you're still chasing housewives. What's your fee-a few thousand a day, maximum? I'm making that every minute. Round the clock. Even sitting here now my cash till is registering. Ching!'
'Don't worry about me. I'm doing what I'm meant to be doing. This is my dharma.'
'Dharma!' scoffed Rinku. 'Dharma's for sadhus and sanyasis! This is the modern world, Chubby. Don't give me that spiritual shit, OK?'
Puri felt a flash of anger and shot back, 'Not everyone is a…'
But he stopped himself speaking his mind, suddenly afraid that if he did, it would bring an end to their relationship once and for all.
'Not everyone is what? A bloody crook like me? Is that what you were going to say?'
They sat in silence for nearly a minute.
'Listen, I didn't come here to argue,' said Puri eventually. 'I'm not one to tell friends how to live or what to do. You've made your choices; I've made mine. Let's leave it at that.'
The Patiala pegs arrived, both tumblers filled to the brim.
Puri picked up his and held it above the small round table that separated them. After a moment's hesitation, his friend did the same and they clinked glasses together.
Rinku downed half his Scotch and let out a loud, satisfied gasp, followed by a belch.
'That's a proper drink,' he said.
'On that, we agree.' Puri smiled.
'So this Sardaar-ji gets married and on his first night he has his way with his new wife. But the next morning he gets divorced. Why? Because he notices a tag on her underwear that says:
Puri roared with laughter at the punch line to Rinku's latest Sikh joke.
The two men were on their second drink.
'I heard another one the other day,' said the detective when he had wiped the tears from his cheeks.
'Santa Singh asked Banta Singh, 'why dogs don't marry?''
'Why?' asked Rinku gamely.
'Because they're already leading a dog's life!'
Only a slick of grease and some green chutney remained on their snack plates by the time Puri broached the subject of Mahinder Gupta again.
'Your Diet Coke comes here most nights after work-around eight thirty, usually,' Rinku told him. 'Sometimes his fiancee joins him. She's as bloody nuts about golf as he is. I played a round with him just one time. He wouldn't take my bet. Said gambling was against the club rules! I tell you, Puri, these guys are as stiff as-'
'Anything else?' interrupted the detective.
Rinku drained his glass, eyeing his friend over the brim.
'He's got a place in a posh new block near here, Celestial Tower. All bought with white[2]. Can you believe it, Chubby? The guy's got a mortgage from the bank! What kind of bloody fool does that, I ask you? So you want to meet him-your Diet Coke?'
'Where is he?'
'In the corner.'
There were three men sitting at the table Rinku indicated. They had arrived a few minutes earlier.
'A thousand bucks says you can't guess which one,' said Rinku.
'Make it three thousand.'
'You're on.'
It took Puri less than thirty seconds to make his choice.
'He's the one in the middle.'
'Shit yaar! How did you know?' said Rinku, fishing out the money and slapping it down on the table.
'Simple yaar!' He pronounced it 'simm-pull.' 'The man on the right is wearing a wedding ring. So it shouldn't be him. His friend on the left is a Brahmin; I can see the thread through his vest. Guptas are banias, so it's not him. That leaves the gentleman in the middle.'
Puri looked more searchingly at Mahinder Gupta. He was of average height, well built and especially hairy. His arms looked as if they had been carpeted in a shaggy black rug, his afternoon shadow was as swarthy as the dark side of the moon, and the many sprigs poking out from the neck of his golfer's smock indicated that even the tops of his shoulders were heavily forested. But Gupta did not strike Puri, who always made a point of sizing up a prospective bride or groom for himself, as the macho type. If anything, he seemed shy. When he spoke on his BlackBerry-he was using it most of the time-his voice was quiet. Gupta's reserved body language was also suggestive of someone who was guarded, who didn't want to let go for fear of showing some hidden part of his character.
Perhaps that was why he didn't drink.
'What did I tell you?' said Rinku. 'Guy doesn't touch a drop of alcohol! Saala idiot!'
'What time will he play?'
'Should be any time.'
A few minutes later, Gupta's golf partner arrived and the two of them headed off to the first tee.
'Chubby, you want to play a round?' asked Rinku.
'Not especially,' said the detective.
'Thank God! I hate this bloody game, yaar! Give me cricket any day! So you want to come to the farmhouse? I've got some friends coming later for a party. They're from Ukraine. They've got legs as long as eucalyptus trees!'
'Rumpi is expecting me,' said Puri, standing up.
'Oh, come on, Chubby, don't be so bloody boring, yaar! I'll make sure you don't get into trouble!'
'You've been getting me into trouble ever since we were four, you bugger!'
'Fine! Have it your way. But you don't know what you're missing!'
'I know exactly what I'm missing! That's why I'm going home.'
Puri playfully slapped Rinku on the shoulder before making his escape.
On his way home, the detective considered how best to proceed in the Brigadier Kapoor case.
Mahinder Gupta struck Puri as somewhat dull-one of a new breed of young Indian men who spent their childhoods with their heads buried in books and their adult lives working fourteen-hour days in front of computer terminals. Such types were generally squeaky clean. The Americans had a word for them: 'geeks.'
Being a geek was not a crime. But there was something amiss.
Why would a successful, obviously fit and active BPO executive agree to marry a female four years his senior?
To find out, Puri would have to dig deeper.
First thing tomorrow morning, he would get his team of forensic accountants looking into Gupta's financial affairs. At the same time, he'd assign Flush to find out what the prospective groom was up to outside office hours and see what the servants knew.
Puri did not reach home until ten o'clock, an hour later than usual.
The honk of the car's horn outside the main gate marked the start of his nightly domestic routine.
The family's two Labradors, Don and Junior, started barking, and, a moment later, the little metal hatch in the right-hand gate slid open. The grizzled face of the night-watchman, Bahadur, appeared, squinting in the bright glare of the headlights.
Bahadur was the most conscientious night watchman Puri had ever come across-he actually stayed awake all night. But his arthritis was getting worse and it took him an age to open first the left gate, then the right, a process that Handbrake watched restively, grinding the gears in anticipation.
