Tulip Season (18 page)

She nodded. He started the engine. Belatedly, she noticed she didn't have her cardigan on. A chill rippled through her. Oh, no.

“My cardigan,” she said, “I had it wrapped around my waist. It must have fallen off in the garage when I ran out. I have to go back.”

Ulrich glared at her. “Are you sure? I don't think you should go in again. Someone might spot you.”

And indeed Kareena's friendly neighbor, Sylvie, was at the intersection. Dressed in an edgy orange scarf and a plum windbreaker, she power-walked. Her poodle scampered along behind her.

Forget about the sweater for now
. “Let's go,” she whispered to Ulrich

Mitra hated to think of leaving without the sweater. Adi would, for sure, notice an unfamiliar piece of clothing invading his garage. And, if he did, he might connect Mitra with it. He could turn her in to the cops.

She mentioned this worry to Ulrich, as he hustled out of the parking space. “Adi's so out of it, he might not notice,” he said.

As he drove through the neighborhood streets, she remained silent, but mulled the matter over in her mind. Finally, she said, “I'll have to go back for the sweater some other time.”

His car shot out on the highway. Face taut, he said, “Mitra! Think twice. Don't be foolhardy. You mustn't go back. Do you hear me?”

The speedometer was hovering around 75 mph. “Could you please slow down?”

She glanced at him. Face flushed and posture stiff, he maneuvered the vehicle through an ever-shifting pattern of vehicles. This was the fourth time he'd become exasperated since they'd met. They could easily have talked it out. Where did this temper stem from? Why did his mood change so often? A taxi jumped in front of them. Ulrich muttered expletives under his breath in German, but slowed down.

In a few minutes, as they got off the highway, Mitra cracked the window open. The wind lashed at her cheek. A flapping red banner, like a warning, stuck out from the back of a truck overloaded with metal pipes. Mitra felt fractured, as though the wind streaming by had swept away a piece of her, never to be recovered.

TWENTY-NINE

SEATED AT HER DESK
on the same morning, Mitra got down to her immediate task, to figure out who JPB was. She Googled “Bollywood” and the initials “JPB.”

Lo and behold, there popped up before her the color portrait of an actor, hunky and leering, his shirt open to his navel.

She jerked up straight in her chair. Facing her was the
jhola
man she'd run into first at Soirée, then outside Sabnam's Sandals.

She kept searching and stumbled onto more articles. Jay Prasun Bahadur had become a romantic idol in the small regional film industry in Kolkata shortly after Mitra had left India. Within a few years, he began to bag roles in Bollywood and became a national icon. His adoring fans touted him thusly:

“JPB is all natural, muscled, and feral.”

“He portrays a country boy with ‘poetic accuracy.’”

“He plays God Rama. He's our hero.
Jay Bahadur ki joy
.” Long live Jay Bahadur.

Mitra now had even more reason to sit down with her newly purchased title,
Bollywood: Now and Then
. She pulled the book from the bookshelf and hurried through the pages containing biographies and color shots of film stars of yesteryear, eventually reaching a chapter titled “Money and the Mafia.” Her eyes became riveted to the page.

Indian banks hadn't traditionally lent money to the Bollywood film industry, as it wasn't considered a legitimate business. How unfair, Mitra thought, even though she wasn't much for films. Unfortunately, this arrangement led the Bombay film industry to seek film financing from the mafia. Mafia? Mitra hoped that Jay wasn't mixed up in any organized crime.

She read on.

The mobsters would loan money to film makers at a high interest, as high as 50%. They would want their payment, of course, but also a cut from the movie stars' salaries, profits from the overseas markets, and even rights to the film music. They also wanted to see themselves portrayed in films in a noble light.

It rushed back to Mitra, the extravagant gangster film she'd watched with Kareena, in which the gang lord was a heroic character. Also charming and nice-looking, he was saved at the end. With an uncomfortable feeling rising in her, Mitra closed the book, put it aside, and made a few discreet phone calls to friends who were well versed in Bollywood movies.

Within minutes, her cellphone chimed: Jean was returning her call. She religiously rented Bollywood DVD's from R & M Video and Spice Center and had much to report.

Jay Bahadur, the actor, could dance, Jean confirmed. He won hearts and pocketbooks. Now in his late-thirties, he had had many liaisons, none permanent. His leading ladies had complained about his groping and other indecencies, even drug orgies. Jean believed these stories were nothing but jilted lovers' attempts at revenge.

According to Jean, for years, schoolgirls had squealed with delight and broken out a sweat as they watched his hip-gyrating dance sequences. Career women would bribe youngsters to stand in the ticket line for them at his film premieres. His face would regularly grace the covers of film magazines. In recent days, however, Jay Bahadur's popularity had spiraled downward.

“The fizz is gone,” Jean said. “His wattage is the lowest ever.”

Most tellingly, film magazines had stopped reporting dirt on him. And so Bahadur was desperate to regain his status. His finances weren't in the best shape, but he still lived in a twenty-two-room mansion in Kolkata and entertained fabulously.

Kareena would revel in such luxury, Mitra thought. Diamonds and sequins, cocktails and ball, A-list invitees—that was Kareena.

“Of late,” Jean said, “Jay Bahadur has turned to making films, not just acting in them.”

“So how does he raise money for his projects?” Mitra asked.

“I don't know,” Jean said. “I'm only a fan. I should say I was.”

After thanking Jean and finishing the conversation, Mitra printed several photos of Jay Bahadur, scrolled through more screens, and read additional postings. One entry suggested that Jay Bahadur displayed abusive behavior on screen and off. He'd punched an inquisitive journalist in the mouth during a film premiere, but somehow managed to escape a jail sentence.

Well, anyone could write about anything on the Internet.

The phone rang, startling Mitra, and she lunged for it. Mr. Shah, a community elder was responding to her voice-mail message.

“People love the person Bahadur plays in the movies,” Shah said in a light tone. “Recently, he did God Rama in a dance film based on
Ramayana
. Doesn't that make him worthy of worship?”

“I don't doubt he's popular and he plays God Rama convincingly, but what can you tell me about his character?”

Shah barked out a laugh. “Why are you so interested, young lady, if I may ask?”

“I'm doing a research project,” she fibbed.

“Another lovely girl doing another research project on the handsome lady killer from Bollywood.”

Mitra nearly fell back in the chair hearing those words, but kept on listening.

“Bollywood seems to be taking America by storm. People in my office ask me if we dance all the time in India—at home, in the midst of traffic, at the car rental, on top of K2. Well, if it weren't for my seventy-year-old joints.” His laugh ended in a cough.

His humor didn't touch Mitra. Mentally, she went over the recently acquired facts. Jay Bahadur, the dancer, starred in either romantic or religious films. He couldn't possibly have anything to do with gangster movies or crime lords. What might the connection be, if any?

“How much of the stuff you read about Bahadur should you believe?” she asked.

“I'll give you my two cents worth. JPB does indeed have killer instincts. I see murder in his eyes. That's what I hear about him. Did you read about the Ray murder case in
Hindustan Standard
? The famous throat-slashing? It happened four years ago. Horrible. Most horrible. Black money. Dirty dealings. You name it.”

“I don't know much about that case.” If truth be told, she'd never even heard of it. “I left India right after high school. I wasn't interested in Bollywood then.”

“I've told you all I know. Have you seen any of Jay Bahadur's films? In Totem Lake Cinema in Kirkland, they show first-run films from Mumbai. Keep an eye on the listings. In case, a film by Bahadur shows up.”

“I sure would check that out.” Mitra thanked Mr. Shah and hung up. She knew her next step; to call Robert and share this information with him. Robert was going to open his own investigation. But she didn't have his home phone number, and this being Sunday, she'd have to wait.

So first thing the next morning, she called Robert and went over what she'd learned, finishing with: “Have you ever heard of the Ray murder case in Mumbai?”

“I vaguely remember it,” Robert said. “I was still living in Phoenix and writing about crime then. Let me dig into it a bit more, make some calls, and I'll get back to you.”

Mitra must take Robert out to lunch. She'd been thinking about that for a while. Now that he'd been doing all this extra work for her, she felt even more eager to do so.

Two hours later, Robert phoned her. “Indian mafia runs the B-town film industry,” he said. “That's common knowledge. Here's what I found out about the Ray murder case. Manu Ray, an up-an-coming actor, was assassinated because he wouldn't share his film profits with the mobsters. He was Jay Bahadur's competition as a lead actor, and their rivalry had been widely reported. Of course, it's not Bahadur who did the job, but rather a hit man from the Mumbai underworld.”

“Why do you think Bahadur was involved?” Mitra asked. “If Ray was assassinated because he wouldn't share his film profits, what does that have to do with Bahadur?”

“Well, there was enough evidence that Bahadur wanted to get rid of Manu Ray. There was bad blood between them.”

“If so, why wasn't Bahadur arrested?”

“From what I've read, the British took away the Indian concept of dharma—rules of proper conduct—which had been around since
the days of
Vedas
, and gave India a penal system. Unfortunately, that legacy, that penal system, is in tatters.”

Mitra liked the education on Indian criminal law she was getting on the phone from Robert, but her mind stayed with Jay Bahadur. She repeated her question. “So why didn't Bahadur get charged with a crime?”

“Indian criminal law tends to favor the accused,” Robert replied. “You can get away with murder, and many do. The courts are terribly backlogged—about 50 million cases are pending. It'll take half-a-century to get through these, not counting the ones still being added. Bahadur has some important connections, which probably have saved him. He got off scot-free when he should've been locked up at least as an accomplice.”

“How sure are you of his guilt?”

“I saw somewhere that a journalist in Kolkata is putting together the evidence, so the case can be reopened. Although I've never met this journalist, I've sent out an e-mail to him. See what I get as a response.”

Mitra shook her head, thanked Robert, and asked him to call her back if he received any new information. Kareena might have tumbled into a dangerous situation, with far more at stake than she'd bargained for.

THIRTY

THREE DAYS LATER,
Mitra parked herself at her kitchen table, art paper and colored pencil within easy reach. She envisioned a trellised garden for a picky client who had a narrow plot facing a parking lot. A honeysuckle vine would twine a tall support structure and obstruct the undesirable sight. Wisteria would frame his window densely to create the illusion of fullness and texture. Mitra sketched a fan trellis, a window, the vines, as well as a wall of foliage to soften the scenery.

She went to visit the client and showed him her vision. He liked it. She got the bid, money she badly needed, and started clearing the plot out right away. In the afternoon, she returned to her house, positioned herself in front of the computer screen, and caught up on her e-mails. Odd, there was nothing from Robert asking for her column. She'd neglected to start on the column, having spent all her time on this new client. She could still get it done. Nor had Robert gotten back to her with more news on Jay Bahadur.

She should call him. After some pleasantries, she'd apologize for the delay and ask for a day's extension. Then she'd spring her offer of treating him to a lunch or dinner this week.

Peering through the window, she saw a dreary April sky, with no wind to disperse the leaden grime. It would help to have a hint of sunlight filter through the dense cloud cover. Two men walking down the block in opposite directions passed each other wordlessly, without even a glance, although neighborhood custom would dictate at least a nod of acknowledgment. The weather must have imprisoned both within their solitary selves, although it hadn't done so to Mitra. After working outside much of the day, she was in good spirits.

She approached the telephone. The box emitted its telltale intermittent beep, and the message light blinked red-orange. Two
messages were waiting for her, one from Grandmother asking if Mitra would like to come over for dinner this evening. “Haven't seen you much lately,” Grandmother had said. “Nothing fancy, but we'll have ourselves a soirée.”

Happily, Mitra called her back and left a message accepting the invitation.

She pressed the message button again. It startled her when Robert's voice boomed out. They must be on the same wavelength. The message had come in at ten o'clock.

“Hello, Mitra.” Robert cackled. “Today's my birthday, but I'm working at home. Thanks for the lead.”

Had she heard him laugh? That was unusual for him. She replayed the message. Yes, it was a hoarse laugh. She punched his number and waited for him to grab the phone. The voice-mail clicked on after several rings and segued to a gruff, “Leave me your name and number.”

“Robert, this is Mitra. Happy Birthday! How about having dinner with me tomorrow night?”

She hung up. Within a few minutes, the phone gave a trill. Grabbing the receiver, she made a quick guess as to who it might be and uttered a big-hearted hello.