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impress me.’
    He snorts. ‘Here, take it.’
    I drop my joint and put it out with my shoe. The gun is heavier than it looks.
    ‘You are holding a Python. Three-fifty-seven magnum.’
    I nod and hand it back to him. ‘I don’t like guns.’
    ‘Why don’t you fire off a few rounds?’ he asks. ‘Just point it up in the air. But be careful: it jumps.’
    I think of my mother and look away. ‘No thanks,’ I say. Sometimes indulging Murad Badshah can take more effort than it’s worth. ‘Can you get me some ex?’ I ask, reminding him that he’s my dealer first and my friend only a very distant second.
    Murad Badshah looks at me as if he wants to say more about his proposal. Then he seems to decide against it and says, ‘What is ex?’
    ‘Never mind. It’s a drug.’
    ‘The best I can do is charas, old boy. And heroin. I can always get you heroin. But I wouldn’t recommend it.’ He puts his arm around me. ‘Come. Let’s roll another joint.’
    I’m thirsty, and the smell from Murad Badshah’s armpit is overpowering. I want to get rid of him. ‘Can I offer you a beer?’ I ask, standing up.
    He shakes his head, still seated. ‘You know me betterthan that, old boy. I want the pleasures of the afterlife. Charas is a gray area, but alcohol is explicitly forbidden.’
    ‘Some men drink the blood of other men, all I drink is wine,’ I quote.
    ‘Saqia aur pila. Wonderful qawali. But I think the verse refers to the wine of faith, my friend.’
    Once I’ve paid Murad Badshah for the pot and I’m alone again, I open a bottle of Murree beer. I don’t like it when low-class types forget their place and try to become too frank with you. But it’s my fault, I suppose: the price of being a nice guy.
    Settling in front of the television, I watch videos on Channel V, and remind myself that when I have some cash coming in I need to call a technician to adjust my satellite dish. The sound quality just isn’t what it should be. I eat my dinner on a TV tray and open a beer. Manucci has fallen asleep at my feet. He loves to sleep in the living room when the air conditioner is on, and I don’t blame him, because the servant quarters are too hot in the summertime.
    The phone rings and wakes me up. I’ve dozed off in front of the television. Manucci’s still asleep.
    It’s a woman’s voice, husky, like she’s just gotten out of bed. ‘Daru?’ she says.
    ‘Nadira?’
    There’s laughter on the other end. ‘It’s Mumtaz. Who’s Nadira?’
    My mouth tastes awful. ‘No one,’ I say. ‘Just a friend.’
    ‘Listen, Daru, can you do me a favor?’
    ‘Is everything all right? Where’s Ozi?’
    ‘Everything’s fine. Ozi’s in Switzerland on business. I need to go to the old city, but I don’t know the roads in that part of Lahore and I don’t want to take a driver. Do you think you could come with me?’
    This is very strange. Why is Ozi’s wife calling me up in the middle of the night to go for a drive? ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘Yes. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it’s important to me and I’d appreciate your help.’
    ‘Where are you?’ I ask her.
    ‘Outside your gate.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m calling you on my mobile.’
    Her mobile. How classy. I think quickly: What can be wrong in going with her? Ozi would want me to help her out. On the other hand, the last thing Ozi probably wants is for his wife to be cruising around Lahore with single men while he’s out of town. But my curiosity gets the better of me. ‘I’m coming,’ I say.
    It’s dark outside. None of the streetlamps work and the sharp crescent moon does little to light the night. Mumtaz’s car is parked with the engine running.
    I get in, and she turns the music down. It’s Nusrat, remixed and clubby, but damn good as always.
    ‘Hi,’ she says with a grin.
    ‘What’s up?’
    ‘I’ll tell you as we go. Cigarette?’
    I take one and she reverses onto the street, slips the car into first while it’s still