So I yelled instead. “You spadal teanga léitheid seo! You didn’t care whether we found Ray dead or alive. You just wanted to see if that stinking piece of ivory was still hidden in my bag—where Ray himself put it not two seconds before all hell broke loose in there.”
Brig had made it behind the bar by this time. I followed close behind him. Since I couldn’t reach the statue before he did, I debated whether to grab one of the few intact bottles of booze that stood on the counter and conk him over his thick Irish head.
He put his finger to his lips. “Shh! Lass. Calm down. Let’s not be alertin’ the neighborhood to our presence. And did ya know ya just called me a tongue-depressing so-and-so?”
“I don’t give a rodent’s behind whether every bum in the vicinity pops in, and I intended to call you just that.”
That was a lie. The epithet I was going for was more interesting and a lot more obscene, but I screwed up my translations. A mistake I had no intention of revealing.
“I want to find out what happened to Ray. And I want out of here!”
Brig swung my gorgeous Mexican tote over his shoulder. I started to grab it. He lifted it up and out of my reach. I’m five eight, but the man topped me by a good seven inches.
“That’s mine, O’Brien. Give it to me.”
“Ah. We’ve progressed to last-name familiarity, have we now? A name yelled at a male by a female who knows she’s about to lose the game.”
“Duck!”
“What? Is that the best you can do for profanity?”
“Duck! Drop! Floor! Somebody’s out there! Get down!”
We dove for the disgusting, greasy, boozy, filthy floor. A few candy wrappers lay next to the table. They smelled like Rajit beer. A few broken bottles had rolled under that table. Bourbon. Gin. Tequila. Each liquor reeking with an odor of its own.
For a moment I didn’t care whether Brig, Mahindra, Patel, and Saints Cecilia and Bridget took off with my bag and the statue. I wanted a bath. A bubble bath filled with the most chichi fragrances I could find to disguise the fact that my body exuded scents like a sailor after six days of shore leave with the same, uh, lady.
The urge to be clean vanished faster than a soap bubble could pop. It was replaced with a different urge. Survival. That flash I’d seen in the window was gliding through the door.
It was the cigarette-smoking, Gujarati-speaking gentleman wearing the crisp white shirt. Which was still crisp and still white. He was flanked by what seemed like a battalion of hooligans. All carried weaponry straight out of The Mummy. And all weapons were trained dead straight at me, Tempe Walsh, linguist. Alone.
Briggan O’Brien had disappeared. I didn’t know how a six-foot-four-inch Irishman gifted with the ability to talk nonstop at high volume had managed to make himself invisible in a bar decorated with only a few tables, but he had.
He’d yelled “Trap!” at me before he vanished. Duh. Kind of him to mention it. I knew it was a trap. I now faced this man and his multitude of minions all by myself.
I exaggerated about the actual number of minions. Three stood without speaking behind their boss. But they had the look of invading Mongol hordes, which made three appear more like fifty-three. Especially when those hordes are facing one female who is holding a tote bag heavy with the weight of a priceless statue.
Mr. Starched Shirt smiled at me. Cool. We were going to be civilized.
He spoke in English. “Miss Walsh. Thank you for rescuing Saraswati from the filth of the floor. Now please hand it over and you will not be hurt. This I promise.”
It was a line straight out of a clichéd action flick. Nonetheless, that statement penetrated the air with all the force that three evil-looking miscreants holding cutlery and revolvers behind the leading man could produce.
I decided to bluff him out.
“This bag? Oh, really, Mr., uh, Mahindra. You think I would have been so blasé, so cavalier, as to leave this behind if it contained Shiva’s Diva?”
His eyebrows shot into the middle of his forehead.
“Shiva’s Diva? Where did you hear that term used? I did not call her that. And how do you know my name?”
To hell with Brig. He’d left me here to play poker with a group of killers.
“Briggan O’Brien, with whom I unfortunately shared an intimate moment-in-hiding earlier while your thugs were shooting up the place. That’s what he called this statue of Saraswati everyone seems so eager to acquire. At any cost, I might add. And I figured you had to be Mahindra since Patel is a pig, and I remember he was the one who threw the cigar at the gentleman I came in with. The gentleman your bullet hit. The gentleman who seems to have vanished. Any idea where?”
Mahindra laughed. It was not a nice laugh. He ignored my last question. “O’Brien? I should have known he would be in the middle of this fiasco.” He stopped laughing. “I trust the moment did not become too intimate, Miss Walsh. Briggan O’Brien is not a fit companion for a lady such as yourself.”
Aha! A statement Mr. Mahindra and I agreed on. I wanted to continue the topic of the fascinating life of Brig O’Brien—and divert Mahindra from such topics as statues and tote bags—when one of the minions grunted. Or perhaps it was a growl.
Grunt or growl. Neither fashioned a pretty sound.
I pointed. “I believe one of your posse wants you.”
“Posse?”
“Your buddies. The thugs. Hooligans.”
He shook his head. “Business associates, please. You offend them and me with such vile terms. Although I like this word ‘posse.’ It is very American.”
Out of date as slang by at least fifteen years or so, but he was right. Very American. Maybe Mahindra liked Americans. Maybe I could smooth talk him with the latest chitchat from the Big Apple long enough to allow me to saunter out into the night with the Diva in hand.
He stared at me. All thoughts of gossip fled. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I’m sure he saw it. Sensed the fear causing it.
He nodded, checked his watch, then stated, “I have other plans for this evening. So, kindly give me the statue or forfeit your life. Avi is quite handy with knives. As for myself, I prefer guns. I find them to be much cleaner. But Avi is a friend. He must be allowed a little leeway in such matters. I would hate to damage that pretty face or even cut a lock of your auburn hair. Enough delay. Please. The statue.”
Uh oh. Tempe, the lady with the auburn hair, had degenerated to what was now Tempe the dartboard. “Enough delay” sounded serious. I smiled at Mahindra, then swung the bag at Avi and his collection of sharp silverware. Shiva’s Diva must have connected with something precious on the man, because his grunts changed to definite howls.
I then turned and swung my right leg in a brilliant fan kick toward the chin of minion number two. I finished with a basic punch to the nose of minion three as I silently thanked my martial arts instructor in Manhattan. But I soon realized that all offensive mutilate-the-minion moves were useless when Mahindra reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun.
Suddenly he and the gun sprawled on the floor. In their place, dark hair still perfectly groomed and white teeth still flashing a piratical grin, stood Briggan O’Brien.
He closed the trapdoor that had been the means for this dramatic entrance. He shoved me away from the hand reaching up from the floor to grab my ankle. Brig scowled, kicked at the offender’s shoulder, and followed that with a gentler push to the man’s head, shouting, “Don’t you be touchin’ her, you lousy squid!”
“Squid.” Ha! I’d been right. He had said squid earlier, in Gaelic and now in English. The why eluded me but I felt better knowing my translations were spot-on.
Mahindra glared up at us both, then growled and reached for my foot. Brig lifted me away from the fallen, angry man, then took my hand in his.
Brig yelled, “Nice fightin’, lass! We’ll be off, then. Got our girl in the bag?”
I did. I threw the tote over my shoulder and nodded at him.
Bullets, knives, bottl
es, and one set of keys flew past our heads. We did the only thing we could. We ran.
Chapter 4
“Stop! Please. I can’t do this.”
I grabbed at Brig’s outrageous Hawaiian shirt and tugged hard. He turned. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t even broken a sweat. And he smelled nice. A faint trace of curry did not hide the scent of the man himself. Masculine. Heady. Yes, nice. But I needed to avoid sniffing him—at least for the moment.
I had no idea where we were. Brig had taken my hand in his and we’d been running for at least fifteen minutes. He’d transferred the tote bag to his shoulder rather than mine, which made me somewhat suspicious. The reason for the switch must have had less to do with simple courtesy and more to do with the fact that he wanted to stay in close proximity to the ivory Indian goddess.
“Brig. I’m serious. Stop. Please. I just need to rest for a second before starting the marathon again.”
He smiled. “I think I can do better than a tiny respite for you. Let’s pop into this club, get a drink or two, and sit for a time. How does that sound?”
I didn’t even quibble. “Delicious.”
The awning over the doorway read C.C. Curry’s. I hoped it lived up to the name. A few spicy veggies mixed with those wonderful bean pastries called samosas would be my reward for not socking Brig in the teeth with the tote bag after we first took off from Hot Harry’s.
I sank into a comfortable chair. Sitar and tabla music jangled around me. It sounded terrific, even to ears accustomed to classic rock and Broadway musicals.
I sat up. I looked around C.C. Curry’s and realized there were no other women seated in the room. Either we’d wandered into a gay bar or an exclusive gentlemen-only lounge. I hissed at Brig, “What’s this place?”
“C.C. Curry’s. Ladies club.”
“That makes no sense. I thought ladies clubs were where females go to play bridge and avoid guys. Other than me, I do not see any ladies. With or without cards.”
Brig turned bright red. “You will.”
He was right. The music cranked up a notch. Heavy bass and funky drums replaced the sitar. I glanced up. An Indian beauty wearing a berry-colored sari and more beads than a rosary stand began writhing and wriggling above Brig and me on a platform.
I groaned, “Oh no. This I do not need tonight. I’m in a strip joint? Thank you so much. A wonderful spot to hide in.”
“They don’t call them strip joints here. And they don’t strip. Not like those places in Manhattan on Eighth Avenue that bare it all. Not that I ever darkened a door of one in the city, mind you.” He winked. “No, luv. This really is called a ladies club. The ladies dance for the gentlemen. That’s it. Very sedate, comparatively. Mind you, what they do with the gents on their own time after hours might be arranged in here, but the stripping then is private.”
By this time, Brig had given me more information than I desired. I didn’t care if the ladies were stark naked and painted blue. I just wanted to rest and get a little food in my stomach. Running for one’s life tends to make a person hungry.
I glared at Brig. “Do you mind telling me why you left me to face Mahindra and his thugs—oh, excuse me—business associates, by my little lonesome? Aside from being damn dangerous, I found it extremely rude.”
Brig’s lashes fluttered. He affected the expression of a choirboy entering the pearly gates with a signed pass from St. Peter.
“I did not leave you. Believe me. Didn’t you hear me yelling about the trapdoor?”
I blew out a whoosh of air. “That’s what ‘Trap! Trap!’ was all about? I thought you were telling me we were trapped. Which I kind of already knew before I chatted with Mahindra and his close circle of friends.”
He sighed, “Sorry, Tempe. I knew about the hidden door and ducked down the instant I saw trouble. But you did a superb job of handling Mister Kirk Mahindra and his boys. I watched it all from a large hole downstairs. Your skill at punching? Impressive. And can you tell me the name of that swishy over-the-top-kick thing you did? I don’t remember seein’ that one even in my jujitsu classes.”
“Gotta be the fan kick. It’s very theatrical,” I answered. “Thanks for the compliment, I think.”
He winked. “More than welcome. It was a treat watchin’ those legs in action. Near made me forget how to open the damn trap. With your body distractin’ me so much, I’m amazed we escaped with the statue intact.”
I glared at him. “Which, I notice, you seem to be hugging to your person. May I remind you that Ray was in the process of buying the damn thing? If he’s still alive, it’s his. I don’t think he’d given Khan the money, but he had a verbal contract. So is it still Khan’s? I gather since everyone seems to want this statue that I was wrong about it being a fake.”
“No. It’s definitely real. Well, we’ll need to check and see where Ray is holed up now. Assuming he’s not lying in a ditch guarded by Patel or Mahindra’s goons. But in the meantime we need to be about keepin’ the little beauty safe. The bad guys won’t be restin’ till they find her. And us. That’s fer sartin, ’tis.”
I bit my lip. His fine Irish brogue seemed to rise or fall as each subject warranted.
“And I can just see you handing it to its rightful owner as soon as we find either Decore or some authority we can trust, Mr. O’Brien.”
Brig slapped his hand over his heart. “You wound me. Have ye not heard of trust? Have I, in our brief but enjoyable relationship of this last hour, ever let you down?”
The man was impossible. And too darned handsome for anyone’s good, including his own. I sighed.
“Where is that waiter? I could use that drink now. And some food.”
I stood, glanced around, then sat again. “I don’t see him. Well, while he’s off trying to translate Sangria cooler into Hindi for the bartender, would you please tell me just what is the big deal with this statue? Other than price. I’m well aware of price. A damn big one. That’s why Ray Decore hired me. He wanted to be sure when Mr. Khan rattled off the rate of rupees that I’d be able to translate correctly. Of course, neither Ray nor I knew that every goon in Bombay wanted Miss Saraswati. No offense.”
“None taken.”
The waiter brought my wine and an order of a dozen samosas. I tried not to chug the entire glass down in one gulp, but I did devour four of the spicy vegetable pastries in less than thirty seconds. Brig’s eyes popped open.
“Do you realize you just ate four of those things?”
I scowled at him. “Yes. Excuse me. I am a stress eater. Sitting behind a desk translating contracts is generally not stressful. This night has been nothing but. And some clown shot up the vending machine at Hot Harry’s before I could partake of the varied candy bars. So get over it.”
He inclined his head, not bothering to hide his smile.
“We’el then, with a full stomach, are you ready for the story of Saraswati the goddess? There’s a foin tale here, Miss Walsh. Sit back and I’ll be tellin’ it.”
I settled into that comfortable chair with my glass in one hand and a fifth samosa in the other. Brig had the look of a medieval storyteller about to regale an eager audience of peasants with the latest news of the knights and dragons.
“Saraswati. Goddess of culture, literary achievements, speech, rituals, and fertility.”
“Also my yoga instructor back in Manhattan.”
Brig’s face brightened. “Hatha or power?”
“Power.”
He shook his head. “You should try hatha instead. It’s far more spiritual. Truly a healing technique. Lovely. There are wonderful instructors here in Bombay. You and I will drop in on one while we’re in the city. There’s a fella over in Malabar Hills who can near get one into a state of nirvana within five minutes of entering his class. Where do you take your power classes?”
“At a studio in Greenwich Village. So I suppose that means I’m not healed and will never attain that nirvanic high. Brig? Could you go on? About Shiva’s Diva. I’m sorry I ever inter
rupted. You and I obviously are easily distracted with trivia. So, please. Culture, fertility, all that jazz.”
“Yes. To begin with, Saraswati is in attendance whenever and wherever speech is present, so to speak. She arrives with newborn babes and gifts them with, um, the gift of speech. Which is important. I’ll come to it presently.”
“One would only hope so,” I mumbled, shoving a sixth samosa into my mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing. Please, continue.”
He threw me a suspicious look but started his lecture again. “Saraswati is most always depicted holding a lute, a rosary, and a water pot. Sometimes she’s sitting on a swan. Very pretty. Dresses in white. Pure. No gaudy jewelry for our goddess either. I’ll get back to that.”
I smiled. “Brig. I can’t tell you how enchanted and intrigued I am by the story so far, but will you get to the point? Assuming there is one? As to why Saraswati is more pursued than a basketball star after an arrest?”
He frowned at me. “You have to understand the goddess to understand what’s going on with this statue. Let me get on to the good parts. She has a curse. And a blessing.”
“Oh crap. I might have known there’d be a curse.”
“And a blessing.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.” I signaled to the waiter to bring another Sangria cooler, then asked if he could throw in another dozen of the veggie samosas. My favorites. He could. And would. Brig didn’t even blink.
I turned back to him and smiled.
“All right. Saraswati loves musicians and artists and all those creative types. And since Shiva is the creator of all, he believed that Saraswati was one of his creations, even though her real daddy was Brahma, who also happened to become her husband—which is damn kinky, but we won’t go into that—and Shiva loved Saraswati’s music.
“Which is why you call her Shiva’s Diva. Yes?”
Brig groaned. “If you knew all about her, why didn’t you say so?”
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