Friday, June 8, 2007, 5:28 p.m.
“We’re leaving!”
Eli is smoking his seventh cigarette when Sunny staggers out the front door.
Staggers like he’s been knifed between the shoulder blades, eyes wild, face drained of color. Eli springs to his feet and Dinesh’s guards come forward too, and Dinesh, he’s right there behind Sunny, pulling him by the shoulder, calmly whispering something in his ear, pressing an A3 manila envelope into his hands. Sunny regards the envelope with dismay, then reels toward the Bolero as Eli lopes over, climbs in, starts the engine, spins the Bolero round. One of the guards walks over to the gate, a little too casually.
“Motherfucker,” Sunny cries, clambering into the passenger seat, slamming his hand on the horn.
“Boss . . .”
Sunny tries to light a cigarette.
The guard pulls open the gate and smirks.
Eli is scanning the horizon for threats. The sky burns an intense blue. And Sunny is still trying to light the cigarette, becoming more agitated, to the point where he opens the window and tosses the lighter out into the dust. So Eli has to light it for him, his eyes darting between the cigarette and the road and Sunny’s sweating, clammy brow. Sunny sucks it down to a stub in record time. All in silence. And when it’s done he turns his attention to the envelope on his lap.
“Boss. What happened?”
“He’s fucking crazy,” Sunny mumbles.
“Who? Dinesh? Yeah, sure, he crazy. This we know.”
“He’s lost it.”
“Yes, he lost it. But what’s in envelope, boss?”
Sunny runs his hand over it and winces. “I don’t . . .”
“You don’t?”
Sunny reaches for his hip flask, unscrews it.
“I don’t want . . .”
“Don’t want what?”
He swallows all the vodka that’s left, holds his tongue out for the last drop, screws the cap back on, collapses back in his seat, and closes his eyes.
“Don’t want to know.”
* * *
—
It’s forty minutes since Sunny spoke. They’re three kilometers from the expressway, almost back in civilization. The words don’t want to know rattled hollow in their respective brains.
The vodka has stunned Sunny, for now. He’s sluggish, glassy-eyed.
“Eli?”
“Yes, my friend?”
“How many people you kill?”
Eli sucks the air between his teeth, takes some time to organize his thoughts. “With respect,” he replies, “you do not ask.”
“I’m asking you,” Sunny slurs.
“And I tell you,” Eli replies, “you do not ask.”
“More than ten?”
Eli glances at Sunny, slumped, leg up on the dash, leg slipping now and then.
“How many people you fuck?” he counters.
“Twenty?” Sunny goes on, ignoring the question.
“How many people you fuck?”
The words reach Sunny late. “What?”
“You tell me,” Eli states firmly, “how many people you fuck, and I tell you how many I kill.”
“Literally?” Sunny asks, seeming surprised. “Or metaphorically?”
Eli shakes his head. “You’re a mess. Why we play this game?”
“Because I want to know.”
They’re approaching the expressway.
“But what good does it do?”
They can see it in the distance.
Trucks and cars and bikes.
“I said you tell me!”
Eli sighs. “Who you want me to kill?”
There’s a brief moment when it looks like Sunny has blacked out. But then he sits up straight and sucks in a lungful of air and opens his eyes and he’s animated, manic even. “Fuck it.” He rips open the manila envelope.
Pulls out what’s inside.
A single, dark plastic sheet.
Like an X-ray.
Stares at it.
And behind the sheet, several photographs, some from a CCTV camera, some taken with a telephoto lens.
Eli cranes his neck but can’t quite make out what it is.
Either way, there’s no mistaking Sunny’s reaction.
Shock.
Nausea.
He starts to tremble.
“Boss?”
Sunny quickly stuffs the sheet back inside. Sober, instantly. “I want you to take this,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Put it somewhere safe. No one ever sees it. Ever.”
“OK, boss.”
“If anyone tries to see it, shoot them.”
“What if I try to see it?”