The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(81)

They walked off and their voices faded, becoming one with the buzz on set. Tomorrow was Choti Diwali. A day when she prepared sweets with her daughter, who liked adding sugar and kneading the dough. Pia probably cowered right now in a dingy room or van, blindfolded.

Tara cleared her mind of the image, drew in a steadying breath, and focused on her surroundings. She had to remain watchful.

The neat staged area in front of the camera emerged like an island of calm amid the surrounding buzz and clutter. Karan Virani, the man she’d watched on-screen for more than a decade, stood talking to the sensei, laughing out loud. He wore makeup—bruises, dust, and blood—his clothes were torn and disheveled, his white-streaked beard matted with mud, but his stance said he owned the place and loved sharing it with everyone else. He put his hand on the sensei’s shoulder, and the sensei patted his back—like old friends.

For a moment, Tara imagined working opposite a famous star she’d admired for so long, in this beehive of assistants and technicians who moved at random but carried a purpose. Would she have had Pia, though?

What if Pia’s kidnappers had already called?

Tara didn’t own a watch. She checked the time on her phone. Without it, the minutes seemed endless. The star repeated the same snippet of dialogue, This is not what I expected from you, for the fifth time with different light settings, voice modulations, and camera angles. Arnav shot glances her way, checking on her often. She tried to catch his eye long enough to signal to him they should leave. She hadn’t felt the jackal’s scrutiny—no hint of menace, only a bunch of people busier than waiters at the Blue Bar at midnight.

Despite Arnav’s jacket, the freezing air-conditioning seemed to seep into her bones. She stood up and stretched her legs. No one noticed her. The sensei and Arnav seemed busy with the action director. If she sneaked out now to get a look at her phone—the kidnappers may have called—Arnav wouldn’t notice. Her window of time was short.

She stepped off. She would race to her phone and return before Arnav missed her.

Behind a partition on the site, she heard male voices. Not raised, but the intensity of the conflict unmistakable. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, unsure of the way out.

“You’re marrying my mother, but that doesn’t give you the right to order me about.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. It is common sense—this project will benefit us all, but especially her.”

“You’re going to tell me what to do for my mother?”

Unable to contain her curiosity, Tara peered through a gap in the partition: Rehaan Virani wrapped a bandage on his hand while speaking to a man in a business suit, a corporate honcho. She recognized the type—a few had frequented the Blue Bar in the past week. Shetty had pointed them out.

The argument went on, Rehaan getting angrier, the other remaining mild, when a third man joined them.

Karan Virani stepped between the suit and Rehaan, and told them to break it up.

“You can argue about this at home.” He put a gentle hand on Rehaan’s shoulder.

“I don’t want him anywhere near my home,” Rehaan said, petulant.

“Tough,” the suit said. “Your mother will be living with me starting next year.”

“This is not the place. An assistant will walk in any minute. The shot is ready.” Karan’s voice was gentle, reassuring. “Mr. Taneja, we’ll see you later.”

That was when she smelled it, the fragrance of old wood and cinnamon soaked in alcohol from long ago. A soft menace in the air. The men left, and she was about to enter the partition and follow them, when someone grabbed her elbow.

She knew Arnav’s touch, but it still spooked her.

“I told you not to leave my sight.” Arnav drew her away and out into open air.

“I think he’s here.”

“You saw him? Who is it?”

“Not sure.” Her heartbeat had changed, as if she’d been inside one of her nightmares of the jackal.

“You didn’t get a good look?”

“One of the men in that room. I don’t know which.”

She told him the names, and it made his expression go taut—jaw clenched, a tightening around his eyes. It had to be that businessman. Taneja.

“We need to find out. I’ll try and get you close to each of them, separately, all right?”

Tara nodded, but she wasn’t sure how she’d do it. She didn’t recognize the jackal, but he knew her. Night had fallen by the time they walked out, Filmistaan reduced to a few lights on the main roads connecting sets hidden by surrounding trees.

Arnav walked her to their vehicle to check her phone, but there were no calls. While returning to the set, they sensed a hubbub within. They navigated the dark, twisted partitions of the structure and met the sensei, who was stalking out.

“We’ll leave now.”

“What’s wrong?” Arnav said.

“Most unprofessional. Rehaan Virani flew into one of his rages, destroyed some of the set pieces, and stormed out. Karan Virani followed him, so he doesn’t drive in this state.”

“And Taneja?”

“Who is that? We’re leaving. What a waste of time. The director has canceled the shoot for tonight.”

As their car left, Tara shifted closer to Arnav, and held his bruised hand. When he asked her what was wrong, she smiled and shook her head. She sought comfort, unable to shake off the feeling of being watched by hungry, unflinching eyes.