The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(53)

He’d given in. A firm yes to each of the conditions. He dreamed of making the Item Number dance to his tune, but this woman would do for now. She’d earn him a good night’s sleep—a respite from his nightmares of the Item Number in blue.

Once, someone had caught him, and had to be fixed. He’d kept a low profile for a few weeks and gone about his duties as usual. What a bother, but also, if he was being honest, a satisfaction.

The silk sheets on his bed irked him—he punched the pillows. He hankered to brush shoulders, melt into a crowd, lose himself till he heard news of the new delivery. He craved a break from all the shit in his life, the nemesis who refused to die despite a well-executed traffic accident, the home falling into chaos in the absence of a diligent housekeeper. If only he could wear the uniform, not at work, but to thrill in the escape from discovery. He longed to prowl the streets to drain his restless energy. How to run away without Bilal, though? Once more the call to Bilal’s number, and the message, “Hello. I’ll—”

Before Bilal’s recorded voice could finish, he tossed the phone.

He strode to his dressing table and tossed on his clothes. He’d burned half of his treasure—his notebooks, his collection—and for what? He didn’t need Bilal’s care or his warnings to be discreet—better if the man wasn’t there. With no one to clean up afterward, he wouldn’t forget himself. He’d stored enough pictures, the remaining diaries, and memories. He’d survive, ditch the uniform, go for a walk in his own backyard garden.





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


ARNAV

At thirteen years old, Arnav had smashed the windows of one of his neighbors’ cars because the man had called his recently dead sister an ugly name. When the car owner caught him, a few local boys gathered to watch the spectacle. The owner, a towering goon, grabbed Arnav by the throat, murder in his eyes. Arnav threw out his gangly arms to block the punches about to rain down on him. They never came because a strapping young man intervened.

He calmed the goon down, made him release Arnav. As Arnav gaped and blabbered, the youth promised that Arnav and his family would pay the damages. The young man, whose mustache had made him look far older than his nineteen years, hustled Arnav off before the owner could change his mind. That was Arnav’s first meeting with Hemant Shinde, which started a friendship spanning more than two decades.

Arnav let the silence in the hospital room stretch out. Shinde stood with his face turned away from him, staring at the floor.

“I used to have an arrangement with Tara’s boss at the Blue Bar. Shetty. He sent women out to clients from time to time. You remember how hushed it was since the government ban on dance bars—he could only retain licenses on the smaller bars. I made sure no one looked into it.”

“Hafta?”

Hafta, the innocuous Hindi word that simply meant “a week,” was Mumbai’s term for weekly protection payments extorted by mob bosses, and often the police. Sometimes a stall owner paid hafta to both the police and the mob, so neither would bother him. The money was collected from various businesses, aggregated, then distributed per a fixed ratio starting from the ministers, to the top cops, all the way down to the constable. Arnav had stayed out of the system. He’d assumed so had Shinde.

He would’ve laughed at his own naivete had his shoulders hurt less. Those you loved either didn’t stay in your life, or didn’t stay the same. Trust no one. Arnav had lost sight of these important lessons.

“I’m not proud of it.” Shinde rubbed at his unshaven cheek.

“Was that why you railed against Tara earlier? You didn’t want me to find out she knew you?”

“I had no idea who Tara was. I just didn’t think a bar girl was better than Nandini.”

“Really?”

“I’d only seen her a few times long ago while chasing Shetty for his payments at the bar. I didn’t know her name.”

Payments. Shinde spoke like it was owed him. Who was this man?

“What did you want to tell me earlier?”

“I . . .” Shinde lowered his gaze. “Remember that day I went with you to the morgue?”

Arnav sensed he wouldn’t want to hear his friend’s confession.

“The dead woman was Neha Chaubey. I recognized the birthmark on the underside of her breast.” Shinde cleared his throat. “I couldn’t tell you. Not without admitting how I knew her. She’s . . . was one of Shetty’s dancers from another, much smaller bar.”

“How long has this been going on?”

No way Shinde could have seen the mark under normal circumstances. Neha was Shinde’s woman.

His poor wife. Cooking, keeping house, raising the children, while her husband spent time with Shetty’s bar girls.

“I was wrong, but what could I do? A man has needs. After work at the station, I need relief and Sujata is too tired or asleep by the time I’m home. You’re not married, and have no clue. Girls throw themselves at you.”

“Even if I let that slide,” Arnav said as he addressed the wall instead of Shinde, “you’re still a senior inspector who obstructed a murder investigation. Now I get why you’ve been acting strange, ordering me to turn the lead over.”

Arnav bit down a groan as his shoulder throbbed and his mind grappled with the enormity of what Shinde had done—taken bribes to help Shetty, concealed evidence, and cheated on his wife. If this came out, at the very least, Shinde would face an enquiry. He could be fired, and his wife might leave with his children. No wonder he’d tried his best to remove Arnav from the case. The only upside to this entire locha, this messy shit show, was the discovery of the victim’s identity.