‘Somebody already died,’ Lisa said through almost clenched teeth. ‘A dancer. A wonderfully gifted dancer. Did you ever see him at the NCPA?’
Cliff spluttered a mouthful of wine on the table.
‘The National Centre for the Performing Arts?’ he scoffed. ‘The only performing that Chandra’s interested in is what pretty girls do when the lights are low, isn’t that right, brother?’
Chandra Mehta wriggled uncomfortably.
‘You should slow down on the booze, Cliff. You started too early tonight.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ his partner said, glaring at him and pouring another glass of wine. ‘Are you worried that I’m going to tell Ranjit I think his phoney campaign is more about his political ambitions than it is about Avinash, the dead dancer? Ranjit should be the one to worry, not us. We buy pages of his newspapers every day.’
‘Why don’t we leave business in the office?’ Ranjit said, through a thin smile.
‘You’re the one who brought it up,’ Cliff replied, waving his glass and spilling a little wine on Sneha’s coloured bangles.
‘Do you have any personal opinion on what happened to Avinash?’ Lisa asked Cliff. ‘Considering that it happened five hundred feet from your movie studio, and Avinash danced in three of your movies?’
‘Lin,’ Chandra cut in quickly. ‘Help me out here. What do you think? I’m right, na? If we did a movie like this, there’d be blood on the seats. We shouldn’t needlessly offend the sensibilities, and the . . . the feelings, you know, of any community, isn’t that so?’
‘It’s your subject, guys, not mine. You two own the movies, Ranjit owns the newspapers, and neither of them have anything to do with me.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Ranjit said, glancing at Lisa. ‘Let’s hear what you honestly think about this, Lin.’
‘I already gave you an honest answer, Ranjit.’
‘Please, Lin,’ Lisa urged me.
‘Okay. Someone once said that the sophistication of any community of people is inversely proportionate to their capacity to be aroused to violence by what people say in public, or do in private.’
‘I have . . . absolutely . . . no idea . . . what the fuck that means,’ Cliff said, his mouth gaping open.
‘It means,’ Ranjit said, ‘that sophisticated people don’t get upset by what people say in public, or do in the privacy of their own homes. It’s the unsophisticated that do.’
‘But . . . what does that mean for me?’ Chandra asked me.
‘It means that I agree with you, Chandra. You shouldn’t do the story.’
‘What?’ Lisa gasped.
‘See?’ Cliff said, waving his glass. ‘I’m right.’
‘Why not, Lin?’ Ranjit asked, his charming smile fading.
‘It’s not their fight.’
‘I told you!’ Cliff sneered.
‘But it’s important, don’t you agree, Lin?’ Ranjit asked me, but directing his frown at Lisa.
‘Of course it’s important. A man was killed, murdered, and not for something he did, but for something he was. But it’s not their fight, Ranjit. They don’t believe in it, and Avinash deserves believers.’
‘Last week it was Avinash,’ Lisa said, glaring at me. ‘Next week it could be Muslims or Jews or Christians or women they’re beating up, and setting on fire. Or it could be movie producers. That makes it everybody’s business.’
‘You should only do it, if you believe in it,’ I said. ‘Cliff and Chandra don’t. They don’t really care a damn about Avinash, no offence. It’s not their fight.’
‘Exactly!’ Cliff protested. ‘I just want to make lots of money, maybe win a few awards now and then, and live a happy life on the red carpet. Is that so bad?’
The first course arrived, it was impossible to talk, and everyone turned their attention to the small swarm of waiters serving a flowerbed of food.
A messenger from the concierge desk approached as the food was being served. He bowed to the guests, and then bent to whisper in my ear.
‘There is a Mr Naveen at the reception, sir. He says it is rather urgent that he speak to you.’
I excused myself, and made my way to the lobby. I had no trouble finding Naveen and Divya: anyone within ten metres could hear them fighting.
‘I won’t!’ Divya shouted.
‘You’re being so –’
‘Forget it!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not doing it!’
‘Hey, man,’ Naveen sighed, as I joined him. ‘Sorry to bust into your dinner.’
‘No problem,’ I replied, shaking hands with him, and nodding to the sulky socialite. ‘What’s up?’
‘We were coming down from a private party on the eighteenth floor –’
‘A party that was just getting good!’ Divya pouted.
‘A party that was about to get busted for rioting,’ Naveen corrected her, ‘which was why we were leaving. And who gets into the lift, on the way down? None other than our mystery man –’
‘Mr Wilson.’
‘The same.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘I couldn’t resist it. I know we agreed to wait until we could talk to him together, but it seemed like a God-given opportunity, so I thought I’d play the hand.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him Scorpio George was a friend of mine, and I knew he was looking for him. I asked what it was all about, and why he was dogging my friend.’
‘And?’
‘He’s a lawyer,’ Divya cut in.
‘Will you let me tell it, please?’ Naveen grumbled, grinding his teeth. ‘He says he’s a lawyer, and that he has an important message for Scorpio, only he calls him Mr George Bradley. Is that Scorpio’s last name?’
‘Yeah. Did Wilson say what the message was about?’
‘He keeps the lid screwed down pretty tight, this guy. I’d like him for my lawyer. But he did say it wasn’t anything that could harm Scorpio.’
‘It was me who got him to tell you that!’ Divya hissed.
‘Yeah, by threatening to rip your blouse and shout that he attacked you in the lift. A little over the top, if you ask me.’
‘That’s what the top is for, stupid! It’s for going over. What else would the top be for?’
‘He say anything else?’ I asked.
‘No. He won’t say anything more. Professional ethics, he said.’
‘If you’d just let me scream,’ Divya said, ‘you’d know it all by now. But oh, no! Screaming isn’t an acceptable tactic, for the great detective!’
‘And if you screamed your way into a police cell, would I be doing my job?’ Naveen demanded.
‘How come you guys are still together?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you sort out the wannabe Bollywood actor guy already?’
‘We did,’ Naveen sighed. ‘But her father has this big business deal going down –’
‘Mukesh Devnani doesn’t do big deals, chamcha,’ Divya interrupted. ‘My father does huge, humungous deals.’
‘Her father has this huge, humungous deal going down,’ Naveen continued, ‘and apparently there’s been some bad blood among the parties who aren’t party to the deal. There’ve been some threats. Nasty stuff. Her dad’s playing safe. He asked me to stay on with this brat for a couple of weeks, until the deal’s done.’
‘I’m not a brat!’ Divya snapped, sticking out her tongue. ‘And the end of this arrangement can’t come fast enough for me, I’m telling you!’
‘Did you just stick your tongue out at me?’ Naveen asked, astounded.
‘It’s a legitimate response,’ she pouted.
‘Sure, if you’re four years old.’
‘So . . . ’ I cut in. ‘What happened with Wilson?’
‘I knew you were here,’ Naveen said quickly. ‘One of the guests at the party upstairs said h
e saw you, on the way up. He said you were having dinner with Ranjit Choudry. I thought this might be the only chance to bring this thing to a conclusion, so I told Wilson to meet us outside, on the sea wall. He’s waiting there now. What do you think?’
‘I think we should talk with this guy. If he’s what he says he is, we should take him to the Zodiac Georges. Divya, will you stay here with my girlfriend, Lisa?’
‘Don’t you start!’ she growled.
‘That’s what we were fighting about, before,’ Naveen explained. ‘I told her if you wanted to go with me to see the Georges with this guy Wilson, she should stay here at the hotel, in safety. She won’t buy it.’
‘Are you kidding?’ she snapped. ‘The most interesting thing to happen for like, a grillion years, going with this mystery man to see these Zodiac guys, whoever the fuck they are, and you want me to sit it out like a good little girl? No way. I’m a bad girl. I’m coming with.’
I glanced at Naveen. His half-smile and resigned shrug told me how much he’d become accustomed to giving in to the girl, in the days they’d been together.
‘Okay. Wait here. I’ll tell Lisa.’
I went back to the table, put my hands on the back of her chair, and leaned in close to whisper in her ear. I told her the situation, and then made an apology to the table.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to say that I’ve been called to an emergency, involving a friend. Please excuse me.’
‘We agreed to have dinner with Ranjit,’ Lisa said, furious and loud.
‘Lisa –’
‘And if you haven’t noticed, that’s what we’re in the middle of doing.’
‘Yeah, but –’
‘It’s just rude,’ she said flatly.
‘It’s an emergency. It’s Scorpio, Lisa.’
‘Is that why you’re leaving?’ she demanded angrily. ‘Or is it because Karla isn’t here?’
I stared at her, feeling hurt without knowing exactly why. Scorpio and Gemini were our friends, and it was important for them.
She stared back at me evenly, her eyes betraying nothing but anger. Ranjit broke the silence.
‘Well, we’ll be very sorry to see you leave, Lin. But rest assured, Lisa will be in good hands. And perhaps you’ll return from your . . . pressing matter . . . in time for dessert. I dare say we’ll be here for a while yet.’
He looked at me, his smile as open and ingenuous as ever. Lisa didn’t move.
‘Really,’ Ranjit said, putting his hand over Lisa’s on the table. ‘We’ll do our best to keep Lisa entertained. Don’t worry.’
‘Just go!’ Lisa said. ‘If it’s so important, just go.’
I stared at them for a moment; stared at Ranjit, and their hands together on the table. A perverse and completely honest instinct made me want to hit Ranjit hard. Anywhere would do.
I said goodbye, and I walked away. I know now that if I’d followed that instinct, if I’d dragged Ranjit from the hotel, slapped him around and put him back in his box of snakes, all of our lives would’ve been better, and safer, maybe even his.
But I didn’t. I rose above. I did the right thing. I was the better man I sometimes am. And Fate wrote a new chapter for all of us that night, on starred pages, and dark.
Chapter Twenty-One
Outside, fitful gusts caressed a fine mist off the bay, drifting across the wide road in glittering veils of delicate moisture. The monsoon, brooding for another assault on the city, paced its clouds horizon-wide over the sea.
The lawyer, Mr Wilson, was leaning casually against the hip-high sea wall. He wore a dark blue suit, and carried an umbrella and a fedora in his long, pale fingers. A banded tie was strangling his crisp white shirt. Despondent lawyers sometimes hang themselves with their business ties. Looking at Wilson, I wondered at a profession that wears its own noose.
As I approached him I realised that his hair was actually silver-white, beyond the thirty-five or so years of his thin, unlined face. His eyes were a soft blue that seemed to suffuse the white surrounding them: blue everywhere. They glittered with what might’ve been courage, or just good humour. Either way, I liked the look of him.
‘This is Lin, Mr Wilson,’ Naveen introduced us. ‘They also call him Shantaram.’
‘How do you do,’ Wilson said, offering me a card.
The card, bearing the name E. C. Wilson, announced that he worked for a partnered law firm, with offices in Ottawa and New York.
‘I understand, from Mr Adair, that you can take me to meet Mr Bradley, Mr George Bradley,’ Wilson said when I pocketed the card.
‘I understand that you can tell me what the hell you want with him,’ I replied calmly.
‘That’s telling him!’ Divya laughed.
‘Please, shut up!’ Naveen hissed.
‘If you are indeed friends of Mr Bradley –’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Mr Wilson?’ Naveen asked.
‘It’s Evan,’ Wilson responded calmly. ‘Evan Wilson. And I’m certainly not doubting your word. I’m merely saying that you will understand, as friends of Mr Bradley, that whatever business I have with him is his private business.’
‘And it’ll stay private,’ I agreed. ‘So private that you’ll never see him, if you don’t give me some idea of what you want with him. Scorpio George has a nervous disposition. We like him that way. We don’t disturb him without a reason. You see that, right?’
Wilson stared back at me, unruffled and resolute. A few strollers braving the wind and imminent rain passed us on the wide footpath. Two taxis pulled up near us, hoping for a fare. Other than that, the street was quiet.
‘I repeat,’ Wilson said at last, equably but firmly, ‘This a private –’
‘That’s it!’ Divya snapped. ‘Why don’t you two just kick the shit out of him? He’ll talk soon enough, if you give him a solid pasting.’
Wilson, Naveen and I turned to look at the small, slim socialite.
‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Go on! Fuck him up!’
‘I should warn you,’ Wilson said quickly, ‘that I took the precaution of hiring the services of a security officer, from the hotel. He is watching us now, near that parked car.’
Naveen and I turned. There was a black-suited bouncer from the hotel, standing in the shadows, five metres away. I knew the man. His name was Manav.
Mr Evan Wilson had made a mistake, because he didn’t know the local rules. When you needed private security, in those years, you hired a professional, which means either a gangster, or an off-duty cop.
Guys like Manav weren’t paid enough to take real risks. As working men, on low salaries, they had no protection if things got messy. If they got hurt, they had no insurance, and couldn’t sue anyone. If they hurt someone else, and got charged for it, they went to prison.
More to the point, Manav was a big, well-muscled guy, and like a lot of big, well-muscled guys, he knew that a broken bone would put a dent in his training routine: he’d lose half a year of sculptured gains. Setbacks like that make most bodybuilders take a long, hard look in the wall mirror at the gym.
‘It’s okay, Manav,’ I called out to him. ‘You can go back to the hotel now. We’ll call you, if we need you.’
‘Yes, sir, Linbaba!’ he said, visibly relieved. ‘Goodnight, Mr Wilson, sir.’
The bodyguard trundled back to the hotel, jogging a bow-legged trot. Wilson watched. To his credit, the lawyer smiled and remained calm.
‘It would seem, gentlemen,’ he said gently, ‘that you have suddenly moved rather closer into the circle of Mr George Bradley’s confidentiality.’
‘You got that right, you damn honky!’ Divya spat at him.
‘Will you please shut up!’ Naveen spluttered. ‘And what does that mean? Honky? What are you, from Harlem now, or what?’
‘I’m from the famous nation of Fuck You,’ she retor
ted. ‘Would you like to hear our national anthem?’
‘You were getting more confidential, Mr Wilson,’ I said.
‘It’s Evan. I can reveal that Mr Bradley is the recipient of a legacy. As the only living relative of Josiah Bradley, recently deceased owner of the Aeneas Trust, registered in Ottawa, he stands to gain a substantial sum, if I can find him and make the appropriate declarations before duly authorised notary officers.’
‘How substantial?’ Naveen asked.
‘If you will permit me, I will leave that to Mr Bradley’s discretion. I rather think it is his business to tell you the full amount of his inheritance, or not, as the case may be.’
Wilson needn’t have worried about Scorpio George telling us. When we took Wilson in a taxi to the Frantic hotel, enticed the Zodiac Georges to come down to a meeting, and left them alone with him on the street, it was fifteen seconds before Gemini George shouted out the sum.
‘Thirty-five million! Holy Croesus-Christ! Thirty-five million! Dollars, for Chrissakes!’
‘Tell the whole damn street, why don’t you?’ Scorpio scolded, glancing around nervously.
‘What are you scared of, Scorp? We don’t have the money yet! They won’t kill us in our beds for money we don’t have.’
‘They could kidnap us,’ Scorpio insisted, waving for us to join them and Wilson. ‘Isn’t that right, Lin? There are people who could kidnap us, and demand a ransom. They could cut off an ear, or a finger, and send it in the post.’
‘The Bombay post?’ Gemini scoffed. ‘Good luck.’
‘They’re probably planning the kidnapping right now,’ Scorpio whined.
‘Christ, Scorpio!’ Gemini protested, dancing a little with delight. ‘Five minutes ago you were freakin’ out about bein’ mind-controlled by the friggin’ CIA. Now, you’re blubberin’ on about bein’ kidnapped. Can’t you just sit back for once and smell the good karma?’
‘I rather think that Mr Bradley has a point, however,’ Wilson remarked.
‘Mr Bradley?’ Gemini scoffed. ‘Mr Fuckin’ Bradley! That’s worth a million, right there, just to hear that! Scorpio, give Wilson a million dollars.’
The Mountain Shadow Page 25
