Free The Story of My Assassins by Tarun J. Tejpal

rhinoceros, Persian rugs. Younegotiated your way through the decorative traffic, bending and braking. Mr Lincoln made slippery sounds of appreciation as Frock Raja guided the tour with practised aplomb. I had jumped into the iron mask at the sight of the first big-breasted mermaid in the driveway.
    After we had been led through many sitting-rooms, many dining-rooms, many bars, many enclosed verandas, we repaired to The Stable—the bar-cum-dining hall where the horses shuffled. The two large handsome chestnuts were tethered beyond a low glass and wood partition, slightly lower than the planked floor we sat on. I suppose so you could—if that was your thing—look deep into their sad eyes. Their skin shone, the tart smell of horse flesh was contained to a minimum; they had probably been hoovered for the party. Mr Lincoln asked searching questions about their breed and speed. Mr Lincoln Goes to the Races.
    I fed my mouth fistfuls of roasted cashew-nuts. Iron Mask Inaugurates the Flatulence Factory.
    Kuchha King, Kuchha Singh, and Frock Raja guffawed and slapped each other wherever they could. Messrs Chutiya-Nandan-Pandey Discuss Bra Strap of Geography Teacher.
    At one point, Frock Raja used a remote to turn off all the lights. Suddenly above us shone thousands of faux stars and galaxies. Given the snorting horses, we could have been out in the Wild West, under the open sky, preparing for a gunfight at OK Corral. It was quite something. Mr Lincoln broke into appreciative mewling noises. Frock Raja spoke of the peace of the universe, and gave many loud sighs of satisfaction.
    Then the lights came back on and everyone fell again to slapping flesh and to debating the virtues of different single malt whiskies. Highland, lowland, speyside, backside, bog, peat, nose, palate, amber, gold, glen, fen, dour, sour, bouquet, shouquet. And Michael Jackson! That befuddled me, till I realized it was another man and not the dancing alien. Throughout, Mr Lincoln dazzled—all wavingarms and burning eyes. Fully worthy of the bloodshed of unsuspecting investors.
    The happy exchange of loud claims and famous names only shifted when Jai tentatively brought up the specifics of the deal, the money needed for the project, the equity split. In the next hour all the expansiveness of big-breasted mermaids and thigh-slapping jokes and star-spangled firmaments and glen-fen dour-sour faded as the three of them systematically disembowelled Jai.
    Mr Lincoln was reduced to a gawky, gangly, uncertain Abraham to the sound of shuffling horse flanks, and while the man in the iron mask ruthlessly destroyed every cashew-nut in sight, a deal was concluded that gave us barely a third of what we had been hoping for. We all leaned forward and shook hands to mark the partnership. Then the three fell once again to slapping flesh and guffawing. By now Abraham was in short-pants, all eloquence a faded memory.
    Outside, on the driveway of mock stone, Abraham was flung from embrace to embrace, while the mermaid ran clear water from her mouth. Trailing them all, I grabbed a quick feel of a faux Venus de Milo’s alabaster breast. It fit in my palm and felt quite good.
    When we were safely out of the big iron gates and nearing the concrete boxes of Vasant Kunj, a recovering Mr Lincoln, climbing back into full pants, said, ‘Sad bastards! Sweatshop merchants! Bloody chutiyas! Anyway we got what we wanted!’
    I looked at him, and sick with the salted nuts, rumbled my stomach in response.
    I didn’t tell anyone any of this. My parents I hadn’t spoken to about anything substantial since I started earning my first rupee. Dolly/folly was simply too dumb to ask anything or to be told anything. And the narrow world of in-laws, recurring deposits and schoolreports that my sister inhabited had no room for anything but our annual transaction of the rakhi. This time I left even Sara, my usual confidante, out of it. I knew she would break into an uncontainable rant if she heard about