The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(60)

He had called Taneja once, and definitely had not “harassed” him. As a police officer, that would be unproductive as well as unprofessional. A few days ago, Arnav would have taken the gamble of pushing further, but now he had Tara to think of. If he revealed he’d begun connecting the dots, that could endanger Tara. Whoever ordered those private dances was connected to the murders. His boss could alert the wrong people.

Mhatre stood up and paced in the small space between the door and the chair. His tall frame crowded the office.

“Follow orders, Rajput. Report to Commissioner Joshi as soon as possible. I’m going on leave starting today until after Diwali. I don’t expect to see you when I return.”

“May I apply for one as well, sir?”

Taking leave would help him sort out the situation with Shinde and coordinate the response to the Versova case with Naik. Arnav watched for a reaction from Mhatre.

“Medical leave?” Mhatre’s face remained blank.

“I’m injured.”

“One week. After that, if you come to work, it will be at Bandra station with Commissioner Joshi.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I were you, I’d be careful, Rajput. No heroics. Better to be a fattu than get in trouble.”

Arnav wanted to ask Mhatre if he was calling himself a spineless pussy or Arnav, but Mhatre turned and left the room.





CHAPTER FIFTY


She made me tie my feet together again today. She says I look better this way, my socks on, my school tie a small snake around my feet. You look like a proper little man, she says. That’s what I want to look like, a proper man.

He wanted the Item Number to disappear, and with her that gnawing urge to destroy her, again and again, the way she’d destroyed him. Not all women were like that, Bilal said. Women could be nice and generous. But Bilal said many things. The Item Number was a greedy slut. After Dad died, he would have been on the streets if not for Bilal. Bilal and his stupid, stupid faith in women.

He picked another diary at random and flipped through the sepia pages, his handwriting now faded, but not the images they carried.

Today was Choti Diwali, or Bhoot Chaturdashi, the evening of ghosts and demons. The evening before the grand lights of Diwali night.

We’ll have the fireworks tomorrow for Diwali, she said, but Choti Diwali, the small Diwali, is right for our perfect little celebration, just you and me.

The Item Number took me to the railway track near the hotel.

It’s different on the tracks, she said. Come lie down here on this blanket. You won’t feel a thing, not the stones, not the track. Tie your feet. Here, let me do your hands for you. You can keep your clothes on, I can unzip you when I need to. With her hovering above, I heard the first murmur, the faintest of rumbles. There’s a train coming, I said. She said it was only a goods train and everyone knew they crawled, it would take at least three minutes to reach us, so even a child could get away, lie back and take in the trembling of the earth, but I felt the lightest of shakings within the tracks like black snakes that would bring the train hurtling down on me and I struggled, trying to throw her off, but her thighs were strong on my throat. Come on, she said, come on.

He shut the journal and sprawled in his nest of sheets and pillows.

The Item Number’s shadow had failed the three-minute test, hadn’t she? Anyone who failed the test must pay. He was generous—he merely cut half their pay the first time. She’d escaped fourteen years ago by refusing the six lakhs. Few women could resist that kind of money, their greedy little hearts beat too hard. They came to dance for him one last time, their eyes shining with avarice. They never left. Bilal would have said he had no business summoning this woman, but Bilal was gone.

Besides, he didn’t force any of them. They came on their own. Their greed was their downfall. Women just couldn’t help it. This one wouldn’t, either.

What if she was different and refused, though?

He rose from the bed. In the bathroom, he switched on a small light. He selected a new razor, and sank into the marble bathtub. No Bilal to patch him up, so he’d have to go easy. He made shallow cuts, and cursed when some of his tears fell on his thigh, stinging. He remained a fattu, easily hurt. No uniform could hide that. Wiping his face with his forearm, he reached out to the corner for the stash in a hidden drawer. Bilal replenished it each week. The right dose, no more. All the equipment polished and clean, damn the man.

He could find replacements for Bilal, but he couldn’t trust them. The one man he’d taken for granted had betrayed him.

He shook out the straw, and with practiced ease laid out a thin white line on the cold black marble. The phone rang. He picked up the call and listened to Uhnna.

She had refused, blast her.

“Whatever it takes,” he chewed out the words. “Get her to agree.”

“We can pick her up tonight, if you like.”

“No. She must decide on her own.”

“Is it?” Uhnna said. “You have funny ideas about how women make up their mind.”

“Take care of it.”

“It will cost you. And if you damage any more packages, we’re done.”

“No damage. And I’ll throw in extras. Whatever you like.”

Funneling information, kissing babies in front of cameras, OK’ing projects he wouldn’t otherwise look at twice, all for a bit of fun he wasn’t even allowed to touch. He could handle it by himself, though. He would show Bilal.