Requiem for a con

It was one of those ads in the newspaper you wouldn’t have noticed unless you were actually looking for it; which was exactly what Radha was doing. At 28, she was living life and scared as hell at the moment. The ad was simple. It was asking readers if any of them were witnesses to a hit and run accident that occurred the day before. And Radha happened to be a witness. The only one, if her careful scanning of the area had been accurate. There was a phone number at the bottom of the ad. Radha wanted to scream and run, but her moral being—a personification of justice, willed her to call the number and report the crime. But fear, being a primal instinct deeply rooted in the subconsciousness of any creature, savagely attacked her mind. So, after several Alprazolam tablets, she shakily picked up the phone and dialed the number, her strength returning to her by the second. 

 “Hello... Hello... I, er, was calling regarding the newspaper ad you printed in the Kalikasthan Times”   “Oh”
The voice at the other end was gruff...intimidating... yet almost pleading. Radha slowly started regaining her confidence in herself. It was either the voice or the Alprazolam. She started seeing things clearer and her financial alter-ego started kicking in.

 “I saw the accident your ad was referring to”
 “Finally…at least there was one eyewitness. Could you tell me the details?”
 “Whats in it for me?”
 There was a pause at the other end. 
“Excuse me?”
“Whats in it for me? The victim’s grieving family will want to know all the details. They might even sue the perpetrators and get rich. All because of what i saw. Heck, I can even identify the driver and his accomplice. People will get rich. And me? I’ll still be stuck in a dead-end job with barely enough money to pay the rent. So, what’s in it for me?”
“I am presuming you want money?”

“You catch on pretty fast.”

 There was a sigh at the other end. After much deliberation, the man continued, “All right. Being a poor person, I can offer you a maximum of Rs. 10,000”

Radha chortled. “That’s it? I can’t even pay a month’s rent with that much. I thank you for your underwhelming lack of cooperativeness, and without a heavy heart, must bid you adieu.”

Just as she was about to put the phone down, she heard an urgent “Wait.” She cradled the phone on her neck.

“Yes?”

“One lakh rupees.”

“No thanks. Bye.”

“TEN LAKHS.”

 Radha froze. “In cash. At a location of my choosing. At a time preferable to me. All thousand rupee notes. Unmarked and unsequenced. Agreed?”

Another long pause

“Yes. When and where. Could we please do this as soon as possible.”

The voice was shaky.

“Today. Two o’clock. You know where Ranibari is?”

“Near the Shangrila hotel?”

“The same. I will be waiting at the entrance. You bring the money in an icebox. We will walk till Baluwatar, passing the Prime Minister’s residence. You will give it to me in Raniban, and I will tell you all I know en route. We can record our conversation, and you will never contact me again. Is that understood?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

————————

Radha was sweating at a quarter to two. An agonizing fifteen minutes later, a short, stocky man with an icebox slung over his shoulder arrived. They made eye contact and immediately acknowledged each other.

“Follow me.” Radha said.

 The duo walked silently into Raiban. In a secluded clearing, the man finally spoke up.

“The details please.”

“My money first.”

Sighing, he shrugged off the icebox and handed it to Radha. It took Radha half an hour to count the money and ensure all was in order.

Being a bank teller helped speed things up. She slung the icebox over her shoulder and turned to the man.

“Now, we go to Baluwatar.”

Once outside Ranibari, the man pulled out a tape recorder and asked Radha to start talking.

 “Yesterday, at around half past three, I was walking down Shankhamul, on my way home from work. Around half a mile ahead, there was a man in a brown jacket. From behind me, a silver Toyota Yaris with a green plate sped passed me. The driver had gray hair, was wearing a faded American Eagle T-Shirt and matching shorts. The car sped ahead and swerved deliberately near the man in the brown jacket and knocked him into the river. The car then sped away, and I looked around the area and ran home in fear.”

The man made Radha repeat the statement several times, on tape. There were no contradictions. After all, Radha was telling the truth. No idle chit-chat. No offers for coffee. No invite to a lunch at the European Bakery. No comments whatsoever.

Radha concluded her final recording: “The next morning, I saw your ad and you know what has happened since. Enough?”

“Yes. Thank You. Rest assured, you will never hear from me again,” saying this, the man picked up his pace and walked away. From behind, a Silver Toyota Yaris sped up and hit Radha, knocking her over. An old man with gray hair wearing a faded American Eagle shirt and matching shorts stepped out, pulled out a suppressed pistol, aimed it at Radha’s forehead and lightly squeezed the trigger.

The bullets remained lodged in her head, amplifying the horrified expression on her face. A flow of blood trickled out down between her eyes, over her nose and into her mouth. The old man then picked up the icebox and stepped into the car. The Prime Minister’s guards were on shift change, so there was no fear. He stepped into the car and drove ahead.

The short, stocky man stepped into the car, and they sped off into the afternoon, leaving a trail of dust…

- Amber Uprety