Out of Order (19 page)

“No troubles at all for you and Miss Moore?”

It was Jason’s turn to fake a smile “No trouble at all.”

Danny looked at the six-inch ridge of skin and sutures that ran down Jason’s forearm. “I hope you had that looked at.”

“This?” Jason said, holding up his arm. “Just a scratch.” He rested his hand on Danny’s back. “I know you’re a busy man, but I was wondering if you could help us out arranging the flight back to the U.S.”

Danny’s smile disappeared and his eyes widened. “You have not made arrangements already? Oh, Mr. Talley, this is not good, not good at all. I’m afraid that you will find every flight completely booked for the next few weeks. That at a minimum.”

Jason’s shoulders drooped and a fist-sized knot started forming in his stomach.

“I was quite clear with Miss Moore. You needed to plan ahead if you were looking to fly on the same date as the tour group.”

“We had tickets,” Jason said. “But they were stolen when we were in Goa. Can’t you just get us replacements?”

“No, Mr. Talley. We paid Miss Moore for the tickets when you left the tour in Delhi. Your tickets are invalid. You have no tickets.”

Jason felt himself rocking back on his heels and he squeezed the fabric of Danny’s shirt between his fingers to steady himself.

“Miss Moore assured us that she had your permission to act in your behalf,” Danny said, covering for any breaches in company policy. “If you have any complaints I suggest you bring them up with her first….”

“No, there’s no problem. I’m sure I told her it was okay,” he said, not sure now of anything where Rachel was involved. “Still, any chance you can help us out?”

Danny shook his head slowly, as if Jason was having a hard time understanding. “No, sir. There are scores of reasons. Business, vacations. It does not help matters that both Air France and British Airways are coping with strike-related slowdowns. Travelers have flocked to the other airlines and there are just not enough seats to go around.”

“What about stand-by or taking a flight with more layovers?”

There was no ambiguous
ahcha
in Danny’s headshake. “There simply are no flights available. However….”

Jason leaned forward as Danny paused for effect.

“A seat did open up on the Freedom Tours flight back to the U.S. One of our patrons was…well, something happened in Calcutta.”

“Was someone hurt? No one died on you, did they?”

“No,” Danny said, dragging the word out as he thought of the best way to explain. “Let us just say that Mr. Froman desired to participate in certain…activities, and did not show the discretion one would hope to find in a man of his years.”

Jason remembered waking up his first night in India to find the old man watching him as he slept and decided he didn’t want to know the details.

“I’m afraid the authorities have severed our connections with this traveler and his seat will go unfilled,” Danny said.

“But?” Jason prompted.

“There is a chance—slight—that I can persuade a cousin at India Airlines to change the name on the reservations. It may be difficult….”

“How difficult?”

“Oh, two, three hundred dollars difficult….”

“But it’s only one ticket.”

“That is most accurate.”

“But I need two.”

“I have one.”

“Damn.”

The doorman watched as the two men stood facing each other in front of the entrance to the Ivory Tower Hotel. Slowly, imperceptibly, a smile moved across Danny’s lips and he swung an arm up across Jason’s shoulders. “Come,” he said. “I have a small office inside. Let us conclude our business there.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Sarosh Mehta, dealer in smuggled machine parts and unofficial Bangalore tour guide, had been right, the gardens at Lal Bagh were indeed gorgeous this time of the year.

Acres of manicured grounds rolled under an impenetrable canopy of palm fronds and tent-sized leaves, the dark green grass butting tight against miles of red brick walkways that meandered through the park. Formal gardens and Victorian fountains provided a sense of order among the bright, tropical flowers and lush vegetation leading the way to the centerpiece of the park, a five-story glass and wrought iron pavilion surrounded by symmetrically arranged benches and reflecting pools.

Although it was mid-afternoon on a weekday, the park was still filled with patrons—sari-clad mothers pushing baby carriages, uniformed kindergartners on a field trip, tied waist-to-waist in a class-long line by a length of bailing twine, old men in thick sweaters, chilly in the ninety-degree sun. Clustered together by a wireless Internet portal, a dozen white-shirted businessmen made desks out of their closed briefcases, racing to out-type the short-life batteries in their laptop computers, while in the shadows of the giant banyan trees, young lovers walked winding paths, hoping they would lead nowhere.

There were no beggars in the park, no sallow-faced toddlers digging through the ornate garbage cans, no squalid shanties thrown up along the high brick wall. The twenty-rupee entry fee and the armed guards made sure of that.

Eyes closed, Jason stretched his arms out along the back of the wooden bench and took a deep breath. The humid air was thick with the soft fragrance of plants he didn’t recognize and school kids’ songs he couldn’t understand. It had been air-conditioned in the offices of the Hindustani First National Bank, but even as he felt the sweat rolling down the side of his face, Jason knew it was far more comfortable here in the park than it had been sitting in Mr. Piyush Ojha’s office.

“What part of my email did you fail to grasp?” Mr. Ojha had shouted, pounding his fist on his metal desk as he spoke.

Jason had tried to explain that all he wanted was some information, a little help finding Sriram’s family, maybe some thoughts about Bangalore World Systems, Mr. Ojha, standing now, damning Sriram, damning them all with a final metallic thump, asking, no
demanding
, that Jason get out of his bank
immediately
, assuring him the authorities would be summoned post haste.

It went pretty much the way Ketan had predicted.

“I wouldn’t call Piyush if I were you,” Ketan had warned him as they sat in the Pizza Corner. “He’s not dangerous, just a bit hysterical when it comes to BWS.”

The advice had been good, he just didn’t listen. As he sat in the park, Jason wondered how accurate the rest of Ketan’s advice would prove to be.

“Everybody at BWS got screwed when Sriram ran off, some more than others. It’s the core group that have the right to be the most pissed,” Ketan had said, running a paper napkin across his black goatee as he finished his pizza.

“Attar Singh you met up in Jaipur. His family invested a lot in BWS. When it failed they blamed him personally. Disowned him. Vowed they’d get even, ruin him like he had ruined them.”

“I don’t know. When I talked to him it sounded like he had made peace with it all, moved on. Some Kirsna-merska religious thing.”

“Krishnamurti. A philosopher. And I don’t believe it. The rest of us just lost money. Attar lost his family.”

“What about Manoj Plakal?” Jason had asked, thinking about the upcoming Happy Hour meeting he had arranged that morning.

“Manny? Nice guy, wants to be everybody’s friend. But he was just a bit player. He’s not your problem.”

“Who is?”

Ketan had tossed the crumpled napkin on the table and looked straight into Jason’s eyes. “There’re two people you need to watch out for in India. The first is a guy up in Rajasthan. Ahmadabad, I think. Name’s Amrish Sharma.”

“Taco?” Jason had asked, knowing the answer. If he was surprised, Ketan hadn’t shown it.

“When he lost his investment he bankrupted his family. Unlike Attar, Taco’s family forgave him, but it did something to him, up here,” Ketan had said, tapping the side of his head with a hooked index finger. “But unless you go looking for him, he’s not likely to find you.”

With his eyes closed tight against the bright white sun, Jason’s mind drifted away from his conversation with Ketan, back to the train station at Ahmadabad. He could still see the man’s face, the look of hatred in his eyes as he attacked, the look changing to terror as he hung in the air over the tracks. Between the pauses and the backtracking it had taken Jason ten minutes to explain the events of thirty seconds, Ketan nodding occasionally, Jason still not sure why.

When Jason was finished, Ketan had waited a few moments before continuing his warning.

“What did you think of Narvin Kumar?”

Jason just smiled.

“Listen, I know you stayed with him in Mumbai. He’s a charming guy, but he’s also very dangerous.”

“The man is worth millions, Ketan. If it wasn’t for Sriram he might still be waiting for BWS to take off. And according to him, it was Sriram who got him into Bollywood. If anything he
owes
Sriram.”

Ketan shook his head. “You don’t understand. When Sriram left he took….”

“I know, I know, I heard all about it,” Jason had said, bored by the same accusations. “He stole their dream. He stole their fortunes. He ruined them. Sorry, Ketan, but it just doesn’t fit with Narvin.”

“I guess it depends on what you value,” Ketan had said, standing, pushing his chair in, ready to leave. “Narvin was engaged at the time. A sweet girl, really beautiful. Her name was Vidya.” An hour later Jason was still in the park, relaxing in the shade, writing the postcards he had promised to send to family and friends in Corning, half of whom he was certain couldn’t find India on a map.

He had bought the postcards—a variety pack of fifteen—from a kiosk near the park entrance, paying the extra hundred rupees for a five-rupee pen. He flipped through the cards, organizing them, stacking them in order from ones he’d send to ones he’d leave on the bench.

The top card was a full-length shot of two barefoot women dressed in bright blue saris, backs to the camera, leading a small, naked toddler down a dusty trail. At first he thought about sending it to the women at the mortgage office, the kind of card that would get tacked up in the break room next to the postcards from Disney World and the typed reminder to keep the microwave clean. There’d be cold comments about the sweat-stained saris, a couple of jokes about future convenience store owners, and the longer he looked at the picture the less he wanted to send it. He’d get one of those peel-off magnetic strips and put it up on his refrigerator instead.

The second postcard showed the entire front façade of the Palace of Winds. Jason held the postcard close to his nose, his eyes squinting as he tried to spy a backpack-stealing monkey on one of the red sandstone balconies. Given the angle, Jason realized the picture could have only been taken on the rooftop near where the monkey had sat snacking on a tube of toothpaste. The pink Hello Kitty strap had served as a daily reminder of the encounter but that had disappeared, along with another thief, out the open door of the speeding train. He decided to keep the card.

Jason had seen hundreds of cows wandering the streets, but something about the cow on the third postcard seemed to capture the solemnity that the flower garlands and gold-painted horns inferred. So far he had done a good job avoiding the pervasive spirituality—he hadn’t seen the inside of a single temple or mosque, nor had he been pulled into any discussions about religion or faith. Just like at home. For years his only connections to religion were restricted to prayers for completed passes and ninth-inning home runs. But he had almost died—twice—on this trip. The cow postcard would be his reminder to stop ignoring the big questions that crept in late at night.

There were trains in the background of the next two postcards.

He thought about Rachel’s fictitious one-eyed grandfather and his dying wish that she keep the trains running, a neat, orderly explanation for her obsession. But there was little neat and nothing at all orderly about Rachel. Thanks to her, he’d never be able to look at a train the same way. He put the two postcards with the ones he knew he’d keep.

He had a postcard-sized frame for the shot of the sunrise at a beach near Goa, and the one of the chai vendor’s stall would look good next to his coffee maker, the one of the auto-rickshaw perfect for the sun visor of his car.

He set aside the postcards of the places he hadn’t seen—the Golden Temple at Amritsar, Victoria Monument in Calcutta, the Himalayas, the carved temples of Puri, the Ganges River at Varanasi, a leaping tiger on an unnamed game reserve—and was left with one final image.

The Taj Mahal.

Jason looked at the picture for a full minute. “You’ll see it someday,” he said to himself, putting the postcard on the bottom of the stack.

***

Tossing the stack of postcards on the table in the hotel room, Jason picked up the one-line note Rachel had left propped up by the telephone.

“Narvin made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” the note read, a sloping R filling the bottom half of the page.

His backpack had been dumped onto the center of the bed, the contents scattered. Rachel’s backpack was gone. Along with the red sari.

Chapter Twenty-five

Jason placed the yellow plastic sword between his teeth and drew back, dropping the gin-soaked olive onto his waiting tongue. It was the fifth swordful of olives he’d eaten since he sat down with Manoj “Manny” Plakal and, after only a minute of focused thought, Jason deduced that feat called for another round.

When Jason had phoned him early that morning, Manny had suggested a late afternoon rendezvous at Nineteen Twelve, a former warehouse that had been converted into an upscale bar and restaurant around the corner from Jason’s hotel. “Don’t worry,” Manny had said when Jason asked how they would know each other. “You can’t miss me.”

The tall, broad room was crowded when Jason arrived a half-hour late, the vaulted beams of the open rafters thirty feet up just darker shadows above the hanging lights. The rough-hewn stone block walls were unpainted, Pop Art prints and plasma screen TVs adding bright splashes of color. Burnished metal chairs and light oak tables gave the furnishings a contemporary, Euro feel while young executives in designer suits stood in small circles, laughing confident laughs and joking in Middle-American English, a few words in Hindi sneaking in between shots. Dressed in bright polo shirts and loose-fitting Dockers, the hotshot computer programmers drank imported beers and conversed in their own acronym-laced language. There were a handful of women in the bar, none in saris or the two-piece
shalwar kamiz
, all of them wearing gray-skirted business suits and the same bored expression. Beneath the tables, feet tapped unconsciously to the ambient Indi-techno pop.

But even if there were twice as many people packed in the bar, he couldn’t have missed Manny Plakal. He had seen plenty of pudgy people on this trip and more than a few beer bellies, but Manny was the first truly fat person Jason had seen in India. He wore a light cotton safari shirt, the choice of fashion conscious overweight men around the world, and a bushy mustache that hung over his top lip, giving him the appearance of a dark-skinned walrus with a rapidly receding hairline. When he saw Jason looking his way, he waved his hand over his head, the gesture rippling down his flabby arm.

“I knew it was you the moment I saw you,” Manny said, gripping Jason’s hand in his meaty palm. “You look just like the picture on the Internet.”

Jason winced. “Oh, you saw that.”

Manny laughed as he continued to shake his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s obvious that whoever posted that note is up to no good. And who wants to get pulled into something like that?”

“But the reward is up to five hundred.”

“Believe me,” Manny said, releasing his hand, “anyone who would be visiting that site is not impressed with five hundred rupees.”

“I think it was dollars.”

“Really?” Manny said, rolling his eyes like a silent film star. “I’m afraid you’re doomed now.” He laughed again, patting Jason on the back, turning to the bar to order the first round. While they waited for the drinks to arrive, Manny pulled a photograph from the wide pocket of his shirt, setting it on the bar between them. “Which of these happy fellows do you recognize?”

Given what he knew about Sriram and BWS, he assumed the photo had to be less than ten years old, yet the washed-out colors and satin finish made it look much older. Six men, all in their late twenties, stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning back against a whitewashed wall, the bottom half of the words
Bangalore World Systems
visible above their heads.

He spotted Sriram first. Taller than the others, he stood towards the middle, one foot up against the wall, a club tie pulled loose to reveal a tee shirt under the white, short-sleeved shirt. He was smiling—Sriram was always smiling—gripping the edge of a clipboard with his right hand, his left resting on the shoulder of Attar Singh. In many ways the two men looked alike, both tall and thin, both with jet-black hair and a crisp right side part, but Attar’s closed-mouthed grin wasn’t as wide as Sriram’s open smile, and his hooded eyes lacked Sriram’s sparkle. It was a sadder, darker version of the man Jason had met in Jaipur. But then he remembered the anger that had flashed up as Attar described Sriram’s betrayal, and Jason wondered which image was real.

“I didn’t think he was part of BWS,” Jason said, pointing to Ravi Murty. The future owner of Raj-Tech stood with both hands in his pockets, looking off to the left of the camera.

“He wasn’t,” Manny said. “He was a couple years older than us, sort of Sriram’s mentor. He’d stop in now and then, give us some pointers, help Sriram with the tricky stuff.” Manny sighed. “I guess I hitched my wagon to the wrong star.”

Next to Ravi stood Ketan Jani, his devilish goatee and gelled-down hair looking the same in the picture as it had looked when they met that morning for pizza. Instead of the uniform white shirt and tie, Ketan wore a black Ramones tee shirt, the punk rock pose lost with the pleated dress pants.

“This is Ketan, right?”

Manny raised his eyes, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Mr. Rock and Roll. Someday he’ll grow up.”

“Who’s this?” Jason said, pointing out the man to Sriram’s right who wore his feather-cut, blow-dried hair parted in the middle and his long sleeves rolled halfway up his muscular forearms.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Manny said, grinning, holding the picture alongside his glistening, round face.

“I didn’t recognize you without your mustache.”

“A common mistake,” Manny said, setting the picture back on the bar. “But I am sure you recognize Narvin Kumar.” A bulbous pinky tapped on the Bollywood millionaire’s chest.

“Was he always so….”

“So damn good looking?” Manny said, lifting his gin and tonic from the cardboard coaster as soon as the bartender set it down. “Oh yes. Captain of the rugby team, the cricket team, the debate team, top of his class academically, popular with the ladies, never at a loss for words, great singing voice. Yes, that was our Narvin.”

Jason looked at Narvin, then down the row to Sriram, then back to Narvin. “Was this picture taken before Sriram met Vidya?”

“I think what you are politely asking is why did Vidya run off with Sriram, leaving behind her handsome fiancé. But in asking that you are also asking how the mind of a woman works and for that, I’m afraid, we are all at a loss.” He paused while Jason laughed in agreement.

“They were engaged for almost a year,” Manny said. “I thought they were happy but again….” He shrugged his round shoulders, the fat of his neck rolling up to touch his ears. “I can say most definitely that Narvin took the news hard.”

“Would he have hurt Sriram?”

“If the girl you loved ran off with a guy you thought was your friend, what would you do?”

Jason took a deep sip of his martini. “That’s an interesting question.”

“But, as the cliché goes, time heals all wounds. Or wounds all heels. Either way,” he said, dismissing it with a chubby wave, “that is all history.”

Jason was ready with another cliché, the one about history repeating itself, but instead pointed to the short, wiry man at the end of the row that he had only seen once before.

“Why did you call him Taco?”

“I didn’t,” Manny said, glancing at the photo. “I called him Amrish. I think Narvin started it. Part of a joke, kind of cruel, really. Amrish dreamed of getting a job in the States, making big money, Narvin assuring him they were always hiring at this fast food restaurant.”

“Taco Bell.”

“Yes, that was it.” Manny paused, then shifted his bulky frame so that he could look straight at Jason as he spoke. “Sriram was in charge of security and when that failed, Amrish needed someplace to direct his anger. But with Sriram gone…I guess he just took it out on you. I want you to know that no one blames you for what happened. He had been unstable for years and I guess it was only a matter of time before something like this happened, maybe not being killed by a train, but you know what I mean. I am sorry he hurt you,” he said, nodding down at the scar on Jason’s arm. “The Amrish I knew, he would be sorry too.”

Both men finished their drinks in silence, Manny waving over the waiter to order another round. A Hindi version of a Madonna song blared overhead, the tune the same, the words lost in the translation. When the drinks arrived, Jason bit the olives off the sword-shaped swizzle stick.

“I stopped by the bank today to see Piyush Ojha.”

Manny’s laugh was so loud and unexpected that Jason felt himself flinch along with the other patrons at that end of the bar. “Good old Piyush. I am sure he was absolutely
thrilled
to see you.

“That reminds me of a time,” Manny said, launching into a string of BWS stories, all ending with an inside joke and a “you just had to be there” refrain. The story of dripping light fixtures led to the one about the upside-down monitors, followed by the thrilling details behind the chapatti eating contest and the office chair races, Manny pausing between tales to catch his breath and gulp his drink. While he knew some of the names and had to struggle to follow the long-winded accounts, Manny’s accent thicker with every gin and tonic, Jason kept drifting off to his own memories, of trains and saris and a beautiful auburn-haired liar.

It took the better part of two hours, but as Jason aligned the five plastic swords on his napkin, Manny ran out of stories. As the bartender shook up a fresh double martini, Jason remembered why he was there.

“Manny,” he said, louder than he had meant. “Manny, my friend. I need a favor. Can you do me a favor, Manny?”

At first Manny’s head nod was slow and deliberate but as the seconds dragged out he picked up steam, taking on a side-to-side
ahcha
waggle, reminding Jason of an obese bobble-head doll. “It’s like this,” Jason said, pausing, trying to recall what it was like, starting again. “It’s like this. I have something—had something—that I want, no I
wanted
to deliver. It’s a surprise so I can’t tell you it’s a sari.”

“Not a word,” Manny said, pulling an invisible zipper closed across his lips.

“It’s really nice. Well, it was when I started. It got shot and a monkey poured my best aftershave on it.”

“Damn monkey,” Manny mumbled, his head rolling from side to side.

“So I had it and then I go and screwed up the only thing Sriram ever asked me to do.” Jason felt his chest tighten and took a deep, choppy breath, holding it, letting it out in a long, slow airy whistle.

“But I’m gonna make it up to him. I’m going to explain to his mom what a great guy he was. He was a great guy, Manny, you know that?”

“Great guy.”

“That’s what I’m gonna say. I’m gonna say Mrs. Shumb…Suhunderrunder….”

“Sundaram.”

“Mrs. Sundaram, your son was a great guy.”

Manny blinked several times to focus his eyes. “These are the words any mother longs to hear.”

“I need her address because I wanna tell her how Sriram brushed off my car and he gave away candy and made poor people eat frozen turkeys.”

“This was a good man.”

“So, do you have it?” Jason said, tapping Manny’s bloated arm with the back of his hand.

“The frozen turkey or the address?”

Jason took a sip of his drink and considered the question. “Just the address,” he said.

“I do not know the exact address but I can get you close enough. It is in a small hill station, very beautiful this time of the year but chilly.”

“Chilly is not a problem.”

“It is south of here, a place called Uthagamanadalam.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

“It is also called Ooty.”

“Ah, Ooty,” Jason said, nodding his head. “Can we go there tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow. A week. Maybe ten days. But, yes, I can take you.”

“No, that’s not good, Manny,” Jason said, easing his drink down onto the bar. “I gotta go right away.”

“Getting to Ooty requires several days and I would need to make many arrangements. A week is good. Not much more.”

“That’s not good. I’ve got a job to get back to. An
important
job. I don’t have time for Ooty. And I’ve got a gift for Sriram’s mom.”

“A sari,” Manny said.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

Manny shrugged. “A lucky guess.”

“I promised Sriram I’d deliver it myself,” Jason said, realizing as he spoke that he had never promised a thing. “That big sari holiday coming up. The one where sons give their mothers new saris.”

“Ah yes. One of our most cherished traditions.”

“But the problem is I can’t get the sari to Sriram’s mom.”

Manny cleared his throat. “This is not a problem. I will deliver the special gift for you and relay your message.”

Jason propped his elbow on a wet spot on the bar, dropping his chin into his open palm. “You’d do that for me, Manny?”

Eyes closed, Manny gave his head a quick bob, letting Jason know that it was as good as done. Jason sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing.”

For five minutes they stood at the bar and listened to the pounding dance music and the static wash of a dozen conversations.

“You know, Manny, I feel like a complete idiot.”

“This is understandable.”

“The one thing I came here to do I gotta pass on to someone else.”

“Please,” Manny said, lightly touching his own chest. “It is my privilege.”

“No, what I mean is I came here to deliver that sari and now I’m not even going to do that. I went through all this,” Jason said, arching his arm overhead, “all this for
nothing
.”

“It may not be Corning, New York,” Manny said, tilting his head down, looking out from under his heavy brows. “But I would hardly call India nothing.”

“That’s not what I meant. I really like India. I mean, I didn’t at the start—it’s just kinda hard to get used to. The things that happened to me, the stuff that Rachel dragged me into—the drugs that were really a robot and the monkey and getting shot and me almost dying and having to sing for the police and standing there naked….”

Manny set a heavy hand on Jason’s shoulder. “I think it is best you stop now before you say something truly embarrassing.”

“I just thought there’d be a reason, some point of me being here.”