Chapter 11
Dickering over Dick’s Worth
The local IB agents interviewed Singh Singh’s mother, brothers, and sister. Nothing came of the interviews, especially with the elderly Mrs. Singh unless you counted her constant drooling. She spoke volumes in that regard. As usual, around-the-clock physical surveillance and phone taps were instituted for all parties concerned.
Uncle Amar, the head ghoul of the crematorium, was another matter altogether. He deserved special attention and he would get it in spades if Kali McAlister had anything to say about it. She was wound-tight and couldn’t wait to bust some bad guys’ chops or legs.
Chester reported back on the results of the passenger manifest checks for Joe Singh. IB agents had confirmed that Joe was booked on Indian Air flights, both to and from Kabul, Afghanistan, for the dates in question. Oh God, say it ain’t so Joe, I thought. Afghanistan in early 2001 was not Indian Territory; it belonged to the Taliban and their al-Qaida masters.
Joe Singh had undergone military training in Afghanistan for those three missing months and had become a trained terrorist zealot of one stripe or another. Whichever stripe, it suggested that he was affiliated with a group or organization friendly with Islamic extremists. Jihad was his goal and terrorism was the means to that end. That wasn’t a good thing for Uncle Sam or Zeenat and Alicia.
Chester, Kali and I put on our thinking caps. We actually were wearing our DS ball caps with the organization’s gold shield and wore them backward for better perspective. We had to come up with a game plan to clandestinely get inside the crematorium to snoop around. Kris Amar was our link to the girls’ whereabouts. They wouldn’t be far from his grasp since they were much too valuable prizes to entrust to others.
We carefully prepared for our adventure since getting into the Manikarnika crematorium undetected would be difficult. Getting out alive might be more difficult. This was an audacious and dangerous mission even by DS standards. I meant the dangerous part. Audaciousness was much easier for the outfit to achieve. We didn’t have much time to prepare and time was of the essence. After all, lives and careers were at stake for some.
I shaved every bit of hair from my body. Kali helped, and I think she got-off on the chore. I was totally bald and could see myself ten years hence. After I removed my watch and ring, I was naked as a Jaybird at birth. I then smeared shoe polish all over my body and covered every crack, crease, and crevasse. We had to get the color just right to pull-off the guise successfully. Regrettably, our problem was that we didn’t know shit from Shinola. We’d learn quickly enough though. We experimented by mixing brown and cordovan together until we got the desired shade. I now looked India Indian from head to toe.
While I was putting on my makeup, Chester was leaving to meet with Kris Amar to arrange for my cremation later in the evening. That was what a loving son did for his deceased father. I was to end up as another crispy critter in this never-ending cycle of life, death, life, etc., etc.,——ad nauseous.
We had enlisted Puneet’s help in our little ritual since he knew the area and people around the crematorium like the back–of–his–hand. I hoped he wouldn’t betray us in a back or underhanded manner though. He was an important player in our upcoming drama and we had to trust him with our lives.
I was laid to rest in the bed of a Tata Ace truck, much like the one used to kidnap the girls. Irony was sometimes coincidentally ironic in this biz. I wore only a loincloth and covered from head to foot in a gold sheet. It was a cheap cotton one because I was running low on Uncle Sam’s money. Garlands of marigolds were strewn over my body. The litter that was carrying my mortal remains was festooned with sticks of burning incense. That worried me because I could be prematurely cremated without solving the case and that would burn me up for sure.
Puneet had arranged for bearers to carry my litter into the crematorium. Unfortunately, these were the pall variety; not the gun types. My son, Chester, dutifully walked at my side. As moving as the ceremony was, I didn’t think anyone here would mourn my passing. My litter was gently and respectfully placed just outside Kris Amar’s office on the second floor of the building. I was close enough to hear the conversation he was having with Chester about the funeral arrangements.
Chester was offered tea and the two of them seemed to be getting-on well. They talked about the weather and the latest cricket matches held in Banaras. It was all very sociable by the sounds of it. I didn’t want to be a sticky wicket, but I sure wished they’d get down to brass tacks. I felt a little bit claustrophobic with the sheet over my face. However, the cloth was of such coarse weave and poor quality that I could easily make out shapes and figures.
Sometimes parsimony was a virtue for those who served and protected.
The two finally started talking turkey. I thought that was a rude way to discuss my self-worth, but I kept my mouth shut. Kris asked how and when I died, how old I was, and what I weighed. Chester replied that I had died late last night after a very brief, sudden illness.
“Was his illness contagious?” Kris inquired.
“No, not at all,” Chester responded. “He suffered from a sudden and accidental case of anal-cranial inversion. He simply couldn’t pullout in time and was asphyxiated.”
“Our family always said he had a big head,” Chester mentioned in sotto voce, but still loud enough for me to hear. “He died a painfully embarrassing death at his own hands. It wasn’t a case of suicide because he often had his head up his ass."
“However, the coroner declared it an act of autoeroticism because it happened while he was listening to the radio while sitting in his Toyota. Tragically, he had a repetitive motion sickness that he just couldn’t lick,” he smugly added. I could tell he enjoyed this little conversation at my funeral expense.
What an ungrateful child, I thought. I would bitch slap him later for his insolence. What was with kids these days? There was no respect for their elders or betters anymore. I’d be damned careful about who I sired in the future.
Kris muttered his condolences and agreed that it was a horrible way to die. He then asked if the family would be making a donation to the local AA chapter in my name.
Chester said it wasn’t likely because there were already too many anonymous assholes in India. Kris vigorously nodded in agreement.
Chester reported that I weighed 175 pounds, but quickly amended the number to 155. Jesus, he was trying to drive the price down of my immolation! He was demanding a fire-sale and I was fuming. Kris ignored his whining and converted my pounds into kilos so he could gauge the amount of firewood needed to kindle me. They continued to haggle over the cost for a while. Chester was a shrewd bargainer. Chester even asked if he could pay the bill with his Discover card so he could score some travel points. But Kris said no. He commented that cremation was a cash only business and the only credit one could get was in the afterlife. Damn, Chester was always looking for an angle at my expense.
Seasoned oak was the preferred material because it burned hot and true. If the price was too high, Kris said he could whittle it down by using poplar, although it wasn’t a particularly popular fuel source because of its inferior burn quality. It would take more wood and stretch-out the process by at least a half hour. Chester insisted on using the cheaper wood. He said I wouldn’t mind. It was obvious I was going to be poplar. Chester had saved Uncle Sam $6.32 by my quick calculation.
Sometimes those who served and protected objected to doing a slow burn at someone else’s expense.
I caught a shadow moving in my direction. It was Kris. He pulled off my golden sheet and I kept perfectly still. He placed a pocket mirror under my nose and I held my breath. I was good at the practice having worried so many years about the postings of the annual Foreign Service promotion list. I also stifled a scream when he pinched my testicles. He recovered me and turned to Chester.
“I can see your father wasn’t well-endowed at the time of his death,” Kris commented as he continued to scribble notes on a pad of paper.
Chester looked puzzled and countered by saying “Oh no, that’s not true. He was financially well-off from his many years in the night soil business. He had cornered the market for crap in India and sold it abroad as high-grade fertilizer for a tidy profit. He really had his shit together as a businessman, except he was just wrongheaded much of the time.”
I was proud of Chester for defending my honor and the family name. However, I wished they’d hurry up and finish since I was already exhausted from playing dead.
They continued to argue about the funeral costs and arrangements for my cremation, but they finally struck an agreement. I’d be immolated for $114.11 and paid in Rupees, of course, since nobody wanted to be stuck with U.S. dollars anymore. Chester left the room to pray at the body of his deceased father. He lit a stick of incense and said some mumbo-jumbo over my body; he was simply being a respectful son. Maybe I wouldn’t disown him after all. Inheriting the family business and fortune would keep him in line. That, and the fact that only I could approve his expense voucher, I thought.
While I was being prayed over, I slid the sheet down a bit from my face and watched Kris Amar take two small jars from the shelf behind him. He tapped out grayish-white powder from one container and a pure white substance from the other. He mixed the two together on the desk in front of him and then put a long straw to his nose and snorted the mixture. He rubbed his nostrils after his second hit. This guy was a total creep and druggie. He was snorting the cremains of the deceased along with some horse or coke. I couldn’t be sure which, but he was one very sick dude in any case. I wondered if it were one of his little rituals to enhance his immortality. He obviously took this death and life stuff very seriously; perhaps even as a life and death matter.
Kris slumped back into his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He was now kicked-back, laid-back, mellowed-out, and fucked-up and that would help our plan of action. His little escape from reality would make it easier for me to search the building for the girls. Chester would hang around Kris’s office and keep an eye on him while I explored the crematorium.
As I got up from the litter, my Smith Sixty revolver dropped to the floor with a loud bang. (Sorry, I meant to say with a thud.) It had been secreted beneath the small of my back and my kidneys thanked me for the kindness. However, the sound was loud enough to wake up the dead. Even Kris in his lethargic state looked around the room and then dozed off again. That was a close call. Next time I'd remember to bring one with a silencer.
I got up and tucked Ms. Smith down my loincloth. If I passed anyone in the corridor, I would put both my arms straight out in front of me and stiffly walk with my eyes glazed over. I thought my zombie routine would be especially effective here. I didn’t think anyone would give me a second thought or glance. I strapped a miner’s flashlight on my forehead. In retrospect, the third-eye stuff did come in handy. I walked down a flight of stairs to the basement where I was greeted by an ancient labyrinth of hallways and rooms. I would start my search at the bottom of the building and work my way up; just like in my DS career. I only wished for better luck in my current quest and ascension.
The place seemed to be deserted, with most of the action seemingly taking place outside by the campfires. The marshmallow and weenie vendors must make a killing off these celebrations. I wondered if there were franchises located throughout the country. Cremation appeared to be a good business, but it still could be exploited for greater profit. The perfect business model could be found in the movie Soylent Green. It was an ideal recycling process that combined both nutrition and religious observance.
I turned a corner and came face-to-face with a large, open room. At its center was a machine about eight feet high by five feet wide. It resembled one of the x-ray devices at an airport, but much larger. I took a closer look. A placard on the side of the machine announced that it was a Power-Pak II Cremator manufactured by Matthews Cremation, a division of Matthews International Corporation. It boasted that it was the fastest cremator in its class and capable of incinerating up to four bodies in an eight-hour period. Jesus, that was double the speed of the pyre, I realized. The unit was equipped with a hydraulic loading table and a Smoke-Buster 140 feature that eliminated smoke and odors from the cremation process. It was the latest and greatest machine in this dying industry.
I was impressed that Kris Amar was looking to the future. Firewood was getting scarce and expensive. The cost of electric or gas cremation was considerably less expensive than the funeral pyre method. The machine was the new kid on the block and would eventually replace the traditional method over time. However, it was extremely difficult to snuff-out customs, rituals, and religious observations in India because such things tended to die hard.
As I finished reading the literature, I looked up and saw a gun directly aimed at my face. I didn’t have time to ask questions and instinctively reacted to the rude gesture by quickly sweeping it aside with my left arm. With my right hand, I drew my Smith and fired. As I pulled the trigger, I yelled fore as was proper etiquette under the circumstances. After all, I was a member of a diplomatic security service and required to always comport myself accordingly.
I aimed for the center of his chest and he was dead about the time his body reached the floor. A second shot wasn’t necessary. I'd hit him with a 110 grain, hydra-shock, hollow-point slug from my .357 magnum revolver. The round tore him up and down inside and, as advertised and intended, tore him a new one, as Chester might quip. Regardless, another Injun had just bitten the dust, as I might have said.
Respectfulness and thoughtfulness were traits that were always in vogue for true diplomats. Those always went well with the surf and turf dinners after such memorable events. I took my Sharpie and a deposit slip from my checkbook and wrote a heartfelt note. It was the least I could do under the circumstances. However, I was confused as to how I should address it—Dear God, Lord Shiva, Allah, or Buddha? What if he were an atheist? They didn’t instruct us on the proper etiquette for such things in basic agents training. I decided to take a safe, neutral position so I wouldn’t offend anyone I might meet in an afterlife. I liked to hedge my bets and souls.
To whoever it may concern, I wrote in a clear hand. Please accept the soul, spirit, or essence of this miserable Thug assassin. I didn’t know his name since we didn’t have time for a proper introduction. I’m sure he harbored no animus toward me and was just following orders. I’m also certain there was nothing personal when he planned to blow my fucking brains out in a creepy crematorium in Banaras, India. Thankfully, he was unsuccessful in his endeavor and that should count for something, I guess.
Speaking of counting, could I get bonus points in your book by eliminating a naughty person from this side of the opaque veil? Do you have any clout with St. Peter? I firmly believe I should get extra credits since I’m hoping I can offset some of my youthful indiscretions. In any case, Big Guy, please accept my gift for what he’s worth. Sincerely yours, your pal, Dick.
P.S.—I’m leaving my pen stuck in his chest wound just in case you want to write me back. Don’t worry about paying me back anytime soon. I think I can voucher off the Sharpie on my next expense report if I make it out of here alive. And for God’s sake, please ignore my penmanship! I’m under a little stress here so also forgive me for any misspellings.
I loaded my would-be assassin’s body onto the cremator’s conveyer belt, flipped the switch, and watched the door to the unit open to accept his body. The door automatically closed and I heard the whoosh of the gas burners. The unit really worked as touted and I was impressed with its efficiency. I’d have to write a thank-you note to Matthews after I returned home. I might even score a promotional gig from the company to pimp its product. I also could be a poster child for their magnificent machine, if they'd let me. But I wasn’t going to wait around for a final endorsement though because I had to move on and up.
Sometimes those who served and protected could be savvy entrepreneurs who also needed to get their ashes hauled occasionally.
I finished my search of the basement and moved up the stairs. I would go to the top floor of the building this time and work my way down; the walk would do me good. However, I was still conflicted about the assassin’s death. The killing part was no problem, but I wondered if he would have preferred a funeral pyre instead, but I didn’t know if he were a high or low tech sort of guy. No matter, it was the thought and end result that counted. He could seek his revenge in his next life with whom or what I became in my reincarnated soul/mind/spirit/body. It was all too damn confusing for me to think about now. All this religious stuff really blew my mind.
I heard gunshots ring out as I reached the top of the stairs. There was some yelling and a lot of scurrying movement and noise. I took cover in an empty room and waited until things settled down. When I checked the hallway, I saw Chester lying on the floor. He was conscious, but bleeding from his leg. I tended to him and asked what had just happened. He told me he had followed Kris Amar to the room at the end of the hall. As Kris started to unlock the door, he spotted Chester and opened fire.
Chester said he didn’t even have a chance to get his gun out of its holster to return fire because things simply happened too fast for him to react. He next saw Kris and a cohort push and pull Alicia and Zeenat through the hall in the opposite direction. I immediately ran down the hallway and quickly descended the staircase. Kris and the girls were nowhere to be found and they had disappeared into the night. We reluctantly regrouped with our tails tucked tightly between our legs.
Sometimes those who served and protected got so damned close, but still couldn’t grab the cigar or brass ring.