Bombay Sapphire: Episode 2 - The Deccan Dholes

Bombay Sapphire 2: The Deccan Dholes

Tyree Campbell

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

BOMBAY SAPPHIRE 2: THE DECCAN DHOLES

A Pro Se Publications

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This book is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Written by Tyree Campbell

Edited by M. Keaton

Cover Art by Teresa Tulaney

Book Design by Antonino Lo Iacono

www.prose-press.com

BOMBAY SAPPHIRE 2: THE DECCAN DHOLES

© 2016 Tyree Campbell

1

At three inches over six feet, the man standing a few paces away from the dank stone wall of the underground chamber was tall for an Indian. In the light from the torches ensconced at regular intervals around the chamber, his bare upper torso gleamed with sweat. But it was not the sweat of physical exertion; far from it. He was watching what was being done to another man—at his commands—and it was the excitement of this torture that brought him to a state of sexual arousal.

He was the unquestioned head of a crime syndicate called the Deccan Dholes, and he was known as Ganesh Bose. That was not his real name—in truth he no longer cared, and rarely remembered, what that was—and he was customarily addressed as sahib. Only his few intimates called him by name, two of whom were in the chamber with him.

One of these was named, simply, Kazeem. At just over seven feet tall and four hundred pounds, he dwarfed even Bose. His upper torso was bare, and his massive muscles glistened with the sweat of activity and with splotches of blood that were the direct result of that activity. Flickering torchlight made his hairless pate sparkle. Where Bose wore suit pants of fine brown silk, Kazeem was content with a pair of loose cotton pants, secured with a drawstring, and now stained with blood almost the same shade of red as the pants. Unlike Bose, Kazeem’s feet were bare, and had been so since early adolescence, for no one in India manufactured shoes of a size that might fit him.

At a nod from Bose, Kazeem lifted one of those massive feet and smashed it into the abdomen of the other intimate who was chained, limbs and waist, to the stone wall.

Sentiram was the name of the chained man, and he was completely naked. He stood in a puddle of his own blood and vomit, into which he now disgorged the last of the breakfast he had consumed in the private dining room above, some two hours ago. He did not cry out at the blow; he was in too much pain to do so. But at the impact, a burst of air left his lungs, and echoed faintly through the chamber and along a stonewall tunnel.

Another, said Bose.

Kazeem reached out to Sentiram’s left hand, shackled to the wall. His thick fingers closed around the man’s middle finger—the little and third fingers already lay in the puddle of blood—and snapped it, and tore it free. Sentiram’s scream fled through the tunnel; as it faded, he gasped for breath in the voiceless sounds of one in extreme agony.

A thin stream of red added a third stripe to Kazeem’s broad chest, like a blow from a bullwhip. Bose took a few steps closer to the shackled man, shaking his head sadly. A year, Sentiram, he said softly. Almost a full year, and you have nothing to show for your efforts.

"I told you—," wheezed Sentiram.

Nothing, Bose interrupted. "You’ve told me nothing useful. Yes, the name of the young woman who seems to be associated with this Bombay Sapphire is Nakushi, which means ‘unwanted.’ Do you have any idea how many women—look at me when I address you, Sentiram."

The man slowly raised his head, as if each inch of movement added to his pain, until he was able to see Bose through his remaining eye. Blood continued to drip from the hole where the other eye had been.

Bose started to clap him on the shoulder in approval, but the crimson sheen there changed his mind. That’s better, he said pleasantly, as if they had been carrying on a conversation. Sentiram, there are ten thousand women in Bombay alone with that name. I myself have fourteen daughters with that name. Your information does not narrow the search appreciably.

The man wept. I tried—

Meanwhile, this Bombay Sapphire continues to steal my money. Now Bose did hazard to touch Sentiram; he grasped the point of the man’s jaw, and tugged at it for attention. "My money. With the Portuguese officially gone, we are reduced to smuggling children aboard ships in remote and unpatrolled waters, an additional expense I would prefer not to add to my ledgers. Shopkeepers have stopped paying for protection. In some places, our ‘taxes’ are no longer collected. He released Sentiram’s jaw and turned away, wiping his hands on an already-bloodstained towel draped over a wooden chair. You have no idea what I go through, Sentiram, he said, allowing just a hint of complaint to enter his tone. Several of our couriers have disappeared, hampering our distribution. Whether this is due to the actions of Bombay Sapphire, or to their own incompetence, I simply do not know, but this certainly never occurred prior to her arrival on our scene. He spun around and spread his hands. What am I to do, Sentiram? I ask you, what? Following a brief pause, he added, Kazeem."

Sentiram writhed against his chains. The echoes of their clanking followed his screams and moans. No more, he pleaded. I’ve done everything I can—.

Kazeem seized the index finger of Sentiram’s left hand, broke it, and tore it away. Sentiram no longer had the strength to scream. He fell slack against his bonds, utterly spent.

Your people entered into an agreement with Savitra, the sister of this Nakushi, Bose went on. "She took a thousand rupees—my thousand rupees—and did not deliver as promised. Where is she, Sentiram?"

... don’t know, he moaned.

She sold her own sister for a thousand rupees, Bose continued. She lived with her in a den of pallets in Dharavi. She has no skills and no means. Ordinarily, I would suppose she might have died, of assault or malnutrition or typhus, but I feel that someone who would sell her own sister for a mere thousand would find a way to survive. So where is she?

I don’t know, Sentiram whined. I tell you I don’t know. I’d tell you if I knew, you know that, Ganesh. Please—.

Oh, do stop whining, Sentiram. People won’t respect a man who whines.

Sentiram began to sob. The giant looked to Bose for the next order.

You know, Sentiram, Bose mused, rubbing his chin, I was going to attend to your right hand, saving the thumbs for later. But upon reflection, I don’t believe you have anything left to tell me. Kazeem, if you would be good enough?

The giant clutched Sentiram’s head in his huge hand, and Bose added, Do wait until after I am gone. Sentiram, perhaps we shall meet the next time around the wheel, under improved circumstances.

Bose made his way along the tunnel to his private lift. As he stepped aboard, the echo of Sentiram’s demise reached his ears. The sound reminded him of the impact of a melon that had been dropped from height onto concrete.

***

Half an hour later, after showering and attiring himself in a fresh suit of brown silk with a red silk tie over his white shirt, Ganesh Bose sat down at his desk in the study and glanced at The Times of India. He passed over an article about a state visit to New Delhi, and another regarding a special election for Maharashtra State, but it was a third, below the fold, headlined Family Saved, that snared his attention. A bridge in Mahim, a section