Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I sauntered out of Café de la Plaz and hailed one of the cute little black and gold taxis—color scheme a Bombay law—within seconds. If anyone followed me, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. Just let them try and stop me from finding, then thanking, Brig for the clothes, discovering whether my hotel room remained safe, retrieving my passport, then finding the next flight to New York listed on a dot-com site. My stomach was full. Tempe Walsh was rested and ready for action.

  Chapter 7

  “Film City.” I checked Brig’s note again. “Uh, Vivek Studios, please.”

  My driver turned and stared at me with admiration.

  “You are film star? Were you in Jake Roshan’s last movie? Very good, that one. I have seen it over three hundred times. I like the part where Asha Kumar tumbles off the cliff into the tiger pit and sings to Spot the tiger, while the pirate lowers the rope and sings to her.”

  I hadn’t a clue. But the man seemed to know who this Roshan might be. A producer? Director? I’d rented DVDs of several Indian films before Ray and I left New York in hopes of gleaning fast information about the place where I needed to translate in more than one dialect, but I didn’t recognize Mr. Roshan’s name from the credits.

  The movies had been very entertaining, although the violence blended with musical numbers packed with bad dialogue and stock characters seemed questionable as to the nature of Indian culture. Then I’d thought, They’re movies, idiot. No more indicative of the Indian people than West Side Story is of Americans. Which, in some ways, was not a reassuring comparison. West Side Story is a damn good depiction of race and class problems in whatever year and whatever locale a director chooses to set it. But I always loved the dancing in West Side Story.

  After watching several of the Indian movies, I also fell in love with the music and the dancing they featured. These were routines worthy of Busby Berkley. I sat through a film called Chhurii Nartaki—Knife Dancer—twice just to see the musical numbers.

  I shook my head at the driver. “I’m not in the movies. I’m supposed to meet this Roshan though. He’s what? A producer?”

  “Oh, miss. He produces. He directs. He has won many awards. And he is now having big love affair with my favorite film star Asha Kumar. She is most beautiful. Very exotic. She even does her own singing with her wonderful voice. Maybe you can introduce me?”

  I didn’t even want to imagine what it would take to get a glimpse of a major star in the Bollywood firmament, much less arrange a meeting, first with me, then with an anonymous taxi driver. And the more I heard about Jake Roshan, the more I figured there had to be a lesser being with the same name. Brig’s note made it sound like he was a close enough friend to ask Roshan for favors. I couldn’t fathom in what circumstances a famous Indian film director might have met Brig. Then again, Brig and I had first exchanged greetings facedown in a saloon storeroom. The big Irishman did get around.

  The drive took a bit over two hours. I found I was avoiding much of the scenery after I started shivering from shock and horror upon viewing the filthy shantytowns that served as homes for thousands of migrant workers.

  Once I firmly removed my focus from outside, my thoughts leapt immediately back to Brig. His hand pushing me through the window at Hot Harry’s. His hand in mine as we ran down the alley. The kiss we’d shared. What might have happened if that kiss had gone as far as Brig seemed interested in going. My fantasies were reaching an embarrassing stage in my visions when the cab driver announced, “Bollywood.”

  We’d arrived at the entrance to Vivek Productions Studios. A group of Indians stood quietly in front of huge entrance gates guarded by bigger sentinels, hoping to catch a glimpse of an admired actor or actress.

  I paid the taxi driver, then looked around for a security guard who might be able to direct me to Roshan. Any Roshan. Or an O’Brien.

  Briggan must have read my thoughts and known I was looking for him. Two men exited a Jeep parked near the gates, then headed toward me. My breath quickened as I watched Brig approach. He was accompanied by a small man with a mop of brown hair, skin the color of pecans, and a smile that almost made O’Brien’s most charming appear dim by comparison.

  “Miss Walsh? I am so pleased you were able to come to the studio today!” Like I had a choice? “Brig has been regaling me with your adventures since arriving in Bombay. I’m so sorry your stay has not been pleasant. But we hope to change that. Please, come inside. I want to show you our wonderful set for my newest movie.”

  The gates swung open. The three of us entered a lot filled with tents. Carnival tents, food-service tents, tents teeming with men arguing behind computers, and tents holding an array of colored costumes hanging on multiple racks. I wanted to dive in and rummage through each sector like an antique addict at an estate sale.

  Brig politely made the introductions while I craned my neck to see what animals were braying, snorting, and chattering under the carnival tents.

  “Tempe Walsh, meet Jake Roshan. Finest director in India. And he’d be the finest in America if I could ever persuade him to film there. Even just one or two.”

  Jake smiled. “Brig likes to tease. I’m quite satisfied making my Masala films, although I use much of what I learned in the States as far as dramatic content and how to create a script. Anyway, the people of India seem to like my movies. They’re great escapist fare. And people here, as people everywhere, need entertainment.”

  I nodded. “My cab driver adores them. He talked nonstop about how wonderful you and your movies are the whole way here. He also seemed quite enamored of an actress named Asha something. You worked with her on a film that had tigers in it? And pirates?”

  Jake’s expression turned from cheer to doom. Brig shook his head at me. I felt like the mother who’d just taken the last bit of Halloween candy from her child and thrown it away. The piece the child had been saving for later.

  “I’m sorry. Did I put my foot in it?”

  Jake shook his head. “Asha Kumar is a fine actress. I’d go so far as to say a brilliant actress. And she is a beautiful woman. We were supposed to get married in the spring. She called it off two days ago.”

  I may have stuck a foot in, but Brig went full out and added a knee and a thigh. “What the hell? That’s just damn silly. You two are the perfect couple. Do I need to have a talk with your intended and set her straight? Why is it I can’t leave the pair of you alone for two days without you mucking it up somehow?”

  Terrific. Briggan O’Brien, couples counselor.

  Jake saw the look I sent Brig. He smiled before responding with, “It’s okay, Miss Walsh. I’m not offended. I know Brig quite well. We attended Yale University together. I’m generally wary of taking his advice. In fact, I might go so far as to say the day I listen to him in matters of the heart is the day I take a slow barge down the Mula River with a cargo of rabid monkeys.”

  I liked this expression so much I almost missed the rest of this response. Then it hit.

  “Yale? You were at Yale? Both of you?”

  Jake chuckled. “I was given a full scholarship to the Yale drama department and ended up with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. But I’m still not sure what Brig did there, and we were roommates for three years.”

  Brig smiled innocently. “Unlike Jake here, I had no scholarship money dropped into my eager hands. Nevertheless, I did step out of the esteemed halls of ivy with a degree in Liberal Arts. Plus, I have a Masters in Humanities from New York University.”

  I grinned. “What does that mean? Liberal Arts and Humanities? In other words, you have no discernible means of earning a living. Right?”

  Jake roared. “She’s sharp, this one. I’ve often asked the same question for the last ten years. And Brig has yet to answer with anything remotely sane. Two useless degrees. That’s rich. I like you, Miss Walsh.”

  Our kidding did not seem to bother Brig. He preened and twirled and bowed and finally stated in a bit of his brogue, “I am a Renaissance man. I’m havin’ knowledge of all things o
n heaven and earth, unlike you peasants who have only dabbled in one or two subjects in your lives. I shall therefore be takin’ no notice of your attempts to belittle all me grand accomplishments.”

  “And what would those be?” Jake quickly asked.

  Brig opened his mouth. I could see his mind inventing more than one tall tale, but just then, Jake’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID bar and motioned us to silence. “I’m so sorry. This is an important call. People who want to finance my film. I have to take this. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Brig and I tactfully retreated and walked toward one of the enormous carnival tents. Brig assumed the kind of narrator voice suitable for playing tour guide.

  “Did you know that Bollywood films started with silent flicks? And that over eight hundred movies are made each year? And villages all over India have pirated films imported so folks can see what’s what in Bombay? And that most of the actors don’t do their own singin’? They lip sync and songs get recorded later at a studio usually by one or two people.”

  He winked. “But Jake has his actors do their own voiceovers and he even uses a script. And the plots! Wait till you hear Jake’s latest with Asha Kumar. You think the duet with the tiger was wild? Hang on to your undies!”

  I didn’t listen to the recital about Bollywood for long. As a movie buff and sometime dancer, the topic fascinated me, yes, but right now I just wanted to know what Brig had done since leaving the hotel this morning.

  “Brig. Stop with the lecture. I love movies, but I can’t focus, and I boned up on Bollywood before I got on that plane two days ago. So, some other time we’ll exchange info on all the Masala movies made in the last eighty years, plus all the celebrities in India, including Spot the tiger. Now, will you please tell me what’s with the cryptic statement about learning a lot? Where have you been and what have you been doing and what have you discovered?” I groaned. “Great. I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours and I’m already rattling on as much as you are. I shall endeavor to be calm and collect my thoughts. So, Mr. O’Brien, where on Shiva’s good earth have you been?”

  He looked around the tent as if expecting to see thugs popping out of clown cars or animal cages at any time. Not that either of us would have been surprised.

  “I have been to the Taj Mahal Hotel. Your previous residence, albeit a short-lived one. Quite nice, by the way. First class. I see why the snotty Brits stay there.”

  “Yes? Can you dispense with the Irish political sentiments for a moment and get on with it?”

  His face darkened momentarily, then he nodded.

  “Ah. Well, then. Miss Tempe Walsh is listed as checked out. Raymond Decore is not.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t determine who did the actual checking out of the checkout, mind you. But I did learn that Miss Tempe Walsh’s things had been removed from her room by a gentleman.”

  I wavered between stunned, ticked, and scared. Ticked won by a hair. “They got my stuff! Damn! I had a really cute little outfit I planned on wearing just for the Ganesh festival closing ceremony thingy two days from now. I’ll bet it was Mahindra’s ugly obese goon, Avi the knife thrower. I’m sure Fat Thug Avi will enjoy traipsing through Bombay in a multitiered skirt with a conch belt and a green tank top. Why did he have to steal my clothes? Oh crap. My passport too. I hid it in my suitcase.”

  Brig watched me with amazement. “Tempe. Don’t you get the point of this? They knew where you were staying. Conch belts can be replaced. By the way, if you’d hinted you wanted one, I’d’ve included a nice belt in the basket of clothes from this morning. I saw several at Kemps.”

  “Oh, Brig! That reminds me. Thank you. I owe you a ton. And you have great taste. You picked exactly what I would have and I’m overwhelmed. But I can’t keep the earrings, gorgeous as they are. Way too pricey. I’m no dope. Those are not rhinestones swimming just below the sails.”

  He shook his head. “First of all, you don’t owe me. Secondly, thank you for the compliment. Thirdly, you are going to keep the earbobs because I got them much cheaper than I care to tell you. Those are tiny little diamonds, and they look lovely on you, and I owe you for making you dance at the ladies club last night.”

  I put my hand up to stop him. Pointless.

  He went on. “Tempe, let me finish. I knew you weren’t thrilled with having to get up there and wiggle. Although I must admit I enjoyed every bit of that performance. I’m hoping for a repeat sometime in private. With extras.”

  I glanced at him, started to comment on the brash assumption that I’d be doing any wild shimmies for the man anytime soon, but he interrupted me. “Tempe, are you listening to and understanding what I’m trying to say? Someone checked you out. Someone has your things. The very nice maid who told me this said she had a bad feeling, but she didn’t want to complain to anyone.”

  I stiffened. “The nice maid? Which one? That cute little girl from the outskirts of Pune or the blonde from Sweden working her way around the world?”

  Brig’s eyes opened wide. I looked for a hole to dive into. I was jealous. I did not need to be jealous. I did not want to be jealous. But darned if I wasn’t jealous. For an instant, I flashed on the photo I’d found in Brig’s drawer back at the hotel. Well, the man was gorgeous. He attracted women the way the vendors on Grant Road attract flies and beggars. I didn’t need to be one of them.

  I tilted my chin with a bit of defiance, just as Brig said, “Miss Walsh. My, my. Where’s that little diatribe coming from? Will you listen to me? The maid in question hit ninety years old a decade ago and must be the great-great-great grandma of fifty kids. But she’s an observant old bird.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you understand that you can’t go back there? That these various goons have ties all over this city and that they’re after you? Which is why we’re here.”

  “Brig, you lost me. We’re about to go touring the lots at the capital of Indian cinema because murderous scumbags are hot on my trail?”

  He grinned. “That’s a decent take on the situation. But we’re at Film City because you, my darling talented Tempe, are about to join the ranks of the legion of stars working on Jake’s next picture. You’ve just been given a job in a new Masala extravaganza.”

  “Say what?”

  Brig nodded. “I told Jake about your expertise as both a dancer and a gymnast. I also told him you were quite beautiful and you had legs up to your lovely neck that would look quite nice in high-cut bottoms. He whipped out a contract on the spot. So, you’re dancing in Mela Manokamana. Loosely translated it means—”

  “Carnival of Desire? Lust? Yes?”

  He beamed at me. “That’s very good. Jake won’t even have to have a script translated for you since you know Hindi. He’ll love that. Saves costs.”

  “Right.”

  He hastened to add, “I’m also in the movie and will be more than happy to keep an eye on you. Or more.”

  “Brig. Keep the eyes to yourself, okay?”

  “Fine. No discussion of eyes or other body parts. For now. Anyway, you’ll be hiding out in an apartment about an hour’s drive from Vivek Studios. With Asha Kumar, celebrity actress and ex-fiancée of Mr. Jake Roshan.”

  Chapter 8

  Jake finished his phone call. He trotted over to where Brig and I still stood staring at each other.

  “Good news! I’ll have money coming in on the next film from a very legitimate group in New Zealand. I can rest easier now. I must admit, I’ve been concerned.”

  I must have looked puzzled because Brig interjected. “Masala films are all too often financed by what we might refer to as some of the more unsavory lads in Bombay. Boys of the Mahindra persuasion. They think nothing of making poor honest businessmen pay protection or shooting them if they, well, disagree. Our Jake here sweats buckets every time he starts a film until he can be certain his backers are legit.”

  I glared at Brig. “Ah. Super. I am now so thrilled. I can’t tell you how much that
reassures me. You’ve got me hiding right back in the middle of the same slimy group of thugs who want to kill me. Thanks so much.”

  Jake took over for Brig, which I knew could be a difficult task. “Tempe. Okay if I call you that?”

  I nodded yes. “Miss Walsh” now referred to that girl in the buttoned-down business suit from New York. The girl who hadn’t existed since about seven o’ clock last evening. The girl I wasn’t sure would ever exist again. Unasked for, yet storming right into my brain, rushed the thought, The girl I don’t’t want to exist again.

  “Tempe. Brig, for once, has the situation well in hand. He’s told me about the gentlemen who seem determined to locate you and Shiva’s Diva. Let me reassure you. Mahindra and Patel are not part of the gangsters who desire to take over cinema. Mahindra is one of the wealthiest men in India. Patel is a thug, nothing more. He wants to dive into whatever scheme seems most profitable. He has no interest in anything artistic.”

  I glanced at Brig. “Which brings up another point. Why are those guys so determined to have Shiva’s Diva? They’re not art lovers. Well, at least not Patel. Don’t they know about the curse? Aren’t they trembling under their turbans?”

  Brig smiled. “Mahindra fancies himself a great patron of the arts. And remember, Tempe, there’s a blessing attached that brings luck and prosperity. I think our boy Patel is too stupid to believe in curses or blessings. I imagine Seymour Patel wants to steal it, sell it in an overseas market, then retire to Pago Pago.”

  I focused on what, to me, was the most interesting part of that discourse.

  I squealed, “Wait. Seymour? Seymour? The scourge of Bombay, the man whose sidekick missed killing me by an earring, the biggest crook this side of Gotti is named Seymour? No wonder he’s so clueless. The one other person in the world named Seymour sings in a musical called Little Shop of Horrors and plays with a giant alien plant named Audrey Two. Jeez. Seymour. That explains a lot.”

  I would have gone on. I could have gone on. Anything to chat about trivial matters and stop thinking about the very real danger Seymour and Mahindra posed. But just then I heard Jake take a sharp inhale of breath and tense up like a pony preparing to receive a five-hundred-pound rider.