by A. X. Ahmad
“Miss Shah. What a pleasure to meet you again.”
Again? The man looked like a Bollywood type, and Shabana recoiled a little.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The man’s handsome face became petulant.
“Yes, yes, of course I do—” Shabana half turned toward Ruksana, but her sister had vanished. “It’s just that I’m so bad with names.”
“How about lips?” The man smiled, showing expensive white teeth.
“Lips?” Shabana felt confused, then something about the man clicked. The sulky face, the acne tracks on his cheeks that no amount of dermabrasion would erase: she remembered the hot tent outside Mumbai, and the acne-spotted boy who had pressed his sour lips into hers. Involuntarily, she reached up and wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.
“Now you remember, hanh? I’m Lateef. Lateef Mustafa. The Don’s nephew.”
“Yes.” Shabana stood very still. “So … what are you doing in Sydney?”
“Oh, just a holiday.” Lateef smiled. “My uncle says it’s not healthy for me to remain in Mumbai right now. But I’m heading to America soon, on business.”
“Very interesting.” Shabana looked for a means of escape, but Ruksana had stepped out onto the wide terrace outside and was gazing at the view of Sydney Harbor.
“Looking for your sister?” Lateef shook his head. “She’s a tough negotiator, that one. She really cut a good deal for you. You won’t have to earn your living like this anymore. Must be humiliating for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask her yourself.” Lateef stepped back, his polished kidskin loafers making a slithering noise. “Well, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other soon.” Blowing her an air kiss, he stepped away.
Shabana stormed out to the terrace.
“Look at that view,” Ruksana said, gesturing at the white concrete sails of the Opera House and the arched fretwork of the Harbor Bridge.
Shabana grabbed her sister’s elbow and spun her around.
“That was Lateef. That fucker Lateef. What did he mean, you just cut a deal with him? What deal?” Shabana’s nails dug into the flesh of her sister’s arm.
“Oww, let go of me. So, I made a deal. Just listen—”
“You think I’m your puppet? What else have you signed me up for?”
“Shut up and listen. Lateef is in the movie business now. He’s producing a movie set in America, and he needs a star. It’s an older role, a Muslim woman who lives in New York. They say her husband is a terrorist, he gets arrested, sent to Guantanamo, and she has to go to court to save him … a serious role, a real role.”
Shabana let go of her sister’s arm. “Are you sure? That creep Lateef is a producer?”
Ruksana massaged her arm. “He was just a kid back then, but he’s all grown up now. He’s taken over the movie financing business from the Don. He says that there is a huge Indian audience abroad, so he’s going to make the film in English. This Hollywood actor, Brad Dunn, he’s going to act in it. He’s the FBI agent who falls in love with the Muslim woman while investigating her.”
A real role, in a real film, starring alongside Brad Dunn. Shabana felt her chest constrict, felt the desire she’d stifled for so long. She could already see the part: a woman distraught, her husband gone missing, not knowing what had happened to him. Then the sadness welled up inside her, and she turned to hide the tears in her eyes.
“Crying? I thought you would be happy?”
“I am happy.” Tears blurred Shabana’s vision. “Thank you.”
“See?” Ruksana waved into the darkness of Sydney Harbor. “I told you I’d find you a way back. Next stop, America.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lateef had asked to be picked up in the alley behind Ghunghroo in five minutes; Ranjit is perhaps a minute or so early. He brings the limo parallel to the service entrance and waits. The overhead light cuts a swath through the darkness, illuminating slanting needles of rain. The only sound is water pattering on concrete.
Another minute passes, and another, and his body tenses. Just then the service door bursts open and the two men in dark jackets emerge. One of them lopes down the steps toward the car, his hands casually thrust into his pockets, ignoring the heavy rain.
Have they been tipped off? Ranjit plucks the Glock from his pocket and slides it under his thigh.
The man walks around to the driver’s side window and raps on the glass. “Tiwari. Hey, Tiwari.”
No choice. Ranjit powers the window down an inch and keeps his face turned away, knowing that only his peaked cap will be visible.
“Yes?”
The man tries to peer in, rain spattering his head and running into his eyes. “Tiwari, listen. You wait tonight outside the hotel, drive the bitch home. If she’s messed up, you take her to the doctor. You remember where it is?”
He nods. “Hanh.”
“And give her this.” Flicking three hundred-dollar bills through the window, the man saunters back to the loading dock.
Lateef emerges from the door, sees that it is raining, and skips down the steps. Ranjit can see him clearly: gym fit and broad shouldered, wearing khaki pants and a pink shirt, his handsome face pitted with old acne scars. He walks with an arrogant stride, his head held high, and his lips turn down with disgust as the rain spatters him. Leela pauses on the stairs behind him, struggling to free the edge of her long silk sari, caught under her high heels.
Reaching the car, Lateef pauses and thrusts his hands into his pockets, conditioned by many years of being served. The chauffeur always opens the door. That is the unwritten rule of limos, but if Ranjit has to get out of the car, it will all be over.
Leela is still on the steps, tugging at the cloth trapped under her feet. Lateef’s crisp pink shirt is getting wet, and he looks toward the limo, his face furrowing in irritation.
Just as he turns to yell to his men, Leela straightens up, lifts the bottom of her wet sari in both hands, clatters down the steps to the limo, and yanks open the back door. She climbs in, and Lateef follows her.
That was close. Ranjit waits with his hands on the steering wheel, hearing Leela gasp as she settles into her seat. Her sari is soaked through, and the air-conditioning must feel freezing.
Lateef chuckles. “Feeling cold? Your nipples are hard.” His voice is loud and insouciant, and a little sloppy, too, the words slurred by alcohol. “Tiwari. Make the air conditioning colder.”
“Lateef, don’t be mean…” Leela tries to maintain her carefree tone.
“Aaare, I’ll soon warm you up. Tiwari, what are you waiting for? The hotel, fool. Jaldi, jaldi.” Quick, quick.
Nodding, Ranjit puts the car into gear and backs out of the alley. The smoked glass partition blurs their outlines, but he sees Lateef reaching over to drape an arm around Leela’s shoulders. He must squeeze her breast hard, because she gasps again, this time in pain.
“Let’s wait till we get to the hotel, okay? I’m all wet—”
“Don’t talk.” He seems to be pressing her head into his lap. “You know what I like. Do it.”
There is the sound of a zipper being undone, a yelp, then a wet, half-strangled sound.
Ranjit wants to pull over, yank the man out of the car, and beat him senseless with the butt of the Glock. Instead, gritting his teeth, he drives fast, ignoring the burning pain in his left arm as he takes a sharp turn onto Ninth Avenue.
* * *
The disused parking garage is on Forty-third Street, a colorful billboard on it announcing the luxury apartment building that will soon replace it. Ranjit sees that the attendant’s booth is dark and prays that the entrance still works. Slowing to a crawl, he bumps the long arm of the barrier with his cab, and watches as it slowly lifts.
Does Lateef suspect anything? There is only his moaning from the back of the cab, and the ragged, choked sound of Leela’s breathing. It makes Ranjit sick.
Well, he will feel something now. Ranjit accelerates up the spiral ramp into
the garage, tires squealing as the car curves up, floor after floor. There is a shout of anger from the back as Lateef is thrown from side to side.
“Tiwari! What the hell are you doing, you chutiya?”
The limo takes the final turn and emerges onto the darkened top floor, its headlights sweeping across rows of flaking concrete pillars. There are no cars up here, just faded stripes on the concrete, and piles of fast-food boxes where cabs have parked, mixed with the white, half-filled bulbs of used condoms.
Ranjit slams the car to a stop, tumbles out, cracks open the passenger door, and slams the muzzle of the Glock into Lateef’s forehead.
“Get off her. Get out of the car.”
Lateef sits motionless, his fly open, the long tails of his pink shirt spread around his hairy thighs. Leela pulls herself off him, retches, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Well, well, well.” Lateef looks up. His hair is carefully tousled and moussed and he wears a stylish two-day beard to hide the deep acne scars on his cheeks. “It’s Patel’s pet Sardarji again. My men told me about you. Couldn’t you have waited another minute? I was almost there.”
A red fog fills Ranjit’s vision and his finger is tightening on the trigger when a voice says, “Ranjit, no, wait.”
He realizes that Leela is looking up at him, her mouth bruised. A line of blood trickles down the corner of her mouth from where she has bitten herself.
* * *
Lateef stands against a concrete pillar in the dark, dripping garage, illuminated by the blue tungsten car headlights. He has buttoned his pants, but a pink triangle of fabric peeks through his open fly.
Ranjit is by the car, the Glock raised, and Leela stands next to him, pressing the pallu of her sari against her cut lip.
“Sardarji, last time my people broke your arm.” Lateef sneers. “This time I’m going to have your balls on a platter.”
“Shut up.”
“That old fool Patel thinks you’re working for him.” Lateef’s voice swells with anger as he leans insouciantly against the column. “I knew all along that the Hammer was your real boss. What does that maderchod want, hanh? He’s not getting anything. This is not Mumbai, this is my fucking town.”
“I said, shut up.”
“What are you going to do, you stupid Sardarji? Shoot me? My uncle will fill the streets of Mumbai with blood.”
“Tell me why you people killed Shabana.”
Lateef squints as he tries to see into the glare of the headlights. “I killed Shabana? Why would I kill her? She was a lousy lay, yes, okay. But you don’t kill people for that. By the way, your little whore girlfriend is much better than her.”
It would be so satisfying to reverse the Glock and beat this bastard senseless, but Ranjit controls his rage.
“Shabana had evidence of what you guys are up to here. She was about to go to the cops, so you had her killed. You or Patel, same thing. What are you bringing into New York? I’ve seen the boxes at Nataraj Imports, the ones with the red stamps.”
Lateef’s face hardens. “You know what, Sardarji? I’m not fucking talking to you, okay? The Hammer is getting desperate if he thinks one single guy can scare me. You want to shoot me, go ahead. Fuck you.”
Lateef stares into the glare of the headlights, his eyes hot with anger. Ranjit has seen men like this: Lateef desperately wants to prove how tough he is, and inflicting violence on him will only make him more stubborn.
There is no time for this bullshit.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ranjit sees a dark shadow scuttle across the concrete and remembers what Tiwari had said, that first night in the diner. It’s worth a try.
He hands the car keys to Leela. “Look in the trunk. I need some rope.”
She nods, and walks to the back of the car. Lateef strains to see them, held back only by the Glock pointed at him.
“So you’re going to tie me up now? Why don’t you have the whore do it? At least it’ll be more pleasant that way. And I have to warn you. My bodyguards are going to check in with the hotel … about now. If I haven’t arrived, they’ll come looking for me. Sorry, Sardarji, you’re out of time.”
“There’s no rope, but look at this.” Leela holds up a big roll of black electrician’s tape.
“That will do.”
Ranjit steps to one side, keeping Lateef in his sights. “Sit down and put your arms back, around the column. If you move, I’ll shoot you in the right toe, okay? Not fatal, just a lot of blood, and you’ll have a hard time balancing for the rest of your life. Deal?”
Fear flickers across the man’s face, but he quickly sneers. “Fuck you and fuck your whore. Tying me up isn’t going to make any difference.” But he complies, and sits with his back to the column.
“Leela, tape his hands behind him.” Ranjit keeps the gun steady.
She walks behind Lateef, and there is the rip of tape coming off the roll, the sharp intake of Lateef’s breath as she yanks his hands behind the column and binds his wrists together. In the darkness, with her sari unraveling around her, her platinum blond hair gleaming, she looks like an avenging angel.
As Leela heads back to the car, Lateef leans forward, tugging hard, but he cannot move. The garage roof is leaking, and he blinks as water drips onto his head. “Fuck you. What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing.”
Ranjit sticks the Glock into his waistband, and pulls open the front door of the limo. From the floor he picks up Tiwari’s half-eaten box of pancakes, syrup leaking out of it. Walking over to Lateef, he opens the box, takes out a pancake slick with syrup, and slips it into the man’s shirt.
“Hey! What the fuck? Are you mad?”
Ranjit methodically pours the remaining syrup from the box all over Lateef’s chest and lap. Stepping back, he surveys his handiwork: Lateef’s pink shirt and tan pants are coated in syrup, and he squirms as the pancake slides down his chest, coming to rest over his belly.
“This is your town, right?” Ranjit moves close enough to smell the sweet, synthetic maple syrup. “So you must know the figures. Eight million people, and they say there are four rats per person, so that’s … thirty-two million rats…”
“Rats? Who gives a shit about rats?”
“… and the garbage strike is bringing them out. I read in The Times that they’re getting into mortuaries and eating cadavers. You know what else I read?” He watches the color fade from Lateef’s face. “There was this baby, left alone in a housing project in the Bronx? It had food on its face? By the time its mother came back, an hour later, the rats had eaten half her face.”
“This bullshit isn’t going to work with me—”
Ranjit shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ve seen ones up here as big as my arm. Come on, Leela.”
“Fuck you.”
Ranjit and Leela get back into the limo. He turns off the headlights and it is suddenly pitch black. He thinks of what happened in the backseat, minutes ago, and feels sick.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think he would try anything in the car…”
He can’t see her face in the darkness, but her voice, when it comes, is hollow.
“So now you’ve seen what they make me do. You think I’m a whore.”
“No, no, don’t talk like that.” He pulls her head against his shoulder, and feels the feathery texture of her blond weave.
“Bastard.” She frees herself and peers through the windshield. “I want him to pay. Are there really rats up here?”
“I wasn’t lying. I’ve seen huge ones.”
She strains forward to see better, her clenched fists pushing down into the leather seat. He remembers her on the beach, digging her fists into the sand, and feels again the anger stored up inside her.
Soon their eyes adjust to the darkness. Behind Lateef is a view of Midtown, a million lights shining through the slanting rain. The man is just sitting there, he’s even smiling. This isn’t going to work. Ranjit will have to beat the information out of him.
&nb
sp; Leela nudges him. “Look,” she says softly. “That far corner. See it?”
He follows her pointing finger: one flickering shadow is joined by another, and he catches a glimpse of long, hairless tails.
Lateef must have been looking the other way. His sudden scream cuts through the darkness, and his feet slap frantically against the concrete deck.
“Fuck you! Aaah, get them off me!”
Ranjit is about to flip on the headlights but Leela’s hand closes around his wrist.
“Wait.”
The shouting grows louder, turns into a howl of anguish.
“Leela—”
“Wait.”
“Aaaah, no, no, no…” The man’s scream ends in a sobbing wail.
“Okay, now.”
Ranjit leans forward and the blue tungsten headlights cut through the darkness. Lateef’s head is flung back, his open mouth like a pink cave. Two shadows streak down his chest and make for the wall.
“Maderchod. Maderchod. I’ll kill you. I’ll … I’ll…” Tears are streaming down his pitted cheeks.
Leela is the first to get out. The blue light shines on the silk of her sari and catches the side of her emotionless face. Her voice is flat. “We can turn the headlights off again.”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
She snaps her fingers and Ranjit kills the light.
“No. No. Okay, okay…”
Ranjit turns on the headlights again, and this time Lateef doesn’t even lift his head. He sags forward, breathing hard, and there is a rip in his pink shirt, just over his stomach. When he looks up his eyes are liquid with terror.
* * *
Ranjit leans against the car as he speaks, no longer bothering with the gun.
“So. Let’s try this again. You guys had Shabana killed. Why?”
“No, yaar, no.” Lateef shakes his head. “You’re not listening. We didn’t kill Shabana. She did blab about going to the cops, but that bitch, she was high most the time. No one took her seriously.”
“So who killed her? The tooth fairy? Don’t say Mohan, because I won’t believe you.”
