Namaste (17 page)

The bank wasn’t as opulent as he had imagined. It was on a beautiful stretch of road, but the entire area (including the bank) looked very “islands.” After spending time in America, his mind almost wanted to translate it to “ramshackle.”
 

He walked in, feeling the gentle breeze from overhead fans. The suit felt strange on his skin. Here of all places, Amit wished for the airiness of a robe. Entering a non-air-conditioned tropical bank wearing two layers of clothing — one of which was basically choking him — was ridiculously uncomfortable. But he kept his back straight and his head high, because it was the way the accountants at Burkin, Bradley, and Oakes had carried themselves while wearing their own uncomfortable, important clothing.
 

A teller asked if she could help him. Amit said he was with Dynamex Distribution and would like to make a deposit in the amount of one million dollars. She nodded, walked over to a thin man with a disturbing little mustache, and leaned down to speak. The man’s head turned, then turned back. The teller returned to Amit, asked him to please have a seat, and assured him that the manager would be with him shortly.
 

The manager approached with a long, appraising look at Amit, then at his suit. There was something in his eyes — a flair of recognition, or maybe something else. The man’s gaze flitted briefly to his shaved head, then flicked away. For a moment he looked almost afraid, then the shadow passed and he told Amit to follow him to his office. The manager (whose name was Paul Jones, according to his nameplate) closed the door and sat behind a small, chipped desk.
 

“Who are you?”
 

“My name is Bob Schmidt. I am with Dynamex.”
 

“You are not with Dynamex.”

“I am insulted.”
 

“You may be insulted,” said Jones, “but you are not with Dynamex Distribution. I do not believe you have one million dollars in that briefcase. I also do not believe for a moment that Dynamex would send a courier for such a small deposit. And if they did, I do not believe he would dress like a pimp.”
 

Amit looked down at his new suit. It was white, with sock garters visible beneath the cuffs. It had looked very good in a mirror.

Amit considered the manager. He looked at his face, his dark, staring eyes, and his firm lips: the body language of a man who isn’t looking to be convinced. Amit couldn’t sway him — especially if he had to open his briefcase and show the manager his crumpled, still-damp monk’s robe. He could continue to filibuster, or try to impress the man as he had with Bradley the accountant. Or he could try Plan C.
 

Amit looked hard at the manager. Jones had his arms on the desk, hands folded neatly in front of him. Amit, watching him, decided several things at once. First, Jones had a regular relationship with the people at Dynamex and was taking Amit’s attempts to infiltrate as a personal insult to his intelligence. Second, Jones knew exactly what Dynamex really did, and what fluids greased its gears. And third, Jones didn’t care. He wasn’t afraid of his client. He was protecting him, because that client kept him in fancy mustaches and an uncomfortable lack of air conditioning.
 

Amit swept the legs of Jones’s chair from under him in a blur. The manager struck the floor, and Amit stepped on his neck. Rather than snapping the chair to the ground, he had swept in an arc, essentially laying the chair on the plastic mat underneath. It was quiet, and with the manager gasping for breath, things would stay that way.
 

Jones gurgled up at him.
 

“These shoes are so uncomfortable,” said Amit. “I meant for me, but I assume they are for you as well.” He widened his eyes at the bank manager and removed his foot. He kept it nearby, nonverbally urging the man to stay still.
 

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” Jones croaked.
 

“Thank you.” Amit bowed. “You are making this easier on me. Say more things like that.”
 

“They’ll kill you! They’ll find you where you sleep.”
 

“Good. More. And you. Do you have powerful friends who will stop at nothing to find me?”
 

“Fuck you!”
 

Feeling much better about his decision to treat Jones as hostile, Amit drew back his foot in a small arc, then buried the toe of his pointy white shoe in the juicy target under the man’s jaw. Jones made a squealing noise that was just shy of a yelp as he bit his tongue. A small spray of blood landed on Amit’s pristine shoe.
 

He dragged the manager upright, setting the chair behind him and pushing him into it. His tongue was bleeding copiously, dripping down his chin and making him look like a cannibal at a buffet. Blood was dripping onto the manager’s own pristine suit — which, Amit noted, was much more muted and boring than his own. He’d be wearing that blood all day if Amit let him live. He could tell the others that he’d had a nosebleed if he could still speak, or admit that someone had kicked him in the underside of the chin. It didn’t matter. With the exception of Jones and Bradley, each of his targets so far had known well in advance that Amit was going to kill them. Or attempt to kill them, which was how they’d seen things before bleeding out from holes opened by Amit. If Jones phoned upstream and let the next person up the chain know about Amit’s visit, it was of little consequence.

“To you doh who yo fucking wis?” Jones gibbered, blood leaking from his mouth. Thank the spirits, his tongue hadn’t been severed. But judging by pronunciation, it had taken a decent hit.

“I do. Also, thank you for following up. You stated this earlier, but I did not confirm whether I knew who I was fucking with or not. I will be honest. I had my doubts. But if you would like to assure me further … ”
 

“I hathe coddectons! I keep they muddy fo dem!”
 

“Who? I am unconvinced about who you are connected to. It is almost as if I do not fully know who I am fucking with.”

“The bob!”
 

“I will take that to mean ‘mob.’ Thank you for being direct.”
 

Jones hocked around his injured tongue and spat a wad of blood at Amit. It was likely intended for his face, but it flew low and hit his tie. The tie had toucans. Amit had rather wanted to keep it clean.
 

Amit took a napkin from a box on the manager’s desk, wiped the blood from his tie, and dropped it into the wastebasket. “Tell me about the person you usually talk to. Is it just a messenger? Or someone higher up?”
 

Jones stared. Amit took his right index finger and snapped it backward. Before doing so, he stuffed Jones’s own tie in his mouth, so that he’d scream into nylon. The noise was nicely bottled, but angry tears streamed from the man’s mouth.
 

“I can ask again.”
 

“I’m dot goig to … ”
 

“Please,” said Amit. “Speak in a whisper. I can barely understand you ever since you accidentally bit your tongue.”
 

Lower, in a whisper, easier to understand: “I’m not going to tell you shit.”
 

Amit took Jones’s middle finger and stretched it back, a breath from snapping like its neighbor. “Please.”

“This is my business! And my business is my business!”
 

“Please,”
Amit repeated, pulling further. Something in the man’s finger popped. Amit didn’t think it was bone, or even a tendon. Probably his bones trying to batten the hatches before the breaking storm hit.
 

More acquiescent, less righteous: “You don’t understand! Privacy is our business! We break the privacy of one client, we’re crushed! Not just me — everyone out there in the lobby!”
 

“They can find jobs working for someone less criminal.”
 

“Where? We don’t ask what our clients do, so we don’t know.”
 

“You know.”
 

“OK, fine, I know. Just me. It’s my business to know because I don’t just manage this bank. I
own
it. If you want to survive in this business, you need to land the biggest clients. But that’s all it is — our bank landing the big client.” He took a deep breath. The effort of talking quietly and deliberately was apparently exhausting his injured tongue. “Look — a lot of people in the U.S. think that banks like ours offer protection from taxes, but really they offer protection from prying. Your government has its nose in everything! Our clients want to be left alone!”
 

“I am not American.”

“I do not discriminate! I am a businessman, and there is a need for what they do! It is their business!”
 

Amit nodded. This was the second time he’d heard the privacy argument, and it was starting to irritate him. He didn’t know if it was because he’d already heard much of this from Bradley or because it had sounded more genuine and less sleazy coming from the accountant. Bradley had seemed like a man who’d turned away in the interest of business. Jones sounded more like a partner. Bradley kept ducks in a row, but Jones was shepherding the foul, and looking for ways to help those ducks multiply.
 

“A lot of bankers think that banks like yours offer protection from prying eyes,” said Amit, “but really they offer safe haven for the world’s evil.”
 

“Bullthit!” He’d spoken too loud, and his speech impediment had returned. Amit wondered if the man would need stitches and decided he didn’t care.
 

“They do what they do for money. You hold their money for them. If you did not, they would have nowhere to put it. Their support structure is helping this delicate dance, but
you
are actively profiting from it. What kind of special protections do you offer, above and beyond the norm, and what do they pay you for it? Is it a percentage? And if it is, does that make you a percentage responsible for all they do, seeing as you are their partner?”
 

“What?”
 

Amit hadn’t released his tension on the man’s middle finger. It finally gave, the tendon at the finger’s base popping and allowing Amit to almost touch the fingernail to the back of his palm. He found himself angry. Anger was always an odd feeling when not followed by a strike of his fist or foot or elbow. When anger simmered, it reminded Amit of his days in the monastery when he’d been just 6 or 7, when Woo attempted to teach him to quell it. Back then, he’d allowed it to swallow him, and fill his every pore. Every person was a potential enemy; every word a possible insult. It was a helpless way to live, bending to the whim of anger whenever it arose.
 

Amit heard Jones’s finger pop, and realized that he’d been allowing the same rage to return — this time for Nisha. He was thinking about what the organization did in the course of its daily business. When something got in the way, they steamrolled over it. Nisha was a girl, and they’d cut her down like a tall weed in a garden. They’d done it in the name of money — in the name of what this man hoped for, enabled, and profited by.
 

Jones’ scream sounded more like a kind of high-pitched gasp. Stuffing his anger down, Amit turned to look at the closed office door. There was still no activity outside, and no unusual noises or whispers. Amit had a strange but certain thought: This might not be the first time the staff had heard pain coming from the manager’s office.
 

“You should tell me about your contact. And you should tell me about everyone that contact works with.”
 

“What?”
 

“That is the second time you have said that. Perhaps we should check your hearing.”

“I can’t tell you that.”
 

Amit had Jones’s middle finger bent all the way back. It was only a tendon that had popped. Now he took the actual finger and applied pressure until he heard a snap.
 

“Jesus Christ, stop!” Jones squealed.
 

“You have a regular contact, correct?”
 

His mouth contorted in pain, Jones nodded.
 

“And you know who pulls the strings. You know who is above that contact.”
 

“No!” Then, quieter, panting: “I swear. I don’t.”
 

Amit sighed, then grabbed Jones’s ring finger. “This is not what I want to hear. I knew you had a contact. You are not giving me new information. It is frustrating.”
 

“What do you want me to tell you?”
 

“The contact’s name.”
 

“Raul. I don’t know his last name.”
 

“Ra-ool?” said Amit, pronouncing it carefully.
 

“No. Like ‘rall.’”

Amit searched his mind. He didn’t know anyone named Raul. If this was all the banker knew, his trip was a waste, and he hit a dead end.
 

“What else?”
 

“He looks Asian.” The banker’s eyes flicked toward Amit’s face. “Like you, actually.”
 

“Like me how?”