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 retorted. ‘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.’
‘One thing is certain, Mr Bradley,’ Wilson continued. ‘You cannot stay in this hotel. Not when such a significant change in your financial circumstances has shifted you into a, shall we say, more significant income bracket?’
‘He means a more vulnerable income bracket,’ Scorpio mumbled. ‘He’s already talking kidnapping, Gemini. D’you hear that?’
‘Calm down, Scorpio,’ I said.
‘He’s right, actually,’ Divya chipped in.
‘You see?’ Scorpio hissed.
‘My dad, he’s an expert in kidnapping security,’ Divya said. ‘I’ve been trained in it since I was five years old. All rich people are. Now that you’re rich, you’ll have to learn counter-kidnapping techniques, and have all your friends carefully vetted by the police. You’ll need to stay in a safe place, too, and have an armoured limousine. No doubt about it. Bodyguards and money go together like handbags and shoes.’
‘Oh, no,’ Scorpio moaned.
‘And you’re right about the fingers and ears,’ Divya added. ‘But kidnappers use couriers, not the post.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘One case I know, they cut all the fingers but one, before the family paid the ransom.’
‘Oh . . . ’
‘Divya, please,’ Naveen sighed.
‘In another case, they cut off both ears. Tragic. Had to give away his collection of designer sunglasses.’
‘Oh . . . ’
‘Divya.’
‘And hats never looked quite the same,’ Divya mused, ‘but at least they got him back. And he’s still rich.’
‘Divya, you’re not helping!’ Naveen snapped.
‘Excuse me?’ she retorted. ‘Far as I can see, there are only two millionaires involved in this conversation, Mr Bradley and Miss Me. Hello? So, I’m the only one qualified to talk about rich kidnapping victims, na?’
‘Oh, no,’ Scorpio moaned.
‘Where’s the party?’ Gemini laughed, still dancing.
‘I have taken the liberty of reserving suites at the Mahesh hotel, on my floor,’ Wilson announced. ‘I was hoping that sooner or later I would be successful in locating you, and that I would be able to extend a measure of hospitality. My firm has also arranged for a line of credit to be opened for you immediately, Mr Bradley, for you to use until the legal matters are all resolved and you can receive your full inheritance.’
‘That’s . . . that’s amazing,’ Scorpio stammered uncertainly. ‘A line of credit?’
‘How much credit?’ Gemini asked.
‘I lodged a hundred thousand dollars in your discretionary account. You have immediate access to it.’
‘I like this guy,’ Gemini said softly. ‘Give him another million dollars, Scorpio.’
‘We are hoping that you will retain our services, Mr Bradley,’ Wilson said. ‘Just as your departed great-uncle Josiah Bradley did for so many years. We’re fully prepared to offer you the best possible professional advice, on the management of your legacy. We are at your complete service.’
‘What are we waitin’ for?’ Gemini George cried. ‘Let’s go!’
‘What about our stuff?’ Scorpio George asked, glancing back at the Frantic hotel.
‘Trust me,’ Divya said, taking Scorpio’s arm, and leading him toward the waiting taxis. ‘You’ll send a servant to do that. From now on, your servants will do everything that isn’t fun.’
‘Whiskey!’ Gemini said, falling into step behind them, and leaning over Divya’s shoulder.
‘And a long shower,’ Divya said.
‘And champagne!’
‘And a second shower.’
‘And cocaine! Hey, I know! Let’s mix the cocaine in the champagne!’
‘I’m beginning to like you,’ Divya said.
‘And I already like you,’ Gemini said. ‘Let’s get that party started!’
‘You’ll join us, of course, Mr Wilson?’ Divya asked, taking his arm as well.
‘If you’ll pardon the indiscretion, Miss . . .?’
‘Devnani. Divya Devnani. Call me Diva. Everyone does.’
‘If you’ll pardon the indiscretion, Miss Devnani,’ Wilson said, smiling and making no move to disengage his arm from hers, ‘didn’t you advise your friends, not half an hour ago, to kick the shit out of me?’
‘Silly boy,’ she chided. ‘That was before I knew you were administering thirty-five million dollar estates. And it’s Diva, remember?’
‘Very well, Miss Diva. I’d be delighted to share a glass in celebration.’
After the short ride back to the Mahesh hotel, Wilson collected the room keys and arranged to have the desk manager visit Scorpio George’s suite in an hour, to sign in the new guests.
As he was about to leave the reception area, I put a hand on his arm.
‘Are you planning to make a complaint?’ I asked him quietly.
‘A complaint?’
‘About Manav.’
‘Manav?’
‘Your security guard.’
‘Oh, him,’ he smiled. ‘He was rather derelict in his duty. But . . . I think that was because he knew I was in safe hands, with you and young Mr Naveen, even if he did expose me to the risk of Miss Diva.’
‘Is that a no?’
‘It is indeed a no, sir. I will not make a complaint against him.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, shaking hands with him.
I liked Evan Wilson. He was calm, discreet and resolute. He’d shown courage when we’d confronted him. He had a sense of humour, was professional but pragmatic, and seemed to be a good judge of flawed characters, in life’s tight corners.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘Shall we join the others?’
‘No, I’ve got somewhere I already had to be,’ I replied, looking at the laughing group, Naveen, Divya, and the Zodiac Georges, waiting by the doors to the elevators.
I looked back to the silver-haired Canadian lawyer.
‘Good luck, Mr Wilson.’
I watched him walk away, and then made my way back to the ground-floor restaurant. Ranjit’s table was empty, and had been cleared and prepared for a new setting.
I signalled the manager.
‘When did they leave?’
‘Some time ago, Mr Lin. Miss Lisa left a note for you.’
He fished the note from his vest pocket and handed it to me. It was written in the red ink she preferred.
Gone to a party with Ranjit, the note said. Don’t wait up.
I gave the manager a tip, and took a few steps, before a thought made me turn and call back.
‘Did they have dessert?’ I asked.
‘Ah . . . no, sir. No. They left immediately after the first course.’
I pushed through the main doors of the hotel. Outside in the warm night air I saw Manav, the hotel bodyguard, standing on duty with another security officer. He noticed me, and searched my eyes expectantly.
He was a good kid, with a nice combination: big, strong and kind. He was worried that Mr Wilson would make a complaint for abandoning a guest of the hotel. It would cost him his job, and end any hope of a better career in the hospitality industry. I signalled him to come over.
‘Kya hal hain, Manav?’ I asked, shaking hands. How are you doing?
There was a tip rolled into the palm of my hand, but he closed his huge hands over mine and resisted the offer of money.
‘No, no, Linbaba,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t . . . I can’t take anything.’
‘Sure you can,’ I smiled, forcing him to clutch at the money or let it fall to the ground.
‘That’s just what Mr Wilson would’ve given you, if you’d finished your shift with him tonight.’
‘M-Mr Wilson . . . ’
‘It’s okay. I just spoke to him.’
‘Yes, Linbaba. I saw you coming inside, before. I was waiting here, but I didn’t have the guts to talk to him.’
‘He won’t make a complaint.’
‘It’s sure, Linbaba? Really?’
‘It’s sure. He told me. It’s okay.’
The gleam in Manav’s black-brown eyes followed me as I collected my bike and rode along Marine Drive to the peak of Malabar Hill.
I stopped at a vantage point looking down on the windowed jewels of light lining the bay-wide smile of Marine Drive. I rolled myself a hash joint and began to smoke it.
A beggar, who made the long, winding climb to the summit every night for a safe place to sleep, came to sit nearby. I handed him the joint. He grinned and puffed at it happily, using his hand as a chillum to draw the smoke without touching it to his lips.
‘Mast mal!’ he muttered, smoke streaming out through his nostrils. Great stuff!
Nodding sagely, he puffed again, and passed the joint back to me.
I took the piece of hash I’d used to make the joint, and gave it to him. The man became suddenly serious, looking from the large piece of hashish in his palm to my eyes, and back again.
‘Go home,’ he said at last in Hindi. ‘Go home.’
I rode back through storming rain, parked my bike in the shelter beneath my building, slipped a damp twenty-rupee note into the shirt pocket of the sleeping watchman, and entered my apartment.
Lisa wasn’t there. I stripped off the wet clothes and boots, showered, ate some bread and fruit, drank a mug of coffee, and lay back on the bed.
The electric fan turned overhead just fast enough to send a cooling flourish into the humid air. A new downpour drummed against the metal gable over the bedroom window, sending rivulets as silver as mercury streaming past the half-open window.
I smoked a joint in the dark, and waited. It was after three when Lisa returned, her footsteps tapping the dissonant dance of the drunk on the marble floor tiles of the entry hall.
She tumbled into the room, throwing her handbag against a chair. It missed, and rolled off onto the floor. She kicked one loose, untied sandal off, and hop-stumbled out of the other.
Turning in struggling little circles, she wriggled out of her dress and panties, trailing them from one ankle as she thumped onto the bed.
I couldn’t see her pupils, in the darkened room. One look at them would’ve told me what she’d taken: all drugs live and die in the eyes. I reached out to switch on the bedside lamp, but she stopped me.
‘Leave it off! I want to be Cleopatra.’
When she was deep in sleep I took a wet towel and cooled her down. I dried her off, and she rolled onto her side of the bed, and settled into blameless sleep.
I lay back in the darkness, beside her. Bats chittered past the open window, seeking shelter from the dawn. The watchman, who’d woken from his nap to do rounds of the building, tapped his bamboo stick against the ground to warn away foraging rats. The sound faded, and the room was still and quiet. Her breathing was waves on a gentle shore.
I was happy for the Zodiac Georges, sudden millionaires, and happy to see that Naveen and Divya were still together, no matter how much they fought. And I was glad that Lisa was home and safe.
But I was sick inside. I didn’t know what Lisa wanted, but I was sure it wasn’t me. There were times, I think, when I wanted her to want me, and love me, and let me love her in return. There were times when I hoped that it would happen. But wanting more was a sign of how little we had. We were friends who didn’t try hard enough to make it more.
My eyes began to close. In a half-dream I saw Ranjit, his face contorted, a fiend, a malignant thing. I started awake, and listened for a while to the soft echo of the sea, Lisa’s breath, until my eyes closed again.
And we slept, together and alone, as rains washed the city cleaner than the kneeling stone in a prison confessional.