The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 22

The neighborhood degraded as the rickshaw sputtered along, the driver either blind or possessed of a death wish. The buildings changed from reasonably maintained to obviously neglected. Groups of slit-eyed youths loitered on the corners along with the ever-present beggars clogging the sidewalk.

They got out a few blocks from their destination, when the rickshaw stopped where traffic had coagulated into a dense clot as a symphony of horns blared impotently into the hot afternoon sky. Drake passed the driver a handful of bills, and the man gave him a toothless grin.

When they arrived at the address, they found themselves staring at the window of a small shop with a steel grid padlocked in place to protect its grimy picture window. They both stared at the iconic lettering across the top of the glass, with a hand-painted rendering of an exaggeratedly Indian-looking man wearing a distinctive explorer’s hat and cracking a whip. Allie turned to Drake, open-mouthed.

“Indiana Singh? This just went from tragedy to farce,” she said.

“Looks like a tour company. See? Adventure tours.” He gave her a small smile. “You have to admit, it’s a catchy name.”

“Carson bet the bank on a bad cartoon version of a movie? Maybe he was out of his mind…”

“I wonder what an adventure tour is here. I’m almost afraid to ask,” Drake said, moving closer to the shadowed entrance and looking through the window. “There are some brochures sitting out. The top one has a guy holding a cobra. I’d be out right there.”

“Looks closed.”

“He didn’t answer his phone, and his shop’s shut in the middle of the day. How do you spell flake?”

“Maybe he’s on a tour.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They were interrupted by a tall Caucasian man with receding gray hair, black slacks, and an immaculate loose white shirt. “Oh, that’s a bad break. Bugger’s not here, is he?” the man said, in a pronounced British accent.

“Looks like he hasn’t been for a few days,” Allie said, gesturing at mail scattered on the floor inside.

“Yes, evidently,” the man said, offering his hand. “Oliver Helms. And you are…?”

“Oh, we were interested in a tour,” Drake improvised as Allie shook hands with the Englishman. “I’m Drake. This is Allie.”

“Charmed. Well, it seems you’re out of luck today.” Helms’s brow beetled. “Not much to be done about it, is there? He does this every now and then.”

“You know him, obviously,” Allie said.

“Yes. We’re… colleagues, of a sort. I operate a tour company as well — for my sins — along with many other endeavors.”

“Same sort of tours?” Drake asked, pretending interest.

“Actually, mine are a tad more upmarket. Nothing like as lurid. Our good Mr. Singh leans more to the slumdog side of the fence, if you follow my meaning.”

“They tour the slums here?” Allie said, surprised.

“Indeed they do. Tawdry though it may seem, they have a certain fascinating quality for a particular type of client. At least, that’s what I’m led to believe — though I have no interest in seeing any more abject poverty than I already do on a daily basis.” Helms paused and considered the sky. “Bloody mare of a day again, isn’t it? Always is during the sticky season. Expect I should have become acclimatized by now, but one never really does.”

“You live here, I take it?” Allie asked.

“Since the dawn of time, or thereabouts. Actually, more like thirty years, if one cares to keep tally. I’ve yet to go completely native, though, which is why I’m open for business while our friend Mr. Singh is nowhere to be seen.”

“Do you have any way of getting in touch with him?”

“You’re looking at it. He rarely answers a call. Bloody mystery how he stays in business, yet he does, so what would I know…” Helms gave them a fatigued grin. “I suppose I’ll have to trawl around his itinerary of seedy haunts to track him down. You can give me your phone number if you like, and I’ll see to it that he calls you, if and when he’s sober. How long are you in town for?”

“A few more days,” Drake said as Allie scribbled their new cell phone number on a slip of paper from her purse.

“We really appreciate it,” she said, handing him the number. “Tell him that we’d like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“Will do. Well, there’s not a lot of use in hanging about here. You watch yourselves, now — some of these areas can cut up a little rough without warning.”

“We’ve noticed,” Drake said.

“Yes,” Allie said. “Thanks again.”

They watched as the gangly Englishman sauntered away and, when he’d rounded the corner, returned to peering through the window. “Maybe he’ll find Singh,” Allie said.

“Can’t hurt to have more lines in the water.”

“Any point staying here?”

“None that I can see. Let’s get a ride and head over to the university. Hopefully the professor is there.”

“We can try calling his office.”

“I’d rather not give him a chance to brush us off. Harder to do in person, and I want to watch his face when we ask about Carson.”

She nodded. “Now who’s being paranoid?”

“Not at all. But we have no idea who the good guys are in this, so the safe position is to assume everyone’s bad until proven otherwise.”

They walked to the curb and waited as vehicle after vehicle rolled by, all jammed with humanity, lunch hour now in full swing. Even the bicycle rickshaws were occupied, their pilots thin as rails, the muscles of their legs like steel cables beneath tobacco skin, shirts soaked through with sweat.

Eventually they attracted the attention of a taxi, which pulled to the curb amid frenzied honks, and they climbed inside, relieved to be on their way. Allie gave the driver the address of the university and he nodded silently before sticking his arm out to signal his intention to merge into the tide of vehicles. Drake eyed the numerous photographs of a woman, children, what were probably grandparents, and great-grandparents, and then leaned back and closed his eyes, the day and the exhaust fumes wearing at him.

Neither he nor Allie saw the brown Nissan sedan take up position four cars behind them, Helms’s distinctive profile masked by a beige straw fedora and dark glasses.