The Mountain Shadow

‘While he’s in his trance, Dennis’s estate is managed in trust, leaving him enough to buy the apartment we just visited, and maintain himself in a manner suitable to the parameters of his trance states.’

‘Did you hear all this, or detective it?’

‘Bit of both.’

‘Well,’ I said, pausing a while to let a car reverse in front of us. ‘Whatever his gig, I can truly say I never saw anyone lie down better in my life.’

‘No contest,’ Naveen grinned.

We both thought about it for a while.

‘Second story?’ Naveen asked.

‘Concannon,’ I said, moving on.

‘He boxes at my gym. I don’t know a lot about him, but I can tell you two things.’

‘Which are?’

‘He has a mean left hook that bangs a gong, but it leaves him dipping if it misses.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Every time. He jabs with the left, punches with the right, and always brings the left hook straight over the top of it, leaving himself wide open if he doesn’t connect. But he’s quick, and he doesn’t miss often. He’s pretty good.’

‘And?’

‘Second, I can say he’s the only guy I met who got me through the door to see Dennis. Dennis loves him. He stayed awake longer for him than anybody else. I heard that he wants to legally adopt Concannon. It’s difficult, because Concannon is older than Dennis, and I don’t know if there’s a legal precedent for an Indian adopting a white man.’

‘What do you mean, he got you through the door?’

‘There’s thousands of people who’d like to have an audience with Dennis, while he’s in his trance. They believe that while he’s temporarily dead, he can communicate with the permanently dead. Almost nobody can get in.’

‘Unless you walk up, and knock on the door.’

‘You don’t get it. Nobody would dare to walk up and knock on the door, while Dennis is in his trance.’

‘Come on.’

‘Nobody, that is, until you did.’

‘We already covered Dennis,’ I said, pausing to let a four-man handcart pass. ‘Back to Concannon.’

‘Like I said, he boxes at my gym. He’s a street fighter. I don’t know much about him. He seems like a party guy. He loves a party.’

‘He’s got a mouth on him. You don’t keep a mouth like that to his age without having something to back it up.’

‘Are you saying I should watch him?’

‘Only the wrong side of him.’

‘And the third story?’ he asked.

I left the road where we’d been walking, and straddled the hand-width footpath for a few steps.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, following me.

‘I’m going to get a juice.’

‘A juice?’

‘It’s a hot day. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Oh, nothing. Cool. I love juice.’

Thirty-nine degrees in Bombay, chilled watermelon juice, fans too close to your head turned up to three: bliss.

‘So . . . what’s with the private detective thing? Is that for real?’

‘Yeah. It started by accident, kind of, but I’ve been doing it for almost a year now.’

‘What kind of accident turns someone into a detective?’

‘I was doing a law degree,’ he smiled. ‘Got most of the way there. In my final year, I was researching a paper on private detectives, and how they impact the court system. Pretty soon, the only thing that interested me was the detective part of it, and I dropped out, to give it a shot.’

‘How’s it working out?’

He laughed.

‘Divorce is healthier than the stock exchange, and way more predictable. I did a few divorce cases, but I stopped. I was with another guy. He was teaching me the ropes. He’s been scoping divorce for thirty-five years, and still loves it. I didn’t. It was always unique for the married men, having the affairs. It was always the same sad movie for me.’

‘And since you left the lush pastures of divorce?’

‘I’ve found two missing pets, a missing husband, and a missing casserole dish so far,’ he said. ‘It seems that all of my clients, God bless them, are people too lazy or polite to do it for themselves.’

‘But you like it, the detective thing. You get a rush, right?’

‘You know, I think at this end of the story you get the truth. As a lawyer you’re only ever allowed a version of the truth. This is the real thing, even if it’s just a stolen heirloom casserole dish. It’s the real story, before everybody lies about it.’

‘Are you gonna stick with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ he smiled, looking away again. ‘Depends on how good I am, I guess.’

‘Or how bad you are.’

‘Or how bad I am.’

‘We’re already on story number three,’ I said. ‘Naveen Adair, Indian–Irish private detective.’

He laughed, white teeth foaming in the wake of it, but the wave faded quickly.

‘Not much to it, really.’

‘Naveen Adair,’ I pronounced. ‘Which part kicked you in the arse more, the Indian part, or the Irish part?’

‘Too Anglo for the Indians,’ he laughed, ‘and too Indian for the Anglos. My father . . . ’

Jagged peaks and lost valleys, for too many of us, are the lands called father. Climbing one of those peaks beside him, I waited until he crested the conversation again.

‘We lived on the footpath, after he abandoned my Mother. We were on the street, until I was five, but I don’t really remember it much.’

‘What happened?’