Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Bombay had gone as speechless as one of the Diva’s cursed. Admittedly, I hadn’t given him a chance to say much. If Brig could blather to squirm out of a tight situation, well, then so could I.

  Brig stood at the bottom of the stairway. His eyes were wide. He chewed his lip to hide his laughter, but his shoulders shook. Mr. Bombay appeared stupefied.

  Briggan O’Brien was amused. Briggan O’Brien was also laden with a little extra baggage. The infamous tote bag, which had been nonexistent when we walked in, now rested over his shoulder.

  Bombay remained in the trance I’d put him with my spate of words. He wouldn’t have noticed whether Brig had brought a new bag with him or was starting a conga line with the customers.

  The manager quickly ushered the pair of us to the door with assurances that the contracts would be drawn up within the next two days and that he would be most pleased to have Miss la Tour dance at his club for the three weeks of her stay in Bombay. He didn’t add “as long as she shuts up,” but the meaning was implicit.

  I smiled and called, “Peace out, bro!” as we left. Mr. Bombay closed his eyes. I assumed he’d begun entreating Saraswati herself to remove my vocal chords before I hit his stage.

  We were out. I breathed in the night like a marathon runner breathes oxygen. Brig opened the door to the Jeep, although I could easily hop in. I appreciated the courtesy. I didn’t feel too kindly toward the majority of the male sex just then.

  Neither of us said anything for the first mile. But once I felt safely away from Hot Mares, I turned to Brig.

  “Thanks for trying to keep me out of there tonight. And thanks for getting both of us out with all parts intact.”

  “I am so sorry. I should have dropped you at the racetrack. You’d’ve been safer and happier in the stables. I knew this place had sleazy written all over it. Although I honestly didn’t know it was this bad. Last night they were closed. I did see the posters for the films and the ads and thought it might be a bit, um, tacky. But not quite so hostile. I’m truly sorry.”

  I waved my hand at him. “It’s okay. I’m just glad I didn’t have to audition for our Mr. Bombay. A man whose mama is doubtless so proud of the profession chosen by her baby boy. And you got the bag. Cool.”

  He nodded. “I stashed her under the sound board. No one ever looks under something like that. Unless there’s a problem with the music.”

  We pulled off the road. I lifted the tote bag off my lap. It felt heavy but not painfully so.

  I handed it to Brig. He reached inside, then brought out the statue, still wrapped in the T-shirt with the film logo for Fountain.

  He removed the cloth. We both stared at the winning trophy for a horse named Miscommunication.

  Chapter 32

  “That’s not her!” I exclaimed inanely and unnecessarily.

  “Great Saint Anthony! She’s been switched.”

  We looked at each other, then back at the trophy. Same size and relative shape as the Diva. Brig hadn’t had a chance to check out the bag. He’d been bandying words with the sound techie so the man wouldn’t notice Brig sneaking the carryall from under the booth.

  “Who do you suppose got her?”

  Brig sat back in the driver’s seat. “Patel.”

  “Why him? Why not Ray or Mahindra or even some unknown slimepuppy from that dreadful club?”

  “Ray couldn’t have been following me around the city yesterday. His wound made for some heavy sleeping. And Mahindra wouldn’t have substituted a trophy. He’d merely take the statue and be off with her. No wasted words or actions for our friend, Kirkee. But Patel? He’d want to rub our noses in it. Show us up. Prove how clever he is.”

  He whirled the Jeep around. “I’m going back to see if anyone fitting Patel’s description might have been in the club today. You scrunch down and hide. I’ll walk.”

  I stayed silent. This time Brig parked the Jeep in the racetrack parking lot alongside two other vehicles.

  He sprinted toward the club, a good mile down the road. I tried to stay calm, but I kept worrying that some night watchman for Mahalaxmi Racetrack would demand to know why an American tourist was pretending to be invisible in the back of a Jeep that shouldn’t be parked there anyway.

  I began to panic within minutes. I just knew Brig wasn’t coming back. Mr. Bombay and his disgusting doorman had challenged Brig as to why he’d returned so fast. After torturing him, they’d forced him into some dark dungeon in the cellar of the Hot Mares strip club. There to stay until Tassels la Tour did a naked grind routine on Bombay’s office desk for zero pay.

  “Tempe. It’s me.”

  I unwound myself from under the seat for the second time this evening and crawled over the hump. “Well?”

  “Yep. Patel. I asked the sound guy if anyone had been by the club today to look around. Told him a jealous club owner desiring Tassels’ services had been out checking clubs trying to discover if you’d been hired elsewhere. Mr. Soundman remembered a man matching Seymour’s ugly description dropping by around seven. And our techie didn’t care when this man said he wanted to look all around the club.”

  “Just our luck that Patel found the Diva and made the switch.”

  Brig nodded. “Probably did it right in front of him, since the kid is a cultural nerd. Excellent with tech equipment but wouldn’t know a priceless work of art unless it came with wires, batteries, and cables.

  “So it was Patel. That’s just swell. The worst of the lot, as you might say.”

  Brig slammed his fist on the steering wheel as we headed back to Bombay. “Damn! I’m such a bloody great idiot. I was so busy fretting about Mahindra following me from Claire’s that it never occurred to me that Patel had the wit to do the same. I’ll wager he’d staked me out all day and night, the sneakin’ bastard.”

  Since Brig had spent the latter part of last night in a trailer making passionate love to one Tempe Walsh, this news did not thrill me. Patel, the clueless, by now had figured out that Brig and I were more than comrades in the Shiva’s Diva escapades. A lot more.

  Brig seemed to read my mind. “Don’t worry about Patel. He’s got the statue now. He won’t be concerned with us. Worse the luck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brig stopped the car on the side of the road and took my hands in his.

  “This is a crazy thing to ask, but how far would you be willing to trust me?”

  “Brig? Why? What are you planning?”

  “To get the Diva back.”

  “Ah. I didn’t think you were happy about losing her.”

  “That’s why I’m asking about trust. I do promise you that if all goes well, soon Shiva’s Diva will be in a place where her blessings will be poured out. Perhaps for the first time in centuries.”

  I put the trophy back in the bag, then laid my hand over Brig’s forearm.

  “You want to go after Patel, don’t you?”

  Brig stayed silent.

  I paused to reflect on the situation, then lifted my chin in an attitude of bravado.

  “Well, why not? I’ve been through hell because of that weasel. He’s tried to kill us at least once a day. He kidnapped Asha, which does not come under the heading of sporting things to do. I’ve just spent the last hour in a den of iniquity so . . . so . . . iniquitous I need a shower to wash off my disgust. Plus we’ve been humiliated and bested.”

  Brig stared at the sky, obviously waiting for me to finish and make a decision.

  I inhaled. “Well. I’ll be damned if I just get on the next plane back to the States knowing that Seymour Patel has his greasy hands on Shiva’s Diva. I say we go after her. And if you know where the goddess can bless instead of curse, then it’s time to get her there.”

  Brig’s laughter sailed out into the night over the bay. “Sure you’re not Irish on both sides, lass? ’Tis a fine speech ya just made and one I’m approvin’ of. Aside from the statue getting to a good home, I’ve been thinking those same things as concerns Patel. I don’t like our g
oddess locked up with him while he scours the Internet, no doubt looking for a buyer as rotten as he is. I can see it now. Crooked deals dot com. Meantime he keeps kidnapping and knifing folks along the way.”

  He stared at me. “Tempe, if you’re truly game, then I say it’s time for a rescue.”

  I sat up tall in the passenger seat. “I’m game. Believe me. And I won’t even ask you about Saraswati’s next, and hopefully final, home. But two things.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, first of all, how do we find Mr. Patel? I doubt the man has a phone, other than cell, much less a permanent address. And secondly, can we get something to eat before we start a long night of burglary, thievery, and whatever else you have planned?”

  Brig started the car and put it into gear. “There’s an allnight café on the south end of Marine Road. Designed with American tourists in mind. You can even get a good burger there if that’s what you want.”

  “Oh yeah. Maybe a cheeseburger with onion rings. Fries. The works. Followed by chocolate cream pie and some serious coffee with whipped cream and lots of sugar.”

  When Brig finished laughing he leaned over and kissed me. I responded with enthusiasm and equal pressure. Then I realized we were still driving and I pushed him away.

  “This is great fun, but maybe you should concentrate on avoiding the other drivers? So. Any ideas on how we track down Patel?”

  “We don’t have to. He’s listed. And you’ll love this, darlin’—he lives with his mother.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. I tracked down everyone who’s shown an interest in the Diva since I first heard about Khan’s sinister little auction. I discovered that Seymour Patel maintains a residence with his dear old mum.”

  “I didn’t think he had one.”

  Brig snickered. “Thought he sprouted out of the ground, did you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Diner.”

  “What?”

  “We’re here. Diner. Food for Tempe. Let me hide the Jeep in the back parking lot. I’ll feel safer.”

  I was still marveling over Patel’s choice of housing ten minutes later as I gobbled down a burger, fries, salad, and a banana split. (They were out of chocolate cream pie.) Brig had ordered black coffee.

  “It’s rather amazing, Brig.”

  “What? That I’m content to sip a wee bit of caffeine while you devour your fourth or fifth meal of the day? What’s really amazing, Tempe, is you’re able to still do handsprings over Ferris wheels with that kind of stuff in your system. And you don’t gain an ounce.”

  “I’m not talking about you and your coffee. That’s just boring. No offense. After all, you have to have a few dents in that armor of dashing hero. No, I’m still thinking about Patel and mommy. Do you think she knows her baby boy is a thug and a killer?”

  “She probably hasn’t a single clue. Thinks all the trinkets in her flat are got by sonny lad toiling in the textile mills each day.”

  “Either that or she’s Mrs. Fagin and she’s the one who trained her little Artful, wait, make that Artless, Dodger in techniques of knife throwing and bagging movie actresses.”

  We grinned at each other. Brig stood, then graciously helped me up from the cozy booth.

  “Ready for a spot of burglary?”

  “Sure. Maybe I’ll finally learn how to pick locks.”

  “I’ll try and give you a few pointers while I’m engaged in the actual picking. If it comes to that.”

  “What? No breaking and entering? We’re going to walk up to the door in the dead of night and ask Mrs. Patel if Seymour is expecting us in the parlor for tea and cookies?”

  Brig smiled at me. “Not exactly. I’m contemplating a bit of a diversion. Nothing fancy. Just setting off a smoke alarm while you yell ‘Fire’ in as many Indian dialects as you know. Simple, really.”

  I considered this. Sounded plausible. It also sounded as if Brig had used this same diversion more than once in his career. Whatever that might be. I planned to ask him sometime when I had him in a position where he couldn’t switch topics. Lying on his back while I covered him with kisses might work before he ran his hands through my hair, then flipped me to lie underneath him.

  I mentally shook myself. This was not the time to be engaging in all-too-vivid visions of lust and passion.

  Patel maintained an apartment in a section of town so rundown I wondered whether anyone would even bother to care about impending blazes. Most of the buildings looked as if they burned to the ground on a nightly basis, then were rebuilt the next day. I shuddered. Brig glanced at me and I knew he’d followed my every thought.

  “You okay? You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “No. I want to get the statue back as much as you do, and quite frankly, if you dumped me back at the restaurant to wait, I’d just worry and eat too much, and worry and get mad at you for not letting me help out.”

  Brig smiled. “I’m glad you said that. It’s extremely nice having you with me. And I don’t think we’ll be in any great danger this time. With all the people scurrying out of Patel’s building once we sound the alarm, no one should pay any mind to two extras in the melee.”

  He frowned. “Although you need to tuck your hair back again. It’s a mite too eye-catching. Charmin’, lass, but noticeable.”

  I tilted my nose up in an attitude of superiority. I reached into my purse and pulled out a black beret that neatly covered every bit of the red.

  “Lovely,” he said. “How do women do that? It’s like the clowns in the tiny cars at the circus.”

  I smiled. “It’s a gift given to all women at birth. The ability to pack a myriad of needed articles into purses that won’t strain one’s shoulder after five minutes.”

  I gazed up at him and assumed a good O’Brien brogue. “On the subject of hidin’, what about you, Mr. Six-Foot-Four? Aren’t ya about thinkin’ folks will be wonderin’ about the big Irish lad wanderin’ amongst the little people during this false alarm?”

  “We’el, there I might be after exaggeratin’ a bit about the ease of the mission. While you’re yellin’ and hollerin’ in the halls, I’ll be doin’ a bit of that odd B and E you’re so fond of. Plan A is sneaking into Patel’s place through the back window.”

  Chapter 33

  Brig parked the Jeep across from another ratty tenement. Literally. The rats doubtless paid monthly rent to slumlords and had better apartments than most of the human residents. For a moment I felt sorry for Patel. No one should have to live like this. The fact that over half of Bombay’s population did was a sad fact of life.

  A few homeless beggars wandered the street in search of shelter for what remained of the night. Other than those achingly miserable people, Brig and I appeared to be the only folks stirring.

  The door leading into what passed for a lobby stood open. The latch was broken and bottles and cigarette butts were littered from the door to the stairwell. Posters from old Masala movies graced the walls. I spotted an ad for Pirate Princess on the wall nearest the elevator and couldn’t help wondering how many times Patel and Mama had seen the DVD.

  I whispered to Brig, “Do you think such a thing as a smoke alarm even exists? This place doesn’t look like it’s exactly up on the latest hardwired equipment.”

  Brig pointed to an alarm pull. It had been painted bright red and appeared to be new. Next to the alarm pull stood an ancient elevator. A sign in Marathi reading “Out of Order” had been tacked over the Up button. It looked like it had been there since before India won independence from the Brits. Around 1947? Heck if I could remember just now.

  Brig headed back outside. “Give me about four minutes, then hit the alarm and start yelling. Then get yourself back out onto the street and hide behind anything taller than you are.”

  “Wait. Brig. You’re taking the fire escape, right? To get to the window? What makes you think Patel won’t use that to run out?”

  “He’s on the first floor. It’ll
be much easier to leave by the door, especially with dear ol’ Mum in tow.”

  “You don’t think he’ll know it’s us and grab the statue as he leaves?”

  Brig exhaled soundlessly. “It’s a chance we’ve got to take. If he does and you spot him with anything that looks like our goddess, you whistle.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why? You afraid they’ll spot you and begin the chase?”

  I blushed. “It’s not that. I don’t know how. Never could whistle. I’ve tried to learn at various times in my life but never got the technique down.”

  He grinned. “What’s that line from the old Bogart and Bacall film about putting lips together and blowing? You must know it, Miss Movie Buff. Anyway, whistling lessons are definitely in the program for later. All that lip pursing. I’m looking forward to it.”

  He leaned down and gave me a nice sample, then winked. “Meantime, if you see Patel with Shiva’s Diva or any package that even looks like her, well . . . let me think for a second. I don’t want you to scream. That could attract their attention.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Sing.”

  “Sing? Oh. Sure. Okay.”

  How he figured singing would cause less notice than screaming I couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t logical and it wasn’t sane. But then, breaking into the apartment of a kidnapper and thief might not merit an award for great analysis or sound thinking.

  Brig kissed me again and I must admit I clung to him and extended that “lip pursing” even while keeping an eye out for anyone who might decide to enter the building.