“Married with a kid. Selling life insurance. We don’t talk much. How the hell have you stayed out of jail?” Kenny asked.
“Always run faster, man.”
“With the limp?”
“Ah, got shot in the ankle,” said Terry. “Never fixed up right. Still run faster than any piece of bacon in this slaughterhouse.”
Kenny wasn’t sure if it was the greatest use of slang he’d ever heard or the worst. They looked around for a moment. Kenny surveyed the park and Terry looked at the statue as if it were the first time he’d ever noticed it in his life. “This dude designed the Brooklyn Bridge? That’s pretty fucking cool.”
“Yeah, he died before it was finished.”
“That musta sucked for him,” Terry said. “What can I do for you, Kenny?”
“Kid got killed in West Windsor yesterday morning,” said Kenny.
“White motherfuckers die, too. Stop the fucking presses.”
“Gas station attendant.”
Terry shrugged. “Fine. Indian motherfuckers die, too.”
“Cops say it was drug related.”
“Which means cops say it was gang related, which means cops say some brother from the hood moseyed his way up to the land of twenty-five-K in property taxes and plugged some gas-pumping sand monkey?”
“We really try not to say sand monkey. It’s inappropriate. But more importantly, it’s geographically inaccurate,” said Kenny.
“Come again?”
“Sand monkey is the pejorative for people from the Middle East, preferably a terrorist-exporting country. Indians are Asians, and though there is certainly sand in India, and monkeys, too, they are usually not linked together.”
“What the hell you call Indians then?” asked a legitimately curious Terry.
“Binder. Bindi. Buttonhead. Dothead. Curry muncher. Curry in a hurry. Gas pumper. Hadji. Macaca. Push-start—and, oddly enough, pull-start. Punjab. Slurpee jockey. Swami. Turbinator.”
“Hunh,” Terry said. “That’s a pretty fucking impressive list off the top of your head.”
Kenny shrugged. “My high school class was sixty percent Asian,” he said.
“Something new every day, man,” said Terry.
“So,” Kenny said, “help me do some learning today.”
“I don’t drive anywhere to sell, man,” Terry said. “Been doin’ it the same since the first time that window rolled down with your puppy dog eyes and crackin’ voice askin’ if I remembered you.”
“Never forget your first time,” said Kenny. “Any of the guys you know drive up?”
“No, man, a hood rat selling drugs in the land of honor students? You come to us. Simple as that. Besides, we don’t sell to Indians or Pakis or anything tan. ’Cept for, like, Mexicans an’ Guatemalans an’ shit. We sell to little brown people an’ big black people, an’ all stupid white people.”
“Where do the Indians get their quality drugs at affordable prices?”
“Same place they get everything, man,” Terry concluded. “From other Indians.”
* * *
■ ■ ■
ON THE DRIVE home, Kenny fumbled through his contact list on the car’s Bluetooth. The screen listed: vivaan burman.
They’d been close in high school, working together for the school paper and in the media club. They saw each other several times at Rutgers, but they’d lost touch after finishing college.
The voice on the other end sounded surprised. “Kenny?”
“Viv, this is not a butt call,” said Ken. “I need your help.”
Wary: “Yeah?”
“You heard about the guy who was killed in West Windsor yesterday?”
“I live in Jersey City, so the answer is no,” said Vivaan.
“Jersey City? That sounds like it’s almost Brooklyn, which is almost Manhattan,” said Kenny, hoping Vivaan would be smiling on the other end.
“Almost,” he replied. Kenny could hear his voice soften. “What do you need?”
“I need to know where Indians get their drugs,” he said matter-of-factly, not even realizing how rude that sounded after not having spoken to him for years.
“What?”
“The police are saying it was a drug-related shooting,” said Kenny. “The family of the deceased said they have nothing to do with drugs. I talked to a Trenton contact who said Indians buy from Indians.”
“Kenny, I haven’t scored any drugs in ten years.”
“Viv . . .”
“Okay, two years, but it’s not like I got West Windsor–Plainsboro Indian drug dealers on my contact list.”
“I need someone who knows about the Indian drug trade and knows the Sasmal family.”
“Sasmal? The gas station guy?”
“Yeah, you know them?
“I know Sivang. He’s their oldest son, but a few years younger than we are.”
“It was the nephew that was killed. Satkunananthan,” said Kenny. “I need you to front me to anyone I could talk to.”
“Am I still the only Indian guy you know?” asked Vivaan.
“I know lots of Indians,” said Kenny. “But you’re the only Indian guy I know who would let me come pick him up tonight and take me to talk to people who know about selling drugs to other Indian guys.”
“Buy me a burger at the White Rose and you got a deal,” said Vivaan.
“Text me your address; I’ll be there by seven,” said Kenny, hanging up.
* * *
■ ■ ■
KENNY PULLED UP to a row of refurbished townhomes on Second Street at 6:57 p.m. He waited, double-parked, until Vivaan trotted out the front door. Even though he owned a condo in an always-appreciating part of the Princeton area, Kenny still felt a twinge of jealousy seeing where Vivaan lived. Kenny had punched down over the past ten years while Vivaan had punched up. To assuage his jealousy, Kenny convinced himself it was a rental.
Vivaan got in the car. Old habits kicking back in, they immediately exchanged the namaste hand gesture. Kenny said, “Nice block. Renting?’
“Own,” said Vivaan. “Or I will in thirteen more years.”
It took them almost an hour to get to Guru Palace on Route 1 in North Brunswick. Every mile of the trip, Kenny thought how their final destination was only fifteen minutes from where he lived, but he still had to drive Vivaan back to Jersey City. Whatever Vivaan had set up better be worth the amount of gas this was costing him, he thought.
They entered the banquet hall, which supported a light weekday dinner crowd. Kenny followed Vivaan toward the manager’s office, to the right of the busy bar. They waited outside the door until a man in his late forties, with a thick shock of jet-black hair and a mustache that would make a Freddie Mercury impersonator proud, smiled in surprise and waved them in. The man hugged Vivaan as he said, “Vivaan, you are a man now. How long has it been?”
“At least five years, Sri Laghari,” said Vivaan. “Certainly, my college graduation party before that, no?”
The man nodded and smiled. “What brings you here? Don’t you live north? Part owner of an IT start-up, right?”
“Yes,” replied Vivaan. “And it is doing well. I am doing well. I came on behalf of my old friend Kenneth, who is a reporter and was hoping to ask you some questions about the Sasmals.”
The man pursed his lips with exaggerated disdain. “The Sasmals . . .” he muttered, letting it trail and linger to connote his deep sadness.
“Do you have an issue with them, Mister . . . ?” asked Kenny.
“Oh, sorry,” said Vivaan. “Kenny Lee, meet Chitvan Laghari.”
They shook hands, then Laghari said, “No issues, no, just community competition. Tharani has achieved much in what many would consider menial enterprises, but I do respect his accomplishments.”
“With the things the Sasmals are invol
ved in from a business standpoint, have you heard of them dealing in drugs?” asked Kenny.
Surprised, Chitvan said, “Drugs? No. Not at all.”
Kenny glanced around the office. He saw several pictures of Chitvan with local community leaders, even one with the former Governor O’Malley. There were some photos with Bollywood actors taken in the States and in India that Kenny assumed would have impressed anyone who knew anything about Bollywood actors. Chitvan was all pearly smiles and a head of hair that made him look like the Indian Ron Burgundy.
“What about other members of his family?” Kenny asked. “He has two sons and even his nephew, who was killed?”
“Sivang and Prisha are Boy Scouts,” said Chitvan. “It’s disappointing to Tharani, who likes a little bit of trouble every now and then. But not like that. He drinks. He gambles. He likes a girl on the side. Who doesn’t?”
“And Satkunananthan?”
Chitvan burst out laughing. “What?”
“Drugs.”
“You know the boy is—I’m sorry, was—addled, right? Retarded?” said Chitvan. “It’s not appropriate to say retarded, is it?”
“Not even if you are saying something’s progress was impeded,” replied Kenny absently, preoccupied by running this fruitless conversation to its inevitable disappointing conclusion. “So, Satku wasn’t using or selling drugs?”
Chitvan said, “The boy struggled just to work at the gas station without supervision.”
“Does Mrs. Sasmal know about her husband’s every-now-and-thens?”
“Who knows what is between a husband and wife?” asked Chitvan with a shrug. “I would not venture to ask about that.”
“Do you think Satkunananthan might have known about the affairs?”
“He didn’t go out and never saw his uncle outside of the home or work.”
“What are you trying to get at?” Vivaan asked Kenny.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to come up with a motive other than drugs, because that’s the motive the police are going with,” said Kenny. “If Satku knew some family secret . . .”
“Does a reporter usually try to go with something other than the facts as they’re being presented?” asked Vivaan.
“They do when the facts being presented don’t make sense,” replied Kenny defensively. Something about the tone in Vivaan’s voice—an edge of what? Disapproval? No, disappointment. Kenny was bemused that he hadn’t identified it earlier, considering he’d heard it in the voices of so many, for so long. Maybe he’d reached the point where disapproval and disappointment had become indistinguishable to him.
“I know what you’re thinking, Vivaan,” said Kenny. “This has nothing to do with that. I mean, yes, a murder story in my hometown is a chance to do some real reporting, but I’m trying to gather information, not make it up.”
What was left unsaid, but was clearly understood between them, were the two words Kenny omitted at the end of his sentence: this time.
“Oh, wait,” said Chitvan. “I know who you are now. The governor crusher!” He hitched a thumb toward the picture of O’Malley. “I have your book! It was great.”
“Yes, it was,” muttered Kenny.
After getting Vivaan a burger at White Rose in Highland Park, the drive back to Jersey City was mostly quiet. It made Kenny uncomfortable. “Did you see all those pictures with the belly dancers?” he asked, hoping to break the obvious tension.
“Yeah,” said Vivaan, preferring to look out the window at the chemical refineries of exit 13 on the turnpike rather than his old friend.
“Thanks for this, V,” said Kenny. “I appreciate it. You broke the ice in a way I wouldn’t have been able to.”
“Yeah,” said Vivaan.
They were silent until they approached exit 14. Kenny took the extension toward Jersey City. Vivaan said, “I miss you. I mean, the old you.”
After several seconds, Kenny said, “The asshole who could do no wrong?”
“I liked that guy,” said Vivaan.
“I did, too.”
“Then why did he do wrong?”
Kenny had been asked that question a thousand times a few years ago, though not recently. His brother, his mother, his father on his deathbed, his editor, his friends, and his enemies. Everyone had wanted to know how someone could go from winning a Pulitzer Prize while he was in college to being a disgraced liar less than ten years later.
They passed exit 14A. Kenny saw the light from the Statue of Liberty’s torch. “I was scared, Vivaan,” he said softly. “And insecure.”
“Insecure? You took down the governor of the state!”
“It had been a while since I’d filed a single story that mattered,” he replied. “I was getting desperate.”
“You were greedy.”
“When wasn’t I?” asked Kenny. “When didn’t I want it all yesterday? You know how hard my parents made it on me when I wanted to go into journalism instead of being an engineer or nuclear physicist.”
They said nothing as Kenny took exit 14B into Jersey City. They stopped in front of Vivaan’s building.
They looked at each other. Kenny smiled. “Me totally fucking up should be no more of a surprise than me having been king of the world while the rest of you were figuring out how to undo a bra clasp.”
Vivaan smiled. “I still haven’t figured that out.”
Kenny laughed.
“Call me if you need anything else,” said Vivaan as he got out of the car.
Arriving at his condo an hour later, Kenny grabbed an index card and a Sharpie.
He wrote: WHY ARE THE POLICE LYING?
He pinned the card next to the one on the board that read: Indian drugs?
He stared at the wall chart. Why would the police lie? He ran down the usual reasons:
To keep information from the public in order to protect an ongoing investigation
To purposely divert attention from or put pressure on a suspect
To cover up a mistake they had made
To cover up a mistake they knew someone in a position of power had made
His wall chart had no answers yet, but when he found it, he knew the answer was going to be one of those four things.
9
THE pressure on her bladder having become excruciating, Andrea woke up before Jeff at four thirty in the morning. Her pee had lasted about fifteen minutes. The tea she made for herself in the kitchen was another ten. She heard Jeff get up at five. She didn’t have much time and she knew she shouldn’t be standing in the basement among clutter that hadn’t been organized since they’d moved in, yet there she was.
She found the corkboard quickly enough but couldn’t locate her old box of office supplies. It was a stupid quest, since most of what was in the box was ten years old and duplicated by the supplies in Jeff’s office, but this was her stash. She felt emotionally connected to it. It was her crime-solving teddy bear.
“No coffee?” Jeff called out. “Andie? Where are you?”
“Basement,” she called back. “Need to find something.”
“The kids aren’t up yet?” he said, stating the obvious.
“Can you get them up?”
“And make the coffee, too?” he asked, sounding betrayed.
“Welcome to Wednesday,” she said as she strained to move a heavy Rubbermaid container off of a small box that had been partially crushed from the weight. She lifted the badly dented flaps and looked inside. She saw several tangled balls of colored yarn, red, yellow, green, and blue. Multicolored stickies. Multicolored markers. A New York City borough map. All of it had been purchased at the Duane Reade a few blocks from Columbia. She remembered it as if it were yesterday.
The plastic box of pushpins had a broken clip on the side because she’d thrown it in frustration against a wall in her dorm room af
ter FBI agent Ramon Mercado had informed her the New York City bureau chief wasn’t interested in her profile pitch. That anger had morphed into resolve. She worked harder on her profile and eventually impressed Ramon to the point where he put his own reputation on the line to get her a meeting with Chief Breen. That meeting had led to the acceptance of her profile, which eventually led to Morana’s capture.
She flipped through one of her old notebooks, seeing Ramon’s handwritten notes in the margins alongside hers. She hadn’t thought of him in a while. The day she heard he’d gotten married was the day she’d given up the ghost of having a different life. Yet here she was, planning to reopen the cover of a book long closed.
“Andrea!” Jeff called out angrily.
She could hear the kids stumbling around the kitchen and Jeff trying to get them to focus. They were always groggy in the morning. Andrea had considered letting them sleep as she drove Jeff to the station, but he’d refused. Of course.
She set the box aside, then waddled up two steps before remembering her fake reason for neglecting her poor husband’s needs. She grabbed the first kids’ item she saw: Ruth’s old My Little Pony Princess Twilight Sparkle.
Andrea huffed off the top step, needing to put her hand on one knee for leverage. She wanted the spawn out of her belly now, but dreaded the thought of actually having to care for it.
“Sorry,” she said, waving Princess Twilight Sparkle in her hand. “Promised Bri I would bring this for an art project Mary is doing.”
Ruth raised a sleepy eyebrow at that one. Andrea hoped her daughter wouldn’t press the obvious lie.
Andrea piled the kids into the minivan and drove Jeff to the train station with no further incident or conversation. Slogging her way through the drop-off, she looked at the kids in the rearview mirror. Feelings of guilt washed over her. She said, “Who wants bagels today?”
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