Mumbai Noir by Altaf Tyrewala Page A

the list and gave him a camouflaged outline of the case I was on. I urged him to identify the three most likely film financiers with underworld connections. He studied it for five minutes, picked up a pen, and circled a name. “Here’s my shortlist of one.”
    I looked at the name he had circled in red— Dr. Prem Pardeshi. I wondered about the subject of his thesis.
    “You’re sure?”
    “As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow and a politician will take a bribe.”
    “Do you know him?”
    “Nope. I know about him from my business sources.”
    “Thanks. Anything I can do for you?”
    “Yes, Shorty. Get me the Kohinoor diamond. My fiftieth birthday is just round the corner.” He burst into his boisterous laugh again.
    “Sure,” I said. “Give me a couple of days to talk to the queen.”
    For the next four days I was busier than a pandit during marriage season. I was on Pardeshi’s tail like a man possessed. I wanted to bring an honorable closure to this case to salvage my self-esteem—I was not ready yet for Konduskar’s description of a “washed-out” private detective.
    I used every trick in the trade to shadow him. Pardeshi was a man you could easily lose in a crowd—fiftyish, short, frail, and nondescript. I hired a retired policewoman to help with the shadow work. She is very good at tailing people in the guise of an old woman selling flowers. Part of her old police work.
    By the third day we had a good fix on Pardeshi’s routine. He would kiss his tired-looking wife goodbye at the door of his apartment at Buena Vista in Pali Hill and head straight for a sleazy massage parlor in Santa Cruz called Tasty Bites. Two hours later he would be on his way to a bar in Andheri named Natasha’s Nest. I followed him inside on the third day. I was in disguise—wearing thick specs—and sat at one of the distant barstools sipping a Bombay beer, the least pricey one in the joint. He had a forlorn expression on his face—typical of afternoon drinkers. He ordered another drink and something to eat which looked like omelet and bread. I ordered a grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich to while away the time.
    His next stop was at a building in Lokhandwala complex— one of the biggest concrete jungles after Gurgaon. He was there for barely forty-five minutes—presumably in his office. Maybe the film finance business was at a low ebb; how much of the same old shit can the public really take? Then he got into his heavily tinted black Accord and was most likely headed home—for a well-deserved siesta. I followed him in my hired-for-the-day rickshaw to the base of the Hill, like I had done the previous two days. I have used Mustafa’s services on tailing assignments before—he doesn’t talk much, is the soul of discretion, and is an expert driver in Mumbai’s saturated traffic. And, as a bonus, his rickshaw is spotlessly clean. I like that.
    On the fourth day I got the break I was looking for. Pardeshi skipped his massage—or whatever—and was heading toward Juhu beach. He seemed to be in a major hurry judging from the persistent honking. I had a strong hunch he would connect with Chingari—on orders from his bosses in Dubai, Karachi, Colombo, or god knows where.
    My hunch was right. He drove into a gate of a two-story bungalow which had all the signs of a safe house—still, quiet, eerie. We waited across the road and Mustafa pretended to change a tire so that we wouldn’t attract too much attention. I gave him precise instructions.
    I was on edge but ready with my act.
    In about fifteen minutes the black car came out of the gate. I couldn’t see too well because of the heavy tint but I was reasonably sure there was no one else in the car except Pardeshi and his young driver.
    I made my move. I was going to make a very high-risk pizza delivery.
    I entered the gate, walked up the driveway, and rang the bell next to the heavy door. Nothing happened so I rang again. Now I could hear some activity inside.
    “Who’s