It was already nearing 5:30, so this was going to be tight. I picked my way across several lanes of traffic and honking horns, and finally made it to Tardeo Road, where some black-and-yellows were waiting. I knocked on the bonnet of the first taxi, and the driver inside sprang to life. Of course, since I was a gora, he refused to engage the meter, and I let him rip me off. I was in a hurry.

The taxi deposited me in front of the flower seller’s, and I jumped out. It was 6:08, and Dhiraj was gone. Shit. His shop was attached to the side of the Mafco stall, like a lopsided annex or a parasite. It was nothing more than a cupboard with a short door, padlocked with his wares inside. I stood under the eaves, and, through the raised roll-down shutter, asked the Mafco proprietor inside when the flowerwallah had left.

“Patz minnit,” he said in Marathi, holding up five fingers.

“Did he leave anything for me?”

“Name?”

I told him Danny. That got no response. Then I said “Willy,” and the man reached under his counter and retrieved a small parcel, about the size of a deck of cards. He handed it to me.

“Pannass paise,” he said. “Fifty paise. Storage charges.”

For the purposes of my mission as a snitch, I had been fired from my job at UNI. That meant, of course, that I’d also lost my flat. The subject had never come up with Willy. Still, I worried there was a minute chance someone could be following me. Chhotu, perhaps. But Sagar Darshan was there, a few steps away, and I had my latchkey in my pocket. I debated with myself whether to stop by my place to use the bathroom or to try my luck at the President Hotel instead.

Sunset was due in about twenty minutes, but, with the rain, the light and visibility were already low. I scanned the area for anything suspicious. A loitering man, a car in no hurry to move on … There was plenty of traffic in the road and on the footpath, but no one was stopping or even looking up. Sheltering beneath umbrellas or folded newspapers, the pedestrians all hurried on their way. The marg, too, was bustling at that hour, with taxis, private cars, and buses all going about their business. Everything looked normal.

The liftman namaste’d me, unconcerned that I was dripping rainwater in his car. He punched the button for the twelfth floor, took his seat on the stool, and stared at the wall for the balance of our shared journey. The doors rolled open, and I stepped out.