The Mountain Shadow

‘It’s great. I mean, it’s a really great opportunity and all. But I’m hoping to be a writer, like you.’

‘Like me?’ I laughed, bewildered.

‘I’ve read your short stories.’

‘My stories?’

‘All five of them. I really like them, but I was too shy to tell you.’

‘Just how did you get hold of these stories?’

‘Well,’ she faltered, confused. ‘Ranjit gave me – I mean, Mr Ranjit – he gave me your stories to proofread. I searched them for typos, and such.’

I stared, not wanting to take it out on her, but too angry and confused to hide my feelings. Ranjit had my stories? How? Had Lisa given them to him, behind my back, and against my wishes? I couldn’t understand it.

‘I’ve got them right here,’ Sunita said. ‘I was going to have my lunch alone today, and continue proofing, but Miss Kavita asked me to join her.’

‘Give them to me, please.’

She fished around in a large cloth bag, and gave me a folder.

It was red. I’d filed all of my stories by coloured theme. Red was the file colour I’d chosen for some short stories about urban holy men.

‘I didn’t give permission for these stories to be printed,’ I said, checking to see that all five stories were included in the file.

‘But –’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said softly, ‘and nothing will happen to you. I’ll write a note for Ranjit, and you’ll give it to him, and everything will be okay.’

‘But –’

‘Got a pen?’

‘I –’

‘Just kidding,’ I said, pulling a pen from my vest pocket.

The last page, on the last story, had only two lines on it.

Arrogance is pride’s calling card, and crowds everything with Self. Gratitude is humility’s calling card, and is the space left inside for love.

It seemed appropriate, as notepaper for Ranjit. I pulled the typed page from the story, wrote the lines again in hand on the new last page, and closed the file.

‘Lin!’ Didier cantankered. ‘You are not drinking! Put down that pen at once.’

‘What are you doing?’ Kavita asked.

‘If it’s a will,’ Naveen said, ‘there’s probably a way.’

‘If you must know,’ I said, glancing at Kavita, ‘I’m writing a note, to your boss.’

‘A love letter?’ Kavita asked, sitting up straight.

‘Kinda.’

I wrote the note, folded it, and gave it to Sunita.

‘But no, Lin!’ Didier protested. ‘It is insupportable! You simply must read the note out loud.’

‘What?’

‘There are rules, Lin,’ Didier riposted. ‘And we must break them at every opportunity.’

‘That’s crazier than I am, Didier.’

‘You must read it to us, Lin.’

‘It’s a private note, man.’

‘Written in a public place,’ Kavita said, snatching the note from Sunita.

‘Hey,’ I said, trying to grab the note back.

Kavita jumped up quickly and stood a table-width away. She had a raspy voice, the kind of voice that’s interesting because of how much it keeps inside, as it speaks.

She spoke my note.

Let me be clear, Ranjit. I think your tycoon model of media baron is an insult to the Fourth Estate, and I wouldn’t let you publish my death notice.

If you touch any of my work again I’ll visit you, and rearrange you.

The girl who’s bringing this note has my number. If you take this out on her, if you fire her, or in any way hurt the messenger, she’ll call me, and I’ll visit you, and rearrange you. Stay away from me.

‘I love it!’ Kavita laughed. ‘I want to be the one who passes it on.’

A shout, then the sound of broken glass shattering on the marble floor made us look with others toward the large entrance arch. Concannon was there, locked in a scuffle with several of the Leopold’s waiters.

He wasn’t alone. There were Scorpion gang men with him. The big guy, Hanuman, was behind Concannon and a few other faces I remembered from that red hour in the warehouse.

The last to push his way into the doorway was Danda, the torturer with the pencil moustache. There was a leather ear-patch strapped across his left ear.

Concannon was carrying a sap, a lead weight wrapped in a sewn leather pouch, and fastened by a cord around the wrist. He lashed out with it, striking the Sikh chief of Leopold’s security on the temple. Gasps and cries of horror rose up from all those who witnessed it.

The tall Sikh waiter crumpled and fell, his legs melting beneath him. Other waiters scrambled to help. Concannon swung at them while they were trying to support their comrade, drawing blood, and felling men.