Rising Tiger: A Thriller (75)

“La Grange” by ZZ Top had been playing when he had walked in and as it ended, the DJ began spinning “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC—much to the delight of a couple of female patrons who, well into their shots, simultaneously hit the stripper poles at the front of the dance floor.

If the presence of the poles themselves didn’t indicate that this sort of dancing was encouraged, the fact that the DJ started a whole bunch of flashing red lights to encourage them should have.

By the time the ladies returned to their table for more shots, and “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper started up, Harvath was pretty certain that he had the vibe of the place figured out. Definitely a rock bar.

He would’ve bet the next hundred bucks Vijay was sure to want from him for parking protection that the last song of the night, every night, was a raucous, standing-on-top-of-the-bar-and-tables sing-along to “American Pie” by Don McLean. It was just that kind of place.

If not for the provenance of its barbaric owner, it might have been the kind of place Harvath could grow to like. He enjoyed a seedy dive bar now and again. When he did, the more raucous, the better.

As if on cue, it was at that precise moment that Vijay stumbled into the Laid Back and began to give a performance worthy of an Oscar.





CHAPTER 47


Even from the other end of the bar, Harvath could smell the ex-cop before he had even seen him. He had no clue what sort of alcohol the man had briefly marinated in, but it was potent.

Taking a moment to steady himself, he then wobbled toward the bar, telling both the bouncers who tried to stop him to “Shut the fuck up” and “Go back to watching porn” on their phones.

He had everyone’s attention at the front of the establishment. Plopping himself down on a stool, he pulled out his wallet and removed a two-hundred-rupee note.

As he slapped it onto the bar and demanded a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks, his badge was clearly visible to the bartender as well as the bouncers, who decided to disengage and let the cop be.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the barman informed him. “Johnnie Walker Black is a premium beverage. It is six hundred rupees.”

Removing the rest of the cash from his wallet, Vijay ham-handedly placed it atop the bar and, with just the hint of slurred speech, replied, “Fine, then. Bring me two.”

Scooping up the money, the bartender put it into the till and set to work making the drinks.

Harvath’s gaze drifted from the ex-cop to the dance floor, paying about as much attention to the newly arrived drunk as he would in any other situation. It was important to know where the man was and if he was getting worse, but other than that, the best course of action was not to engage.

The barman arrived with the two drinks and placed them before his customer. Vijay made quick work of them.

After swirling the first one for a moment to release some of the water from the ice, he tossed it right back—one, fast, gluttonous gulp.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he reached for the second drink and knocked it over. That began what Harvath could only assume was a long string of curse words in Hindi.

The bartender told him that everything was okay and that he would make him another drink. Vijay nodded at the man and gestured to suggest that of course he would make him another drink. It was the only right thing to do.

If Harvath had been tending bar, he would have handed over the fresh drink, told him to enjoy it, and then told him to find someplace else to continue his evening. But Harvath wasn’t the bartender and this wasn’t your average watering hole.

This was, at best, a place where Aga Sayed laundered his ill-gotten gains and at worst, a location from which he ran many of his criminal endeavors. No one here would want any problems with the cops.

Before he had even finished his fresh, second drink, Vijay was setting his sights further upmarket. Eyeing the top shelf, he was surprised to see a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

“Is that real Johnnie Blue?” he asked. “Or bullshit used to fleece your tourist customers?”

To his credit, the barman maintained his cool. Though he resented the accusation, he replied, “No, sir. It is most definitely legitimate Johnnie Walker Blue Label whiskey.”

“Good,” said Vijay, a little heavier on the slurred speech. “I’ll have one of those next.”

“Very good, sir. It is eighteen hundred rupees a glass. How would you like to pay?”

The ex-cop got his wallet back out, opened it, and feigned disbelief that there was no cash.

“Perhaps you have a credit card I could run?” the bartender offered.

Vijay threw his hand dismissively in the air. “I canceled them. Only cash. No paper trail for my wife’s attorney to trace.”

Patting himself down, he stopped at his breast pocket and removed a tattered business card.

Placing it atop the bar, he used two fingers and dramatically slid it toward the barman.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” the man asked, studying the Indian Police Service logo and Vijay’s rank as an inspector general.

“I’d like to establish a house account.”

“In other words,” the barman replied, “you want us to let you drink on credit.”

“Isn’t that what a house account is?” Vijay said, a bit acerbically, but not enough to arouse suspicion and blow his cover.