As Sammie and he drove away, he saw her standing on the pavement outside Anahat looking at them leave, a diminutive figure in Keisha’s too long blue jeans rolled-up at the bottom, faded green J-Lo T-shirt bearing the legend ‘Waiting for Tonight’ in glittering silver, and red keds. Over the T-shirt, she wore an enormous blue plaid shirt which he had given her, sensing her discomfort with the tee’s cutaway sleeves. With her long braid, small gold earrings and bindi that seemed stuck to her forehead, she was such a confusion of cultures that he didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. Another paper boat that passed in the night. He hoped the poor kid would be okay.
When Sammie and he turned into his street, it was not even seven o’clock. He saw a strange blue car outside his building.
‘Stop,’ he said. ‘He’s here already. Pull over behind the grey construction company van, let’s wait and see what happens.’
A car went by. Its driver looked at them and looked away. The van driver came out of a building, and drove off. Exposed to full view, Shantanu was ready to duck if necessary.
Satish and Murthi came out of the building. Shantanu dived just in time. They looked at Sammie in the car and turned towards where they were parked.
‘Okay, you can sit up,’ Sam said.
As Satish got into the car, Shantanu could see something glinting in his hand. The Mustang keys.
The apartment door was open. The place had been trashed. There was food from the fridge all over the floor – rice, pasta sauce, ketchup. They had smashed the one lone egg against the wall, the yellow trickling uncertainly down, carrying pieces of shell with it. The papers he had been looking through last night were scattered all over the bedroom floor. The bed clothes had been pulled off the bed. His desk and fold-up chair were lying on their sides. He could not see his notebook anywhere.
The light on the answering machine went on and off. ‘Motherfucker, bastard, what have you done with the girl? Better bring her back, otherwise I’ll cut your dick off. The cops are already on their way to your house. Bastard!’
Shantanu grabbed a bag and stuffed some clothes into it. ‘I can’t find my goddamn notebook! What have they done with it?’
‘Man, you better hurry up. Forget the notebook, we can come back for it.’
They heard loud voices below.
‘Is there a fire escape?’
‘Yes, but it’s on the other side!’
‘Well, we’re screwed then.’
Shantanu grabbed Sammie by the hand, and hurried him down to a closet out in the hallway, full of dusty cleaning things, mops, brooms, a large old-fashioned vacuum cleaner, several overalls and jackets. It was dark and dank, rich with fungus. They had just managed to shut the door when footsteps rushed upstairs. Sounded like three pairs, a couple of cops, maybe an ICE guy, maybe the apartment manager with them. They stayed still. After a few minutes, someone came, pulled open the door of the closet. He tried to look in, recoiled, covered his nose with his hand. Saw a dusty pair of boots. Sam’s shoes were right next to them, as though someone had lined them up, his body hidden behind the hanging clothes. The cop kicked a boot with his foot. It flew back into the closet. He lost interest. Went away.
They could hear the cops giving the apartment manager some instructions. The smell of fungus was overpowering now. A car drove away. They crept down the hallway. The door of Shantanu’s apartment was shut.
‘Better not go in,’ Sam said, keeping his voice low. ‘It might be a set-up. We’ll worry about your songbook later. Let’s get outta here.’
They sneaked down the wooden steps, sticking close to the wall so that the boards didn’t creak. On the first floor, the apartment manager’s door was open. He was probably waiting for Shantanu.
No choice but to go past.
Shantanu went first, hugging the wall, testing each step as he went down. Nothing. Looked back. Sam waved him to keep going and get out of the building. Then walked down normally, not bothering about the thumps he was making.
The apartment manager, a small-built Filipino, came out of his door, hearing someone walk down the stairs. ‘Hey, who are you? What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Whaddya mean?’ Sam asked, drawing himself up to his full six feet six.
‘Nothing,’ the man said, turning whiny. ‘All morning there’ve been cops here, looking for that Indian fellow. Illegal, would you believe it. Getting honest folks into trouble. Who wants the goddamn migra on their doorstep? Destroyed, the apartment is. The cops have told me to let it be, not to touch anything, change the keys on it. I’m to tell them if he comes back.’
‘Didn’t they tell you to keep your fuckin’ pie-hole shut?’ said Sam, continuing on in an unhurried fashion down the stairs.