Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [127]
Oh, yes. Rosie had the inside “scoop.” Leaning forward, she whispered into the builder’s ear: “Her blowjobs sing across the decades.”
Shah grinned. It made sense. Old walnut-head, who had cast Kumari in her first film, had never forgotten her, and the moment she phoned him long-distance—“I want to be big in films again, Uncle”—he had laid a project worth millions at her thick feet.
He laughed so much he had to cough.
“Here’s your Shanghai,” Rosie said, handing him the folder with the X-ray.
She had just entertained him; he was vulnerable.
“I want to be taken into your home,” she said. “I want to see where you eat and sleep.”
At once Parvez turned the car towards Malabar Hill.
A quarter of an hour later, a blue cleaning-rag on his shoulder, Giri stood at the dining table, his hand on the breadknife, and watched the girl in the short skirt.
Shah was out on the open terrace; Rosie, in the living room, was looking over the model of the Shanghai that was sitting near the dancing Nataraja.
Next she peeked into the bedrooms. Giri followed, making sure she did not steal anything. He knew about the theft at the Oshiwara gym. When she went into the kitchen, he stood in the doorway and folded his arms.
To-re-a-dor—emitting little contralto bursts the girl opened the wooden cupboards in the kitchen wall. To-re-a-dor. Giri watched with his mouth open.
He made way; the boss had come into the kitchen. From the look on his face Giri knew he had been talking to Shanmugham about the mess in Vakola.
Shah exhaled, and said: “All right, Rosie. You’ve seen the house. Now let’s go.”
She turned around with twinkling eyes.
“Why? What’s the hurry?”
“My son will be home soon. Isn’t it time for Satish, Giri?”
“So why should I leave? I want to meet him. Heard so much about him.”
“We’re going to the Versova flat, Rosie. Right away.”
“Oh, you want to fuck me, but you don’t want your son to meet me, is that it?”
She opened and shut another kitchen cupboard.
He pulled her hands back from the shelves; they wriggled out of his and opened another panel.
“Enough of this, Rosie. I’ve just been to the hospital and I’m tired.”
To-re-a-dor—she put her hands inside, and tapped on the pots and pans. To-re-a-dor!
Shah watched her sniffing inside his wife’s cabinets, playing with his wife’s utensils and vessels.
Louder and louder she sang in the foreign language, until Shah reached over her head with his thick arms and—as if he were closing a trap on an animal—slammed the panel doors shut on her nose.
She was too surprised even to cry; bending over, she began sobbing and spitting. A drop of blood fell from her nose.
“Spit into the sink,” Shah said. “The car is leaving for Versova in five minutes.”
As she washed her nose, Giri handed her the blue rag from his shoulder: “Take this, miss. Take it. And don’t cry, please. It makes Giri want to cry too.”
Rosie winced; Shah had taken her white arm in his right hand. With his other, he dialled Shanmugham’s number.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he said when the phone was answered.
His fingers pressed up and down Rosie’s arm; he heard his left-hand man’s voice quiver with excitement.
“I’ve got the man from Andheri, Boss. He’s the one who helped me deliver the Sion project for you. The boy we used to scare that other old man—Mr. Pinto—won’t be good for anything more than threatening words. But this Andheri fellow will be perfect. No police record.”
“Shanmugham: shut up and listen to me.”
And then, still holding on to Rosie’s arm, he told his left-hand man what he wanted done at Vishram Society.
A pause. Then the voice on the phone said: “Boss: are you sure? We’re paying them? Why?”
“Shanmugham,” Shah said, “I found you in a slum in Chembur. Correct?”
“Yes, Boss.