Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

'Yes, sir, I cannot.'

'I brought something for you also, a portable DVD player. It is so small' – holding his squared thumbs four inches away from each other – 'and the picture is sharp, absolutely sharp. You can take it anywhere with you and watch films, you see. Very good for a policeman.'

'That is a wonderful thing, sir. There was no need…'

'Arre, don't tell me about need. I know what you need. You come home, tomorrow, day after, and we will talk. The player is also at home.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Parulkar thumped Sartaj on his shoulder and sent him on his way. Sartaj thought about the new DVD player, and worried. Now he would have to buy or at least rent DVDs and then watch them. Parulkar was sure to ask for reports on his viewing. But maybe that was all right. Maybe Parulkar really understood better than him what he needed. Some entertainment might be exactly what would fix him up, and revive him like a good morning walk in Buffalo. Where in America was Buffalo? And why was it called Buffalo? Sartaj had no idea. Some more of life's mysteries.

* * *

Sartaj sat at his usual booth in the Sindoor Restaurant and nursed a Coke. During a recent renovation, Sindoor had gained festive new red tables and a new menu which included Bengali and Andhra food. Sartaj was reading through the Bengali desserts when Shambhu Shetty walked in. 'Hello, saab,' he said and sat. They had last seen each other a week ago, when Sartaj had come in as usual to pick up the monthly Delite Dance Bar contribution to the station. Shambhu had complained as usual about the necessity of raids and rising prices, and had told Sartaj about his dream trek, through the forests of Arunachal Pradesh. Now Shambhu had auspicious news. He was engaged. He had sampled from the revolving tray of feminine delights that his bar brought to him every day, but now he said he wanted to settle. 'Those were only trailers, boss,' he told Sartaj. 'This is the main film.' The heroine of Shambhu's life-film was a nice girl that his parents had found, of course within the Shetty community. The two families had common friends in Pune, and had known vaguely of each other for decades. The girl had a BEd, but was content not to work after marriage. She was a virgin, that went without saying, or asking.

'Well done, Shambhu,' Sartaj said. 'When is the date?'

'May. The cards will be printed at the end of this month. I will send you.'

It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and the restaurant was almost empty. A pair of college lovers sat next to each other, on the same side of a booth, nursing their Cokes and pressing thighs against each other. Shambhu was relaxed but brimming with energy. He had marriage plans, and also plans for another bar, this one in Borivili East. This new bar was to have a filmi theme, pictures of film stars everywhere. There would be different halls for the dancers, each with a distinct decor. There was going to be a Mughal-e-Azam room, and a DDLJ room. 'You should invest,' Shambhu said. 'I guarantee good returns. Invest for your future.'

'I am a poor man, Shambhu,' Sartaj said. 'I'm sure you're not interested in investors who come with five hundred rupees.'

'Poor, you? Even after that Gaitonde hit?'

'That wasn't a hit, Shambhu. The man shot himself.'

'Yes, yes.' Shambhu was smiling, very wise to the ways of the police. 'And how did you happen to find him?'

'Anonymous phone call. Tip-off.'

'If you get a tip-off about some ready money, saab, come straight to me. This is a good time to invest.' Shambhu uncoiled himself out of the booth. His face sloped forward to the chin, and his eyes were too close-set, but he carried himself very well. He was at ease in the world. 'I'm expecting a beer delivery,' he said.

Shambhu shook Sartaj's hand and walked briskly to the door. He stood aside then to let Mrs Pandey through. She paused to take her sleek dark glasses off, and then marched straight up to Sartaj.

'Hello,' he said. Sartaj stood up, and pointed her around a partition, to a small table near the kitchen door. Here they were quite private, alone with each other.

She was wiping at her nose with a tissue, and Sartaj saw that she was strained, exhausted, but well turned-out. Her hair was glossy, in a sweep down to the shoulders, and she was wearing white jeans and a white top with very short sleeves and a cut that exposed a bit of her toned midriff. She was smaller than he remembered, but had a spectacular chest which filled out the white top very nicely. It wasn't exactly the outfit Sartaj would have recommended for a private meeting with a seedy policeman in a very middle-class suburban restaurant, but women had their own reasons. Maybe all the jhatak and matak made her confident. Maybe she liked the fact that men always looked.

She finally spoke. 'Thank you for meeting me,' she said. Her Hindi had just that little awkwardness that came from living her life mostly in English. 'Pani,' she said sharply to a waiter who had stepped up. 'Bisleri pani.'

Sartaj waited until the waiter had poured the water and walked away. Mrs Pandey's fingers had a clear gloss on them that Megha had worn sometimes. Megha would have described her as a 'hot little number' and steered Sartaj away from her. But Sartaj felt no desire now, only curiosity. 'It is my duty,' he said. 'But what is the trouble?'

She nodded. 'Trouble,' she said. Her eyes were her best feature, large and almond-shaped and the colour of a glass of good Scotch with one or two ice-cubes melted in. Megha would have said that she wasn't classically beautiful, but had worked and polished herself into hotness. She was in some very big trouble now, and it was difficult to talk about.

'You're an air hostess,' Sartaj said.

'Yes.'

'For?'

'For Lufthansa.'

'That's a good airline.'

'Yes.'

'They pay well.'

'Yes.'

'Has something happened to your husband?'

'No, no.' The sudden question made her shrink, fold her arms across her stomach. 'Nothing like that.'

But it had something to do with the husband. Sartaj was sure of it. 'Then what is it?' he said, very gently. He was quiet, and sipped slowly at his water. He was willing to wait.

She gathered herself, and then ground it out: 'Someone is blackmailing me.'

'Someone. You don't know who?'

'No.'

'How are they talking to you?'

'They call on my mobile.'

'Is it always one person?'

'Yes. But I hear him talking to someone else sometimes.'

'Another man?'

'Yes.'

'What are they blackmailing you with?'

Her chin came up. She had made her decision, and was not going to be intimidated, or shamed. 'With a man,' she said.

'Who is not your husband?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me,' Sartaj said. She hated having to explain herself, to justify anything. 'Madam,' Sartaj said, 'if I am going to help you, I need to know the details. Everything.' He poured her some water. 'I have worked for a long time as a policeman. There is nothing I haven't seen. Nothing you can tell me will shock me. In our country we do everything and say nothing. But you have to tell me.'

So she did finally tell him. There had been a man, her husband hadn't been so wrong in his suspicions. Actually he had been rather correct. The man was a pilot, yes. Only he didn't fly for Lufthansa, and there had been no fun on stopovers in London. Kamala Pandey's pilot flew for Sahara, his name was Umesh Bindal, he was single, she had met him at a party in Versova three years ago, the affair had begun a year after their first meeting, and she had broken it off six months ago. Their assignations had all taken place in Bombay and Pune and Khandala. The blackmailers had first called a month and a half ago.

'What do they have?' Sartaj said.

'They knew a lot of details, of a hotel. And when I had gone to his house.'