Mumbai Noir by Altaf Tyrewala Page B

that?” a gruff voice said in Hindi.
    “Domino’s Pizza, sir.”
    “I haven’t ordered any pizza-wizzah. Get lost,” the voice barked.
    “This is a free promotion offer, sir, of our new kheema and karela pizza.” I recited this in an American BPO accent.
    The door opened. No one can resist a free pizza!
    It was Salim Chingari all right—all dressed up to make a quick exit from the safe house. He didn’t get very far; I had him right where I wanted him. He was looking at the barrel of my licensed gun in extreme close-up.
    “Sorry about the pizza, sir. The promotion just expired.”
    Though grouchy, Konduskar kept his promise. He booked Chingari on multiple charges—extortion, assault and battery, unlawful confinement, among others. The next day Chingari spilled the beans and begged for a fix of heroin. He was not so tough after all. What worried me was that he was an escape artist—from jails. But then, I am not his keeper, only his finder.
    The Nagpada cops and I traced Jasmine that night—not in very good shape but alive. She had been kept as a “prisoner of obsessive love” by Chingari—the hophead fixer of Nagpada. She was in a nursing home in Lower Parel—why there’s no Upper Parel, I have no idea—shot full of sedatives to ease the pain inflicted by a horsewhip. When Jasmine was well enough I took her “home”—to Hawa Bai’s high-class whorehouse where she belonged. She didn’t have anywhere else to go. The story of so many young and hapless girls, from all parts of the country, who are tricked into this business by ruthless agents working for entrenched establishments like Hawa Bai’s.
    It was a touching reunion—even for a hardened private detective pushing fifty.
    “Come and spend a night with one of my girls when you’re feeling blue, handsome,” Hawa Bai said in her imperious tone, handing me the rest of the money.
    “Maybe.” I took the cash and left.
    The next morning I called up Rafique Irani at his office.
    “Mr. Irani, the queen has graciously consented. She wants to present the rock to you in person. When would be convenient?”
    “Tell her majesty I’ll be there before she can say East India Company.” I could hear the guffaw.
    “The case is closed. I found the girl.”
    “Good for you, Shorty. Was it worth it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Come over for a drink tonight. I want to hear the details. This raddi business is getting me down.”
    “Sure,” I said. “And I’ll pick up some biryani from Altaf’s on my way.”
    He’s a big pushover for gourmet biryani. In his private museum there’s a set of vintage copper and brass biryani cooking handis from the Mughal era.
    Rafique Irani had company when I walked into his penthouse. His lady love, I presumed, from their body language.
    “I am Behroze Ichaporia,” she introduced herself. “And you’re Shorty Gomes, of course. I have heard so much about you and your exploits from Raf.”
    “Don’t believe a word of it, Miss Ichaporia. It’s pretty dull stuff: all in a day’s work. Our friend here exaggerates and embellishes things to make my work sound interesting, like advertising.”
    “You are being modest, Mr. Gomes.” She had a pleasant resonance in her voice.
    “No, I am not. I am being realistic.”
    As the evening progressed, I discovered she was a selfmade Mumbai woman—independent, smart, empathetic, and full of life. Another collectors’ item for Irani. After we were suitably oiled on the expensive cactus juice—she had a good appetite for the stuff—she pulled the old, hoary question on me: “Tell me, Mr. Gomes: if you were not a private detective what would you be?”
    “An undertaker,” I said. “The business is steady.”
    Two weeks later I was drinking my second cup of tea at Kayani’s, glancing at the headlines in the morning newspaper— full of scams in politics, sports, agriculture, defense, industry, finance, entertainment, you name it. The same old pasteurized story—with monotous,