in various quickies that had won him a few medals and promotions (not to forget a whole lot of girlfriends).
2. Verb :
a shot of eye-candy or tonic that gives instant energy.
✓ Daroga ji scanned her long legs and rounded bottom for a quickie. What would he not do for a quickie behind the same door that she had held open for him.
Don’t bother about the meaning of the word, just sit back and let Daring Daroga take over.
Other Quickies you can pick:
Dark Temptation: The Naughty Proposal!
Two strangers meet and kindle desires long repressed. Then they meet again and explore some more. Without the shackles of a relationship binding them down, they indulge in sinful pleasures, amorous games and unbridled passion. Will they end up in love? Or are they in for a surprise?
Criminal Masterminds: Catch Me? No You Can’t!
Raja Tiwari is freshly out of jail, and not just because of stealing hearts and killing with his looks. He is looking for a new job, and lands up in one, topped with a silky bonus.
With ex-cop Thakur, and the sexy Silky Sinha, he has to pull a task that could make him rich or land him back behind bars. Will he play his angle and beat everyone else to the end?
10 Rules of F**g Around
Ronnie Singh believes in the age-old adage - practice makes a man perfect - and he believes in practicing every day. With different partners. Or multiple partners.
While beer and hash form his staple diet, hooking up with a different chic is the prime motive of his life. An expert in this art, he has a few rules, which applied correctly can get him the girl of his dreams. Will his rules help him mount the pinnacle?
SRISHTI PUBLISHERS & DISTRIBUTORS
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New Delhi 110 019
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First published in Quickies by
Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Text copyright © Amit Nangia, 2015
Series copyright © Srishti Publishers & Distributors, 2015
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.
Disclaimer: The songs used herein are solely for entertainment purpose and reflect no other interests. While due care has been taken to give credit to copyright holders of the same, any omission is deeply regretted and shall be corrected in future editions. Song credits: pp. 1, 5: Dabangg (2010), T-Series; pp. 43, 44: Bodyguard (2011), T-Series; p. 69: Wanted (2009), T-Series; p. 98: Jai Ho (2014), Eros; p. 105: Gangs of Wasseypur (2012), Eagle Home Entertainment; p. 105: Shootout at Lokhandwala (2007), T-Series; p. 108: Apna Sapna Money Money (2006), Tips Industries Limited.
CONTENTS
Killer in the Shadows!
Police Constable Shukla shivered and stamped his feet as the wind rolled an empty beer can across the cobbled road. He checked his watch: ten minutes past seven. He wondered when inspector sahib would come, wishing him to come soon. He had far better things to do tonight than stand guard over a dead body.
Shukla pulled out a wad of chewing tobacco, rubbed some on his hand and stuffed it into his mouth. Above his head hung an enamel sign, the wrought-iron resembling a strangled body, creaking as it swung in the wind. The faded sign read Sulabh Shochalaya, with an arrow pointing downwards.
Shukla was still adjusting the tobacco in the folds of his lower lip when he heard the sound of a car approaching with a music system so loud, it seemed like a DJ playing at some wedding. “Hud hud dabbangg dabbangg” blared from the speakers. He almost danced two steps as he spit his tobacco aiming at the beer can. His aim was very good – not with the gun, but with the tobacco spit.
Headlights flared as a mud-splattered, dark green Mahindra Jeep rumbled over the stones, coming to an uncertain halt. To Shukla’s dismay, the music stopped. The door opened and a handsome man wearing a tailored, crisp police uniform hugging the bulging shoulders, broad chest and firmly shaped abs stepped out. With his glossy black hair, and an equally crisp red scarf round his neck, he looked more like a Bollywood hero than a policeman.
Shukla immediately stiffened to attention, but was waved at ease.
The wind found the beer can again and dribbled it across to the inspector, who gave a mighty kick and sent it flying through the air past Shukla’s ear, to rattle and bounce down the toilet steps.
Shukla grinned and swung his torch beam toward the depths. “Shall we go in, sir?”
“What’s the hurry to enter a toilet, Shuklaji? If he’s dead, he’ll wait for us. Besides, I’ve got my new uniform stitched today for Billo Rani and I don’t want to mess it up sooner than I have to.”
It was the Chhamia party tonight. Police Inspector Abhay Pandey had prevented yet another bank robbery and every victory was celebrated with female dancers (chhamia), booze and tandoori chicken.
Inspector Abhay fished a battered packet from his trouser pocket and brought out a cigarette. “Shuklaji, what the hell were you doing here at this hour?”
Shukla gulped in his tobacco. “Sirji kya karein, control hee nahi hua. Loose motions, that too in superfast motion, sirji.”
“Kya baat kartey ho Shuklaji. I don’t need the details of your shitting patterns. Tell me about the dead body. And speed it up. The alcohol at the party is going to run out before you reach the punch line.”
Taking the hint, Shukla speeded up his narrative, “As you know, sir, these toilets have an attendant only till 6.00 p.m.”
“I didn’t know,” grunted Abhay. “I always pee in shop doorways.”
“Anyway, sir,” continued Shukla doggedly, “I thought I’d better investigate.”
Abhay snorted. “Investigate what? Illegal peeing after 7.00 p.m.?”
“Not much more to tell, sirji. I went inside and found this man sprawled on the floor. He looked dead. And Dr. Nanda lives round the corner only, so I went and brought him here.”
“What did the quack say? “Abhay fiddled with his cigarette box.
“He found bloody knees and a damaged spinal cord. He said death was caused by a strong blow on the base of the skull. He has called the post-mortem team anyway and they should be here any moment.”
“I suppose we can’t put the evil moment off.” Abhay pinched out his cigarette and stuffed the butt back into the packet. “Let’s get inside before people think you’re trying to pick me up for the night.”
One hand gripping the iron handrail, he followed Shukla’s torch cautiously. The echoing, monotonous plopping sound of dripping water grew louder.
“Flaming hell, Shukla, it’s awash down here. You might have bloody warned me.”
“It wasn’t as bad as this before, I promise sirji,” said Shukla. “One of the tanks is overflowing and the body’s blocking the drain.”
“This gets better and better,” the inspector observed bitterly. “So where is he?”
Shukla swung his torch and illuminated a drenched shape huddled in one corner. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to get our feet wet, sir.”
As they stepped in, the water found holes in Shukla’s shoes he never knew existed. The heap in the corner looked like a mess of we
t rags, but the torchlight revealed it to be a man. A dead man. He lay on his back in the flooded urinal stalls; his long, matted hair bobbling in the rising water; wide-open, sightless eyes staring unflinchingly into the burning glare of the torch. The mouth was agape and dribbling, the beard and ragged overcoat filthy with vomit that stank of stale, cheap alcohol. The body of a man who had crawled into some dark corner to die.
“Heroin!” exclaimed Shukla, his torch beam slowly creeping over the emaciated figure’s arms, highlighting needle marks. “That’s an expensive habit.”
“Well, by the look of him,” observed Abhay, “I doubt if he wasted money on nonessentials like soap and food.” He prodded the body with his foot, and then turned away. A match flared as he relit the butt. “I suppose you haven’t been through his pockets?”
“Not yet,” the constable admitted.
“This is basic investigation you need to do,” Abhay replied grimly adjusting his scarf. “And you would have done it, constable, had you spent more time on your job and less on looking for whores in the dark lanes.”
In the dark, Shukla blushed. He believed his womanizing was a well-kept secret, but nothing seemed to escape the seemingly unobservant Inspector Abhay Pandey.
“Sirji, woh baat nahin hain na. He’s a bit messy, so I didn’t feel like checking him.”
“Well, he’s not going to get any bloody cleaner floating in pee, is he? Can we quickly finish this investigation as the water is rising here? It’s up to my ankles. I feel like a traveller on the Titanic.”
Shukla bent down, and checked the dead man’s pockets. He found a photograph and a bundle of cash neatly placed in an envelope. He handed both to Abhay.
Abhay looked at the photograph and kept looking. She was young, but not too young, maybe in her late twenties and quite a looker. Dark hair, rich, creamy flesh, and the most sensuous mouth Abhay had ever seen. His thoughts about the woman got interrupted as Shukla’s nose came in between his view of the photograph. Shukla was ogling over the photograph like a dog with his tongue out when he sees a bone.
“Shuklaji!” Abhay shouted. “Why are you staring at the photo? Pahley kabhi ladki ki photu nahin dekhi kya?”
“Sirji, woh baat nahin hain na. I have seen a lot of photographs, but yeh to bilkul maal hai sirji.” Shukla grinned.
A smile returned on Abhay’s face. “Kya baat kartey ho Shuklaji, your honesty is what I like.”
Abhay looked at the photograph again, capturing the girl’s face in his memory. “Vaisey hai toh bilkul maal.” Shukla’s giggles were muffled by the sound of an approaching vehicle: the postmortem team had arrived. Two people took a stretcher towards the public convenience.
Abhay kept the cash and handed the photograph to Shukla and said, “Run a check for this photograph.”
“Sirji, what about the cash?”
“What cash? We never found any cash; this is the fund for the next chhamiya party.” Abhay smiled as they entered his jeep. Abhay started the ignition and the music started:
Arrey mann balwaan, lagey chattaan, rahey humesha aagey; Hud hud dabbangg dabbangg dabbangg dabbangg…
Shukla smiled and started head-banging like a rockstar. He loved this song. Abhay pressed the accelerator, eager to reach the party where Billo Rani’s dance performance was waiting for him.
Abhay got a call on the radio while he was still on his way. He lowered the stereo’s volume and watched Shukla still dancing.
“Inspector Abhay Pandey here,” he said.
Abhay turned to Shukla and said, “Intruder. Possibly a murder case. House 501, Meerapur. Only thing she said was, ’Help me, I think I’ve killed somebody.’ Then she must have passed out or…”
Abhay knew what that meant. She might be hurt, she might be dead. Or the whole thing might be nothing. As a policeman, he never knew what he was going to walk in on, but ironically, he always had to be prepared for anything.
“We’ll be there in five. Over,” Abhay said.
Abhay glanced at his constable. Shukla was still enjoying the music as if nothing had happened. He used his tongue to lick the tobacco paste coming out of his mouth. The man was disgusting.
Shukla looked up to see his boss watching him with disapproval. He shook his head in frustration and said through a mouthful of tobacco, “Sirji, aaj chhamia party mein humara jaana mushkil lag raha hai. All hell is breaking loose in this town today only. This is the sixth call we’ve had. What does a guy need to do to get to a decent victory party without someone dying?”
Abhay knew how ’decent’ their victory parties were. He smirked at Shukla’s honesty. Even he wanted to be in Rani’s arms tonight. “Kya baat kartey ho Shuklaji, duty bhi toh zaroori hai. Let’s just quickly finish this and then we can go to the party.” He flicked on the police siren and drove to the crime scene.
“I just hope this isn’t the same crazy woman who has been calling almost every day at the station,’ said Shukla increasing the volume of the car stereo.
Abhay kept his eyes fixed ahead as he weaved his way through the traffic, ignoring Shukla’s nonchalant attitude. Abhay loved the fact that most of the cars slowed down or quickly got out of the way to let the police car with a siren pass. In fact, he used this siren most of the times to avoid traffic, even if he wasn’t going to any crime scene. He swerved the jeep into the parking lot in front of the house, and as he got out of the car, Abhay’s hand automatically checked for his gun.
Both of them walked up silently to house number 501. It was shrouded in darkness, and the front door was unlocked.
Shukla swallowed in some air, “Sirji, this looks like a bhoot bangla. I have heard some ghost stories around this place too.”
“If you don’t stop blabbering, I will make you a ghost. Concentrate on the case!” Abhay said, as he placed his cold gun on Shukla’s forehead.
“Yes, sirji. Full concentrate. Let’s go!” Shukla entered the house first, his flashlight leading the way, its dim beam of light sweeping the room. Abhay followed him, his alert eyes piercing the darkness and scanning the area. He studied the house. A simple beige leather sofa set faced an LCD unit. The room was sleek and neat. Unlike most women’s houses, it lacked pink fluffy pillows and tons of knickknacks and embroidered stuff. A few unpacked boxes had been pushed into a corner. The walls were white coloured and there were no photographs of family or friends anywhere. That seemed odd. There was a small collection of novels stacked on a table and an assortment of some law related books on a wooden book shelf.
Sofa, chairs, LCD TV – all fairly normal but empty. Shukla checked the small white kitchen, flicked a pizza piece lying on the slab and gave Abhay the all-clear nod. Abhay opened another door which he found was the bathroom. Small but neat. He made a mental note that the front living area hadn’t been disturbed. Just then, they heard a faint moan somewhere in the back of the house.
Hiding behind the kitchen wall, Shukla gulped the whole pizza slice in one go and then came out and looked at Abhay. On his order, they tiptoed their way to the door from where the sound seemed to have come. Abhay eased the door gently, his gun ready. A thin ray of moonlight sliced the darkness and fell on a figure lying in the creased bed. There was broken glass shattered on the floor, and pillows and magazines scattered around. Another groan rang through the air. Abhay remembered Billo Rani’s groans from his last encounter in her bed. He moved closer to the figure.
“If there was an intruder, he’s not here, sirji,” said Shukla.
Abhay stood beside the bed, assessing the situation. The woman groaned in pain. It wasn’t an orgasmic groan as Abhay had wished it to be. She was covered in blood and was clutching a bloody knife. Blood oozed from a wound in her right wrist and a tiny droplet marked her throat. “Get me some towels from the bathroom,” he ordered Shukla.
Abhay replaced his gun in its holster, took out the knife from her fingers using his crisp white handkerchief, pulled out a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the knife inside. Shukla went inside the bathroom, spe
nt some time looking at the mirror and admiring himself, moving his hands on his beard. He saw some perfumes lying on the washbasin shelf. He picked and tried a few on him until he heard Abhay shouting from outside. He rushed back with the towels. Abhay bent down and knelt beside the bed and wrapped one towel around her wrist tightly to stop the bleeding.
“Is she going to make it?” Shukla asked, as he watched Abhay wipe the blood off her neck and face.
“Yeah, but she’s lost some blood.” He looked at the woman and noticed that she was a familiar face. He had seen her somewhere. Oh yes, she was the same girl from the photograph they had retrieved from the dead body a while ago. She had ivory skin and her long dark hair framed it beautifully. She certainly looked stunning in that low-cut black night dress. Too damn low-cut perhaps. He’d noticed the way Shukla had eyed her and sniggered suggestively to him.
“Madam…madam ji, can you hear me?” he asked, gently shaking her.
“Sirji yeh toh wohi maal hai…hai na?” Shukla said with a chuckle.
Abhay glared at Shukla and barked, “Moron! Every situation is not good for a joke. Hit the lights and bring the team in to start looking for clues.”
Shukla frowned but left the room.
The woman’s dark eyelashes fluttered and her soft pink lips trembled as she tried to speak. She had a small frame, which was lost in the blood-splattered black night gown she was wearing. He quickly checked her body to see if there were other wounds. Her skin was flawless, her legs long and slim. There didn’t appear to be any other cuts, except a point on her throat which looked like a knife prick. Abhay didn’t know how much time had elapsed before he heard the wail of the ambulance siren. A sigh of relief went through him. She was too beautiful to die.
“I killed him…” She mumbled as she regained consciousness. She kicked at the tangled bedcovers in an attempt to escape the horrible nightmare.
She felt a hand grip her arm, and she screamed.
“Sshhhh madam, it’s okay. Hum hain Inspector Abhay Pandey and you are safe now.”
