Queens Noir (29 page)

Time to visit Miss Ritu. He had with him her astrology
chart. Ritu lived in a small studio apartment. It was simple
and tastefully decorated. She had taken his call and his request for a visit in a relaxed way. "So nice to hear from you
again," she'd said. She's all class, he thought.

"Mr. Raj, would you like some tea?" she asked when he arrived. He accepted her gracious offer. When they were seated at
the dining table, he opened up the astrology chart.

"Dear Ritu, I have some news I must share with you," he
said. "With the moon on the eclipse and the house of Rahu
on the cusp, I urge you to marry quickly. If you need help find ing a suitable mate, I will help. You should be with a doctor or
businessman. . ."

She was listening intently. "No, no, I appreciate your offer
of help-but I'm-"

"Oh, so you are involved?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Good news. Good. Then arrange hastily, if you must. Arrange quickly to marry. It is so written and must be done before the full moon or you risk ... Let's not discuss that. Marry
immediately, you must." He noticed how her delicate fingers
twirled the silky strands of her hair as he spoke. He departed
then, leaving the chart behind.

Four months before, he had been the judge for Miss Little India, Queens. He had been one of the sponsors of the
contest-having given $550 to place his name prominently
in the advertisement for the event. For his money he had expected flirting from the contestants, hints of romance, some
ego stroking-and these of course had come-but nothing
prepared him for the pressures of the final round. It ended up
that for the last stretch of the two-day contest, he was the sole
judge. So he decided that the five girls in the finals would each
dance to a song from the Hindi classic film, Pakeezah. It was
enchanting, haunting music that Meena Kumari, the loveliest actress to ever grace the big screen, danced along to with
stunning grace. Raj had picked his favorite movie and favorite
actress as the challenge. There could be no greater challenge,
as the audience, too, knew every gesture and movement that
Meena Kumari danced in the film. It was the highlight of
Indian cinema-the beauty of the camera movement, the
music, the story, Meena Kumari.

During the day of the event he was visited by two contestants, and the fathers of two others. He drew a bit more than just attention from one of the two girls. Her breasts were
round and firm and he enjoyed lingering there for a moment.
The other, a young woman named Geeta, had kissed him and
he'd put his hand on her thin waist when she leaned into
him. The fathers left envelopes with cash. One $350, and one
$500. Only the fifth contestant failed to visit him or send her
father.

And, of course, she won.

It wasn't just that Ritu didn't visit: It was the dance.
Ritu seemed to possess the characteristics of the Ideal Indian
Woman. Her curves were generous, her movements minimal.
She didn't strive too hard, instead the music just swayed her.
She smiled at him from the stage, which had excited him even
more than the touching or the money. It was the warm smile
of innocence untouched by the crass world. He avoided her
after that, lest she disappoint him. Or perhaps he would disappoint her. But he thought of her often, alone in his bed.

She deserved abundance-and to be married to the rich
only-son of one of India's wealthiest families. That bastard
Manny couldn't appreciate a classy girl like Ritu. He represented all that was wrong with these situations: the brutish
man keeping his son from happiness.

Of course, Raj knew that he, like all the other players,
had a predestined role. He was to teach Manny Sharma some
humility-and if that humility came with humiliation, so be
it. He was to help Ritu in her life. First the contest, then the
husband. And he was being rewarded for his good deeds. But
it wasn't just the money; it was knowing that he, not Manny,
was in charge of the way this would end. When he was in
charge, the good won out. Don't rest on your laurels, he reminded himself. Destiny was calling.

He turned on his computer and started by changing his e-mail and PayPal accounts. Then he opened a file entitled
Wealthiest Indian Bachelors and considered Davinder Shah, son
of the pig-headed Minister of Defense, Terjinder Shah. Years of
graft had left the family very well off. Davinder, the eldest son,
was also enrolled in the Stern School at NYU. Raj had noted
his presence among the young men hanging out with Neal
Sharma. Raj plugged Davinder's vital dates into his computer
program and printed out his astrology chart. While anyone
could run numbers to get a chart, an analysis of the planet positions, the lunar asterism, the ascendants-understanding their
relationships with one another was a gift that few possessed.
And clearly, Raj knew, he was one of the blessed.

His chart showed Davinder as a weak man, tending to be
swayed easily. No great intellect. A bit lazy. Not a great person,
petty really. Of course, Raj would find his match. There is, after
all, a match for every person. Raj consulted his folder marked
Eligible Indian Girls, studying the photo of Geeta. He studied
her curves and her look, which was a tad cheap-though he
had no regrets about enjoying her wet kiss. He had only chosen
her as a runner-up, but he would make it up to her now.

He e-mailed her immediately.

My Dear Geeta,

Good news is coming your way. I have a perfect match
for you. Please do visit my office tomorrow at noon. I will
discuss specifics and plans with you then.

RK

Then he e-mailed another:

Your Excellency, Minister Shah,

I write to offer my humble services to you. I believe your son may be in some entanglement that does not suit the
son of the honorable Minister of Defense. Please advise
if you seek my assistance to avoid the agony of such an
embarrassment.

RK

Later, as he watched India-Vision in his office, Raj was
interrupted by a knock on his door.

Ritu and Neal walked in, arm in arm.

"How do you do, young man?"

"So nice to see you again, Mr. Raj," Neal said.

"Yes, yes, we did meet at the Miss Little India pageant,
right?"

"Yes. And thanks to you, I met Ritu that night."

"Oh no, these are all events that fate has ordained," Raj
demurred.

"Mr. Kumar," Ritu said, "Neal and I were married this
morning at City Hall."

"Congratulations, congratulations."

"We need your advice. You see, Ritu and I, well, we . .
Neal began.

"We got married ..." Ritu added.

"Blessings, blessings."

"... without my father," Neal continued. "Well, he doesn't
know yet and I want to seek your advice to smooth things
over.

"Oh, I see. But your wife is a blessing to your family."

"Yes sir. But my father-"

"I will tell you, young man, that only a few get to be married to a girl as lovely, honest, and wise as your bride. Treasure her. Once you have children, I guarantee you all will be
well."

"Children?"

"Yes. I know Ritu's chart. And all happiness unencumbered by obstructions will be yours in this union. Wait till you
have good news of a grandchild and then go to India. All will
be well."

"I shouldn't tell my father then?"

"No. Wait a few months. Then you will have two good
things to tell him."

Ritu looked at Neal and gave him that sweet smile that
Raj knew so well.

"Go and enjoy each other," Raj counseled. "Give it time.
All will be well. All will be well."

Neal reached for his wallet, "Can I give you something?"

"Oh, please. Please ... it's my pleasure."

Neal shook Raj's hand, and the happy newlyweds left his
office.

Raj watched the couple from his second-floor window. As
they walked away, arm in arm once again, Ritu turned to look
up at his window. She met his gaze for a moment and held it.
She nodded slightly and then turned her attention once more
to her husband.

He was now alone in his office above 74th Street, with all
the hustle and flow of life below. With his posters of Meena
Kumari. With his foldout chairs. With his TV and DVD player
on a stand. He flicked off the Open sign outside his window.

From his desk drawer he took out the DVD. He needed
some pleasure too-life could not only be work. He dimmed
the lights and sat on the floor cushion, as he always did to
watch. Nothing could interrupt him for three hours. He put
on the movie Pakeezah. The music stirred and then there she
was. Looking for her love. Full of grace. Dancing her pain
away. Her soul unappreciated by the wealthy patrons. She is a courtesan who doesn't get to be with her love, the prince. The
callous king forbids it. She has no one to help her. And Raj
weeps for her once again as he hears his beloved sing:

is never good when you open your front door and the first
thing you see is uniforms. Only this time, they were military
dress green, not 110th Precinct blue, and lucky for its they
wanted the house next door. Bad luck for the Mantilla family,
whose oldest boy, Freddie, joined up seeking the fast track to
citizenship. And now he's going to get it-posthumously.

The following Thursday I'm standing with the family
as the flag-draped coffin is about to be lowered into a hole
overshadowed by the Long Island Expressway and a recycling
plant. The last notes of "Taps" float by on the wind, mingling
with the Doppler, shifting wee-oo-wee-oo of a passing police
siren. Someone's not at peace with the Lord out there.

A white-gloved finger presses the play button on a boom
box, and the crash of angry Spanish ghetto rap rips the stillness to shreds. Freddie chose this music as his final shout-out
to the world, and, if I know Freddie, as a final screw-you to all
the white boys in his unit who would have gone with "Amazing Grace." The honor guard salutes stiffly as cars roar by on
the overpass.

I go up to the cops who brought Freddie's uncle here, and
ask them to take the guy's handcuffs off for five minutes so he
can hug his family. It takes a moment, but they do it for me.

"You on a case?" says Officer Sirota.

"Friend of the family."

"Uh," he grunts. "Say, you know what that's about?"

There's a group of mourners dancing around a grave
across the street in Mount Zion Cemetery. I tell him it's a
splinter sect of Orthodox Jews who believe that their former
leader, Rabbi Aaron Teitelboym, is the Messiah, so every year
they gather at his grave on the anniversary of his death to
celebrate his imminent resurrection.

"That so?" says Sirota. "How long's he been dead?"

"Nine years."

"Nine years? Man, it only took Jesus three days. So I guess
that's one up for our side."

The lieutenant presents Freddie's mom, Irene, with the
purple heart and bronze star, and salutes her. She presses the
medals to her chest, and hugs a color photo of her smiling boy,
the sharp-eyed soldier who waved his comrades away from
the roadside bomb that shattered his skull and left a smoking
crater of that handsome young face. It was a closed casket
service.

Too soon, they snap the cuffs back on Uncle Reynaldo
and escort him to the squad car. I wait my turn as close relatives go up and hug my neighbor. She's clutching Freddie's
brother Felipe, who's already sprouting a teen mustache and
getting pretty big for a twelve-year-old.

Felipe wrenches his arm away from her and seeks out the
masculine ritual of swapping greetings with his cousin Ray Ray,
who I once helped dodge a graffiti rap that could have gotten
nasty if the cops had felt like pressing it. Just being caught with
"graffiti instruments" is a Class B misdemeanor, and it doesn't
help that in order to get proper respect as a graffiti writer in
the barrio, the supplies have to be stolen. Reparations were
costly, but worth it, since that dark-skinned Dominican kid
is now working on a twenty-one-game hitting streak carried over from his previous season at Newtown High School, and
the rumor is that he's being scouted by the Mets.