Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Jake turned to Brig and me with tears in his eyes. “I just wanted to see if I could talk to Asha to make sure she is alive. I guess I ticked him off too much?”

  Brig reached over and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Jake. Patel won’t kill her. He wants that statue too badly. And he knows he won’t get it until you’ve been assured that Asha truly is unharmed. When he calls next, don’t give him time to start what that idiot called ‘orders.’ I swear, the man needs a translator. His English stinks.”

  “I’m not volunteering for the job,” I interjected.

  Brig threw me a not-now-with-the-humor look and continued to tell Jake what to do.

  “Ask him to put Asha on the phone and tell him you’ll throw Shiva’s Diva into the water of Chowpatty Beach to bond with the latest Ganesh idol if you don’t hear her voice pronto.”

  Jake nodded, then laid his head down on the table. He looked like he planned to stay there every minute of those next three hours. Waiting. Brig motioned me to follow him and let Jake worry in peace.

  In silence, we took our mugs into the den. I looked up at Brig as he leaned against a mantel, then began cleaning the pieces on it with a feather duster he’d found on a small table nearby.

  “Brig? Thanks for agreeing to give up Shiva’s Diva. For Asha.”

  He stared at me. “Did you really think I wouldn’t give up the goddess, with Asha’s life almost in my hands?”

  I shook my head. “No. I didn’t. I don’t know what your usual modus operandi is for snatching stolen goods, but I do believe you’d never jeopardize another life just to keep a piece, no matter how precious.”

  He bowed. “Thank you for that somewhat mixed opinion of me. For the record, I don’t steal. I know it appears that way to you, but I promise you I don’t.”

  I looked into his eyes. “So, that being made clear, where is our little dear? I still can’t figure out how you’ve managed to keep it hidden all this time. I mean, you gave me back the tote bag on the set the other morning, but I didn’t notice any figurines coming along with it.”

  He smiled. “Purloined Letter, luv.”

  “What?”

  “Poe’s classic. Didn’t you read it in high school?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve read it. More than once. The gist, if I recall, is that to hide something of value you must put in plain sight along with similar items. In Poe’s story, a letter.”

  Brig nodded and continued to dust. I narrowed my eyes at him. The man didn’t strike me as being a model of domesticity, and Jake’s servants were more than adept at keeping a clean home. I focused on the shelf as the duster swept the objects clean. And saw it.

  Jake’s mantel had been decorated with a hodgepodge of film-award statuettes, idols in the form of Shiva, Ganesh, Lakshmi, and at least three other Hindu gods or goddesses. Five carousel music boxes shaped like horses formed a circle around another idol. Not any idol. Shiva’s Diva.

  “Sweet Saraswati! It’s her.”

  “Exactly.”

  He took the piece off the mantel and gently ran the duster over it. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  I hadn’t had much of a chance to see Shiva’s Diva close up. While Ray had been wheeling and dealing, I’d been translating and not terribly concerned with the object of the negotiations. The only part of her I’d really seen had been the upside-down lute, which had caused me to question her authenticity.

  Brig handed her to me. She stood no more than twelve inches high, with fine, sculpted lines and features that spoke of nothing but serenity. Rubies glittered over the upside-down lute, and diamonds and rubies decorated the weapon this goddess would never have carried. Shiva’s Diva. The lady who’d caused such a fuss. A lady who blessed the creative in life and cursed the greedy.

  “She’s beautiful. I see why everyone wants her, aside from the price angle and the blessings. Should one be so lucky as to earn them rather than their opposite.”

  Brig’s eyes narrowed. “Much as I hate to deliver Saraswati into the hands of a swine like Patel, I cling to the lovely thought that he’ll be a penniless, speechless wreck within weeks. And if he keeps our goddess, that’s what will happen. Though he’ll more likely just sell her fast for big money.”

  He sighed. I handed him the statue. Jake entered in time to see Brig take the goddess back.

  “That’s her? The statue the three hounds are hunting?”

  We nodded. Jake walked directly over to Brig. For a second I thought he would strike him. Jake’s life had been turned around because of Brig. His house had been put in danger. And not just his physical abode. Asha, his love, might not make it to the wedding she’d been so determined to have in America.

  Jake reached out and hugged Brig so tightly I expected to hear bones snap.

  “Thank you for agreeing to give it to Patel. That biimaar jhiigaa.”

  Jake had just called Patel a “sick shrimp” in Hindi. I nodded in agreement with the sentiment, but I couldn’t help wonder why he and Brig seemed to want to defile innocent cephalopod mollusks (squids) and hapless crustacea.

  Brig turned red. “Jake. I’m so sorry I hid it here. Sorry you and Asha ever got involved. You’re my best friend, but I’ve brought nothing but disaster to you.”

  I didn’t get included in this little apology. Perhaps Brig thought his game of hide-and-seek had enthralled me. And, thinking about it, maybe it had. I could have forced him (how, I’m not sure) to hand it over to the authorities. If not the police, then the embassy. I almost smiled thinking about Asha lusting over the marines who guard the gates. We could use a troop of them in full battle mode just now. Or the good old British cavalry riding to the rescue.

  Jake shook his head. “Brig. This is not your fault. The villain is Patel.”

  “Not to mention Mahindra and Ray Decore,” I muttered. The men glanced at me. Both of them had the same expression of sheer panic on their faces.

  Brig spoke first. “Damn! I’d forgotten about them. We’ve got to stick Shiva’s Diva into Patel’s hands and get Asha back home safely without either of that lot barging in and taking the statue from us before we can deliver her.”

  As one, we sank onto Jake’s spacious sofa. After a moment or two I stood again.

  “Guys. Let’s not borrow trouble, okay? Look, we don’t even know where Patel plans to meet. And Mahindra and Ray would have to be on our tails from the moment we leave here and follow us to figure it out. Plus, they’d have to have discovered this is where the statue’s been kept. They don’t even know Asha’s been kidnapped. At least I guess they don’t.”

  I paused. Mahindra had an uncanny ability to figure out who’d gone where and what had happened. For all I knew, he could be camped under the window pretending to be a shrub in order to eavesdrop. I glanced toward the large glass sliding doors leading to Jake’s patio. No movement from the banyan trees. I needed to do something before my imagination had the man popping out of Jake’s coffeepot.

  “I’m going to make some more coffee. And some dinner. We’ve got two hours and thirty minutes to wait.”

  I tried to smile. “We need to keep up our strength for dealing with Patel. No one needs to pass out and faint while we’re in the middle of our big rescue of Asha.”

  Brig rolled his eyes, smiled, then said, “In other words, Tempe’s hungry.”

  Chapter 24

  Midnight. Brig, Jake, and I were still in the kitchen, still sipping coffee, and still trying to finish the food we’d been pushing around our plates for three hours.

  Jake had used the time to give us a nice lecture on the history of Bombay. He started with the century it was home to Koli fishermen, then took his audience of two through various Hindu dynasties. He explained that Muslim sultans, then Portuguese conquerors had been next up in the we-want-this-city parade. He talked about the British naming the city Bombay, and then Gandhi and the move for independence, and finally the renaming or reclaiming of the name Mumbai in 1995.

  It was all interesting and
informative and I was damn glad there wouldn’t be a test because I hadn’t retained one word of it.

  The phone rang. Jake picked it up and punched the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Roshan?”

  Déjà vu.

  “Yes, Mr. Patel.”

  Silence.

  “I did not tell you my name. Where you hear name? I do not like you know my name.”

  Jake, though a drama major, had never quite mastered the art of deception. Perhaps he’d always just directed others and so he’d skipped Improv 101 himself.

  He now glanced in terror at Brig and me. “Uh. Brig O’Brien thought you might be the one who had Asha? So I figured it was you?”

  Brig rolled his eyes. Jake panicked and stared at the phone like a man seeing such a device for the first time.

  I grabbed it from him. “Mr. Patel! Seymour. Do you mind if I call you Seymour? We’re such old pals now. Listen, Seymour, Jake is coughing in the corner right now and can’t speak. Too much curry in the, uh, curry.”

  Brig tried to take the phone from me, but I wouldn’t let him.

  “Seymour? I’m authorized to take instructions. ‘Orders’ as you so badly termed it. But before I do, I really think you need to put Asha on the line. And don’t even start any business of telling me she’s fine and assuming I’m going to take your stinking lying word for it. Understand this, you filthy squid. The Saraswati statue is currently sitting no more than two feet from me at this very moment, and if Asha Kumar’s lilting tones aren’t sailing over the wire in ten seconds, I will personally toss the statue into the nearest, deepest, most polluted lake and let her swim with Ganesh elephants. Got that, Seymour?”

  I didn’t wait for a response. “Now put her on the phone, you scumbag. Five seconds have passed.”

  I took a deep breath. Jake and Brig were both staring at me with a mixture of horror and admiration. I hoped my bravado would warrant the latter. Where it came from in the first place I had no idea.

  “Yo! Tempe!”

  “Asha! Hey, girl. Where are you?”

  “Good question. One I don’t have an answer for. But do let Jake and Brig know that I’ll be fine as long as that statue gets delivered per ol’ Seymour’s instructions.”

  A cry sounded as the phone must have been twisted from her hand. We heard one more word from Asha. “Shit!”

  Patel came back on the line. “You being satisfied?”

  “Well, that’s not quite the best description of my feelings at the moment but at least I’m a bit more reassured that Asha is okay. A condition that had better remain just that.”

  “Put man I know is still in room back to phone.”

  Jake hadn’t recovered enough to be coherent, so I handed the phone to Brig. He grunted, “Patel.”

  “O’Brien. So nice hear voice. Now you stay silent while I be telling you where you bring Saraswati.”

  Jake and I listened as Patel ran through a complicated set of directions that ended up at some place called The Fort.

  “One hour meet,” was Patel’s good-bye phrase.

  I pursed my lips. “Male chauvinist.”

  “What? Who? Me?” Brig asked.

  “No. Seymour Patel. Grabbing a girl and keeping her hostage like she’s some weak floozy in a melodrama. And then not giving me the directions to The Fort. Like I’m too stupid to understand them.”

  Brig hugged me. “Darlin’ Tempe, we admire your talent with words in all languages, and you’re a damn terrific dancer and you make a wonderful cup of coffee. You also kiss divinely. Something to explore further when we get home tonight. Or, just a bit now.”

  He kissed me, then casually continued his monologue.

  “Where was I? Ah. Mr. Patel is indeed a rotten chauvinist of the worse sort. But no matter how brilliant and independent you are, you’ve been in Bombay less than a week. I’m sure Patel believes, as do Jake and I, that you can rescue Asha single-handedly while singing disco tunes and dancing a fine gig at the same time. But your navigational skills are not quite the ticket just now.”

  He had me there. He could have me in a few other places if he set his mind and body to it, but dwelling on that thought seemed inappropriate just now.

  “Okay. Fine, I think. So, The Fort. Is this some military encampment? How do we break in?”

  Brig and Jake exchanged a look. I intercepted, immediately set my mug on the table, then headed for the den to hunt for my shoes.

  I paused in the doorway for a moment to state, “I know that look. It’s the women-and-children-into-the-lifeboats-and-letthe-brave-men-fight look. Forget it, guys. I’m going.”

  Brig scooped up his own boots and began pulling them on. “Never said you weren’t. And looks to the contrary, never intended for you to stay here. The Fort is what the general area is called. We’re actually making the exchange at the Flora Fountain.”

  Eerie. I remembered talking to Ray Decore back at Hot Harry’s Saloon, telling him that I wanted to visit Flora Fountain. I had intended for that trip to be part of a nice afternoon tour of an older area of Bombay. Rescuing a friend at Flora Fountain had not been part of the original itinerary.

  I nodded at Brig. “Good. Grand. Okay. I’m dressed and ready. You’re dressed and ready. Jake’s been ready for the last three hours. So. How do we get there?”

  Jake had finally snapped out of the fog he’d been sucked into upon hearing his beloved’s voice over the speakerphone. He grabbed Asha’s extra car keys and growled, “We drive. We might as well take Asha’s car. Once we hand over the statue, Asha will be spitting mad if she doesn’t get to work off some steam by tearing around town running over curbs and dodging carts.”

  I tactfully refrained from mentioning that, if we got Asha back and Shiva’s Diva delivered, there would be no room for anyone but Asha and Jake to do that tearing.

  I glanced at Brig. He whispered, “We’ll get back by means of public transportation. I doubt the engaged couple will want the pair of us trailing them about all night anyway.”

  Shiva’s Diva again rested inside a tote bag. This was one of Jake’s he used to lug tons of notes and sketches to and from the studio lot. Pictures from Pirate Princess had been plastered all over it.

  The goddess herself had been wrapped in a T-shirt with a picture of one of Jake’s older movies silk-screened on the front. I shuddered every time I looked at it. The film had a Hindi title that, when translated, meant Fountain of Death. I doubted whether either Brig or Jake had noticed in their haste to dress Shiva’s Diva.

  Taking Asha’s two seater meant I got to sit on Brig’s lap. A location that would have proved enjoyable had not both of us been so worried about Asha. Even so, I found it difficult to keep my mind focused on anything beyond the feeling of Brig’s thighs under mine or his strong arms encircling my waist. I smiled, knowing Asha would understand and approve.

  I turned as best I could and asked Brig, “Think we’ll get to see Asha, before we hand over the statue?”

  “You mean will Patel let us, or is there a spot for viewing the prisoner? Since he said to go to the top of the fountain, no doubt he’ll have her up there with him, though how is a mystery. There are no stairs leading to goddess Flora. Anyway, I’m sure Seymour has Asha bound, gagged, and trussed up tight.”

  Brig winked at me before continuing. “But if you’re worried Jake and I will just deposit Shiva’s Diva on the ground without bringing Asha safely back with us, forget it. First her, then the statue. Those are the rules and I made them quite clear to Patel.”

  The Bombaby Fort area had begun its existence as a British military stronghold built in the 1700s. Fires and natural decay had ruined most of the actual fort, but according to Jake, who acted as tour guide and chauffeur, a few of the walls still stood. The Flora Fountain had been built on the site of one of the former entrances of the fort itself and was the center of a Y-intersection.

  On various sides opposite the fountain were the offices of American Express, the Bombay High Court, and St. Thomas’
s Cathedral. Doubtless Patel’s goons now occupied the bell tower at St. Thomas (if there was one) and had pots of oil boiling and ready to dump over the heads of Asha’s brave rescuers.

  Patel had set the time for the exchange at three A.M. No tourists would be lingering to listen to political radicals expounding their views from the base of Flora Fountain. No taxis would be circling the area waiting to take those tourists off to the National Park or the beach or a quiet museum.

  I wondered if the ghosts of soldiers from centuries ago still haunted the place. If so, would they look more kindly on Patel or on the three desperate people about to invade their privacy at such a late hour?

  I still didn’t like the Tempe-stay-in-the-car-and-wait scenario, but Brig claimed we’d look like an amateur religious revivalist singing trio if all of us went barging around the fountain with our hands waving in the air screaming Asha’s name. The man had a unique way with words. I knew he simply wanted to keep me safe. I would listen to him this one time and not grouse.

  We parked in the street by a vegetable market, opened the doors to the convertible, then stood outside for a few moments, waiting until the precise hour.

  I took the opportunity to stretch. Half my day had been spent riding on the back of an elephant and a quarter of it riding in Asha’s car. Neither mode of transportation had done my rear end any good.

  Three o’ clock in the morning. Time to let go of Shiva’s Diva and bring Asha back to the safety of friends and fiancé. Brig and Jake grabbed the tote bag, then began the three-block walk toward Flora Fountain. I stayed.

  In our haste to get there on time with Shiva’s Diva securely wrapped and ready to become part of Patel’s personal art collection (or immediately sold by the creep for a large sum of rupees), we’d forgotten something. Two things, actually. Well, not things if one wanted to be literal.

  I’m getting to the point. Really. What had slipped our minds were the other two players. One of whom now approached from a limousine a block south from where I stood. The second headed in from the north. Kirk Mahindra and Ray Decore. It was another three dog night.