Mumbai Noir (10 page)

“Can you tell me where I can find Salim Chingari, for old times’ sake?” I put it to him.

His dour expression didn’t change. He looked at me squarely with his bulging eyes and intoned in a typical, languid coplike manner: “You have some nerve, Gomes, walking into this police station enquiring about Chingari. We’re not an Ask-Me service for washed-out private detectives nursing delusions of being crime busters.”

I had expected this reaction from him. It was an act he had to put on for my benefit. I hardly needed to refresh his memory of the time, about six months earlier, when I had put a couple of leads his way in the sensational and brutal massacre of three eunuchs in Kamathipura—the notorious red-light district adjoining Nagpada.

Konduskar got a promotion for “cracking” the case in an “expeditious” manner. I got nothing. Now it was my turn for a little payoff. You see, what the cops didn’t know was that the hacking to death of the eunuchs was a mere red herring to camouflage a much bigger crime—which included, among other things, one of the biggest land grabs this side of the equator. You must have read about it in the papers. It was in the news for almost a month before some fading actor made waves with the dramatic announcement that he was ready to bid “the long goodbye” to Bollywood to take up the cause of improving living conditions in the slums of Dharavi. What his publicist called the three S’s of social transformation— schooling, sanitation, and sympathy. Of course, there hasn’t been much progress to report, except that many residents of Dharavi were spotted wearing a “free” T-shirt with a picture of the star, juxtaposed with an uplifting message:
I will be there.
He was there, once, for a photo-op with a local politico in tow. The pictures splashed in the papers showed the two talking to a small girl with a bewildered expression on her face. It was pathetic.

My interest in Salim Chingari was hardly academic. I wanted to make his acquaintance for a number of reasons— the most important being that he could put me in the right direction for the case I was on for my publicity-shy client, Hawa Bai.

It took the tough Nagpada cop a long time to make up his mind. He finally muttered, “Let’s go and eat some kebabs at Sarvi.”

We walked across the street from the police station and settled down at a corner marble-top table with typical fake Irani chairs—the real ones are collectors’ items with the Page 3 denizens of Mumbai.

The waiters knew I was with a distinguished personage and the service was extra prompt and courteous. A few morsels of the well-marinated kebabs—for which Sarvi is justifiably famous—mellowed the big cop’s mood a little and he asked me tentatively: “Why are you interested in Chingari? And don’t play games with me, Gomes.”

“He can connect me with someone I’m looking for. And I don’t play games with cops, especially the ones attached to Nagpada,” I said. “Too rough on the nervous system.”

Konduskar allowed himself a half-smile—something strictly rationed in the Indian police force. Something to do with a morbid fear of appearing people friendly, I guess.

He didn’t say anything and ate another mouthful. He could almost be the brand ambassador for Sarvi kebabs!

I could tell he had a lot on his mind besides the whereabouts of one of Nagpada’s most infamous residents— frontman, bagman, lookout, district collector. A man of many parts.

“It’s strictly off the record.” I put some real persuasion in my voice. “And I have no retirement benefits. I need this job.” I wanted to add a bit of emotional appeal.

He chewed on another kebab and on what I had just pitched to him.

“Okay. This is the last time and then we are quits. I believe he’s in a safe house somewhere, which belongs to a financier who lives in Pali Hill. You get Chingari and I will book him. I don’t have the time or resources right now with all this bloody bandobast duty almost daily. Anyway, the commissioner wants bigger fish.” Konduskar was outsourcing his small problems. In a way it was good for me.

“Name and street number?” I ventured.

“Try the local police station. You might get lucky,” he said dismissively. It was clear that was all he was willing to tell me for old times’ sake and the kebabs. Or probably that was all he knew.

“Thanks,” I said, picking up the expense-deductable bill.

Before figuring out how to work this Pali Hill lead I decided to drop in at Sameer’s for a drink. The old thirst was acting up. Sameer runs a tough watering hole in Nagpada but I am a welcome “outsider” at his place. About two years ago I saved him a lot of grief by warning him about an impending excise raid on his place. When the raid did happen, Sameer had transformed his place—overnight—into a funeral parlor. Pure artistry!

A couple of days later it was back to business as usual— the drinking business.

Sameer’s place ought to be be a tourist attraction. It’s colorful, to say the least. His clients drink hard and talk loud. And they don’t carry business cards. The walls are adorned with posters of flashy cars which are a passion with Sameer— though he can’t drive any of them. In the old days he used to serve only battery juice in his joint, but globalization has caught up with him.

Sameer came over to my table with a half of Rasputin vodka and put it on the table.

“This is on the house, Shorty. How’s the detective business?”

“If it gets any worse I’ll have to ask you for a bartender’s job.”

“Anytime,” he said. “What brings you to Nagpada all the way from Dhobi Talao?”

“An old flame who’s feeling sentimental about our tryst in Khandala,” I lied.

“Okay. See you around.” He ambled away, shuffling his prosthetic foot. He’d lost his right leg in a bitter intergang war in Nagpada, about twenty years ago.

Over my second drink I got into stock-taking mode.

Things were not going too well for me in Mumbai—where there’s no dearth of crooks, crime, and sleaze. Business was slow and I was getting all the bottom-of-the-barrel jobs. Like this one from Hawa Bai to trace her favorite trick—Jasmine— who had disappeared mysteriously after spending a night with Chingari, a week ago. The cops were not too keen on finding another lost soul in Mumbai’s flourishing flesh trade. Hawa Bai had promised to be generous with the money. It helps with paying the bills, you know. The influential madam obviously had a soft corner for the girl. I could understand why. The picture she had shown me—handing me some “expense” money—was of a twenty-something girl, full of hope and idealism. Part of the reason I was on this job was to relive how it had felt to be young and idealistic. I feel like this about once every ten years.

Goa was a great place to grow up, but I was destined to move to Mumbai. A builder tricked my ailing father into selling our ancestral Cortalim home for a song. It rankles me even today, after so many years.

I did a lot of drudgery jobs in Mumbai—waiting tables, selling water filters, working for a courier company—before I answered a “trainee operatives” ad for a place called Aces Private Detective Agency. Their motto was:
Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
Bizarre. The things I did as a trainee I would like to forget. What I did when I was employed as a regular operative I would like to forget even more—waiting tables is much more honorable and you live longer. That is, if you want to live in this soulless metro-retro city which belongs only to the rich and powerful who flaunt their jaded lifestyles by living in baroque maximum-security homes with “intelligent” toilets and travel by private jets to meet their boutique mistresses in the capital. Of course, to carefully coincide with well-timed, ego-massaging visits to some sympathetic ministers and bureaucrats to influence policy and decisions.
Crime now sits in high places—insular and mocking.
I can’t remember who said that. Must be the vodka.

I resigned from the detective agency for what is euphemistically known as “personal reasons.” The truth is, we had a terrific row over the case of a big-ticket industrialist who wanted the criminal charges against his profligate son dropped or diluted. He—the son—had mowed down six people in a drunken stupor while driving his flashy SUV after a late-night party. The agency was hired by the parents of one of the hapless victims who were killed. All the evidence I had painstakingly gathered was dismissed by the boss of the agency and the cops as “fanciful conjectures of a drinking detective.” I felt lousy.

The decibel level at Sameer’s place was getting a bit too loud for my liking so I decided to call it a day. I walked up to the bar where Sameer was in an animated discussion with a pock-marked guy who had the telltale look of a contract killer.

“Thanks, Sameer. Rasputin was smooth.”

“Drop in again. Try the Havana rum next time.”

“I will. Who’s your beautiful friend?”

“Does a few odd jobs for me.”

“Like what?”

“Garbage disposal.”

“Good night. When do you close?”

“We never close—we’re in the service business.” He grinned. “Good night.”

I took a sagging and smelly black-and-yellow cab to my dingy pad in a rundown building on a narrow and filthy bylane of Dhobi Talao to get some much-needed sleep.

It was a pleasantly sunny December morning when I got off— or more accurately, was shoved out—of the harbor-line local train at Bandra station. I took a rickshaw to Pali Hill. The garrulous driver mistook me for a tourist and kept up an unsolicited commentary on the famous and infamous residents of the Hill. He pointed to a big bungalow and said: “That’s where I dropped him last night. His car had run out of gas on Carter Road. He was tight and gave me one hundred rupees as a tip.”

“Who?”

He looked at me in amazement. “You mean you don’t know?”

“No,” I said.

He did an imitation of an actor to jog my memory.

“I give up.”

He did another imitation, this time more elaborate.

“Pass,” I said. “And I’ll get out here.” I gave him a fiverupee tip; he gave me a pitying look. “I am not in the movies,” I explained.

I walked for some time—uphill, taking in the sights and smells—till I came to the building I was looking for. My destination was the Pali Hill Association for the Ethical Treatment of Residents.

If you lived here you had arrived, or at least you got free invites to fashionable book launches and fashion shows where they serve cheese and wine—that is, if you could sit through the dreary readings by earnest authors of trivia or the silly posturing of starlets in ridiculous outfits conceived by designers with a very tenuous grip on reality.

I rang the bell of the third-floor apartment with an ornate door depicting peacocks in bas-relief.

Two dogs started a barking chorus.

The door opened and a sixty-something white-haired man— in a designer maroon kurta and wooden beads—appeared. He had a look of mild annoyance or disapproval on his face.

“Good morning,” I said, raising my voice above the dogs’ din. “Are you the chairman of the association?”

“Yes, I am.” He was curt.

“My name is Bharat Kumar. I need some information on Pali Hill residents. May I come in?”

“What kind of information?” He was leery. “Come in,” he added reluctantly. The most difficult part of a private detective’s job is to get entry. The rest is usually a cakewalk.

“Thank you,” I said entering the large living room, as the two Labs—black and beige—jumped all over me. They were happy to have company. I petted them to calm them and they quickly settled down, panting, near my feet. I parked myself on the overstuffed sofa—probably Italian, though I wouldn’t bet any money on it.

“My dogs like you,” he said in a softer tone.

“Yeah, I like dogs. They are very instinctive.”

“Do you have dogs?”

“No, but I know some in the neighborhood very well. I feed them.”

“And what neighborhood would that be, Mr. Kumar?” He was trying to size me up.

“Altamount Road,” I said glibly. It was the first thought that popped into my head.

He looked at me skeptically but didn’t say anything out of politeness. “You wanted to know something about the residents here,” he said instead.

“You see, Mr. Chairman, I am scouting for a quiet property here. Altamount Road is getting too crowded and crass for my liking. Too much one-upmanship.”

“I agree,” he said.

“I was wondering if you have a list of the residents of this enchanting place. It would be nice to know who our neighbors are going to be.” I was playing the long shot. You have to in this business.

“What’s your budget, if I may ask? I am also a real estate agent.” That came as a surprise; it was not part of the script. But I should have known better. Every third person in this city is either a stockbroker, realtor, or insurance salesman.

“Five,” I ventured. I was thinking in thousands but he presumed I meant crores. That suited me fine.

“Would you like something to drink?” Another unscripted surprise.

“Sure. What you got?”

“Anything ever bottled or canned. You name it.”

“I’ll settle for a Heineken.” After all, what the hell, I live in Altamount Road, the world’s tenth most expensive address, where the residents buy islands in the Caribbean as a hobby.

“Heineken it is,” he said expansively.

He got me the can of beer from the kitchen fridge and poured himself a large Teacher’s from the ornate bar across the sofa I was slouched in.

“Cheers. To Pali Hill,” he intoned in a deep Bogart voice.

“Cheers,” I said. “To Pali Hill.”

After a full hour and a half of this nonsense of raising toasts to Pali Hill, I managed to get the list from him. It was touch and go. But I’ve been there many times. I promised to contact him—to look at the “once in a lifetime” properties he “exclusively” represented for his “reputed” clients—as soon as the missus was back from her shopping trip to Dubai. I patted the dogs—he had named them Google and Yahoo!—and got up to leave. They gave me doleful looks, almost imploring me not to go. But I had work to do. Find Jasmine—dead or alive.

“Thanks for the beers.” I made a quick exit.

At a cybercafé down the road I printed out the list he had given me from my flash drive. It made for fascinating reading: a Page 3
Who’s Who
of Mumbai. Or was it, as a journalist once wagged at the Press Club, the
Who’s Why
? The list was long and methodical—name, occupation, religion, sex, age, club membership, vegetarian or nonvegetarian, details of pets, names and domicile of domestic help, owner or tenant, duration of occupation, etc. The only information missing in the list was whether the residents—dominated by the Khans, Kapoors, Shahs, and Patels—preferred the missionary position or the Japanese one.