“Come with me,” the Weasel says.
* * *
—
From their position at the side of the stage they can see Kuldeep preparing to step forward, the thronelike sofa bearing Rajdeep Singh, and behind all that, the roiling crowd.
“So great, don’t you think?” the Weasel yelps above the noise. “I told you, no man here is more powerful than . . .”
But as he says these words . . .
9.
Vicky Wadia arrives. The giant and terrible man. He wades through the masses of bodies, through the police barricade, up to the VIP sofa, dressed in his black kurta pajama, a shahtoosh shawl, the same long black hair, his body bullish and rangy at once, the rings glistening on his hands, and Rajdeep’s smug face distorts in fear as Vicky stands over him, Rajdeep jumping to his feet, bowing his head, pressing his palms together and making room, relegating his body to the corner so Vicky can sit dead center, legs crossed, arms splayed along the back.
* * *
—
Now Kuldeep Singh comes to the front of the stage, to the microphone. He is talking up his power, his position, his defiance. “Our culture is under threat,” Kuldeep says. “Our way of life. They want to kill us in the night. They want to make us live in fear. All the evils that plague us, the criminals who wish to prey on our good natures. Such things happening now. The smuggling, the trafficking of our children, the rape of our women, the murder of our brothers. They all come from a threat outside we know too well. We must resist it and keep our way of life. We must maintain order, through force if necessary. For too long we have been quiet. Now we must stand together, make noise against a common enemy.”
Jai Shri Ram. Jai Kuldeep Singh.
This is his moment, he thinks.
Kuldeep Singh, hands aloft, milking the adulation and anger of the crowd.
This is the moment.
He reaches under the shawl for the gun in his waistband.
There’s already one in the chamber.
He knows.
This is the moment.
He can jump onto the stage.
Get his shot off.
* * *
—
“Chutiya.” A voice above him calmly speaks.
Laconic and baritone, laced with wicked humor.
Ajay looks up to see Vicky Wadia smiling down at him.
And the Weasel, averting his gaze, backing away in fear.
Vicky drapes his arm over Ajay’s shoulder. “I heard you were in town.” Lines up alongside him like an old friend, places a cigarette in his mouth, squeezes his rippling right arm tighter around Ajay’s neck as he lights the tip. “I’ve had my eye on you.”
And Ajay, frozen. Wasn’t he over there? He looks toward the VIP area, expecting to see Vicky seated on the sofa throne. Expecting this to be an illusion. No.
No.
He’s really here.
“You’ve been busy.” Vicky purrs approvingly. “You’ve met your mother at long last. You’ve even had time to make new friends . . .” He leans so close to Ajay’s face that his mustache bristles against the soft skin. Vicky chuckles, blows smoke. “Then you’ve killed them.”
Ajay instinctively tries to pull away, he tries to find a place of escape, but the enormous arm like a constrictor keeps him locked in place. His eyes dart about in alarm. He feels himself vanishing, vanishing, inside Vicky’s enormous being. Only his hand, under the shawl, is free to grip the gun.
“Shhhh,” Vicky soothes him. “Don’t fear.” He loosens his hold, slaps Ajay good-naturedly on the shoulder. “I’m good at keeping secrets.” He drops his cigarette to the floor, crushes it underfoot.
Inhale. Breathe.
Ajay’s hand inches the Glock slowly from his waistband. Slowly, slowly, finger trying not to quiver on the trigger.
“What exactly are you planning to do with that gun?” Vicky says. Ajay tries hard to swallow the lump in his throat, to keep himself together. “If you’re not careful,” Vicky goes on, “you’ll blow your balls off.” He smiles to himself. “Then I’ll have some explaining to do.”
Trapped.
You are trapped.
“Look at this,” Vicky sighs, running his free hand across the horizon as if admiring a sunset, as the roiling crowd cheer Kuldeep Singh and bay, with weapons raised, for blood. “All these men. Ready to tear their enemies apart. Aren’t they beautiful?” He inhales the air, the scent of anger and violence a fine perfume to him. “You should always have five hundred men on hand to tear a place apart. But more important are the ten thousand men behind them, cowards all.” He laughs and holds Ajay’s head. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you, boy?” He begins to run his fingers through Ajay’s hair. “But I’m proud of you. Killing three men is no small thing. I was twelve when I first looked into the eyes of a dying boy. I’ll never forget the look on his face.” He takes a moment to remember. “Surprise. He was surprised. And how did these men look? At the end of their lives. Were they surprised? Did they have time? No doubt they deserved it.” He jerks Ajay’s head back and forth on the pole of his neck as if he were a toy. “Don’t worry, they won’t be missed, despite what it looks like. This, this is all for show. In fact, you’ve done me a favor. This, all this chaos, it’s good for business. But what were you even trying to do?” He motions toward Kuldeep Singh. “Get to this dog? This fucker? In order to kill him? Kill his brother? And then what? Were you just going to die?” He lets the question hang, and they watch the scene in dreadful silence as Ajay feels like his stomach is being ripped out of him, left on the floor. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Vicky says. “These men, these two men, Rajdeep and Kuldeep Singh, they mean nothing. They are nothing. Killing them right now would be a waste of your life. And besides, they’re still useful to me. So I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You’ll turn around, get your bags, and go back to Delhi. Go back to Sunny and forget all this, keep on playing nursemaid for a while.”