The exclamatory squeak escaped before Conor could stop it. It was not becoming to his image as a stone-cold gun for hire, but the figure so astonished him that he was thrown off balance and out of character. A lakh was equivalent to one hundred thousand rupees, which meant Mehta was demanding over a million of them. A week earlier, the bar owner had made it known he would soon be entertaining bids for Radha’s sar dhakna, literally the “veiling of the head.” The term referred to a traditional ritual within the Hindu marriage ceremony, but it also served as a euphemism for the purchase of a dance-bar girl’s virginity. Conor thought it unlikely that a bidding war among patrons would have gone as high as six lakhs. He had been quoted double that price for the privilege of preempting the game and jumping to the head of the line. Pulling the mask of indifference back over his features, he angled his head to regard the face dominating the wall behind Mehta while he recovered from his shock.
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