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“I NEED CAPITAL,” I say, and I can tell by his facial expression that Chirag’s asshole just puckered tighter than an anaconda coiled round a caiman. “It’s gonna cost a small fortune, too.” Why is it that the ones with money are always the cheapest fucking fucks?
“Did you ask my brother?” Chirag posits as he rearranges some items on his desk.
“I passed the hat...” I settle back in my chair, cross my arms like I’m the stern teacher and he’s some dim bulb whom I expect to work out the contextual errors in the sentence he’s just written. Chirag practically hums to himself, unaware of any duty on his part. I relent in short shrift — impatience may not be a virtue, but it is an expediter. “But he is a sharecropper in Boneyard Bay, which means his prospects are slightly better than those of a hobo at the back of the bread line.”
“He and Catia own a piece of that ship.”
“They claim to own a single berth on a worm-riddled piece of shit.”
“For the greater part, my funds are ... frozen at the moment.”
“I could find a blowtorch?”
“You’re not as clever as you think, Mister Singh, not by half.”
“Never claimed to be clever, only right.” I sit back. “Which reminds me. Parth also says they used to go through you for their organ donations. That was mighty white of you, by the way, cutting on your own kin for profit.”
“They got theirs,” Chirag stares me dead in the eye, “and you’re treading on thin ice.”
“Think I’ll be safe, considering the climate in here.” I hunker forward in my chair, eye to eye with the slime. “Parth says you short-changed them. On numerous occasions. Says that was the source of the original estrangement.”
“The original estrangement?” He sits back, lower lip protruding, indignation blossoming like nightshade on his face. “Parth would claim that.” He holds one finger up now as he’s gaining steam. “But I paid him square for each and every surgery. Without exception.” I bet he practices this speech in his head every night. “I did the leg work. And ... and there are — were other factors to consider.” He’s looking at the ceiling as he counts on his fingers. “There were protection fees. Equipment fees. Broadcast fees. And sometimes the market just—”
“Right.” I’ve had my fill of families fucking each other over for money. “Look,” I press a forefinger down onto his desk, “I need capital cause I’ve got a line on the bastard who took Gotham.”
“This masked man?” His interest is piqued.
“Sure. He’s a big-time fixer working for the Catholic Church. A soldier, a merc, I’m not sure. I don’t know if that means anything to you, but to me it means we’re fucked. They’re as near to unlimited in the resources department as anyone barring the royal family or Hearst Corp.”
Chirag flinches visibly at Catholic Church, royal family, and Hearst Corp.
“So if you want Gotham found, I need a way topside,” I say. “Fast. And ‘fast’ means capital. A lot of it. Passcards and I.D.’s ain’t cheap. And whether they’ll even let someone of our collective skin tone even set foot on the train’s iffy. And by iffy, I mean impossible. Hell, I don’t even know what it costs for a topside jaunt that’s on the level let alone one rife with bribery.” I rub thumb and forefinger together. “And this’ll be rife.”
“You’re absolutely certain this masked man abducted him?”
“I am.”
“And you’re absolutely certain he’s connected to the church?”
I nod.
“Ahem.” He loosens his tie. “Might I remind you it has been nearly two weeks now.”
“Your point?”
“My point is, am I just shoveling money into an open furnace?”
“By Brahma, you hired me. Gotham’s your kin. And he was abducted for a fairly nefarious reason. And I finally have a line on him.” I stare at the prick for a moment as he sucks on his lower lip in indecision. “Look. What do you want?”
“Have you any new leads?”
“What the hell have we been jawing about?” I snarl.
He waves a hand. “I’ve not liked your tone since you sat in that chair, Mister Singh.” He sits forward, adjusts his ugly tie and the lapels of his gaudy suit. “You recall where your profile is currently located in the queue?”
“Sure, at the bottom.” My teeth nearly explode they’re grinding so hard.
“Yet with every possibility of rising back to the top.”
“You ain’t the only graft game in town.” I stand.
“In Malabar? Oh yes, I am. Other than me, it’s all snakeheads and penny ante giblet slingers,” Chirag scoffs, dismissing them collectively with a snap of his fingers under my nose. “On par with that Butcher in the Boneyard. Most don’t even understand rudimentary antiseptic procedures. Use the same equipment from surgery to surgery. No disinfection. Go to them then.” He flits his hand, looks away. “See what gangrenous results you garner.”
“And there are grafters in other boroughs.”
“Yes, and all so welcoming of Hindus. See where you end up on a list in Firedamp or the Seep amidst a city-wide epidemic. Oh, they’ll open you up. Open you up and husk you out so fast your guts’ll spill.” A sly smirk spreads across his imp face. “Though, I have word on a Brahmin who was involved in a train accident. Word is there’s parts of him still viable. My men are on a trip to gather him as we speak. I could earmark his liver for you?”
“What do you want me to do?” I look away, knowing exactly what shit’s about to dribble from his lips.
“Why, the simplest thing in the world, Mister Singh. I simply want you to do nothing.”
“Nothing?” My insides twist in wrath, but I bite my lip, say nothing, just clench a fist.
He nods once, eyes smiling.
I swallow, reciprocate sans the smile.
“You’re a dog, Mister Singh,” Chirag rises from his chair, leering over me, “but a loyal one. I’ll grant you that.”
“I ain’t loyal,” I mutter, “just broken. There’s a difference.”
