Chapter 3: In Which Inspector Vinod Realizes That He Has Become The Werewolf of Whiskey

Even as the protestor was swallowed up by a tent, Inspector Vinod began to walk away from the Park. First Evelyn and now this protestor. Inspector Vinod wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to live in a world charged with such heightened political opinions.

Yes, there was always a place for Che and his fighting spirit.

But Inspector Vinod had noticed what the protestor had done as soon as the Detective Crisafi had grabbed him. He had curled his arms protectively around his iPad. Inspector Vinod couldn’t help think that Che would have done something different.

He began to work North on Broadway towards City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. Inspector Vinod had read that when the Brooklyn Bridge had opened in 1883, it was the first time that people had actually seen seagulls fly below them. It was the kind of place that could change one’s perspective of the world. It was the kind of place that Inspector Vinod needed.

His cellphone rang with the tune of the 1980s Indian TV series Malgudi Days. As it always did, the tune made Inspector Vinod happy. Sadly, it was a fleeting happiness. As the screen lit up, Inspector Vinod saw that his uncle was calling from India. He was probably calling to give vent to the additional thoughts that had built up inside him since Inspector Vinod had fled the scene of the marriage and run off to New York.

For a moment, Inspector Vinod thought of ignoring the phone call. But he found that he was incapable of such an action. Since Inspector Vinod had lost his parents at a young age, his uncle had raised him single-handedly, bestowing upon him the love of both a mother and father. Inspector Vinod had read both Oliver Twist and Great Expectations, but so great was the care that his uncle lavished upon him that he had never really empathized with the pain of an orphan.

-What are you doing? his uncle said.

-Hello to you as well, said Inspector Vinod. I am taking a walk.

-Oh, doing more of your stupid police work…

His uncle had never really come to terms with how Inspector Vinod had stood first in the SSC and HSC examinations, graduated with a top rank from the Indian Institute of Technology, and then given up the career path that led to lush corporate jobs, only to become a police inspector.

-Kaka, said Inspector Vinod. I am not here for police work.

-Oh, that’s right, said his uncle. You are there to meet that wretched…but his uncle loathed Evelyn so deeply that he was even unable to take her name.

Inspector Vinod let it pass. The coming of the Internet had commoditized international minutes and made them cheap. Today, even an immigrant could afford the luxury of spending a few minutes on every phone in poignant (or for that matter aggrieved) silence.

A man began to talk loudly to himself on the street. Inspector Vinod saw a frightened tourist couple start like surprised lambs and cross over to the other side. A siren began to wail in the distance. As it approached, it overpowered every other sight, taste, smell or sound and filled the air with its cacophony.

-There’s a siren, said Inspector Vinod. An ambulance siren…he lied. There was no reason to bring up the police and aggravate his uncle even further. Let me call you later.

-Ok, said his uncle. Don’t forget to call. Who knows how long I will be alive?

-You will be alive, said Inspector Vinod. Long after everyone has gone. I will call you tomorrow.

He decided that his mind was too unsettled to be calmed by the grandeur of the Brooklyn Bridge. It needed whiskey, Inspector Vinod decided to walk back to his apartment. He avoided Zuccotti Park and walked back along Maiden Lane. The young man with the beard and ironic T shirt had affected him deeply. Inspector Vinod had been knifed and shot at. When he had visited Saudi Arabia, a rich and spoiled Sheikh had even thrown a stone at him. But nobody had ever spat on him.

The doorman was standing outside the building taking gulps of the fresh air that is so highly recommended by doctors. Inspector Vinod switched his mind to the Spanish setting and made polite conversation with the doorman. They talked about the new referendum in Puerto Rico and whether it was a ploy by the PNP to exclude the states that did not want to vote for Fortuno. The doorman came to the easy conclusion that politics was a dirty game and that all politicians were scumbags.

As Inspector Vinod switched on the light in his apartment, he was struck by how everything was so white and so clean. The furniture had been pulled out of the ultramodern section of an IKEA catalog. The bed was the old piece of furniture in the apartment that did not have hard or uncomfortable corners. And it was the piece of furniture that was most bathed in the delightful fragrance of Evelyn.

Inspector Vinod went up to the counter. He opened up a bottle of Famous Grouse and took a long pour. It was getting to be a habit. Nowadays, no sooner than the moon had risen in the sky, than he felt a need for the bitter bite of the Famous Grouse. He had become the Werewolf of Whiskey.