I felt a cold little tickle start up in my stomach. These cops were always sniffing around for trouble until someone paid them to go sniff somewhere else. Hoshiyaar had said the inspector wasn’t interested in our little sideline, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Inspector Balwant’s lips drooped. He sighed, his face comically sad. I shifted from one leg to the other. “Give me your hand,” he said.
I hesitated, set the caddy down, and put my hand out. The cop took it in his huge paw and held it loosely, then covered it with his other palm, so my fingers were sandwiched in between.
“Where are those two going?”
“Who?” I said.
“The couple who wanted tickets from your Hoshiyaar last night,” the inspector said, and pushed my fingers backwards so hard that the pain made me rise up on my toes.
“Shimla, sir,” I said when I could speak.
“Are they coming back here to collect the tickets?” The inspector’s hand moved up casually until his fingers circled my wrist, gave it a little experimental twist. I felt slightly lightheaded — this man was going to snap my wrist in broad daylight. Past Inspector Balwant’s bulk I could see the journalist smiling at the sight of the two of us, from the window of the jeep. He took out his camera and snapped a picture of the celebrated inspector shaking hands with the lowly tea-boy.
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. My voice came out cracked and whispery like an old man’s. The inspector’s hand squeezed my wrist. Hard. “They arranged delivery with Hoshiyaar. They’re leaving tonight — that’s all I know. By private bus.”
“Where’s Hoshiyaar now?” He glanced toward the ticket booths, searching.
I didn’t look up. “I don’t know, sir.” I could taste the sweat dripping off my upper lip.
“Tell him I am looking for him, okay?” The inspector released my hand and it flopped down to my side. “If they come back here I want you to call me,” he added, then wrote a number on his notepad and pushed the torn page roughly into my shirt pocket before walking off.
Gaandusaalachutiyabenchodmaderchodbastardwhore-spawnmotherfuckingsisterfucker. My fingers hurt as if they were broken. Watch out for the ones who aren’t on the take — they’re the worst, Hoshiyaar always said.
I waited until the Gypsy, with the inspector squeezed safely inside, had driven off. Then I shoved my tea caddy back into the stall with my good hand and left for the hotel. I could hear Sethi behind me yelling for me to come back “right-now-this-minute or I’ll skin you alive,” but at that moment I didn’t care. Miss India and her loverboy were up to something that was bad enough to get the police all excited. Perhaps I could do her a favor, warn her somehow.
“I transferred them to room 5-B this morning. You owe me,” the manager said in answer to my panted question, pointing a finger to the ceiling. The room number was familiar. I had called him this morning, made him change Miss India’s room. No harm in a little look-see, I’d thought. Coming here, the bus had gotten stuck in traffic a mile away and I had cut in front of Imperial Cinema to get to the hotel. As usual there was a big crowd of people chowing down in front of Sitaram Diwan Chand. These suited-booted types were crazy to come to the stall from faraway places to eat chole baturas of all things. As if there weren’t a million other places in Delhi selling the same greasy shit.
Behind the reception desk was a glass mirror with the outline of the Red Fort etched in gold on it and I got a glimpse of my sweaty face. I pushed my hair off my forehead.
“You missed some top action, yaar. She was licking him like an ice-cream cone. Early in the morning they were at it — without even brushing their teeth,” the manager said. He made an obscene sucking noise. I turned and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He called something after me but I didn’t stop to listen.
When I put my eye to the hole in the wall, my view of the bed was partly blocked by Hoshiyaar. He had come without telling me and the manager must have let him up. He was standing quite still, his back to me. Beyond him was Miss India’s smooth naked leg sticking out to one side.
I knocked on the closed door of 5-B and said his name twice before Hoshiyaar replied.
“Go home and wait for me,” he growled.
“No. Inspector Balwant came after me — there’s something going on with those two.” Hoshiyaar opened the door and yanked me inside.
“And what did you tell him?” He grabbed my arm and shook it.
“Nothing. I didn’t know where you were.” I glanced at the bed and the words jammed in my throat.
Miss India lay on top of the blood-soaked sheet, arms flung wide apart, a stab wound to her throat. Her valise lay open on its side next to her. Spilled out of it were three handguns and bundles upon bundles of rupees wrapped in transparent plastic. The guns looked so much smaller than in the movies.
She mumbled something indistinct and weakly moved her fingers. My legs gave way under me and I stumbled to a chair, held onto its arms. Her eyes were open and they locked into mine as if she was trying to tell me something. My stomach heaved and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away.
“We fought, struggled. Bitch pulled a gun on me — I lost my head,” Hoshiyaar said. “Her friend ran into the bathroom — I locked him in. He was crying and carrying on — I couldn’t think.” His eyes bounced around the room. “I need to think.” His turban had fallen off his head and his bald pate, barely covered by his wispy topknot, shone with sweat.
Leather Jacket thumped on the bathroom door, yelled something I couldn’t quite understand.
It seemed important at that moment to find Hoshiyaar’s turban. I looked around until I spotted it fallen down behind the chair. I picked it up carefully, dusted it off, and handed it to him. “What the hell are you doing?” he said.
I heard sirens in the distance. They were coming closer.
“The bastard cops must have had you followed.” Hoshi-yaar looked toward the door. “Will the manager lie to them? Go down and tell him I’ll kill him if he opens his mouth.”
“No — it’s no good,” I said. “He’ll sell his own sister — and then watch while they fuck her.” I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. I felt unhinged by the blood, the dying girl.
Hoshiyaar slapped me so hard that my head snapped back. I put a hand to my cheek, then drew a deep breath. The shock steadied my head. Below us the terrifying wow-wow of the sirens drew even closer, then passed. Just some fat-cat politician going about his dirty business. I looked at the money. Miss India was quiet now, her eyes closed.
“Did you bring their tickets?” The old man nodded. I walked to the bed. I couldn’t make myself touch the valise, so I tore off a pillowcase and started shoving the money into it.
“Don’t touch the money!” Hoshiyaar said. So that’s why he had come here without me. He must have sensed that these two would have hard cash hidden in the room. If I hadn’t barged in, if his plan had gone smoothly, would he have shared any of it with me, his so-called son?
I doubted it.
“We’ll take the money and get out of here,” I said, then resumed picking up brick after brick of cash and stacking each inside the pillowcase. It was all becoming clear to me. Our life here was over. “I’ll go to Shimla — wait for you.”
“Shut up! Put the money down and get out of here. I’ll say she pulled a gun — I stuck her with the kirpan in self-defense.
Lots of these cops owe me favors — I’ll take care of everything.
But you shouldn’t be found here.” Hoshiyaar was talking fast, almost babbling.
“But what about the manager?” I asked. The pillowcase was full and I put it down where he could see it. “He saw us, and you’re going to have to take care of him.”