Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  GOOD VIBRATIONS

  I looked up at Brig in the dim light of the tunnel-like entrance. “How are we supposed to hide down here? Won’t he see us in about ten seconds?”

  Brig motioned toward the couples leaning up against every available space of the walls in this hallway. Every one of them was busily engaged in what I’d term serious making out.

  Brig pulled me close. He found the darkest part of the entranceway. He leaned down and hid me from the opening with his whole body. A body that now pressed against mine with a firmness sending vibrations far different than fear throughout my whole being.

  The man could kiss.

  Hot Stuff

  Flo Fitzpatrick

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  GOOD VIBRATIONS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  In loving memory of Karl Fischer Wendorf,

  July 21, 1984–July 17, 2004.

  Chapter 1

  “Your pineapple soda, miss. Would you be wanting ice? Americans visiting Bombay seem to like ice.”

  I barely heard him. My focus was on the far corner of Hot Harry’s Saloon and the man whose presence filled that spot. “Thanks. Um, say, do you know the Strider wannabe in the back? In the hood. Sitting under the poster for Pirate Princess. He’s staring at us.”

  The waiter squinted. He seemed puzzled. “Stri-der? I do not know this word. Like stride, yes? A person who walks very fast?”

  I smiled. “I’m sorry. I’ve seen Lord of the Rings a few too many times. I forget that not everyone is a film buff. Strider’s one of the main characters.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He smiled. “But I do not think this striding man is staring at me wanting a refill. I think it is you. Most understandable.” His smile grew wider. “Striders in movies. I love Americans. Cinema junkies. But we also have much this interest in Bombay. We are home to Bollywood. Pirate Princess was a Bollywood film. I have seen it one hundred times. You will visit?”

  I nodded. I’d already jotted that particular site down on my to-do list.

  The waiter had pegged it. Cinema junkie. I spent my childhood attending Broadway shows and cinematic extravaganzas when I wasn’t taking acting, dance, gymnastic, or voice lessons. Mom dreamed that she’d see my name, Tempe Walsh, above a marquee one day. Theater or film—she didn’t really care which.

  By age three I was reciting Bogart’s “hill of beans” speech from Casablanca and organizing my preschool classmates into Sharks and Jets for the opening dance in West Side Story.

  It seems logical then, given my upbringing, to assume I was currently soaking up the ambience of this bar in Bombay waiting to shoot a film. Doubtless one in which I played a starring role. Logical? Yes. But wrong.

  Ironically, I was in India this week because many years ago, on the day I turned four, if one wants to be precise, my father found me reciting Bogart’s “beans” speech in Russian to the doorman. My father declared that he had sired a linguistic genius, then decreed I would earn a real living in a career far removed from theater.

  I became an interpreter. An occupation that consisted primarily of translating whatever to English, and English to whatever for whomevers like my current boss, Ray Decore, the man sitting opposite me.

  “Tempe? What’s with cozying up to the waiter? Trying to make me jealous?”

  I frowned, then shoved the bourbon and Coke that Ray Decore had ordered for me back across the table for the third time in less than two minutes.

  “Cozy? Discussing movies? Mr. Decore, let’s get something straight here. You hired me to translate Hindi to English so that you don’t get swindled in the middle of buying some crazy statue. Might I remind you that this job does not include extracurricular activities with the interpreter.”

  “Damn! Lighten up, Tempe. We’re in Bombay for an entire week. This transaction shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, after which we can leave this stinking cesspool of a bar and head over to a nightclub that caters to tourists who believe in clean. Now, tomorrow night, and subsequent nights, I’d prefer spending with you alone.”

  “Forget it. Not interested. I’m here to complete this deal for you, although I still don’t understand why you need a linguist. Most folks in India speak English quite well.”

  “But Himali Khan does not, and since he’s selling and I’m buying, I’d like to be in a position where I’m not swindled.”

  “Fine. So you’ve stated. I’m not sure I believe it, but I’m getting a free trip to Bombay, so I’m not going to argue the point. But once the negotiations are complete? Well, I have places to see. Alone.”

  I took a sip of my pineapple soda.

  “Wanna hear my plans?”

  I did not wait for a response. “Good. First, no matter what, I’m going to the Ganesh festival. Do you know, on the last day of the festival, they throw the elephants into the bay? Well, not the real elephants; I mean, that would be cruel.”

  Ray opened his mouth to interrupt.

  I chattered on. “Then again, maybe the elephants wouldn’t mind. After all, it would cool them off. Where was I? Oh. I’m talking about the statues of the elephants. Big ones, little ones, plaster of paris, bronze, recyclable, not. You name it, they’re dunked in the drink.”

  Rays eyes glazed over.

  “Tempe? Watching a bunch of fake elephants getting tipped into water is not my idea of entertainment. Yeah, right, we’re here to clinch a very big deal, but why not have some real fun while we’re at it? We’re thousands of miles from New York. Who’s to know? Who’s to care?”

  He leered at me. I rebuttoned the top button of my suit before responding.

  “I care. And believe me, I’m planning lots of fun stuff. Like hitting Kemps Corner and spending next month’s rent in a mad shopping spree buying trendy, outrageous clothes.”

  Ray started to say something. I ignored him, lost in my dream itinerary.

  “I’m gonna take snapshots of the Flora Fountain, which is a starting point for protest marches and great speechifying. Then I’m trotting by the National Park and communing with tigers and llamas and cobras and whatever other cute little pets wander around unattended.”

  “Spare me. Fountains? Cute little pets?”

  I held up my hand. “Wait, wait! My big dream is to visit Film City, also know as the famous Bollywood, and watch a Masala movie being shot. And I’m serious about seeing the Ganesh parade. I wan
t to get my picture taken standing next to a real live elephant. I love elephants. The first movie I ever saw was Dumbo. Anyway, I’m going to be the ultimate tourist and do ultimate touristy things.”

  Ray lifted his bottle of Rajit beer, took a swig, swallowed, then scowled. “I don’t give a damn about tourist spots. I was thinking more of the one-on-one kind of attractions. Perhaps back at the Taj Hotel where my suite has the most marvelous jet bath. And the minibar is well stocked. If you get my drift.”

  “Guess what? My room has a Jacuzzi, too. I have plans for a good soak. Alone. And it seems obvious to me, sir, that you do indeed require a translator, because you damn sure have problems in communicating.”

  I sat back and watched as three men approached the tiny table where I continued my attempts to keep Ray’s knees from pressing mine and ignore his less-than-subtle attempts at flirtation.

  I’d met one of these men about twenty minutes ago. Mr. Himali Khan was a buyer and seller of precious objects. He was also the reason Ray Decore needed an interpreter. Khan now took a seat opposite me and stared at the top button of my suit for a moment. Then he gestured to a man wearing a crisp, starched white shirt and tailored black slacks who bowed, kissed my hand, then murmured something in a language I identified as Gujarati.

  Mr. Starched Shirt offered me a cigarette.

  I said, “No, thank you” in Gujarati.

  The man’s eyebrows lifted a hair as he responded, “You have a decent accent, miss. Where did you learn both Hindi and Gujarati?”

  “Louie’s Lingo. It’s linguistics software. Um. A computer program. You load in the language of choice and a day later you’re fluent.” I smiled. “Assuming you have an aptitude for the subject, which I do. I’d heard Gujarati was still used for business dealings here in Mumbai—or do you prefer Bombay?”

  He shrugged. “Either is fine.”

  “Well, anyway, I learned as much Gujarati as I could, along with Hindi. So, do you work with Mr. Kahn?”

  His eyebrow lifted. The short, scarred, bald man behind him snorted, pulled out a cigar, tossed it onto the table, muttered something in a dialect unknown to me and not covered in Louie’s Lingo, then whirled around and headed back to his own table. I shivered.

  “Did I just witness a new Indian rite of welcoming Americans?” I asked, this time in English.

  A slight flush added a hint of red to the light brown skin. He answered in precise, clean, unaccented English.

  “I apologize. Mr. Patel is a rude man. He is showing his displeasure at having a woman here in the saloon and at your assumption that we work with Mr. Khan. We do not. Mr. Patel commented on your red hair. It was not a nice remark. He should not be allowed in the company of polite society.”

  He bowed again, then walked in silence back to a table several feet away from this Mr. Patel. I tapped Mr. Khan’s shoulder, then asked, in Hindi, how he knew the men who’d just greeted Ray and me in diverse fashions.

  He grinned, showing several gaps where teeth should have been placed. “Buyers. Rich buyers for my collection. You do not want to be talking to them. And you don’t need to be speaking to them since you are here to be talking to me.”

  Khan stood, nodded to Ray, who looked upset that Khan and I were conversing in Hindi, then walked over to the bar counter.

  I’m not a big drinker, but I’ve been in more than one pub in Manhattan since I hit legal age eight years ago. Hot Harry’s Saloon seemed no different than most of the bars that line Eighth Avenue near the Theater District. Smaller and a bit dirtier, perhaps, with posters featuring Masala movies tacked on the walls and foreign-sounding names advertising various liquors, but when one came right down to it, it was a bar.

  I blinked, then blushed, when I saw the ancient, lopsided poster of Miss April 1982 taped onto the broken mirror. I’d never seen a picture like that on Eighth Avenue or anywhere else in the city. I quickly averted my gaze from the negligently clad model.

  Next up in my viewing area was the countertop that held bottles of beer, hard liquor, and wine. To the right of the bar stood vending machines. Two of them catered to nicotine addicts and did not interest me, but the tiny machine between them must have been designed for carboholics. I spotted assorted American brands of chocolate bars and pretzels and potato chips. Plus those little sandwiches with the cheese crackers filled with peanut butter.

  I had no idea when this transaction would be finished, and I hadn’t had much lunch. I brightened and started to rise to check out the selections. The fact that the dark-hooded Strider sat at a table only about three feet from the vending machines did not enter into my decision. Or so I told myself.

  Ray grabbed my arm. His tone shifted to all business. “Not the time to go wandering, Tempe. You’re on in about two seconds. Now listen well, neogiate better, and earn your pay.”

  Khan had returned from the bar with two bottles of beer. I guess since soda, not booze, was my drink of choice, I didn’t rate a refill. Khan set the bottles on the table, popped the tops, then pushed one toward Ray. It appeared he was ready to begin final negotiations.

  Khan set a price in rupees.

  I turned to Ray. “If the rate of exchange is what it was this morning, Mr. Khan has just asked for a million five.” My eyes opened wider. “Wow! That’s one damn high price.”

  “It’s fair, Tempe. Don’t worry about it. But tell Khan I do need to see the statue.”

  I shrugged. It was Ray’s money to spend as he wished. I turned back to Khan and asked, in Hindi, if he could show Ray the piece. Khan flashed his semitoothless grin at me, then reached into the filthy backpack he’d set next to his chair. He rummaged for about four seconds, then lifted out something wrapped in a dirty T-shirt that had what appeared to be Miss April’s younger sister silk-screened on the front. Miss June? Who was definitely busting out all over.

  Khan brushed the half-filled bottles off the table onto the floor, dropped Miss June over them, then set a small ivory figurine on the table. I stood and leaned in to get a better look.

  “Wow! Is that it? The statue? That is so cool. But why is the lute upside down? That seems odd. Hey, Ray, is this a fake?”

  I heard a scream come from the middle table of Hot Harry’s. Mr. Patel. The door to the bar burst open, and at least a dozen men ran inside hollering epithets in languages I did not understand. My employer also began to spit out epithets—in a language I did know quite well and with words I hear far too often on the subway in Manhattan.

  “You bastard! You stinkin’ lousy (bleep, bleep) cheat!” yelled Ray.

  “Su-ar!” yelled the snorting man.

  Starched Shirt yelled something in Gujarati.

  “Cluipear!” yelled the dark-haired Strider sitting in a shadowed corner by the vending machines.

  Wait. Back it up just a minute there. I’d heard Ray call Himali Khan a “lousy cheat,” plus a few other choice words less polite. Fine. Got it. Then the bald-headed Indian with the cigars had spat out “pig” in Hindi.

  But Cluipear? It’s Gaelic. It took me a second or two, but then I remembered it meant “deceiver.” Mr. Tall Dark Striding Stranger was shouting in the language of ancient Ireland in Hot Harry’s Saloon in Bombay, India. But I had no time to ponder this paradox because the bar now resembled one of the more violent scenes from Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

  Chapter 2

  The first bullet decapitated the silver sail from my boatshaped earring. A second or third could capsize the entire craft. I screamed, leapt up, then dove for the closest empty area of floor. Which landed me next to the vending machine. I heard a ripping sound and glanced down at what had been my skirt.

  My left leg was now exposed to midthigh. I ignored it in favor of eyeing the goodies above me. I could see Butterfingers and Baby Ruths. Snickers. Snyder’s pretzels. A bag of peanuts was stuck in the drop slot. I paused for one insane second and wondered if I could ooch it out. A knife shattered the glass over the Milky Ways. So much for my snack. And my hiding place.

 
I rolled myself into a tight ball and somersaulted away from a smashed bag of Skittles, then executed a damn near perfect front handspring to propel myself onto the purple bar countertop. Miss April 1982 smiled at me. I shuddered.

  A low-hanging chandelier beckoned. I grabbed it and swung myself toward the red and gold beaded curtain in the back of the tavern. I crashed through, rolled, then ended up behind several barrels of Rajit beer. There was a crack between two of the barrels. I wedged myself inside, then cautiously began patting various body parts to make sure none were missing.

  Instead of losing a limb, I seemed to have gained one. An extra arm extended from my right side. I opened my mouth to scream and a hand clamped over my lips.

  “Éist do bhéal!”

  “Éist do bhéal?”

  That first bullet must have killed me after all. I lay crouched behind barrels in a saloon in Bombay, yet I’d just heard someone say “shut up”––in Gaelic. I’d been right about hearing the word “deceiver” shouted only moments ago.

  I was dead. Hungry and dead and bruised, and I’d landed in St. Patrick’s Gift Shop in heaven where the stock boys spoke Gaelic.

  The soft voice whispered again. “Quiet, lass! The hooligans are as yet unaware that we’ve chosen this as our small hidey-hole. ’Tis a nice idea to keep our presence a bit of a secret for a while. I’m not ready for one or both of us to be takin’ part in their riot.”

  Enough light seeped through a crack in the closed window to allow me a glimpse of the bright blue eyes staring at me. A scent of curry mixed with chocolate filled my nostrils. It emanated from at least two of the fingers resting over my mouth.

  I yanked the hand away and spat, “Don’t tell me what to do, laddie! I have no intention of yelling. Not yet anyway. Give me a moment to catch my breath, and I’m sure I can add to the general noise by screaming my lungs out.”

  I took that breath, then added, “By the way, what’s with the brogue? And the Gaelic?”

  I could see a head bobbing. Just a shadow in the dim light.

  “Good. That’s good. You’re reasonin’ and not reactin’. Very good. Because if you were shriekin’ like a normal lass, there’s a bit of a possibility two young lives would be cut short very soon. The tall one in the overly starched shirt would feel no pain if he was arrangin’ funeral pyres for other than grievin’ widows. And the ugly bald one with the scars makes t’other look like a choirmaster. No ethics a’tall, that one. Murder. It’s in his blood.”