Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Plus there’d be the perk of having monks look after her all the time,” I interjected.

  “Exactly. A sweet deal all around. But something changed at the last minute. The monks pulled a fast one and wouldn’t meet the sculptor’s price. So our girl didn’t end up as the typical depiction of Saraswati. Normally, the goddess carries a lute and boasts no weaponry of any kind.”

  “The lute I saw was upside down.”

  Brig nodded. “For good reason. Braganza, the sculptor, had a wicked sense of humor. The rumor is that he agreed to the crummy price, but before he delivered the piece to the monks, he added a bow and arrow to Saraswati, then turned the lute upside down and placed several rubies on that lute. At his own expense, mind. Plus there’s the little matter of the snake head popping out of one arm.”

  “Hmmm. So the goddess was pissed? Hence the curse?”

  Brig laughed. “Actually, it was the other way around. Remember now, Saraswati is a goddess to artists. The lovely lady sided with the man who’d carved the piece, and she laid out the blessing and the curse.”

  He paused dramatically and waited. I did not disappoint him.

  “Okay. I admit. I’m hooked. I’m dying to know and you’ve stalled enough. What are they?”

  “The blessing is quite nice. If a person of artistic talent and temperament comes into possession of Shiva’s Diva for any length of time, he or she will be gifted with more talent and also be rewarded with great wealth and intellect. And this is marvelous. The mute will speak.”

  “I like it. ’Bout damn time creative people got a break. Had I known this, I might have gone after the statue years ago, followed my mother’s advice, and become a big star on Broadway or in Hollywood.”

  Brig glanced at me and smiled. “I doubt you’d need Saraswati’s blessing for that. I think you would’ve, and still could, make it on your own talent.”

  “Well. I try not to think about it. Besides, my father, Mr. Securely Pragmatic, would have shot me. So? What’s the curse?”

  Brig lowered his volume to almost a whisper. “If the lady falls into the hands of avaricious souls, woe to them all.”

  “Ah, the old doom-and-gloom routine. Typical. Any specifics?”

  “They’re struck mute. The goddess of speech uses her power to end communication. And they are felled by misfortune. Poverty. Violent ends.”

  I lapsed into silence. Not as a result of the curse, just thinking about Brig’s words about the avaricious.

  “I wonder where Raymond Decore falls in those descriptions. He’s quite an art collector. Doesn’t possess the talent himself but is a definite patron of the arts.”

  Brig smiled. “I suppose your boss would have been all right. As long as he didn’t try and sell off the rubies or hide the Diva in a private room somewhere.”

  “And me? If I’d grabbed her? I mean, heck. I dance. I sing. And talk about speech? I’ve earned my living translating others’ words for seven years now. Think Shiva’s Diva would bless me?”

  “Most certainly. Of course, you’re fine on your own without a blessing. But since you’re not keeping her, I suppose you’ll have to make do with the gifts you have. Which are many, in case I haven’t told you. Starting with the prettiest shade of hair I’ve seen since the Riverdance Company hit Radio City Music Hall a few years back with that sweet little girl leadin’ ’em around the stage.”

  “You saw them? You were in New York?”

  “Darlin’, ’tis true I was born in Dublin. Raised there until I was ten. But I’m pretty much in Manhattan now. Or in London. I saw Riverdance there as well. With Colin Dunne that time.”

  “Oh, good grief. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you lurking around museums and bars throughout New York. What do you do? I mean, for a living?”

  Brakes squealed as the taxi stopped. I winced. Next came the request from our driver for what sounded like a suspiciously high fare. Brig handed him the rupee notes without even asking to see the sheet with the mileage. I was glad. I had no desire to stay in the cab and listen to men fight over money. I’d seen too much of that at Hot Harry’s.

  I did not make a graceful exit from the cab. In fact, had it not been for Brig’s hand on my arm, I would have fallen on my face. My night had been spent dodging bullets, dodging knives, dodging thugs, then dodging coins dancing onstage at C.C. Curry’s strip club. I’d witnessed my boss getting shot, and I’d narrowly escaped injury myself. I’d passed exhaustion an hour ago. If Brig chose to toss Shiva’s Diva into Back Bay along with my tote bag and the remaining samosa, I wouldn’t argue. I’d help with the toss as long as I first had a bath and a nap.

  Brig’s room faced the harbor and had the added benefit of a balcony overlooking same. Doubtless it would prove to be a spectacular view in the morning; and by then my eyes might even be open enough to notice.

  Once inside, I headed straight to the bathroom, then stripped and showered and soaked until I felt every piece of dirt and slime had been scrubbed away. Then I remembered I had no other clothes. A walk naked back through the red-light district sounded more appealing than putting the filthy silk sari back on. I wrapped a huge towel around my body and knocked on the door leading to the bedroom.

  “Brig? You awake?”

  “Haven’t gone to sleep. I thought I’d be a gentleman and give you a crack at that tub, but when you’re finished, I could use a good scrubbing myself.”

  “I appreciate the first dibs. Um. Do you have an old T-shirt or something long enough that I can wear until the shops open tomorrow?”

  His response came fast. Brig rapped on the door; I opened it a wedge and took a T-shirt bearing the logo of the Broadway hit The Producers. Apropos. A man who was doubtless a con artist in possession of souvenir clothing from a show about two con artists. I almost smiled. I didn’t know Brig’s motives in acquiring Shiva’s Diva, but I supposed an artist is an artist, even if the art is one of sweet deception.

  I pulled the shirt on over my head, then stepped into the bedroom as casually as I could manage.

  Brig’s eyes lit up. “That looks far better on you than me. It’s near a perfect fit.”

  I believe the word “mini” might have been a good description for the garment. It covered my bottom. Barely.

  “I appreciate the compliment and the shirt, but I’m now ready to crash. The bathroom is yours. The water is hot and wonderful and I’m clean and tired and . . .”

  Tears were sliding down my cheeks. I shook and cried, helpless to stop either activity.

  Brig leapt up from the bed where he’d been reclining and admiring my latest getup. He ran to my side and held me.

  “It’s all right, darlin’. You go ahead and let it all out now. You’ve done an amazing job of not falling apart this whole nasty night. You’d be more ivory than the statue if the stress and the panic hadn’t finally caught up with you. There’s just so much being tough one woman can handle.”

  He lifted up my chin and lightly kissed my cheek. “We’ve been through death’s own door and come back t’other side, we have. If you’d’ve continued this pose of calm much longer, I would’ve considered poking you with pins to see if you were human.”

  I cried for about a minute. Then I drew back. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Not yet. Brig felt me step back but didn’t feel my spine stiffen. He leaned down and kissed me. His lips tasted of a mixture of curry and peppermint. Nice. Too nice. The kiss became more intense. And hands that felt even more intense were leaving my back and sliding down to the bottom of that very short shirt. My body had gone limp.

  I pulled away.

  “Too much too soon?” he queried in a polite tone.

  “In a word, yes.”

  He nodded, smiled, then gestured to the bed.

  “I’ll let you get some rest now. Don’t worry. I’ll not bother you while you sleep.” He winked. “Not this night, anyway. Now, once you’re up and back to your old self? Well, I make no promises, luv. No promises at all. I’m pretty certain I’ll be inte
rested in much more.”

  “Well, don’t be believin’ you’ll be gettin’ it, Mr. O’Brien,” I said with a brogue to match the one he so easily assumed. “Tomorra I’ll just be headin’ over to the Taj Mahal Hotel, retrieve my passport, and make reservations for the next flight from Bombay to Manhattan. With or without Shiva’s Diva. And now it appears without Ray Decore. But either way, I’m going home.”

  Brig bent down and kissed me on my forehead. “Then you get some rest, Tempe Walsh. And may the goddess herself guide your dreams.”

  “Thank you. Oh, Brig? Is there a vending machine or anything near your room? A candy bar or some chips might just get me back to normal.”

  He bit his lip, but his laughter could not be contained.

  “I don’t think so. I seem to remember sodas but no real food. Sorry. I promise, you’ll get a nice big breakfast or brunch tomorrow. Now get some sleep, luv.”

  I snuggled under the light blanket and remembered one tiny thing just before I conked. Other than a T-shirt that was barely beach decent, I had no clothes.

  Chapter 6

  Manhindra, Patel, Khan, Ray, C.C. Curry, and a cast of a thousand chorus girls in red saris could have sculpted a dozen Saraswati statues in the room and I wouldn’t have noticed. I slept. If Briggan O’Brien had made an inventory of every one of my features down to the scar on my big toe, I wouldn’t have noticed, nor cared. I slept.

  I did care when I finally woke up. I’d spent the night sleeping next to a strange man. A man who embodied charm, wit, stunning looks, and extreme virility. A man I knew nothing about. A man who probably put the N in “nefarious,” as well as in “knockout.” Wait. That was a K. Terrific. We hadn’t even engaged in any activity I could call illicit, but a few kisses from Briggan O’Brien and my linguistic skill had deteriorated to the level of kindergartner—with a definite K.

  I glanced at the bedside clock. Ten A.M. No nefarious knockout lay beside me in the queen-size bed. I heard no water running in the bathroom. I saw no sign of Brig nor of the tote bag holding Shiva’s Diva.

  I did notice another bag propped up in the chair tucked under what passed for a desk in the room. This bag displayed the name of a trendy boutique located at Kemps Corner, a spot known even by new tourists for hip designs at decent prices. The bag itself was a duffel, suitable in a pinch as luggage for a girl on the run. A sticky note had been neatly placed over the K in Kemps.

  Tempe. Hope these are the right size. See? No reds! Please meet me at the entrance to Vivek Productions Studios at what’s known as Film City at two this afternoon. Have much to tell you.

  Love, Brig.

  P.S. Diva is safe. Don’t worry.

  P.S. 2. Bring this bag.

  P.S. 3. Do NOT go to your motel. DANGER. Got that, luv?

  I barely read the note. I nearly dove inside the bag to bring out goodies. Lots of goodies. Three pairs of stretch jeans. Black, black, and black. I love black. One pair of black leather pants. Six pairs of black lace undies. Five tops: three in jersey knit, two in silk. Yep. Silk. Brig O’Brien had taste. I could learn to like this man. Or worse. At the bottom of the bag were two pairs of athletic sneakers, one pair of black spiked heels with zippers down the center, and one pair of sandals.

  A small purse embroidered with the image of Saraswati lay beneath the sandals. I opened it. The equivalent of five hundred dollars bound up in rupee notes had been squeezed into a pocket of the purse. There was another note giving me directions to Film City and the name of the person in charge of this find-a-safe-house operation. Jake Roshan at Vivek Studios.

  I almost missed the one last item. Make that “items,” plural, since they come in pairs. Earrings. Two delightful dangling bobs shaped like sailboats. Brig had done more than notice that mine had been shot up last night. He’d replaced them—with upgrades. I’m no expert but I can tell a rhinestone from a diamond. I stared at the latter. Tiny sparks nestled in the side of each boat.

  I dressed, exuding yips of glee, in a pair of the new, clean, black jeans and a T-shirt. Then I opened the top drawer of the dresser near the desk to place Brig’s Producers shirt inside. About four other tees were folded in a neat pile next to boxers and socks. I couldn’t help myself. I took out one of the cottonknit boxers. Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner stared up at me. The second pair featured two white mice. Pinky and The Brain. I giggled. Talk about a new technique to practice safe sex. One’s lover would be laughing too much to participate.

  I set the underwear back down, then noticed a picture lying between the shirts and the socks. Admittedly, this is not a kosher thing to do. But yes, I picked it up and stared at the photo of Brig standing in front of a bench in a garden. He had his arm draped around a beautiful woman with perfect features and a sweet smile.

  I quit giggling, dropped the photo, then slammed the drawer shut again. For a moment I considered ignoring Brig’s advice, heading back to my hotel, taking the airport shuttle, and flying standby to Manhattan if I had to, just to leave Bombay as soon as I could.

  Then I reread Brig’s sticky post and took note of the word “DANGER” underlined—in caps. Last night’s nonstop perils had been enough. I didn’t need to add to them today. I grabbed the duffel bag filled with the new clothes, tossed it over my shoulder, made sure the door to the hotel room was locked, and left.

  I had about four hours to get to Film City. Since I hadn’t had anything to eat other than those six samosas for the last twenty-four hours, I planned to spend at least ninety minutes of the time chowing down at the nearest restaurant.

  The terraced Café de la Plaz was within walking distance of Brig’s hotel. I could sit above the throngs walking below and keep a sharp eye out for anyone I knew in Bombay. Which, at this point, consisted of Raymond Decore, who might or might not be living, two sets of killers, who might or might not be living, one owner of a strip joint—pardon me, ladies club—and Briggan O’Brien. I assumed the latter two were still breathing.

  I chose a table with a nice awning where I could hide, not only from the possible parade of miscreants, but also from the brutal Bombay sun. I settled in to enjoy the first moments of leisure I’d had since arriving two days ago and pondered how and where my so-called business trip had gone wrong.

  Acting as interpreter for a businessman buying a piece of art should have been easy. I work as a translator for a large international law firm in Manhattan. The job pays well but it is not exciting. I read through contracts and help with correspondence. I often act as a hostess/interpreter for various clients and occasionally get sent out of the States on an errand. Such assignments have most often involved interpreting for clients engaged in lawsuits or business transactions. In a word––boring.

  But my bills are paid on time. I don’t have to share a studio walk-up with five other girls. It’s my choice if I spend all the extra money left after paying rent and utilities to see the Broadway shows. My choice if I sit in theaters wishing I was on stage.

  I know it’s a dream thousands have daily. A dream my mother had instilled in me from my cradle when sounds of musicals filled the nursery instead of lullabies. A dream my father, divorced from Mom since I turned five, squelched at every opportunity. He did not want his daughter to end up a “penniless wreck in a loser’s profession married to some sleazy actor.” To appease him, I’d chosen linguistics. But my heart and soul felt a daily tug toward performing—somewhere.

  Up until yesterday, the wildest trip I’d taken in my seven years at Tucker, Harrison and Deville, Esquires, had been to Paris. Jeremy Tucker, head of the firm, needed help springing his politically active, rebellious daughter from a French jail without causing an international incident. I’d eaten a lot of great food, toured a few famous museums, talked to some gracious gentlemen at the Paris Suréte, eaten more great food, and had seen two operas and one ballet. No one had tried to shoot me, knife me, or hit me over the head with a table. Nice.

  Ray Decore’s request had been out of the norm. Jeremy Tucker personally asked if I
’d help his friend. I wasn’t sure what Ray did for a living, if he even worked at all, and I didn’t ask.

  My temporary new boss had appeared to be somewhere in his fifties. Ray spent his time flying around the world acquiring objects of great beauty—including four ex-wives. Jeremy had warned me that Ray adored women and enjoyed collecting them along with Renoirs, Rembrandts, and Van Goghs. Ray claimed to be fluent in French, German, and Italian. He knew zilch about any of the languages of India and needed someone to translate during his negotiations to buy the statue of the goddess Saraswati. I wasn’t exactly up on my Marathi or Maharashtra or Hindi, but I learn languages the way most folks learn a new software program. Pop it in the brain and it’s mine.

  The seller, Himali Khan, had assured Ray he topped the list of other hopefuls and the statue would be waiting for him if he could get to Bombay. Ray and I were soon flying Air India on the red-eye. I tend to get airsick, so I drug up on generic over-the-counter motion sickness pills. Most zonk me out. The few times I’d been awake, Ray had been trying out his powers of seduction on his temporary employee. So I’d pretended to sleep.

  Once in Bombay, we’d checked into our respective rooms at the prestigious Taj Mahal Hotel. I’d opened the curtains leading onto my balcony and sighed over the gorgeous view. I’d eaten a light snack and taken a long nap in my own big bed. Alone. Ray had made whatever phone calls were necessary to send us to Hot Harry’s Saloon at the appropriate time last evening.

  The rest was history. Shouts, screams, bullets, knives, a great gymnastic routine executed by one Tempe Walsh, added up to landing her in a storeroom with one sneaky, vanishing, handsome Irishman.

  I glanced at the clock over the entrance of the restaurant. Time to leave. The food-satiation point had been reached. I was now rested and filled with curry, briani, yogurt, and some sort of yummy pastry that has no equivalent in American cuisine.