Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

“Miss Walsh.”

  “Mister Mahindra.”

  We’d gotten the names right. Where we went from here I didn’t know. I didn’t really want to know. I wanted out, but there was no escape behind me. Raj’s trailer had one window in the kitchen over the sink and one in the bathroom. Neither tiny piece of glass allowed easy exit. Assuming I could open one and try wriggling through before Kirk had time to squeeze off a few rounds at my derriere.

  “Miss Walsh. I should like to speak with you.”

  This was new. Verbal communication as opposed to guns. I stayed silent. He smiled. Interesting. When the man smiled, he had a charm not unlike Briggan’s. An incongruous thought flitted through my brain. Kirk Mahindra looked like he was in his midfifties. When this man had been in his thirties female hearts doubtless had shattered throughout India. He extended his hand to me.

  “Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable outside this cramped space. Yes?”

  Better and better. Talking in the open air where security guards might hear me scream when I needed to. Then again, Mahindra might have trussed up the night shift and replaced them with his cronies, who were now hiding in Ferris wheel seats with M16s aimed at Raj’s trailer.

  Mahindra motioned toward a bench about twelve feet away. I followed him, hoping he couldn’t hear my knees rattling from fear, think there was a tommy gun behind him, and order the business associates to shoot first and ask questions later.

  Mahindra waited while I sat, then placed himself at a proper distance from me. He smiled again.

  “Miss Walsh. As well as being an attractive woman, you appear to be an intelligent one. A professional. I am going to appeal to you on those grounds.”

  What did that mean? He’d decided complimenting me could gain him more trust? He’d discarded the notion I was just some bimbo who wouldn’t mind being shot or having her throat slit? I pulled my attention back to his words.

  “I am a businessman, Miss Walsh. One who does not enjoy seeing a deal blow up in his face.”

  I held up my hand. “Wait. If I recall correctly, you were the one doing the blowing up right as Ray Decore was about to clinch his deal with Khan. Turns out he didn’t care to go through with it as planned and actually hand over any rupees, but I didn’t know that at the time and I doubt you did either.”

  “True, I did not know. But even if Mr. Decore had brought millions of rupees with him to the bar, it would not have made a difference. Khan originally promised the Saraswati statue to me. Me, you understand. Not Decore.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Yes, Miss Walsh. Himali Khan lied to me. As your boss did you. Khan made a deal with me over a month ago. I came to Hot Harry’s in order to give that cheater the money and collect the statue. My statue.”

  I looked into his eyes. Soft brown eyes that held only a hint of the anger behind them. Eyes that were likely to change and display savage fury if the man did not get what he wanted.

  “Look, Mr. Mahindra. You were cheated. Sort of. I mean, no money had been exchanged as far as I saw. Ray got cheated, although he was prepared to do his own cheating. Sort of. I’m confused.”

  I sat up a bit straighter. “Not to change the subject, but I need to tell you, Ray wasn’t really my boss. He hired me through the firm I work for. A very reputable firm. The firm who will wonder why Tempe Walsh is not in her office in a day or two.”

  He nodded. He was no dummy. He got it.

  I continued. “Where was I? Oh. It sounds like Khan is pretty much a snake out to cheat everyone. But having you hunt me through every lowlife dive in Bombay is, well, not nice.”

  “When did I hunt you through a lowlife dive?”

  I thought. “Oops. Sorry. I got you confused with Patel. Seymour Patel et al. The night I did the shimmy at C.C. Curry’s. I can’t keep everyone straight.”

  He seemed to be stifling a laugh. “I believe I would have paid good money to witness that ‘shimmy’ as you call it.”

  His face hardened. He sniffed. “Patel. Now he is indeed someone you would refer to as a lowlife. He has no business trying to retrieve the statue. He has no love for art. He wants to pawn the jewels. Imbecile. Barbarian.”

  Mahindra pulled out an elegant gold case from his breast pocket, lit a cigarette, then offered one to me. He politely blew the smoke past my ear once I’d made it plain I did not care to indulge.

  I agreed with his assessment of his competition. “Patel must have bought Shiva’s Diva over the same conference call that your slimy Mr. Khan seems to have made with you and Ray. But I have to ask. From what I understand, the legend states this statue comes with a curse. Doesn’t that worry you guys even a little?”

  Mahindra smiled. “I know about the curse and the blessing. Unlike Mr. Patel, I am a lover of the arts, Miss Walsh. Saraswati will bless me, of this I am certain. Patel is a swine. He will inherit the curse only, should he ever find himself in possession of the goddess.”

  I seemed to recall that Brig had claimed whoever owned the Diva needed to have a creative, gorgeous soul to be blessed, rather than end up without the use of one’s vocal chords. Or wealth. Or ability to reproduce. I decided it would be imprudent to point out this particular component of the legend. “Generous and creative soul” didn’t seem descriptive of Mahindra’s character.

  He dismissed both Patel’s involvement and the curse. He inhaled the half-smoked cigarette. “The goddess. Shiva’s Diva as you and Mr. O’Brien so cavalierly, and oddly, refer to the statue. That brings me back to the reason for visiting you this evening. Where is it?”

  I almost laughed. The man had to be packing a gun in the other breast pocket. He’d already demonstrated no inhibitions as regards shooting at me in public places. Now the pair of us sat on a bench in the middle of the studio lots of Vivek Productions while we discussed this cursed statue as though we faced each other in a boardroom on Wall Street.

  And I would have given it to him. The damn statue had come close to costing me my life. I’d seen it twice. First, when Khan had unfolded it from the bag plastered with Miss June displaying her wares. Then I’d seen the Diva peeking out of my old tote bag when Brig and I had collapsed at his hotel.

  I had no desire to own the statue, sell it, or hear about it. My wisest course of action two days ago would have been to take it, and myself, to the American Embassy—instead of listening to Brig O’Brien, the vanishing Renaissance man, who hadn’t returned by close of filming today.

  “Mr. Mahindra? You’re not going to believe me. I don’t have clue number one where Shiva’s Diva is. Really.”

  He stared at me. This time when he exhaled, the smoke came toward my face. Neither of us spoke. My back felt chilled. Ninety-plus degrees (even at ten-thirty P.M.) but I was freezing. Doubtless due to the many pairs of cold eyes staring at my back through rifle scopes.

  “Then Briggan O’Brien has it. Of this I am now certain, Miss Walsh.”

  I looked him right in the eyes. “No. He doesn’t. Brig sold it.”

  Mahindra stared at me. I gazed back and did not flinch. One of Asha’s improv classes might have come in handy right then. Then again, I didn’t need it. When one is trying to defend another’s life, lying comes easier.

  “To whom did he sell it?”

  I shook my head. Seconds later, a demon overtook me. “I’m not sure, mind you. But I think Ray has it now. He really had the money all the time. He just didn’t want to meet Khan’s price. We were at the hotel and Brig stayed behind, so don’t quote me on this.”

  Too much. I needed to shut up. Siccing Mahindra on Ray might not be considered charitable, but since Ray had tried to kill me not too long ago, I figured it was justice to let the bad guys fight it out amongst themselves.

  Mahindra wouldn’t resort to murder without first being sure he had the statue. Ray didn’t have it, ergo, no slaying. Logical conclusion or not, it was one I had to sell in order to keep Mahindra from dislodging a weapon at any participants in this game of hot-potato-who’s-got-the-diva.

 
; Kirk Mahindra rose, dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, then mashed it with the same fervor he would likely extend to Ray, Brig, Patel, and, quite probably, me, should Saraswati not be in his hands by tomorrow.

  “Thank you, Miss Walsh. I am sorry your stay in Bombay has not been a pleasant one. There are many places to visit, many I would love to show you. The David Sassoon Library, the Prince of Wales Museum. You are cultured. You would like these places very much.”

  I nodded, speechless. He turned to leave. I could see three figures about thirty feet away from our bench rise from the ground at the same time. He whirled around with the grace of any of the dancers in Jake’s film.

  “Miss Walsh?”

  I looked up at him.

  “If Mr. Decore does not have the statue, we will be closely pursuing Mr. O’Brien. You might tell him that, the next time you see him. And although it is obvious you did not heed my advice the other evening concerning Briggan, you should reconsider. He is not a fit companion for a lady. He is a scoundrel. You are a beautiful woman. You deserve a man worthy of you.”

  With that combined compliment and warning, he strode toward his waiting associates and headed off toward a white stretch limo parked near the carousel.

  I have no idea how long I sat on the bench cursing my stupidity in fabricating a story to Kirk Mahindra.

  “Dumb, Tempe. Unbelievably dumb. Kirk will now hightail it to Ray’s hotel. He’ll knock him around a bit, which might not be a bad thing since Ray deserves it, but he’ll figure out in about twenty seconds that Ray doesn’t have the Diva, because if he did, he’d have been on the first flight to the Cayman Islands or everyone’s favorite resort spot in Pago Pago.”

  I moaned, then continued talking to myself.

  “Okay. Mahindra will know I just lied through my teeth, and then he’ll get right back to hunting down Brig. Which could prove difficult since Brig seems to have managed to make off with that stinkin’ statue with no word to anyone who might possibly care about him. The rat. The stinkin’ double-A-battery-run rat!”

  Chapter 20

  Mahindra had called me an intelligent woman, which might have been true once upon a time. I hadn’t gotten into a spitting contest with Jake and Brig over scholarships and universities, but I currently boasted Bachelors and Masters degrees in subjects that guaranteed real jobs paying real salaries. I’d earned these degrees while also attending gymnastics competitions. Plus shaking my pom-poms for basketball games. Such activities left little time to study, yet I’d maintained an A average. Some people might call that smart.

  In less than a week in India, that intelligence had turned to mush. Oatmeal brain. A nice description of Tempe Walsh. A bright woman would have walked away from Raj’s trailer after conversing with a mobster, albeit a refined and polite one, and run to the nearest embassy.

  Once there, that clever lady would have flung herself on the mercy of the cutest ambassador, then begged for asylum in a far northern land. Norway. Finland. Sweden. Somewhere with snow and ice cream and tall Viking holdovers. A place where the natives had never heard of Shiva’s Diva and were too practical to believe in any curse or blessing not sanctioned by Thor.

  She, Tempe Walsh—clever girl—might explain to this ambassador that, yes, she’d loved dressing up in outrageous outfits and performing gymnastic feats. Becoming friends with India’s foremost actress had been a kick. Dropping clothes for the boys at C.C. Curry’s ladies club and accompanying Robin Hood around town had been exciting.

  She’d go on, though, to tell him that she, Tempe Walsh—oatmeal brain—would like to leave now. But she couldn’t because one of several possible unfriendly parties had stolen all the goods she’d brought to Bombay. Including her passport.

  I doubted it had dropped into Mahindra’s possession. If he’d been the one to take it from my hotel room, he’d have returned it to me this evening. He had no reason to keep it. That left Patel or Ray.

  Or heck, even Brig might have snatched it. I wouldn’t put it past him to have managed to sweet-talk one of the maids into letting him in my room. He had no reason to steal my stuff since he already had Shiva’s Diva, but that didn’t mean I could rule him out as a suspect. He didn’t have a reason for a lot of his actions.

  So, did that clever Tempe Walsh opt for any of these intelligent strategies? Nope. I spent the night at the trailer.

  Maybe I hoped Brig would come looking for me. Maybe he’d be so reassured to find me where he’d left me, he would throw himself at my feet. Beg me to forget all about goddesses and statues and run off to Pago Pago with him. Or maybe I didn’t want to go anywhere near the heart of Bombay since Mahindra and associates were still sorting out who had what and what they planned to do to whoever did not.

  The true answer to my staying put might have been that, once again, exhaustion ruled more than the wit to care whether any of the previous associates came bursting through the tiny window over the kitchen sink, guns and knives drawn and blazing, in the next six hours or so.

  One of the major, or minor, goddesses did bestow a small blessing on me. I spent the rest of the night in peace, managed a good three hours’ sleep, and was dressed and ready when Asha knocked on my door at seven in the morning.

  “You don’t have to be in costume today, didja know that? You get to watch. Me too.”

  “Hi, Asha. Good to see you. How’s the yacht?”

  “Oh yeah. Hi, Tempe. The yacht? Oh man. Super. Big, ostentatious, and romantic, and Jake and I are on again! So, I see you made it through the night alive?”

  I grabbed the little black purse Brig had included in the shopping spree from Kemps Corner and followed Asha out the door. “Barely. I had a visitor.”

  “Brig? Is he back?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I have no idea where the elusive Mr. O’Brien is. Or whether he made it through the night either.”

  I stared ahead of me. Asha’s blue car was parked by the carousel.

  “The baby blue bomb is in the open. Aren’t you worried it’ll be recognized?”

  She shrugged. “Hey. If anyone is stupid enough to chase me in the T-Bird, it’s his bad luck if he catches me. I’m in no mood to hide from creeps. I have a life. Damned if Patel or Decore or that other clown is going to keep me from it. I’ll call my parents and tell them to sic the guys from Tony’s bar in Jersey City on ’em. They want to act like mobsters? Ha! I’ll show ’em mobsters. So, who was your visitor, if not Brig?”

  “Dog number three. Kirk Mahindra.”

  “Holy shit! Mahindra came out here?”

  I told her about my conversation with the man.

  “You told him Brig sold it to Ray? Wow! Talk about gutsy. What are you going to do when he realizes you just cooked up a major whopper? Which might be pretty soon.”

  “I did think about that. My reasoning is Mahindra knows Brig has, or had, Shiva’s Diva. Even if he and Ray hash it out and figure that neither of them is in possession of the little charmer—the statue that is, not Brig—they’ll try and find him. Not me. Mahindra seemed quite satisfied that Brig never came near my trailer last night.”

  Asha mumbled, “Which is why you’re grumpy this A.M.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard that, Asha. First, I am not grumpy. Sleepy, dopey, even sneezy perhaps after all the cigarette smoke Mahindra blew in my face last night. But not grumpy. Second, even if I am grumpy, I don’t want to hear your theories as to why I’m grumpy if they have anything to do with the fact that Brig is missing and did not spend last night lingering in my arms.”

  We smiled at each other. I switched topics back to her love life, not my lack of one. “Tell me. What’s up with the wedding? You and Jake on again?”

  She nodded, licking her lips like a contented cat sitting on a carton of Cool Whip. “I spent the first part of the evening gazing out over the waters with the foxiest man I could find on that yacht. And Jake spent that time glaring, muttering, and following us from stem t
o stern or whatever those parts of a boat are called.”

  “So?”

  “So, about midnight, Mr. Jake Roshan decided he’d had enough. He politely told my semidate to take a long swim toward Chowpatty Beach, then he grabbed me and hauled me off to his room. Or suite. I’m not up on nautical terminology. Anyway, I think he’s watched too many dailies of Carnival of Lust. Very forceful.”

  She grinned. “I loved it. There are times the alpha male has his place in the world. Last night was one of them. Anyway, he agreed that using the start of our marriage as a publicity stunt might not be the best idea he’s ever had. He’s just been really worried about budget for the film and he lost sight of the romance in the all-too-true reality that our wedding would rake in one heck of a lot of media attention, meaning great box office for opening.”

  “Yee haw! This is wonderful! So, Woodbridge is it?”

  “Yep. I did agree to several massive, disgusting, gaudy, tasteless parties here, though. One to announce the engagement formally, one before we leave for America, and one when we get back, which will be just in time for the gala premiere of Carnival of Lust. I happen to adore gaudy tasteless parties. But I want to spend some time in the States before I’m forced to take the seniors bus to Atlantic City for my gambling spree.”

  She glanced at me as we hopped into the car. “You have to come back for that, you know. Not the gambling spree. Unless you want to hit A.C. with me. We’d have a hell of a time. I’m as good at blackjack as I am at pool. Anyway. I meant the film opening. Not only since you’ll be my maid of honor, and therefore part of this whole party scene, but so you can see the movie.”

  “Asha! Of course! Thank you. Believe it or not, I’ve never been a bridesmaid, much less a maid of honor. Just don’t let Reena design the gowns, okay?”

  We grinned at each other.

  “Tempe? I also want you to get to tour the city when things are a bit less stressful. You haven’t seen Bombay at its best, you know, and there are some terrific sites here. Like, the Sassoon Library is beyond cool, and the Prince of Wales Museum is gorgeous.”