Good Indian Girls: Stories Read Online Free

the tales to. The father is screaming downstairs. I couldn’t keep him out of your office.”
    “Come on,” I said. I walked quickly past Baggie and down along the corridor. His footsteps echoed mine and arriving at my office I didn’t hesitate throwing the door open with a thrust of my hand and walking inside.
    He was a tall man with short blond hair and I was struck by how much he resembled his son. They both displayed an arrogant air about their eyes, their noses sleek and elegant. His cheeks were red and I could see the simmering fury in his face.
    “Was it you?” His voice was deeper than his son’s, and it carried in it the familiar menace of weak but violent men. I knew immediately he was no match for me.
    “Who told your son stories? Yes.” I walked across to mydesk and casually picked up a file that lay among my papers and pretended to study it.
    “Do you know what you did?”
    “I can’t imagine. Why don’t you tell me?” I didn’t look at the man.
    “The teacher threw him out of the class. This was an honors class. He was going to go to Stanford. I went to Stanford.” He spoke with a metered determination at the end of which I knew waited a fist.
    “The teacher told him if he couldn’t take his papers seriously he obviously wasn’t cut out for the honors program. They threw him out of all the honors classes. You ruined him.”
    “Your son didn’t deserve to be in that class. He should have checked out what I told him. That kid was stupider than he looked.”
    Much to my joy, he raised a fist and prepared to strike. As he did so, the door burst open and Baggie charged in with two guards. The man stood motionless for a brief second and before the guards reached him, I had time to get a punch in. My fist landed square on his face and he fell back scrambling for balance and crying out in pain. The guards took hold of him and carried him out while he kicked and swore.
    “I know your name,” he shouted from the doorway, trying to fight his way free. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
    I could still feel his face on my fist. I’d been cheated from a real fight. I turned to Baggie. “Who asked for your help?”
    “That man is a maniac.”
    For a moment I thought of striking Baggie, but turned away and told him to get out.
    I took a drink of the bourbon and felt for the pistol in my briefcase. There it was and now was the time. Swinging thebriefcase wildly, I walked out telling Baggie to cancel all appointments for the rest of the day. If Double Love came by, I told him to keep her occupied. “Give her tea and read her ghazals.” His eyes telegraphed turmoil and confusion, but thankfully he said nothing, and I was able to escape without resorting to explanations.
    The drive to Dr. Boyce’s house had me speeding through several stop signs. In the daylight, I saw how close the building stood to the ocean. The water stretched at the end of the road and a breeze swept along the street.
    The pistol felt like a toy when I pulled it from my briefcase. It was hard to believe it could kill. I thrust it into my inside pocket where it pressed hard against my lung.
    Dr. Boyce smiled when he took my hand and said he was always glad to meet with a disciple of Atatatata. He looked smaller than I remembered and walked like an old man, and his joints appeared stiff from arthritis.
    Nothing was changed from my previous visit, except for Double Love’s absence, and I took a seat on the same sofa while the Divine Avatar prepared coffee in the kitchen. The air of mustiness mixed with the aroma of recently burned incense. A faint haze of smoke hung lazily in the room.
    Soon the doctor was talking, as he had before, about the coming union of East and West, having shown no interest in why I’d come. In reality, he explained, there was no such thing as East or West. “You stand in China and what is to the east? America. We are the Chinese east. And you stand on the coast here in California and it is Japan that is our