Out of Order (20 page)

Manny smiled. “There is a reason. And it is in here.” He prodded Jason’s chest with his finger. “You did not come to India for Sriram Sundaram. You came for Jason Talley. Something inside here made you buy that ticket. Look in here for the answer.”

“Is that it?” Jason asked, rocking back on his heels with every tap on his chest. “That’s why I’m here?”

“That and the party I am throwing for you tomorrow night. A little get together at the old BWS site.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Manny.”

“Oh yes I did. The others, they all insisted. It will be a nice little reunion. We shall have a cookout. But, my friend, I must warn you of one thing.”

Jason swallowed down the lump that sprung up in his throat. “What’s that?”

“When they come in the room, be sure to jump,” he said, his voice just above a thick-lipped whisper. “It is supposed to be a surprise.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Ringed by small stacks of emails and printouts, Jason sat cross-legged in the center of the king-size bed. It was just after five in the morning and he’d been awake for over an hour, the bed spinning too much for him to lie down.

It was the same thing every time he drank—eyes popping open at sunrise, a shot of adrenaline firing up his system, sputtering out long before noon, resetting his internal clock like liquid jetlag. There was never any nausea or dry heaves, just a blinding headache that shrugged off aspirin and ibuprofen, responding only to a double dose of daytime sinus pills and a sugar-heavy cola. The breakfast of champions.

The hotel was quiet, a few auto-rickshaws beeping a greeting to the day. He didn’t remember walking home from Nineteen Twelve or riding up in the elevator or who paid the bill, if they paid it at all, and he tried not to remember how it felt when, lights off, he had sat on the end of the empty bed, knowing she wasn’t coming back.

While he waited for the antihistamine and caffeine speedball to kick in, Jason read through his expensive stack of emails yet again.

Most were wrinkled and water damaged, a reminder of his post-shower afternoon with Rachel, and all but the most recent bore a hole just large enough to pass a twenty-two slug. The dozen pages of linguistic study—that wafty crank of a monologue—lay fanned out on the bed, after ten readings no longer quite as wafty but he found it more interesting each time he read it. There was a steady, practiced efficiency to the way he worked, picking up each email, reading it through, underlining words with a stubby hotel pencil, shifting emails from pile to pile to pile, stacking and restacking, organizing the chaos, separating the darkness from the light.

Jason knew that Manny had been right. There was a reason he had come to India. It wasn’t about Sriram. It wasn’t about Vidya or the sari and it wasn’t about him either. It was about a moment. The split-second flash of a moment just before Sheriff Neville spoke. The last moment things were in order, the last moment the universe made sense.

He leaned back and stretched, the spinning not as bad now, but he could feel his heart picking up the pace and he knew that sleep would be impossible. He tossed the pencil on the bed and thought about the red sari. He didn’t remember thinking much about it that night that Sriram handed it to him in the laundry room of his apartment, didn’t see it as special, didn’t know what it meant. A dozen weeks and thousands of miles later, he still didn’t know what it meant. But he knew he was close.

The schematic pattern looked so obvious when he saw it on the big screen. Now, as he tried to remember the geometric design wrought in silver threads and crisscross embroidery, he thought it looked too simplistic, more like the instructions to an old Tandy radio kit than a cutting-edge microchip. Maybe it was a case of relevance. The pattern didn’t seem like much to him, but to a computer expert it might tell a different story. Sort of like the reams of papers and government forms that crossed his desk every day at the office—meaningless unless you knew what they meant. No, that wasn’t true. Even if you knew what the forms meant, they were still meaningless.

Maybe he was being too literal—no surprise there, he thought as he remembered half the arguments he’d had with past girlfriends. Maybe the sari’s meaning was more symbolic, something more complex than a blueprint, more intricate than the most complex computer program. Sriram knew the meaning, knew that he had to get the sari to India, knew that he had to keep it from Vidya. His dark, Oedipal secret. Or evidence of something else.

The files that Ravi uncovered rambled on about Vidya’s infidelity, real or imagined. Jason let his own imagination wander. A bored, underemployed substitute teacher. Long, sweaty workouts at the fitness center at the Radisson Hotel. An ex-lover, a former fiancé. A gift from Bollywood, a little memento of home, of an old life, found, crumpled and dirty, hidden under their bed. An unannounced flight to India never taken, a confrontation at the studio that never occurred. Or maybe a slow day at the office, sneaking out for a long lunch, Vidya in bed, naked, alone now, laughing at how long it took him to figure it out.

Jason shook the images from his head, forcing his imagination down another path, one that featured a jilted lover with everything in the world but the one thing he lost.

The key piece was there, and his sources—a B-grade movie actress and her infallible
Stardust Magazine
—were far enough removed to be believed. Narvin Kumar had spent the winter in the States. For a man like Kumar the States meant Los Angeles and New York City, the stuff in the middle beautiful from thirty thousand feet. It was an easy four-hour ride from Manhattan to Corning, five if you stuck to the scenic and seldom used back roads. A half-day road trip to settle things forever. Then, a month later, Sriram’s lone friend shows up in India, dragging around a bolt from the past. Giving him the chance to run up the score.

There were other paths to explore. Attar, ruined, with family in Binghamton, spitting distance from Corning. Amrish “Taco” Sharma, angry enough to kill a stranger, with a loving, forgiving, understanding family who might have been willing to help. Then there was the unknown stalker with the cell phone. What about Ketan Jani, the pizza-loving man with the long memory? The crazy banker Piyush Ojha? Manny Plakal, Ravi Murty, Sheriff Neville, Mrs. Dettori in apartment B—maybe it was that loner guy, Jason, in the basement apartment, the one who everyone at the mortgage company would describe as “really nice” and “kind of quiet.”

There were a thousand possible answers. But only a few that made sense.

Jason swung his legs over the piles of paper and off the side of the bed. The clock on the nightstand said ten-thirty. Time for a coffee break. He’d shower, get something to eat and, if this day went like any other post-drunken binge day, he’d lie down—just to rest his eyes—around one, waking up hours later. Manny wasn’t picking him up until four. Plenty of time to practice looking surprised for the going-away party slash Bangalore World Systems reunion.

It’ll be simple, he told himself as he thought about the questions they’d ask. I’ll just tell them what they want to hear.

The phone was ringing when he stepped out of the shower.

“There is a gentleman here at the front desk who wishes to speak to you,” said the high-pitched, sing-song female voice. “A Mr. Piyush Ojha from the Hindustani First National Bank.”

***

As the elevator doors opened at the hotel lobby, Jason realized he should have taken the stairs. If there were armed bank guards or a special detachment from the police department waiting for him at least he had the chance to ease the stairwell door shut and creep back up the stairs, sneaking out a side exit or hiding under his bed. But other than the hotel staff and the gray-suited, gray-haired Piyush Ojha, the lobby was empty. When he saw Jason exiting the elevator, Piyush Ojha stood and held out his hand, letting Jason know before he crossed the lobby that this meeting would not be like the one at the bank.

“I am so glad you have agreed to meet me,” the man said as he shook Jason’s hand, setting his left hand on Jason’s wrist, a sign of sincerity that Jason knew was heartfelt. “I can not apologize enough for how I treated you yesterday. The moment you left my office I felt ashamed. I am ashamed that I blamed you for my own lack of judgment years before our paths crossed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jason said, touching the older man’s shoulder. “If I were you, I think I would have acted the same way.”

Piyush Ojha smiled a tight-lipped, embarrassed smile and gave Jason’s hand a final squeeze. “I know that you Americans are partial to your coffee,” he said, tilting his head towards the hotel’s café.

“Actually, I could go for a masala chai,” Jason said, and led the way across the polished faux marble floor.

Ten minutes later, the awkward silence and talk of the weather fading away, Piyush Ojha stirred two lumps of sugar into his teacup. “When you left my office yesterday I was so angry. At you, yes, and at Sriram, but mostly at my own stupidity. I have carried around this anger for years and it is only of late I realize the toll that it has taken on my soul.”

“I think it was Krishnamurti who said that anger was based on fear and to overcome that fear you had to forget the past and live in the moment.”

Piyush stopped stirring and looked up at Jason. “You are a well-read man, Mr. Talley. Yes, that is true. Anger has consumed far too much of my energy and each day is a struggle against my own negativity. It is a struggle that, as yesterday shows, I can easily lose. You had mentioned some questions about Bangalore World Systems?” His smile seemed hesitant and unnatural, but he stayed with it anyway.

Jason blew the steam off his milky chai. “What can you tell me about Sriram and the others behind the company?”

“If you are talking to me then you must have talked to some of the others as well, Manoj Plakal for instance.”

“Manny.”

“Yes, Manny,” he said in a way that let Jason know that he preferred Manoj. “Also, I believe that Ketan Jani still lives in Bangalore.”

“We did lunch.”

Piyush nodded a quick, jerky nod. “I am sure that both men had less than kind things to say about me.”

“They just said that you took the whole BWS thing a bit hard.”

“You are being too kind, Mr. Talley. I know what they say…what is the American term?…Is it nerd? Yes, well, I was the nerd of the group.”

Given that anyone associated with BWS was, by definition, a computer geek, Jason understood that it was a harsh admission. And he knew enough to respect his honesty. “From what I understand, Sriram was also a bit of a nerd.”

Piyush looked down at his tea as he spoke. “People use the word genius all of the time with no real concept of its meaning. A genius cricketer, a genius businessman, a genius actor, a genius game-show contestant.” He paused and stirred his tea again. “When you are in the presence of a true genius it is something you never forget. There is an aura, a glow. You may smile but I tell you it is real. You feel it engulf you, pass right through you. The talent, the energy—the
magic
. It is overwhelming. And you know that, no matter how hard you work, how intently you struggle, the thoughts that pass through that mind will never pass through yours.” He looked up at Jason, his eyes puffy and wet, and whispered, “It is a horrible feeling.”

Jason thought back to the late nights at the Sundarams’, Vidya lounging on the couch, Bindi on her lap, her purr louder than the stereo, Sriram, tossing back another Odenbach lager, running down the batting order for his fantasy baseball team or an imagined set list for a Beatles reunion. He didn’t remember seeing a beatific glow or feeling engulfed in a shimmering aura of energy, recalling instead a sense of contentment and a warm buzz from the cold beer. Whenever Sriram got talking—lecturing, really—about the next big thing in computers or how science fiction led to science fact, Jason had tuned him out, unable to follow his friend’s train of thought, happy just to see him so excited. Maybe Sriram was a genius—Ravi had seemed to think so and so did everyone involved with BWS. For the thousandth time since his trip started, Jason wished he had paid more attention to his friend.

“I am sure you know what happened with BWS,” Piyush continued. “I will not bore you with my story—suffice it to say that it took me several years to reestablish myself financially.”

“Do you think Sriram really did it? That he stole the program you were working on?”

Piyush drew in a deep breath and held it as he thought, his jaw tightening, and Jason braced for a gale-force tirade. But Piyush exhaled slowly, the tension slipping from his face. “There was only one way to get at the information on our computers and that was through Sriram’s security protocols, something I’m certain that only the person who designed them could do. I’m sorry, Mr. Talley,” Piyush said. “Sriram stole that program and sabotaged our computers.”

The men sat in silence as the waiter refilled their teacups, Piyush dropping in a pair of sugar cubes as the man poured, Jason thinking about computer security and theft.

“So what do you do at the bank?” Jason said, steering the conversation back to small talk and towards a close. He was surprised when Piyush seemed to perk up, edging forward on his seat and squaring his shoulders.

“It is most fascinating work,” he said. “Quite fulfilling. Thankfully nothing to do with computers. Essentially it is the sorting and organization of forms and documents. It requires a close attention to detail and a
constant
vigilance. You see, unlike so many people, I like to have things planned out. I have found that it makes life much easier if you are aware of what is to come. If I am not properly organized, one step could be missed, nullifying the entire process. Large and important deals hinge on my ability to keep things organized.”

“I see,” Jason said, a cold chill cutting through his body, the ghost echo of words he was sure he had heard before.

“Yes, it is most fascinating and I must say that I have earned quite a reputation within the loans division of Hindustani First National Bank. Thrice named Employee of the Quarter. And,” he said, smiling his first real smile of the morning, “I believe I will be nominated for a promotion soon.”

“I bet your family is quite proud,” Jason said, not bothering to shake the monotone from his voice.

“Oh, I had no time to start a family—my work requires far too much of my time. One could say I am married to my profession.
Happily
married, I might add.”

“You don’t live with your parents, do you?” Jason said, his own fears rising to the surface.

Piyush shook his head. “No, sadly they have both passed away. I live alone, a studio flat nearer the airport.” He sighed as he raised his teacup to his lips. “This was one of the few things I shared with Sriram.”

“You shared a studio apartment with Sriram?” Jason said, remembering his tall friend. “That must have been crowded.”

“I am sorry,” Piyush said, setting his cup back down. “I was not clear. I did not share an apartment with Sriram. What I meant was that we shared a similar background.”