migraine. But with the
sedative of the chora damping his senses he felt safe: each mind was
a sphere of modulated music, contained within itself.
A gaudy array of neon arrows pulsed in the
darkness up ahead, pointing to the entrance of Nazruddin’s.
Vaughan paused outside the restaurant, watching the street kids. They
were a sorry gaggle of waifs and strays, pot-bellied and
skinny-limbed—or missing limbs altogether—which Vaughan
seemed to see afresh tonight with eyes made observant by loss. Every
time a diner approached the open doorway, a couple of kids forced
themselves across the sidewalk on crutches, palms outstretched.
Occasionally they were rewarded with a carelessly tossed confetti of
low-denomination notes, grudgingly given. More often than not they
were ignored. He tried to banish the image of Tiger from his mind’s
eye.
He hurried into the restaurant, glanced around the
packed tables for Chandra—but the cop was late. Nazruddin
lifted a meaty hand in greeting from his station behind the counter
and ambled over as Vaughan seated himself in his booth.
"Mr. Vaughan! Are you dining tonight? Today’s
speciality—"
"Just a beer, P.K."
Nazruddin squeezed a wink, a gesture at once
servile and complicit. He snapped his fingers and yelled in Hindi. A
thin-legged, teenage waiter hurried over with a bottle of Blue
Mountain lager. Nazruddin made a performance of drying the
condensation from the bottle and pouring a glass.
"No Tiger, Mr. Vaughan?"
"No," he said. "No, not tonight."
As Nazruddin smiled and sailed away, Vaughan found
himself wishing that Nazruddin had known about Tiger’s death
and expressed his condolences. It seemed a slight to Tiger’s
memory that her passing was not universal knowledge—people’s
ignorance of the fact that she was no longer around seemed to devalue
her existence retrospectively: she was just another parasitical
street kid, after all, and one fewer would not be missed.
He cursed his muddled introspection. The chora was
wearing off. He pulled the vial from his pocket, tipped a liberal
dose into his glass, and drank. He began to feel his senses dull.
Jimmy Chandra arrived five minutes later.
"Jeff, good to see you. It must be what...
three, four years?"
Chandra stood uncertainly before the booth, the
confidence of his greeting not matched by his expression. He was a
short, trim, boyish-faced Indian in the khaki uniform of an
investigator. His smile was the perpetual feature of his round face,
but today the smile was uneasy.
"It’s okay, Jimmy. I’m not
reading. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get you a beer."
He gestured to the waiter.
Chandra slid into the opposite seat. "I’ve
got nothing to hide, Jeff. Nothing personal, that is— even if
you were in scan-mode. But, you know—investigations..."
"Hey, don’t mention it."
Chandra’s smile lost its uneasiness, became
eager. "So, how are you? It’s been a long time. I called
by your apartment, but you were always out."
"I work unsocial hours, Jimmy." In fact,
Vaughan had always ignored Chandra’s odd call. He had nothing
against the young cop, but the thought of socialising had never
really struck him as that important.
The strange thing was, he liked Jimmy Chandra. He
reminded Vaughan of himself before the operation to make him
telepathic had spoilt his illusions. Like Chandra, he’d been
idealistic, hopeful for both himself and humanity.
Chandra sipped his beer. His mind emanated a
melody of harmonious emotions. Vaughan was unable to read individual
thoughts without his augmentation-pin, but he received a general mood
of charity and well-being from the young cop. It seemed that he’d
changed little over the years.
Chandra rolled his glass between flattened palms.
"Well, how are you?" he asked again.
Vaughan shrugged and turned his palm in a you-know, so-so gesture. He knew that Chandra
sedative of the chora damping his senses he felt safe: each mind was
a sphere of modulated music, contained within itself.
A gaudy array of neon arrows pulsed in the
darkness up ahead, pointing to the entrance of Nazruddin’s.
Vaughan paused outside the restaurant, watching the street kids. They
were a sorry gaggle of waifs and strays, pot-bellied and
skinny-limbed—or missing limbs altogether—which Vaughan
seemed to see afresh tonight with eyes made observant by loss. Every
time a diner approached the open doorway, a couple of kids forced
themselves across the sidewalk on crutches, palms outstretched.
Occasionally they were rewarded with a carelessly tossed confetti of
low-denomination notes, grudgingly given. More often than not they
were ignored. He tried to banish the image of Tiger from his mind’s
eye.
He hurried into the restaurant, glanced around the
packed tables for Chandra—but the cop was late. Nazruddin
lifted a meaty hand in greeting from his station behind the counter
and ambled over as Vaughan seated himself in his booth.
"Mr. Vaughan! Are you dining tonight? Today’s
speciality—"
"Just a beer, P.K."
Nazruddin squeezed a wink, a gesture at once
servile and complicit. He snapped his fingers and yelled in Hindi. A
thin-legged, teenage waiter hurried over with a bottle of Blue
Mountain lager. Nazruddin made a performance of drying the
condensation from the bottle and pouring a glass.
"No Tiger, Mr. Vaughan?"
"No," he said. "No, not tonight."
As Nazruddin smiled and sailed away, Vaughan found
himself wishing that Nazruddin had known about Tiger’s death
and expressed his condolences. It seemed a slight to Tiger’s
memory that her passing was not universal knowledge—people’s
ignorance of the fact that she was no longer around seemed to devalue
her existence retrospectively: she was just another parasitical
street kid, after all, and one fewer would not be missed.
He cursed his muddled introspection. The chora was
wearing off. He pulled the vial from his pocket, tipped a liberal
dose into his glass, and drank. He began to feel his senses dull.
Jimmy Chandra arrived five minutes later.
"Jeff, good to see you. It must be what...
three, four years?"
Chandra stood uncertainly before the booth, the
confidence of his greeting not matched by his expression. He was a
short, trim, boyish-faced Indian in the khaki uniform of an
investigator. His smile was the perpetual feature of his round face,
but today the smile was uneasy.
"It’s okay, Jimmy. I’m not
reading. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get you a beer."
He gestured to the waiter.
Chandra slid into the opposite seat. "I’ve
got nothing to hide, Jeff. Nothing personal, that is— even if
you were in scan-mode. But, you know—investigations..."
"Hey, don’t mention it."
Chandra’s smile lost its uneasiness, became
eager. "So, how are you? It’s been a long time. I called
by your apartment, but you were always out."
"I work unsocial hours, Jimmy." In fact,
Vaughan had always ignored Chandra’s odd call. He had nothing
against the young cop, but the thought of socialising had never
really struck him as that important.
The strange thing was, he liked Jimmy Chandra. He
reminded Vaughan of himself before the operation to make him
telepathic had spoilt his illusions. Like Chandra, he’d been
idealistic, hopeful for both himself and humanity.
Chandra sipped his beer. His mind emanated a
melody of harmonious emotions. Vaughan was unable to read individual
thoughts without his augmentation-pin, but he received a general mood
of charity and well-being from the young cop. It seemed that he’d
changed little over the years.
Chandra rolled his glass between flattened palms.
"Well, how are you?" he asked again.
Vaughan shrugged and turned his palm in a you-know, so-so gesture. He knew that Chandra
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