Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'Are you making a film in India?'

'Can you please get me a role?'

'Will you take me with you to Hollywood?'

The last time I was surrounded by so many girls was in Third Grade when they were all taking a good look at my willie. Mizz Henrietta Loretta had given us a new kind of exam called an IQ test and I foolishly bet Betsy Walton that I would score more than her. We were both pretty much bottom of the class but I thought I was smarter than her. As it turned out, I did score as high as 48 on that test, but she still beat me by getting a 50. So I had to take off my shorts in front of the whole class in what still remains the most embarrassing experience of my life.

Even as I was trying to figure out how to get rid of all these crazy chicks, I heard a ruckus at the bar. A waiter had dropped a whole tray of drinks and a tall man wearing an Indian dress was having a hissy fit, staggering around like a blind horse in a pumpkin patch. Ten seconds later I saw him running across the lawn like a scalded dog.

A young girl, who looked like her belly button wasn't dry yet, tapped me on the arm. 'Do you know any Hollywood stars?' she pouted.

'Yeah,' I replied. 'Arnie Schwarzenegger is my best buddy.'

She almost swooned. Another girl kissed me on the cheek without any warning and whispered, 'Can I meet you in your hotel room?'

I hadn't even put on my deodorant spray, yet these girls were becoming hornier than four-balled tomcats. So I excused myself and headed straight for the house, hoping to find Shabnam there. I walked through a door into a large round hall which had marble flooring smoother than a baby's ass. The sofas had been pushed into the corners and there were large windows on either side of the room, one opening on to the lawn and the other on to the driveway. There were plenty of people in the hall, talking and drinking at a wooden bar stacked with bottles. I looked around for Shabnam, but she wasn't there. So I went back into the garden and picked a quiet spot far from those batty girls.

Around eleven o'clock there was a sudden buzz on the lawn and everyone started moving towards the house. 'What's happening?' I asked a waiter. 'They say Shabnam Saxena is here,' he replied, and quick as a hiccup I was back in the hall. Five minutes later, in walked the woman of my dreams, looking even more beautiful than her photograph. She was wearing a tight-fitting dress and carried a moccasin handbag. I could smell her perfume from fifty feet away.

Shabnam took an empty sofa and Vicky Rai sat down beside her. From the way Shabnam cringed when his hand grazed her arm, I knew she didn't fancy him. I felt like drawing my Glock and blowing out his brains. They spoke in low voices and I saw Shabnam shake her head several times. A waiter with a thick black beard brought in a trayful of drinks. Shabnam took an orange juice; Vicky Rai asked for tequila. I hovered near them, hoping to catch Shabnam's eye. Fifteen minutes passed by, but Vicky Rai didn't budge from the sofa. Just when I was beginning to wonder if his backside was coated with superglue, his pop came in and told him to get up. 'Iqbal Mian has come. He wants to meet you.' Vicky made a face and stood up reluctantly. Sensing my opportunity, I plonked myself on the sofa faster than the Undertaker does a choke slam on his opponent.

Shabnam looked at me like a warehouse inspector checking out new merchandise. I extended my hand. 'Hi! I'm Rick Myers, Hollywood producer. I've been fixin' to meet you for ages,

Shabnam. Just saw your film Love in Canada on the telly.'

She shook my hand warmly. 'What are you doing in India, Mr Myers?'

'Believe it or not, I came just to see you.'

'To offer me a role in an American film?'

'Yeah.'

'What's it going to be called?'

'Er… I was thinking of Love in Waco.'

She smiled. I inched closer to her on the sofa and dropped my voice to a whisper. 'Listen, Shabnam, I know you are in a whole lot of trouble.'

She became more nervous than a fly in a glue pot. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean I know all about Sapna.'

The moment I said 'Sapna' she crumpled; the fight went out of her body like gas from a hot-air balloon.

'How did you find out?'

'A PI by the name of Mr Gupta tipped me off. I tell you, that guy is smarter than a tree full of owls.'

'I am indeed in great difficulty,' she said, wringing her hands.

'I came to Vicky Rai for help from his father. But he asks a high price.'

'I wouldn't go partners on a butcher's knife with him,' I said. 'He's more slippery than a pig on ice.'

'Then what should I do?'

'Take my help. I'm the guy for you.'

'What can a Hollywood producer do to help me?'

I took a quick look around and then leaned closer. 'I'm not really a Hollywood producer. I'm a forklift operator at Walmart. But I've been drafted into the FBI's Witness Protection Programme.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'And why exactly would the FBI offer you such a programme?'

'Coz I closed the contract on some real scumbags over in Pakistan. The FBI gave me fifteen million dollars as a reward and the President wrote me a very nice letter.'

Shabnam flicked her fingers across her face. 'Come on now, you're just pulling my leg.'

'You don't believe me? You want to see proof?' She nodded and I took out the letter from the President from my suit pocket.

She read it and looked at me. 'But this is addressed to Larry Page.' She frowned. 'Now where have I heard that name?'

'Larry Page used to be my real name. But now the FBI have given me this new name – Rick Myers. I still haven't cottoned on to it.'

Shabnam wasn't even listening to me. She snapped her fingers. 'Larry Page… You're the American who has been writing me all those letters, aren't you?'

'Yeah. That's me,' I said and looked her in the eye. 'I'm madly in love with you!'

That went down like a pregnant pole-vaulter. Shabnam got up from the sofa faster than a striped-assed ape and wagged a finger at me. 'Please keep away from me, Mr Page. I want nothing to do with you.'

She turned her back on me and began talking to a tall dude with a black beard.

I felt as mad as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.

'HELLO, TRIPURARI?'

'Yes, Bhaiyyaji. Where are you calling from? Aren't you supposed to be at Vicky's party?'

'Yes, yes. I am calling from Number Six. Tell me, have you been in touch with Mukhtar?'

'Mukhtar? No, Bhaiyyaji. I haven't spoken to him for over two weeks. What's the matter? You sound tense.'

'I gave Mukhtar a job a week ago, on 17 March. Did he come to get money from you, by any chance?'

'No, Bhaiyyaji. And what is this job you gave Mukhtar? You never mentioned anything to me.'

'I'll tell you later. For the moment, try and find him for me. Ask him to give me a call. I've been trying to call him for the past three days but it looks like his mobile is switched off.'

'He must be lying drunk somewhere with a girl.'

'Wherever he is, just find him for me, OK? And then let me know.'

'I will, Bhaiyyaji.'

(Disconnect.)

THE RICH may live very differently from the poor, but they don't die differently. A bullet does not discriminate between a king and a pauper, a tycoon and his worker. Standing in front of the wrought-iron gates of Number Six, looking at the glittering lights of the farmhouse, watching expensive imported cars enter the elegant driveway, I envy the conceit of the gun. One bullet is all it will take to end Vicky Rai's pomp and show. One bullet and khallas!

I see policemen with walkie-talkies standing behind a barricade and quicken my steps. There is a big crowd of curious onlookers on the road, straining to catch a glimpse of the celebrity guests. There is a rumour going around that Shabnam Saxena is expected any minute.