The window slid closed and the car drove off. I considered the shop. Doors, window frames, a bed, and assorted carved cabinets had been placed on the footpath outside to invite buyers to browse. At least while the rain held off. On either side, and far beyond, more stalls displayed the exact same goods. I’d always wondered why all the tire shops in India were located in the same lanes. And the radio repair stands, too. I supposed it gave people an idea of where to go for what they needed and, perhaps, it kept the shopkeepers honest in their pricing. Still, thirty tire repair shops in a row struck me as odd.

I peered inside the stall. The smell of varnish and sawdust dominated, but there was cumin or some similar spice as well. A radio played spiritual music. I called hello, but there was no one in the dark space. I was feeling spooked by this time. But then, an old man in a shalwar kameez and a skullcap emerged from the back. He wore a beard, dyed red from henna, and spoke Hindi. Or was it Urdu? I told him I’d been sent by Willy Smets. He didn’t understand. I tried again, but there was no getting past the language barrier. I was about to give up, figuring Chhotu had set me up to fail in this second test. I reconsidered. Chhotu wouldn’t be so bold to send me on a wild goose chase. Something was off, but he’d have to answer to Willy if I failed even to meet the man who had the samples.

And, like that, the old carpenter seemed to figure out the game. He motioned for me to follow him back outside. There, he directed me to the stand two doors down.

“Mera beta. My son,” he said, sending me on my way.

It was a juice stand. The place served freshly squeezed refreshments for the faithful who’d made the trek across the causeway to reach the mosque on the sea. A young man with a bright smile—the carpenter’s son?—was expecting me. When I asked if he had anything for Willy, he handed me a slip of paper and moved on to his next customer.

Chhotu had been trying to sabotage my success. Or maybe it had been Willy all along. If this were a test, maybe he’d wanted to see how I’d cope. Outside again, I unfolded the paper and read it as a steady rain began to fall.

“Dhiraj the flower vendor. Next to Mafco stall, opposite President Hotel. 6:01 p.m.”

The carpenters emerged from their shops and pulled their wares back inside, safe from the rain.

I knew the Mafco stall well. I’d sought refuge from the downpour under its eaves the night I spotted Ramu/Ranjit heading to the President Hotel.