Chapter Twenty-Three
Arjun was right. The Shimla Café wasn’t an upscale establishment by any stretch of the imagination. Cramped and narrow with a handful of booths along one side and two tables near the door, the place reeked of low-rent clientele and desperation. Faded yellow paint covered the walls, spotted with dog-eared posters of unfamiliar foreign locations. A couple of portraits hung behind the main counter—mere outlines now—long since faded by the sun. A smell of spice hung in the air, mixing with a pall of smoke from whatever the man lounging at the back of the room was puffing on. Either no one had told him about the smoking ban in New York, or he simply didn’t care.
A battered desktop computer graced each booth, balanced on irregular plastic tables. They matched the uneven ca
