The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(22)

“Where is it?”

“Bhai owns a stake in a cab company near the Andheri-Kurla Road. One of my boys saw a van like the one you described, covered up in the corner of the garage.”

Ali’s Bhai was Rasool Mohsin. Arnav sat up straighter.

“If that van turns out to be the right one, I’ll make sure you’re happy you traced it.”

“I’ll do my best, saab.”

Ali wasn’t exactly Rasool Mohsin’s right-hand man, but a lieutenant of sorts, and ran a few goons under his supervision. Arnav had saved his life once, years ago, in the course of a police raid. The man hadn’t forgotten. He was expensive, but Arnav had never regretted spending on him, sometimes out of his own pocket.

If the blabbering fool Ali had overheard was right, Rasool could have taken the contract for body disposal. It made sense that the black van was part of the clandestine fleet of repurposed vehicles all gang leaders kept at their disposal.

He could tell Shinde now, which might make him turn over the case to another inspector from his station. Rasool was too big a fish for Shinde to leave in the hands of an officer who didn’t report to him, even if it was his best friend. Or Arnav could wait till he had confirmation. He didn’t care about Rasool. If Rasool had indeed signed a contract, Arnav only wanted to know who had issued it.

Arnav switched on the radio, and another of Tara’s old Hindi songs floated up from the speakers, bringing back memories of the smoke-filled restaurant at the Blue Bar, and Tara’s seductive yet distant smile amid the flashing lights.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


He lay curled up in a corner of the four-poster bed, curtains drawn. It was all too much. Bundles of cash for Bilal’s bloody Bhai, and he’d still messed up the last package, on top of the other three. All he had to do was spirit the package out of Mumbai. Not get it stuck in the mangroves.

Outside the door, a gentle knock.

The inevitable man Friday with one of his trays, carrying healing potions filled with antioxidants. Good for your skin and your mood, Bilal would murmur.

“Go away.”

“There’s someone to see you,” Bilal rumbled low from beyond the door.

Bilal used to call Dad “sir.” As Dad’s son, he was baba, the male version of “baby”—a term Indian help used for the master’s little boys. Bilal didn’t call him baba anymore, but hadn’t shifted to “sir,” either. To Bilal, he was still a boy to be coddled. He smiled. Bilal was the one he could count on, more than Dad. Bilal had never hit him.

Another polite knock followed. In Bilal’s place, he’d have banged the door by now. But Bilal wasn’t the master.

“You must meet him. He has a phone for you.”

That was different. Not many people sent him phones. This guest wouldn’t hand pass the phone to anyone else. Not even Bilal.

“Ask him to wait.”

He let himself out, locked the door with his code, and headed toward the small sitting room at the back of the apartment. A sullen-faced man waited. They were all the quiet sort, but this one seemed not merely unwilling but also unable to speak. The henchman handed over the phone and sauntered out. The door led to the back entrance, which Bilal kept locked. Late-night visitors cooled their heels under a small porch.

The phone in his hand was one of those cheap things with a keypad. It seemed new. When it buzzed, he waited out a few rings before picking it up and saying hello. He hoped it wasn’t about what he feared.

“This is an official matter.” The gruff voice echoed. “I’m ending our arrangement.”

Uhnna. The world called him Vijayan, the man who’d made Mumbai Police lose sleep before he escaped to Dubai. Vijayan was Uhnna, the Malayali word for Big Brother—a mafia don—or for a friend of the family. And he was angry. Not just angry, crazy pissed.

“Uhnna?”

“I can’t deliver your supplies anymore.”

“You’ll tell me why, of course.” He let his voice deepen a pitch. Keep it casual, straightforward. Pretend you know nothing.

“We do a lot of business together,” Uhnna said, “and I thought you were honest with me.”

“I am.”

“A package was discovered, with parts missing. I don’t make enough with this business for packages to end up like that, and definitely not for the wrong people to find them.”

Thank the stars Uhnna didn’t know about the others. With this new one, he’d taken all the usual precautions. Made sure the woman reported back to her bosses, said she was going away of her own volition. Sent texts from her phone to her family, saying she would be busy, or traveling to another city. But Bilal’s man had failed again.

“How do you know that the package was damaged?”

“Only reason I didn’t find out earlier was that I trusted you.” The voice at the other end grew distant. “This was a favor for old times’ sake.”

The “old times” part was true. Dad invited him over for a bit of shooting in the forest, followed by a feast for him and his men in those days when Vijayan’s word was law in Mumbai. Over the years, Uhnna had taken care of matters big and small. Using the wily Item Number’s connections, Uhnna had thrived.

“Uhnna . . .”

“You need me more than I need you. I wish you’d remember that.”