Hot Stuff
Page 31
Brig shook his head. “I work for a firm called Restoration. We . . . well . . . we find lost items and things and we . . . well . . . we restore them to their rightful owners. Simple.”
“Beg pardon?”
He laughed. “You’re going to hit me. Another college buddy asked for help about ten years ago. He was searching for paintings that had been stolen from his grandparents during the Holocaust. The few leads he had led to Amsterdam. I trotted on over and I found the blighters. Both the paintings and the neo-Nazi spawn who had them.”
I had a feeling there was a lot more to this than Brig paddling around the canals, then popping up with a Rembrandt or two in his pocket. Maybe someday the full story would seep out in polite conversation. Perhaps when my hair finally turned gray from old age and not horror.
“Yes? Go on.”
“My buddy became my business partner. Actually, he funds Restoration. People like Claire and Sachin come to us for help in getting back pieces that have been stolen from them. No matter how long ago they were taken, it’s still stinking thievery. I dislike people absconding with others’ belongings. Hence the name Restoration.”
“I guess that clears up a few things. Kind of.” I paused. “Wait a second. I do have one other question.”
Brig kissed me. “Anything.”
“Who exactly is Saint Swithen?”
He assumed his brogue. “Swithen was a foin bishop plyin’ his trade in the latter half of the first century, don’t ya know. Legend has it, if it rains on Swithen’s day in July, then it’ll rain for the next forty days. Not a damn thing to do with the affair of Shiva’s Diva, but I love his name. And ya know, the sun shone on the bishop’s feast day this past July?”
“Where? Here in Bombay? During monsoon season?”
“Nope. Manhattan. I remember that day. July twelfth. The heat wave had broken but no rain. I’d just spied a red-haired beauty in a cream-colored blouse and jade earbobs juggling coffee cups on her way to an elevator in a building on the corner of forty-ninth and seventh.”
“What?”
“Aye. Mind now, I didn’t know ’twas you. But I did some talkin’ with the good bishop and asked his help in arrangin’ a meeting in honor of his own blessed day. And he did.”
I blinked. “So you’re saying Saint Swithen stuck me with you at Hot Harry’s just because you made a request?”
“Yes.”
I had no response for this other than to ignore him. My new intended who believed in Indian goddesses and first-century weather saints.
Funny. I remembered July twelfth. Two days after my birthday. I’d worn my cream-colored blouse and jade earrings that had been a birthday gift from my aunt Moira, another Irishborn American who adhered to the credo of the little people, rainbows, and all saints canonized before the seventeenth century.
“Got it. So. Any more fables, myths, or great Irish stories I need to know? And what were you doing in my building anyway? Assuming that was even me. I mean I.”
“The diamond district is only a few blocks away. And, don’t worry, I’ll fill you in on the tales of my exploits with Restoration throughout the years. We have time. And don’t imagine I’ll leave you at home when I’m doing a job. Aside from not being able to be parted from you for more than an hour or so, you’ll be an asset in the work.”
I didn’t ask why he was loitering in the diamond district. I didn’t care. My thoughts were focused on the years of listening to Brig telling me about his adventures and making me part of his life.
Asha had not stopped beaming at us. Jake took a more practical stance. “I must ask this of you both. Would you be in my next movie? After all, I had to steal Tempe’s passport to keep her here this past week. Do I need to do worse?”
My eyes nearly popped. “You took it? You? Why on earth?”
Jake snickered. He didn’t seem the least sorry.
“Brig told me to. He didn’t want you to hop aboard the fastest flight back to New York. And after I saw your dancing and those marvelous aerial tricks, I was very glad he convinced me to commit this slight misdemeanor so you would stay. Don’t worry. I still have both the passport and your suitcase in my trailer.”
I squinched my eyes at Brig. “What was this about not approving of stealing? Huh? What do you call sneaking into my hotel room and snatching my passport? And I thought you were trying to keep me safe?”
Brig didn’t seem at all sorry either. “ ’Twas for a good cause, lass. For sartin. I knew I loved you the second I saw you come sashayin’ into Hot Harry’s Saloon. I hadn’t been plannin’ on Mahindra’s bullets forcin’ ya into me arms, but once you were there, I was determined ta keep ya. Forever and a day. I hoped that the heat generated between us would keep ya here, but just in case? I couldn’t have ya hoppin’ aboard a jet and out of me life, I swear. I had no idea you’d keep gettin’ inta trouble now.”
The man was incorrigible. I hoped Saint Swithen would help keep him exactly that way.
Jake continued as though the discussion about stolen passports hadn’t just taken place. “I plan on using the footage I shot today, so you’re already in the best scenes for the new movie. Yes?”
Brig had started kissing me again. We stopped long enough to turn and stare at Jake. He smiled.
“Tempe, luv? What do you think? Ready to be a star? I can see the posters now. The Return of Shiva’s Diva, starring Asha Kumar, soon to also be Missus Jake Roshan, plus Briggan and Tempe O’Brien. All newlyweds. A great publicity move. And, of course, introducing Binky the heroic elephant. Jake might even have to bring back Spot the tiger and let both Tempe and Asha sing to her.”
Asha brightened. “And Sparky the snake. Don’t forget her. And her sister, Fluffy. I mean brother, I guess.”
Brig sighed. “I was trying not to remember. If you must, Asha. Just keep them both a good ten yards away from me and I’ll remove all elephants from your sight? Deal?”
Jake whooped. “You’ll do it, then? Both of you? We can shoot on location at Hot Harry’s and at the Taj Mahal Hotel. We’ll film at the Flora Fountain. We can add a few scenes in the park with the animals. I’ll even let Asha ride the llama if she wants. It will be magnificent.”
All eyes turned to me. I rolled my shoulders in a pure dance isolation move. I fluttered my lashes.
“Oh heck. Why not? My mother will go nuts. In a good way. Let’s see. First, I get married. That she won’t really care about. I mean, she’ll adore Brig and be pleased for us.”
I paused to curl up solidly within the circle of the adored one’s arms. “But the movie? Oh, lads and lassies. She’ll be about shoutin’, screamin’, shriekin’ proud, and ya’d best be believin’ it. Because after all these many years, and after all the lessons? Finally, her darlin’ daughter will be a star.”
About the Author
Flo Fitzpatrick is a performer and choreographer, with a BFA in Dance and a Masters degree in Drama. She first attempted to write a novel at the age of eight, but was persuaded not to submit the piece by her brothers, who were skeptical that her characters were traveling across the Atlantic from New York to London—by train. A transplanted Texan, Flo currently lives in New Jersey with her husband, singer/actor Edmound Fitzpatrick, and their two Border Collie wannabes, Lucy and Huckleberry.
Visit Flo’s website at www.flofitzpatrick.com.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2302-9
Copyright © 2005 by Flo Fitzpatrick
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