Chapter Three

Times up. I got out of the car and first scanned for the jettisoned dog. It was nowhere in sight, but damage has been done. I need to wash the tire.

I took my camera and the keys, copies Pushpa made, and had no trouble maintaining silence when opening the outside gate, and the door grill. Smooth as a cat, Shankaran, just don’t get someone to step on your tail.

Familiar interior, all looked like they were where they belong. There was a slight muffled noise upstairs. Of course, no prize for guessing what’s happening.

Setting my camera to automatic, I walked up the stair. Silent as a pussycat. Apt metaphor Shankaran, pussycat. What’s new pussycat, wowowo….

The sound was coming from master bedroom, the girl of course. Combination of asthmatic wheezes, yelps, yowl and lots of screaming “yes”. I held the door know and twisted it slowly. It’s not locked. I suddenly recalled an early scene in the first James Bond film: Sean Connery would open the door to his apartment quickly and go on his knees whipping out the Walther PPK.

I did the same, only this time with the camera, no thrilling background score, and me going, “snappity snap snap”.

            The man, in his birthday suit, stood, with a gaping mouth, was standing beside the bed and took some time to absorb my presence. The girl rolled all over the bed grabbing the bed sheet and wrapping it around her slim athletic body. It was a body to remember when you are lonely.

            The man, then, coolly reached for a pillow and placed it in front of his most vital biological instrument.

            “What the...” His voice staggered and he couldn’t continue anymore. He stared at me with a pair of wide eyes and a knitted brow, with his mouth opening and shutting like the door of a spoilt elevator. The girl crept around and stood behind him.

            I rose slowly. I wish I could stay long with that pose but it was bad for my once-injured knee. I straightened myself, and with my left hand I produced my business card which I had always kept in handy in case I need to pick my teeth. I lowered the camera and flicked my card towards them.

            “Oh, don’t stop,” I said, “not on my account. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen.”

With springs in my step, I walked down the stairs and headed for the kitchen. I checked the fridge, yes, Pushpa’s husband, George, had it well stocked. I reached for a can of Carlsberg, cracked it open and took a large gulp. Job well done, Shankaran, you deserve this.

            In five minutes, the man, clad in the white shirt and black slacks he was wearing earlier, strolled into the kitchen smiling nervously.

            “Beer?” I asked. “No, I suppose you prefer Milo.” He grimaced for a moment and shook his head briefly. He had a healthy looking black hair, perfectly dyed, and a slightly crooked nose, which didn’t deter the good look he had. His eyes were slightly droopy with light crowfeet, under a pair of short thin eyebrows. He wore a neatly trimmed black beard and a thin moustache. I could notice the sagging skin between his chin and the neck, and that helped me to guess his age. Between fifty-eight and sixty-two.                 

            “I.... Well, I suggest you start first, err...” He looked at my card which he was holding and said, “Mr. Shankaran. You are a private investigator, huh? Who hired you? I know it’s not George.”

“You know George, then. He gave you the copy of the keys?” I took another gulp. The chill went right down to my stomach and I almost heard some angelic choir.

            “Yes. Who hired you?”

“Who cares. Why not the hotel, Mr...”

            “Krishnan.” He sighed and took out his own wallet. He handed his business card. Yes, civilised bunch of people we are, we exchange cards no matter where, public lavatory included.

            I looked at it and couldn’t help smiling. He is a goddamn lawyer. “Her idea. She didn’t want hotel. Somewhere more private.”

            “Your home?” I walked towards the hall. He followed.

            “Sure, if my wife’s willing. I thought you’re smart enough to know that.”  

            “That’s the trouble,” I said, while walking out of the kitchen, to the hall, and taking a seat on one of the couch. He followed. “Everybody thinks the same thing. The truth is I am not smart. If I was smart,” I looked at him with a grin bigger than the Joker’s, “I would have been a lawyer.”

“That’s not funny.”

            I waved the comment aside with my palm. “Too many lawyer jokes. Stale. George was kind enough to let you use the house. That’s nice of him. Does he use your house when you are away for vacation? You know, the trading stuff.”

            “No!” His face flushed red. “He is a decent man.”

            “O-oh! You have just described yourself,” I took another swill. “I got the photo, and I saw. It goes to my client.”

            His eyes narrowed when he said, “Is that Mrs. George? Pushpa?”

            “Who’s the chick?” I asked.

           “The girl is only twenty five. She works in my firm. She is my partner’s daughter. One of the younger batch. You know what will happen if this thing comes out.” He didn’t look embarrassed anymore. There was fear now.

            “Just doing my job, Mr. Krishnan.”

            “Is there anything I can do. I mean...”

            “Yes, change the venue next time.”

            “No, dammit! Anything so that you don’t have to tell what really happened.”

            “You want to bribe me? Go ahead. I already got paid good sum, enough for me. I too have some moral code.”

            “Yeah. Honesty, discipline, integrity, and all those shit. Don’t give me that crap, you lousy private dick.”

            I sighed and finished the beer. “ All I am going to do is to report what I had seen to my client. She…or he will decide what to do next. From then onwards, I am out of the picture and forget about this whole thing. You get me?”

            “How would I know that you would not tell others?” 

            “Because I got better things to do than go around and telling people about a cheap affair between a top lawyer and his partner’s daughter.  I’d rather clean the septic tank than have fun bitching about your shit!”

            He looked relief, the same way as one, who just realised that he’s not in the danger of being eaten by a crocodile, just saw an alligator nibbling his toe.

Chapter Two

“Someone moved your Milo container?”

“Yes,” she said, “and consumed it.”

“The container?”

“The Milo. The beverage, idiot.”

“And moved your Milo container?”

“It was not in the same place I kept. The point is, someone was there,” she said, growing impatient now.

“Who moved your Milo container? Sounds like a title for a self-jerk off book. Alright, who do you think?” I asked ensuring I am entitled to more sentences now.

“I don’t know, that’s why I want you to find out,” she said.          

            It was two days ago, when she walked into my office. I haven’t seen her for a long time. Pushpa, my former classmate, now a leading auditor and married to a leading auditor, with both running a leading audit firm and have two leading audited children.

            She was gorgeous those days. Pretty face, and all the right proportions at the right place. First, marriage puta  few pounds on her. Then, children have put the entire owner of a sirloin steak in her.

            “Okay,” I said leaning forward, and the leather executive chair let off a burping sound not unlike a fart. “This seemed like leaning towards, you know, suspicious spouse thingy? I have long stopped divorce job, Pushpa.”

            “Oh come on,” she said, rolling her eyes up. I waited for them to come down. Then, she continued, “My hubby is fine.  We go on holidays three times a year, and when we come back I noticed that.”

            “Did he? Or is he into stronger beverage?”

            “He didn't notice and seemed not to care. ‘You moved it and you forgot,’ he’d say.”

            “And you’d say, ‘eff you, hubby.”

            “What can I say, Shankaran?,” saying my name for the first time today. “What you expect me to say?”

            “Well, for one you can say, ‘the quick red fox jumps over the lazy brown dog’,” I offered.

            That stumped her. “I don’t need a reminder Shankaran. We are old.” She leaned back in the cramped visitors chair. It was for sale by one of the vacating office in my building, Wisma Pahlawan. Old, resilient, and Pushpa was an awesome proof.

            “Okay, here comes the dreary part. I will be issuing some questions to basically not take this job, and you will respond in a way that you make me take it, either by lying, retrofitting, or making suppositions and presumptions until I start weeping and take the job. Okay?”

            “Shoot.”

            “Any words from the neighbours, any suspicion?”

            “None. They are mostly away during daytime, so none.”

            “Which means they are useless. Security guards?”

            “There are some perched near the entrance to our area. Can't be trusted, they’ll even let people with bandana tied around their mouth in.”        

            “Useless. CCTV?”

            “Husband hates it. Says it breaches privacy.”          

            “He’s useless. You said nothing went missing. Anything else moved?”

            “None”

            “Your cats and dogs?”

            “Pet hotel. We pick them up when we come back.”

            “Useless pets. Pay maids to come and clean?”

            “Maids around when I am around. That’s the rule”

            “Useless rules. Anyone else with the keys. Your staff? Relatives? Parents? The Home Minister?”

            “Nope. Nope. Nope. Well, nope.”

            “What’s the size of my socks?”

            “Don’t know. But they smell.”

“Damn. We are at the dead end now. Did you ever try to lay a trap in the Milo container? Mousetrap? Land mines.”

            You wouldn’t like the stare she gave. I sighed and asked, “You want me to find out who has moved your Milo container. Going on holiday soon, I hope?

            “Tomorrow. Trust me, you will be paid handsomely.”

            “What does that mean? Handsomely, coz it will be paid by your handsome hubby? No, I want a princely sum to suit my talent. Look, I brought down the entire Saddam Hussein regime, and you want me to investigate the case of a moved Milo container?”

            “You brought down a small medium company doing insurance fraud. Saddam Hussein my broad ass,” she said, and then gave me the “Will you or will you not” look.

            “I don’t know, Pushpa. I no longer have assistants to run around and do small jobs like this. The last one has left, and now is country’s leading whatchamacallit positive hacker?”           

            “Ethical hacker,” she helped.

            “Hah. A contradiction eh, like Military Intelligence,” I said chuckling.

            She returned to that querying look.

            “Princely sum could be anything, Pushpa,” I said.

            “I got money. You don’t. Upgrade yourself, Shankaran. This building was built by retired soldiers, and it looks like it won’t last next year.  I almost heard the lift sighing when I entered.” She was serious when she said that.

            “Okay,” I said. “I charge by the hours and I need_”

            She quickly took out a cheque book from what looks like a bag lady’s bag, except costlier, and scribbled my name and nice little four figured numbers.

            “Thanks, Pushpa. I can now afford additional servings of vegetable,” I said, accepting the cheque.

            “Now,” she said, prying herself off the chair, “my hubby doesn’t know this and will never know this.”

            “Oops,” I said reaching for the drawer.

            “Quit kidding, Shankaran,” she said. “I mean it. He doesn’t know this and not one single mention. Doesn’t matter how many beers you have with him. The last time you mentioned about our date in the school library which he didn’t know.”

            “Oh come on, Pushpa. At least I didn’t mentioned the part where I_”

            “Sush!”

            Saying that, she walked off.

            I looked at the cheque. Well, I am not a superspy. I am not a high-flying private eye with high class clientele. I do insurance mostly, and push come to shove, spy on other people’s spouse for extra dough. I may be poor, but I have no pride.

            Enough cash to work on my old Jag’s engine. Call Alan Tee and say he’ll wait for the insurance job he just gave me and if he talks too much ask him to shove it up where the UV ray doesn’t hit.

            Let’s hope this one does not drag and it’s a clean job. Who am I kidding…

Chapter One

 Stakeout. Is that what it’s called these days?

        I looked at the watch and found out, impressively at these times and age, that I was able to gauge that it was 3.15pm despite the fact that it had needles in them. I am literate, mom.

       Why not CCTV, dammit! You old fashioned punks. Relax, Shankaran, you took the job, you sit your ass out in there.

       It’s getting hot. A cop car passed by and recognised me. I recognised the driver. He nodded and I showed him the finger. He laughed and drove off.

       There’s only so much cool my trusty old Jag’s air-conditioner can deliver. It’s an old car, XJ6, a ’74 model. I loved the car, and it was only a year younger than me. One relationship that lasted long, except, maybe her affair with the mechanic.

      A stray dog appeared within my sight (180 degrees, I am not a chameleon). It’s a mongrel. Yes, I was so bored that I actually made it out as a Mongrel. It could be a pitbull, bot no, Shankaran, the bored private eye wants it to be known as Mongrel.

      It sprinted over, and suddenly disappeared from my vision. Goddam you, Fido. I leaned out slightly and there it was doing its business on my tire. I gave a mighty honk, a honk to end all honks, and the stream of urine turned to jet power and swished the goddamn Mongrel out of side into the bush besides the road. Good riddance.

      What am I doing here? Why am I here? Who am I? Why did Fido chose my car, and there was a frickin’ fire hydrant nearby, to do his business? Well, Shankaran, you are a dick that’s why. You are here because you are a dick.

       I recall the disgust in a lawyer’s face few months back when I told him that I was a private dick.

      “Eww, peeping in other people’s personal lives. Digging up dirt. That’s a terrible job. How you can you live with yourself,” she said.

       “Actually, I live with a cat,” I said.

       But it’s my cat, Ray, that almost always seemed to be disgusted with what I was doing. I remember encountering it one rainy day in my apartment.

       “Come on, Ray. Spit it out,” I said. The black Persian just looked at me pitifully.

       “Bounce it off, Ray, come on,” I said. Ray looked slightly disgusted but controlled it with a twitch of his ‘tache.

       “Come on Raymond. Speak now or forever hold your frickin’ piece, whatever it is”. My mom would have been proud of my intonation. The goddamn cat just wiggled its ass and layed its weary, pitiful looking, disgusted head down.

       I couldn’t take the non-verbal abuse further and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

       3.30pm.

       One of the perks of this job is that you get to do nothing. You get paid to do nothing. You do surveillance, grab couple of pictures, yawn a lot, step out of the car if you need to follow the target, and then come back and warm your ass. Private dick. Wrong anatomy. Ass warmer more like it.

       Most work are done over the phone, and with more and more information appearing over the Internet, you are half armchair dick. You get to be your own computer expert, none of those assistance you see in movies typing furiously without using the mouse. It’s all there online, your hacking solutions, your Google Earth, everything.

       Suddenly, I felt very old. Years ago, you have to bribe some computer expert to do hacking and stuff. Your GPS was the petrol station clerks. And it takes months to gather some information that I can now get in minutes through my laptop and my smartphone.

       Gosh I’m getting old. Time to move on, Shankaran. Enough with this. But then, what else can I do? Security guard? Fuck you.

       The USJ houses mostly looked alike. But this one was renovated and made to look like millions. It does, being at the corner and all. Pushpa and her husband really made use of every inch of land available and got concrete and rooftop over them.

       From a distance, a black Mercedez, S series, not too old, slowed down in front of the house. I grabbed my camera and started snapping. Snapitty, snap, snap. Well, the digital camera was set to not emit any snapping sound, so I made the sound myself. Snapitty, snap, snap. So, Shankaran, if you own an ultra-modern silent car, would you make the “brrrrr….” sound as you drive?

       The car switched off the engine and a man stepped out. Middle aged, between late 40s and early 50s, of Indian extract and he was really scanning the place. At one point he saw my car, and the reflection of the tree branch and leaves should cut his view off from me.

       But he did stared at my car for sometimes. He started to walk over, and I gently shifted the stick to reverse. He stopped suddenly. The passenger side of the car opened and woman stepped out.

       She stopped him. There was a brief calm exchange and both of them walked towards the house. The man pulled out some keys, and opened the gate. The woman, also of Indian extract, but way younger than him, walked in with the key.

       The man got back to his car and drove the car into the porch. He got out and followed the woman, who had just opened the front door and stepped in.

       So, Shankaran, finally. Now’s the time, ey? Or do you want to wait a little bit longer, get into the heat of the things?

       I grinned and looked at my watch. Well, one thing is for sure, they are not the owners of the house and I was hired to figure that part out. In a short moment, things are about to get ugly. I grabbed the very warm beer from the holder and gulped down the rest of that shit.

       Ten minutes, Shankaran? It shall be so.