Chapter 25
PREDICTABLY, RAJAN HATES his new job.
It’s only been three days and he’s almost looking forward to returning to jail. At least behind bars, he can cuss people out who irritate him. Here? He has to keep his mouth shut with customers or risk this all being a waste.
He’s in the back of the convenience store mopping the floor when his coworker walks by, black ponytail swinging. There she is. The reason he’s enduring this hellhole.
Unfortunately, he hasn’t learned much about Maya other than her name. She works in the back. She’s in her mid-twenties, newly emigrated from India, although he can’t tell where specifically. Hard to pin down accents when someone barely talks.
“How’s it going?” he asks. She side-eyes him before heading to the front to watch the TV.
She probably thinks he’s hitting on her, given the number of times he’s attempted conversation.
With a frustrated sigh, he takes his mop to the back.
Nick would laugh his ass off if he knew what Rajan was up to.
Three days in, and he’s already out of patience.
It’s incredible, really. If only there were some way to cope with his failure, to take the edge off his anxiety. ..
No. He drops the bucket and, in the dark of the closet, squeezes his eyes shut. He won’t, he can’t let himself think about—
Too late. Would it really be so bad? some part of him (sounding pretty reasonable, really) questions.
Just for now. You’re not like that Oliver guy—once Simran is out of the LS, of course you’ll stop, but for now, it’ll help you focus.
You know where to get it. Take your break and go to the café.
You can use some savings on it, it doesn’t have to be on Simran’s tab.
Rajan clutches his head. Distract, distract, he thinks wildly.
But he hasn’t used those techniques since juvie, and the impulses are a helluva lot stronger suddenly.
What did the shrinks used to say? Something about how cravings shouldn’t be seen as something bad, but a natural part of getting clean?
It’s normal, it’s fine. It’ll pass. He just has to wait it out.
With fumbling fingers, he reaches into his pocket only to find his toothpick case empty. Jesus. All the stress lately is turning him into a fucking beaver. Well, he’s always known that’s a shit habit, too. Maybe today music will work.
He jams his earbuds into his ears, but totally blanks on what to play. He needs something new to distract himself—something totally different than his usual.
His mind reaches back for any ideas. And, as often is the case, it lands on a high school memory.
Grade ten, the first time Simran asked what he was listening to during tutoring. Rajan told her to take an earbud and find out. Then he put on a song with extremely offensive lyrics. But she nodded along wisely, the slight uptick of her mouth the only indication she knew she was being messed with.
When it finished, Rajan handed her his phone. She didn’t have her own back then.
“Now you choose,” he said.
“Me?” She seemed shocked. “I...don’t think you’ll like what I like.”
“Simran Auntie, if you can make me not hate math sometimes, you can make me like anything.”
She blushed. Then she took his phone and carefully typed.
Rajan recognized the music immediately—kirtan, basically Sikh hymns.
He could see how it relaxed her. She stopped slouching, a light came into her eyes, and as she waited for him to work through a word problem, she hummed.
He pulled out his own earbud halfway through and confirmed his suspicion that even without the instrumentals, Simran’s voice was goddamn angelic.
“What do you think?” she said at the end.
He could tell she was nervous by the way she twirled her kara. “It’s a banger,” he told her.
The store bell jingles from the door, jarring Rajan back into reality. Whatever, Maya can deal with the customers for once. Strangely, though, he’s feeling more in control now. It really does pass.
A distant voice from the storefront asks if they have any key chains with bears on them. Rajan rolls his eyes. People come in here asking the stupidest shit.
Maya’s voice comes, quiet. “I—um—”
Rajan peers around the doorway. Maya’s back is turned, but her body language tells all. She’s nervous.
“Key chain?” she says. She points at the rack of key chains beside the counter.
The guy blinks. “Well, yeah, but I’m wondering if you have any key chains with bears on them?”
“Um,” Maya says again, faintly. “No—no bear. No.”
It dawns on Rajan the real reason Maya doesn’t talk much.
“Can’t you check?” the customer asks.
Rajan comes around the doorway and back to the counter. “Look.” He spins the key chain rack three-sixty degrees. “No bears. Are we done?”
The guy now looks irritated. “Can’t you check in the back?”
“No.”
With a huff, the guy pushes off the counter and leaves. As soon as the bell jangles, Rajan glances at Maya. She’s already trying to skirt around him, most likely to escape to the break room. This time, he doesn’t address her in English. “Are you okay?”
It’s funny how he never noticed the tension in her shoulders until it melts away. She whips around. There’s clear relief in her eyes. And although he spoke Punjabi to her, she speaks Hindi back. “You speak—?”
“Punjabi. I’ve been trying to talk to you, if you didn’t notice.”
“My English is very poor.” She looks down, fiddling with her shirt.
Of course. He shouldn’t have assumed. “You could’ve just said so.”
“It’s embarrassing.” She blushes. “I haven’t been able to pass my exams because of it, in order to work here.”
“But you do work,” he says, confused.
“I work jobs like this one. But I’m not yet qualified here for the job I did before.”
He stares at her, starting to get a feeling. “Which was...?”
“I was an accountant.” In his silence, she adds, “They don’t recognize my training here. I have to keep trying, and my English is, well, what it is.”
God, he knew it. Of course Brenckmann picked her up. Brenckmann, unlike the government, recognized her skills. And Rajan would bet he has her doing way more than whatever’s listed in her job description.
“See?” Maya says softly. “I told you. Embarrassing.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “What if I said I knew a place that needs an accountant, and they don’t care whether you pass your English exams?”
She blinks. “They don’t?”
“Nope. The only language you have to speak is numbers. Interested?”
“I didn’t realize there were jobs here like that.”
“You just have to know the right people.” The bell jangles again; another customer. Maya starts, clearly still skittish, and immediately slinks away to the back. But not before Rajan catches the thoughtful look on her face.
He leans against the cash register and stares through the TV, nearly in disbelief at his luck.
Maya’s vulnerable, eager, and, should things go sideways, they have blackmail material—the photos of her buying product.
She’s perfect. Not even Nick could deny that now.
Rajan should call with this news, right? He should feel happy.
But he doesn’t. He feels disgusted. With himself.
Maya doesn’t understand the system here. She just accepted there was a job that would look past her lack of credentialing. And Rajan took advantage of it.
He grits his teeth. Fine, then. He’s as bad as the rest of them. But he’ll gladly be a Lion a little longer for Simran’s sake.
Nick doesn’t pick up when he dials. Rajan’s on his fourth try when a customer comes up to the counter with a Gatorade. He whistles at the TV. “Look at that.”
Rajan’s been ignoring the news channel all day. But now he looks at the screen and sees the yellow tape, the headline jumping out.
POLICE WARN GANG WAR ON THE HORIZON
“...children’s playplace broken into just before midnight.
There were numerous casualties in the gunfire that followed.
But as the story develops, we’ve learned new details—traces of illicit drugs have been discovered hidden under the playplace’s floor.
The owners of the business allegedly have connections to the Silver Aces.
Police suspect a rival gang stole what appear to be massive quantities of illicit substances. ..”
Damn. That had to be LS. Rajan knew things were escalating between them and the Aces lately, but this sort of offensive strike seems risky. Did Nick sanction it? There wasn’t any talk of a raid, last time he heard. It must’ve been a quick decision.
He pauses mid-yawn. Then turns back to the TV, and the date in the corner: June 19. It happened yesterday, June 18. That date. What is it about that d—
Simran’s cryptography textbook pops into his head at the same time the customer says, “Pretty wild, huh?”
He’s still waiting at the counter with his Gatorade. Rajan finally turns to ring him up. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “Wild.”