Vikram Chandra - Sacred Games

Kamble was distinctly hostile when Sartaj told him about Kamala Pandey's call. They had met at twelve-thirty, as planned, across the road from Zoya Mirza's building in Lokhandwalla. Kamble was drinking a quick beer before they went up to Zoya's apartment. He had been working on two cases since they parted and was quite tired and peevish. He had insisted that he needed a bottle of beer before he went back to work. So they were sitting on a low boundary wall across the road from Zoya's gate, just two friends relaxing in the darkness. 'So the fancy kutiya is roaming around all over town, going to restaurants and bars,' Kamble said of Kamala. 'No doubt she will find another mashooq soon. They are all like that, these rich fast ones, they give it around for free. Once they start giving, you know, they can't stop.'

'I think she had love for this Umesh.'

'Then why stay with this gaandu husband? Just for his flat and his money?'

'She was trying to break off from Umesh.'

Kamble took a long, gurgling gulp. 'If she loves him, then why?'

'You don't always like who you fall in love with.'

'That is true, yes.' Kamble's broad cheekbones were splashed with moonlight and shadow from the palms they were sitting under. 'There was this girl, once or twice I thought she would die at my hands.'

'One of the dancer girls?'

'Yes. She was a dancer, that one originally from Rae Bareli. She nearly ruined me, that one. I was like a mad fool. And I tell you, she looked as innocent as some goddess. Cheeks like fresh malai.'

'So you didn't kill her?'

'No, I just let her go. And that after she had spent every last rupee I earned, for seven months. She and her bhenchod family. They were very good at taking my money. Some of these girls get it in their blood from birth, this talent for making money. Like this Zoya. I checked it out, flats on her floor cost one crore eighty lakhs.'

'Some of that must be Gaitonde's money.'

'Of course. But still. One-eight. And she's been in films for what, three, four years? These people are amazing.'

'Which people? Actors?'

'Arre, no, boss. Muslims. The Mughal empire is gone, Pakistan was made for them, but they live like kings here.'

'Kamble, saala, have you been to Bengali Bura recently? Or Behrampada? Those poor gaandus don't live in palaces.'

'They live here, na? And they take more land every day, and their population keeps growing. And in films, think about how many Khans there are, all the top heroes.'

'Because these Khans look good? And are good actors?'

'Yes, baba, they're good-looking. This Zoya is a real chabbis.'

'And your Muslim girlfriend?'

'She was a phatakdi, yes. I'm not saying that they are not handsome as individuals, or that they can't be good people. I know Majid Khan is a friend of yours. He's a good man. But, you understand, as a people…'

'What?'

'They won't live in peace with anyone. They are too aggressive, too dangerous. For a sardar, you're too soft on them.'

Sartaj was tired. It was late, and he had been up since six, and he had heard these arguments all his life. 'I think you are crazy, and quite aggressive yourself,' he said, getting to his feet. 'And I am soft on everyone.'

Kamble was happy to agree. 'Too soft for a policeman.' He tilted the bottle far back to his mouth, then tossed it into the bushes. 'Now I'm fit for Zoya.'

They went across the road and through the immense black-and-gold gates of Havenhill. The watchmen were expecting them, and waved them directly through. The building was an enormous pastel-pink block, looming thirty-odd stories above the surrounding bungalows. Havenhill was newly built, newer even than the bungalows, which had been thrust out into the swamp just ten years ago. It was a fit abode for a towering film star, this Havenhill with its cavernous, Italian-marble lobby and its brushed-steel lifts. Sartaj and Kamble zoomed up in a miraculous whisper of up-to-date technology, all the way to the top, and as they got off an accented female voice told them it was the thirty-sixth floor. Zoya's door was simple, just plain black wood behind a black grill, but inside, the drawing room was vast. Two enormous chandeliers hung over two separate seating areas, and a long, glossy dining table was laden with white flowers. The old man who had let them in – Sartaj couldn't tell if he was Zoya's father or uncle or an aged retainer – seated them on a white couch and vanished. The gauzy curtains were white. Zoya's favoured colour scheme, it seemed, was white.

She swept in barefoot, but not at all a jungli princess now. She was wearing a loose, sheer white top and flowing white pants. Her hair was drawn back severely from a face completely devoid of make-up. And still she was grand, there was no other word for it. Sartaj felt Kamble tense beside him. Whatever your thoughts were about some collective notion of a people, there was no escaping the overpowering enchantments of this individual, especially if you were young and cocky and muscle-bound.

'Come,' she said. She led them into another white room, this one with two walls of glass windows that went from ceiling to floor. Sartaj sat in an inexplicably comfortable steel chair and felt that he was floating far above the sparkling lights and far sea. Kamble was very quiet, very subdued. Sartaj thought, yes, saala, this is how the rich live. A servant, a young woman this time, brought in a tray with glasses of water, and then shut the door. Zoya sat, perfectly poised and perfectly lit, her back to the night. 'I think,' she said, 'that there is no videotape.'

Sartaj kept himself wholly still. He kept his eyes on her, but he felt Kamble twitch. 'Listen,' he said, and he was harsh. 'Do you think we are fooling with you?'

Zoya was not intimidated. She evened out the fall of her pants. 'No, I think you are very serious. But I thought about it. If you had a tape, you would have shown me a little, like you showed me the photographs. He never showed much interest in making videotapes of us, and I know what he liked. He was never shy with me, he would have told me he wanted to make one. He wouldn't have done it with a hidden camera. So there is no videotape. Unless you're making one now. Are you?'

'No.' Sartaj allowed himself a glance to the right: Kamble was stunned, impressed at last by Zoya Mirza.

'No hidden video cameras?' Zoya said. ' Tehelka -style? You are required to tell me, you know.'

'No, we're not recording anything?' Sartaj said. 'Are you?'

She laughed, and it was real, a full-throated amusement. 'I am not such a fool. I was surprised by you earlier, and I made the mistake of admitting a connection to that man. But I don't want any of this coming out, and I don't want to make enemies of you. What do you want? Money? How much?'

Kamble finally spoke. 'No, madam,' he said, very mellow. 'We don't want money. Just information. For an investigation into gangs. It has nothing to do with you.'

Smart boy, Sartaj thought. Peace is so very much better than war, especially when your antagonist reveals unexpected resources. 'Madam, we don't want to put you in any awkward situations. But we need help with our problem here.'

She let a thin rim of contempt show in her eyes. 'Don't be so polite. You are still policemen, and I don't really have a choice. If I talk to you, will you give me the material you have?'

'Yes.'

'And there is no more?'

'No.'

She didn't believe him, and she wanted him to know. But she was now ready to talk. She crossed her arms across her stomach, and sat back. 'What do you want?'

'When did you meet Gaitonde? How?'

'A long time ago. Eight, nine years ago. Through a friend.'

'Which friend?'

'Don't you know?'

'I may. I want to know from you.'

She gave him a beat of steady staring before she relented. 'Jojo,' she said.