by A. X. Ahmad
Lateef hesitates. “Patel, it was his idea.”
“His idea to kill her?”
“No, no. He didn’t kill her, he’s soft on her. He sent her sister over to talk to her. The sister has always been … more reasonable.”
“Ruksana? What does she have to do with this?”
“I’m just telling you what Patel told me. He sent the sister around one night to talk to Shabana, to warn her to keep her mouth shut. Next thing we know, Shabana’s dead. Ruksana identified the body, bullshitted the cops, then fucking vanished.”
“Shabana’s own sister killed her?”
“Yes. You don’t believe me? Those two bitches hated each other’s guts. The sister, Ruksana, her face, the left side, there’s something wrong. That’s why she wears that pancake makeup, and she blames Shabana for it. Ruksana killed her, yaar. Why else would she run?”
Leela rolls her eyes. “Liar. Should we turn out the headlights again?”
“No. No. Listen to me.” Lateef’s voice is pleading now, and his pitted face glistens with sweat. “Look, I’m not trying to protect Patel, okay? I hate that chutiya. My uncle sent me from Mumbai to manage this business, but Patel, he thinks I’m, I’m a lafanga, a no-good, he won’t tell me anything. Fuck him. I’m going to take care of him soon.”
Lateef’s face is sullen with resentment. He really does hate Patel.
“So what are you doing in New York?”
Lateef regains some of his original bluster. “My uncle wanted me to get out of Mumbai. Too much killing going on there, and I’m what they call a ‘high-value’ target, because I’m like his son, see? So he sent me to New York. We bankrolled Patel’s hair business, and he’s doing really well now, his income stream is … huge. He says it’s all legit, all from hair. Bullshit. You don’t earn that much by selling weaves—”
“So what business is Patel really in?”
Lateef glares at him. “I’m trying to tell you, yaar. Patel insists that he’s making all the money from hair, but I don’t believe him. He’s got to be bringing in other stuff too, but he won’t tell me what. But listen, listen, I’ve got it all figured out, okay? I have this guy inside customs, he’s going to delay Patel’s next shipment, and take a look inside the boxes. Smart, hanh?”
Lateef’s pitted face creases into a smile. “Once I find out, then it’s good-bye Patel. Fuck him. I can run Nataraj Imports with one hand tied behind my back. I’ll show my uncle what I can do…” Lateef stops and tries to look amiable. “Okay, listen, Sardarji, I don’t know what your game is, okay? But soon I’m going to be running this show, and I can use a tough guy like you. Whatever the Hammer is paying you, I’ll double it. I mean, clearly, you’re a smart guy … this thing with the rats, very smart, very smart…” His voice fizzles out, and he keeps smiling, but his eyes are worried.
“Let me see if I understand.” Ranjit counts on his right hand. “One, Shabana’s sister killed her. Two, Patel is getting rich, and says it’s off the hair, but you don’t believe him. Three, you don’t know what he’s actually bringing in, but you’re going to take over his operation in New York.”
“Yes.” The queasy smile stays on Lateef’s face.
“Okay, thank you for nothing.”
“Hey, I answered your questions, now let me go—”
Ranjit gestures to his phone. “Don’t worry, I’ll call Patel and tell him where you are.”
“Hey. Hey.” Tears of rage fall down Lateef’s face as Ranjit and Leela get into the car. “Maderchod, bahinchod. I’ll cut your balls off, I’ll … hey, don’t leave me, you fuck—”
Ranjit backs the Lincoln up and the headlights sweep across the column, illuminating Lateef’s twisted face. His shouts die away as the car curves down the ramp, each turn of the wheel sending a shiver of pain down Ranjit’s broken arm.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They emerge from the garage and speed down Forty-third Street. The tall, concrete hulk of the garage recedes behind them, hidden by the rain.
Ranjit looks over at Leela. “You think Lateef was telling the truth?”
“He’s lying. I know that they killed Shabana. He’s covering his ass for sure. And Patel’s going to go crazy when he finds what we just did. He’ll just pick up the phone and call immigration. My mother and Dev—” She sees Ranjit wincing. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about Patel, I’ll call him and work it out. Can you drive us back to your place? My arm is killing me…”
She nods, and Ranjit brings the limo to a halt at a deserted bus stop on Second Avenue. They exchange seats, and to his surprise, she drives swiftly and confidently, cutting off other cars. When he fumbles with his phone, she gestures to him to put it away.
“Wait. Lateef has to pay for what he did to me.”
“Leela. It’s been five minutes, and those rats have rabies—”
“Not yet.”
The limo speeds down Second Avenue. Ranjit leans back in the passenger’s seat, looking out at the city. Even in the pouring rain, there are solitary dog walkers out, accompanied by their small, inbred dogs. He hears the wail of sirens, hears the slosh of water flowing into the gutters.
“Okay, that’s enough. If we wait any longer, there’s not going to be too much of Lateef left.”
“Let the bastard suffer.”
“Leela, for God’s sake…”
“No. Not yet.”
She turns onto FDR Drive, merging into the swiftly flowing traffic.
Normally this is Ranjit’s favorite highway in New York, curving alongside the East River. He likes the red neon cursive of the Pepsi-Cola sign across the river, he likes the speed, the feeling of possessing, in one sweep, this entire swathe of the city. But right now, all he can think of is Lateef, tied to the pillar. The rats will be quicker this time, knowing exactly where their food is; they are intelligent animals, after all.
“Leela, please, it’s been almost fifteen minutes.” Fifteen minutes of sheer terror, fifteen minutes that will haunt Lateef’s dreams.
“You don’t care about what he did to me? Hanh? All you men are the same. Pigs.”
He stares at her in amazement, realizing that years and years of humiliation are stored up inside her. And because he has witnessed this latest humiliation, he is now complicit in what happened, he has become one of her tormentors.
“Leela, this is not about you. I need Lateef alive, I’m calling Patel.”
Dialing Patel’s number, he remembers that the man goes to bed early, nine or nine thirty, an odd time for a nightclub owner.
The phone rings for a long time before there is a gruff “Hello?”
“Patel Sahib. It’s Ranjit Singh.”
“It’s late, Ranjit. You know better than to call me at this time. This better be important.”
Ranjit can hear the clack-clack-clack of Patel typing away on his laptop.
“It is late, yes, sir.” He pauses, then plunges in. “Your friend, Lateef, he’s on the top floor of a garage at 211 East Forty-third Street, tied to a column. I recommend you send someone over there right away. There are a lot of rats around, he could get bitten.”
“Hai Ram. Wait.”
Ranjit hears the beep-beep-beep of Patel dialing another number on a landline, and then a rushed conversation in Hindi.
When Patel returns, his voice is breathless. “You did well, Ranjit. That boy is under my charge. What happened? Who did this?”
“Well … I did.”
There is a stunned silence. “Are you crazy? Do you know who this boy is? He is Don Hajji Mustafa’s nephew. You have just signed your own death warrant.”
Ranjit presses the phone to his ear and chooses his words carefully. “Sir, Lateef was molesting a woman who works in your club. I had to step in.”
“For this you tied him up in a garage? And then you call me? I am talking to a corpse. You are a dead man, definitely dead—”
“You know what Lateef does to the girls at your club. He was doing the same thing to Shabana before she d
ied. You know and you don’t care. But more important is what Lateef told me about Nataraj Imports.”
There is a suppressed grunt of anger. “Nataraj? Keep talking.”
“Sir, Lateef is convinced that all your money from the hair business isn’t legitimate. He thinks you’re using the hair shipments to bring in something else, but you won’t tell him what. You won’t even tell him who supplies the hair—”
“So what? This is not news to me.”
“So Lateef is planning to delay your next shipment in customs—he has a contact there—and examine it. He’s going to find out what you’re bringing in, and how. And after that, he’ll kill you. He’ll take over your whole operation.”
There is silence again. “And he told you this why?”
“He is afraid of rats. Very afraid.” Ranjit pauses and clears his throat. “Sir, I’m offering you this information in good faith. You take care of Lateef, get him off my back, and I’ll find Mohan for you. I’m very close.”
There is dead silence. Ranjit can hear Patel’s bare feet slap against the floor as he paces up and down his motel room in New Jersey.
They are now crossing the East River, and a subway train clatters by, its tracks going down the center of the Williamsburg Bridge. Ranjit stares blindly at the lit train windows, conscious that his life hangs in the balance, and in that moment, New York—the dark river below, the train speeding by, the red taillights of the traffic—seems unbearably precious.
Patel’s voice is exasperated. “You have some nerve, Sardarji.”
“Sir, do we have a deal?” Ranjit holds his breath.
“Let me explain the situation to you. Don Hajji Mustafa has six daughters. Six. This boy is his heir. The Don is an old friend, but he’s blind when it comes to Lateef, he thinks that the sun shines out this boy’s arse. I’ll try to reach the Don, explain that this was all a mistake, but … he’s not the easiest man to contact right now, he has his own problems. So I cannot guarantee anything. You will have no trouble from me, but Lateef … I cannot control him. The best thing you can do is bring Mohan to me, and fast. I pay you, and you vanish, understand?”
“Crystal clear, sir. And one more thing. In the alley behind your club, behind the Dumpster. Lateef’s chauffeur, Tiwari, he’s sleeping off some sedatives. It’s raining, and I’m concerned he’ll get pneumonia. I put some cardboard cartons over him, but…”
“You’re pushing it, Sardarji.” The line goes dead.
Ranjit leans back into his seat, the phone still in his hand.
Leela turns to look at him. “Patel agreed? He isn’t angry? My mother and Dev . .
“He won’t do anything right now. He still needs me to find Mohan.”
“But later…?”
“One thing at a time.” Ranjit opens his eyes as they speed down Atlantic Avenue into Brooklyn.
They hit some traffic and Leela screeches to a stop.
“One thing at a time. You like to say that, don’t you? How can you be so relaxed? That bastard Lateef is going to come after us now…”
“Patel will slow him down. It’s in his interest that I find Mohan.”
“That lying bastard Lateef, trying to blame the murder on Ruksana. You know what Shabana told me? He beat her so badly that she wet herself. He did that to her, to a grown woman.” Her hands clench the steering wheel. “I hope the rats did some real damage.
The traffic starts to move again, and Leela speeds up, weaving through the cars.
Ranjit imagines Lateef still lying in the garage in the darkness: the feeling of claws scuttling over his skin, the wiry brush of whiskers, then the sudden, ferocious burrowing of teeth into flesh and bone.
Ranjit had only intended to frighten the man, not to torture him. As an army captain, Ranjit has seen plenty of violence, but always for a tactical purpose. Violence for its own sake is pointless, and ultimately degrades its perpetrators. But Leela is in no mood to hear this right now, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets her drive.
He breaks the silence when they’re close to Richmond Hill. “We have to ditch this car. They’ll be looking for it. Pull over near the next subway stop, we’ll leave the keys in the ignition, it’ll be gone in ten minutes.”
“I have a better idea. Plus, I don’t feel like walking right now.”
“What?”
“Wait and see. Just make sure the gun is out of sight, and behave friendly, okay? My friends do not have the best impression of you.”
* * *
Half an hour later they walk the last block toward Leela’s house. At one A.M., the neighborhood is silent and dark, and the only sound is their footsteps.
A few minutes earlier they dropped the limo off just around the corner. Leela’s “friends” were out, the big man—his nose taped—and his smaller, weasel-faced buddy, talking and sipping from a bottle of rum. They reached for their guns when Ranjit emerged from the car, still wearing Tiwari’s blazer, but Leela calmed them down, and their eyes lit up when she handed over the car keys. The big man slid into the front and cooed over the leather seats, but then cursed loudly when his hands came away sticky with syrup.
Sticky or not, the men promised Leela that the car would vanish into the chop shops behind Shea Stadium. By the next afternoon, it would exist only as a collection of parts. They offered to share the money with Leela, but she smiled sweetly and declined; instead, she asked them to keep an eye out for Lateef and his two thugs.
“More Indians? What is it with you and the Indians?” the small, weasel-faced man asked, and both men agreed that Indians from India were bad news: they were snobbish, treated the Guyanese like black people, and had no sense of rhythm.
The car was driven away, and Leela and Ranjit walked the few blocks to her house.
Now Ranjit speaks, his voice low as they walk up to Leela’s front door. “Can you trust those guys? They seem like jokers.”
“They stopped you before, didn’t they?” Leela turns her key in the door, and they step into the darkened house.
He recognizes its smell now, of cooking and tea and old incense, and he realizes how familiar it has already become. Walking down the corridor, they see Auntie snoring gently in her bed, with Dev splayed out next to her.
Leela hurries into the bathroom and he waits in the living room, hearing the slither of her sari coming off, then the splash and gurgle of water as she rinses out her mouth, again and again.
He slumps back on the couch, wishing he could take a Percocet, but he’s sworn not to. Besides, he needs to be clear-headed and assess the situation: there are only two days left till the grand jury trial, and he has no lawyer, and no evidence to show the cops. And despite what he told Leela, as soon as Lateef recovers, he will come after them, full strength.
“Ranjit. What are you doing?”
Leela stands at the door to the living room. She is barelegged, wearing a long, shapeless T-shirt down to her knees.
“Nothing. Just sitting.” Without the extra height of her heels, she looks small and helpless, but now he knows the fury she is capable of.
“You need to get some sleep, Ranjit.”
“I’ll be okay on the couch. You go ahead.”
“Come with me. Look, I’m sorry about what I said in the car. I didn’t mean it, okay?”
She pulls him to his feet and leads him to her bedroom. Her yellow and orange sari lies in a crumpled ball in the corner.
Getting into bed, she gestures to him. “Hold me. Please.”
He lies facing her and reaches across her with his broken arm, the plaster rough against her soft skin. “Leela, tomorrow, first thing, you take Auntie and Dev and go somewhere else for a few days. Can you get out of the city?”
Leela stiffens. “Yes. One of my mother’s cousins lives in Ossining. You think that Lateef…?”
“It’s better not to take a chance.”
She shivers and burrows her face into his chest. “Closer. Hold me closer.”
He pulls her tighter, smelling the mint of her
mouthwash and the tired, raw odor of her body. Her body has the tension of a strung bow, but he holds her close, and soon her shoulders slump and her body sinks down into the mattress.
Asleep, she looks as peaceful as a child, with her long eyelashes and small mouth relaxed into a half smile. He wants to forget the awfulness of tonight, to erase it from his memory. Leela must have led such a lonely and frightened life; no wonder she went to Jamaica Bay to pray, to make offerings to the dirty water.
He lies awake next to her, his brain ticking over. Despite what Leela thinks, Lateef seemed to be telling the truth—he’d spoken while still in the thrall of fear, without enough time to make up an alternate version of the events.
Is it possible that Shabana was killed by her sister? Lateef said that Ruksana has fled, gone back to India. Is it a coincidence that Mohan has vanished, too? Has Ranjit been looking at all this wrong? He feels the ground crumbling under his feet.
He floats in and out of sleep, half listening for footsteps outside, for the creak of a window being opened. There is only the sound of cicadas, and he is almost asleep when he hears something.
He is instantly awake, and tries to disentangle himself from Leela, but she clings to him, and precious seconds pass. He pulls free, is turning, when he feels a hand on the back of his neck.
He jerks around, his heart hammering.
“Leela.” Dev is standing there, eyes half closed, holding his striped pajamas up with both hands.
“Hey,” Ranjit whispers. “Your mama is sleeping, okay? What do you need?”
Dev’s face contorts and he is about to cry.
“You need to go to the bathroom?”
Dev nods. Getting carefully out of bed, Ranjit scoops up the child—he is heavy, solidly built for a four-year-old—and takes him into Leela’s bathroom. Pulling Dev’s pajamas down, Ranjit plonks him on the toilet, and holds him till he hears the tinkling in the bowl. Picking Dev up, he heads in the direction of Auntie’s room, but the child whimpers and clings to him.
Walking to the living room, Ranjit sinks down onto the hot, plastic-covered couch, and Dev sighs and falls deeply asleep in his arms. Ranjit hears the child’s breathing, feels his sweaty head against his own arm, and remembers that at this age, Shanti used to have nightmares and cry out in her sleep; he would spend hours sitting with her in his lap.
