Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I lifted my brows toward him in a wordless question. He pointed to a very sporty, very attractive, very classic sky blue convertible racing in through the entrance gates of Vivek Studios. The driver zoomed into a spot designated “No Parking”—and for good reason. There was barely enough space for vehicles the size of small motorcycles, much less for an American car (even one so diminutive as this two-seater convertible). Even its fins were slender and sporty—and it was still a tight fit.

  I squinted. A girl who looked like she had barely reached puberty, much less legal driving age, jumped out of the convertible and began striding toward our trio.

  “Jake! What the crap is this urgent crisis you had to see me about? I thought I made it clear we weren’t on speaking terms. I’ll talk to you on the set for Mela or Carnival, or whatever the hell the name is, but that’s it.”

  Jake held up his hand for silence. “It’s not my crisis. Brig needs help, as does the lady with him.”

  A tiny nose tilted upward with the regal quality of a medieval queen. Eyes the same shade of blue as the convertible stared at me.

  “And just who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

  I answered with as much grace as I could. “Tempe Walsh. Lady in crisis.”

  I saw her lips twitch in what had to be the suppression of a smile.

  “Interesting. Are you friend or foe of Jake?”

  I bit my lip. “Um, neither yet. I just met him about fifteen minutes ago.”

  She snorted. “Plenty of time to discover that Mr. Roshan is a rat. A first-class double-A-battery-run rat.”

  I had no idea what a “first-class-double-A-battery-run rat” meant, but I admired the vivid image. And I understood her as only one female can understand another. Two minutes after meeting Brig O’Brien, I’d been struggling between the desire to strangle him or throw him to the ground and pounce on every inch of his delicious body.

  I had no idea how to answer her about Jake. I was also intrigued by her accent, which seemed familiar. Her looks were a mix of Indian and English. Yet she spoke slang and without that overly correct grammar affected by folks trying not to make a mistake in a foreign tongue.

  I shrugged. Might as well side with my new, if temporary, employer. “I guess . . . friend? Since Jake has agreed to help Brig and me with some trouble.”

  “Trouble? Whatcha done?”

  Brig took over. “Nothing. We did nothing. It’s what we have that’s the problem.”

  “Stolen artifacts? Crown jewels? Or simply a nice portrait? A Degas or a Matisse, perhaps?”

  Just what did Brig do for a living? Make off with priceless objects on a weekly basis?

  I glanced back at Brig’s diminutive accuser, who winked at me. “He’s a modern day Robin Hood, our Briggan. Rob from the rich, give to himself.”

  Brig chimed in, “Now, darlin’. Don’t be havin’ Tempe thinkin’ I’m some sort of thievin’ villainous pirate.”

  I’d noticed his Irish brogue grew stronger in moments of stress, moments of deceit, or moments when Brig desired to be ultracharming. This moment seemed to encompass all three. I ignored him and turned back to the girl.

  “We seem to have taken possession of a statue Mr. O’Brien calls Shiva’s Diva. A statue both cursed and blessed and a statue every criminal within a fifty-mile radius wants to own. We’ve taken shelter with Jake. Although why we can’t just take the darned piece into the nearest police station and head on a plane back to the States is beyond my comprehension.”

  She looked horrified. “You can’t do that! There are tons of cops here as corrupt as the crooks. Poking out of mobsters’ coat pockets. Now, the good ones are great, but it’s the decision as to who’s who that’s the killer. Besides, if this sucker has both a curse and a blessing, you’d better find out which one is going to land on your head before you give it to anyone.”

  Brig nodded. “Exactly. Which is why Tempe and I came to Jake who kindly agreed to let us perform in his latest cinematic masterpiece. Tempe’s a fine dancer and I’m no slouch myself in the martial arts. Not to mention I do a nice Irish clog.”

  She closed her eyes in mock horror. “Right. I’m sure Carnival of Lust needs the Irish-American doing the Riverdale dance in the middle of the scene where the villain blows up half of the temple. We’ll stick you in a loincloth and tap shoes. Works for me.”

  “Wait,” I interjected, “Riverdale? Don’t you mean Riverdance ?”

  She snickered. “Mr. O’Brien spent his depraved youth in Riverdale. The Bronx, girl. Probably clogged his way out of boarded-up windows while burglarizing homes every weekend.”

  I glanced at Brig. His grin widened. I ignored him and turned back to the girl.

  “So? What do you think about us hiding out here?”

  She shrugged. “Makes sense. As much as anything I’ve ever seen you do make sense, O’Brien. I guess my question is, where do I come into the equation?”

  She still hadn’t looked at Jake. He muttered under his breath. Three sets of eyes opened wide.

  Asha yelled, “What? Yo? I didn’t understand that, Mr. Roshan. Say again, please.”

  Jake did. “Briggan will be staying with me. And Tempe will be staying with you. You have a spare bedroom. If that’s all right with you. Otherwise, I’ll make arrangements for her to have a trailer on the studio lot.”

  My brain suddenly clicked onto the situation. This had to be Jake’s ex-girlfriend, who’d dumped him days earlier. Miss Asha Kumar, singer, actress, and exotic star of Indian screen extravaganzas.

  I must have looked stunned.

  She grinned at me. “Just got it, huh? Since the guys were too damn rude to introduce me.”

  “Well, Jake had said he planned to ask you if I could stay. I just didn’t expect Asha Kumar to be, um—”

  “From Jersey?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She giggled. “You’re looking at a homegrown gal from Woodbridge. My mom’s maiden name was Schwartz. Really. Married Daddy in Newark, then moved to Woodbridge and had me. Barbara Ashley Kumar. I changed it to Asha when I started working in Bollywood six years ago.”

  I couldn’t help staring. “Damn. I can’t believe this. A Jersey girl. I grew up in Manhattan. Hey, how old are you? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  She giggled again. “Thirty. Yeah, I know, I know. I look like jailbait on a stick. It’s the minuscule height plus these rotten elf features. I used to get carded in clubs from Atlantic City to Brooklyn. At least in Bombay everyone knows my face so I don’t have that problem.”

  My age. Jersey. I beamed at her. She beamed back, then grabbed my arm.

  “Okay, Tempe. Let’s get you back to my place and get settled. We’ll let Brig and Mr. Roshan do whatever they need to do without us. Perhaps forever.”

  Jake looked pained. “Asha. Can you take two minutes and come talk with me? In private?”

  “Nope. Bye.”

  She whirled around. I had no choice but to follow if I wanted a ride to her place—and the use of my right arm. Not to mention I wanted to remain on good terms with this explosive Indian-American actress from a city twenty-five miles outside of New York.

  We’d made it to the car, chatting about Jersey outlet malls, before I thought to turn around and see if the fellows were watching. Brig and Jake hadn’t moved. I had the impression they had yet to even speak since Asha preemptively took over my security issues.

  I called to Brig, “O’Brien? Where is our little ivory singer just now, anyway? The statuette to kill for?”

  He looked around the empty lot with horror etched on his face.

  “Tempe! Hush. The lady in question is in a fine hidey-hole. We’ll discuss this later, okay? On the set tomorrow. I believe Jake is putting us together for a dance number. We can talk while riding the Ferris wheel.”

  I knew I wouldn’t get an answer out of the man even if I hadn’t stupidly yelled the question in a very public place. I whirled around, then jumped into Asha’s convertible wi
thout bothering to open the door.

  She snorted. “I can do that if I take a running leap. My legs are too short. I look like a junior high school track star prepuberty trying to tackle the college hurdles. In other words, dumb and graceless.”

  I smiled. “There are one or two advantages to being tall. Until I turned nineteen, I was five-four. I swear I grew four inches in one year just in time to be booted out of the Olympic trials for gymnastics. No one believed any girl who wasn’t less than five feet could manage the vault or the parallel bars. The fact that my specialty had always been floor didn’t penetrate their bigoted skulls.”

  “So you lost out on being an Olympic champion?”

  “Pretty much. But I was still considering becoming a professional dancer, and I knew height had advantages when auditioning for musicals, as far as a lot of choreographers are concerned. So I rejoiced that I wasn’t a tiny elf anymore.”

  “Thanks. So much.”

  I laughed at her. “You’ve done quite well as an elf, Miss Kumar. I hear you’re the premiere star of Bollywood. Not bad for a girl from Woodbridge.”

  I cringed for a second as the star almost sideswiped two taxicabs. I hoped the man who’d taken me to Vivek Studios wasn’t one of them. I glanced at Asha.

  “But you definitely drive like a Jersey girl.”

  She giggled. “Why do you think Jersey drivers drive the way they do? They learned in India. When, or if, you do get back to Manhattan, take another look at the woman in the minivan with the cell phone in one hand and the mascara in the other who’s just cut into your lane. Bombay born and raised. License from Newark. Swear.”

  I liked this girl. I had a feeling we’d be great roommates. Then I wished I hadn’t remembered why I needed a roommate. She seemed to sense that my thoughts had shifted from New Jersey drivers to something more serious. She glanced at me while she slipped into a tight spot in front of a delivery truck and behind a beat-up ancient sedan.

  “Tempe? What, by the grace of Brig’s little goddess, is going on?”

  “That’s a very good question. I wish I knew the answer to it.”

  I narrated the events of the last twenty-four hours, beginning with the shoot-out at Hot Harry’s Saloon. She listened with true concern when I told her how Mahindra’s men had sent me somersaulting into a storeroom to escape their flying bullets and how Patel’s men had made me their private dartboard. She loved hearing about my bump-and-grind routine at C.C. Curry’s and wanted more information about where, and in what circumstances, Brig and I had spent the night.

  I skimmed over the details of kissing Mr. O’Brien but did say I was now dressed in clothes purchased by Mr. O’Brien because I had nothing else. She tried to interrupt to ask about my sleeping attire while at the Sea Harbor Hotel, but I cut her off by telling her Brig’s latest news about a man resembling one of the thugs removing my stuff from the hotel.

  She hit the brakes. Hard. At least we were at a red light. One of the few she’d stopped for. She twisted in her seat to look at me.

  “Do you have any idea what Brig intends to do? I mean, he’s got this statue, the bad guys think you’ve got it, you’re both about to hide out—if appearing in a film that will be seen by millions can be considered going undercover. And where will this Shiva’s Diva end up? Has Brig even said?”

  I lifted both brows and grimaced. “I haven’t a clue. Do you realize I still don’t know yet if the man who hired me as a translator is even alive?”

  “Well, hell, girl, time for the ladies to do a bit of sleuthing. Leave the boys out of it since they haven’t done a real terrific job of managing this situation so far.”

  She grinned. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to be Nancy Drew. I have all the books. I can get in and out of haunted houses, up and down spiral staircases, and sneak behind hidden bookcases. I could hot-wire a car by the time I hit twelve. Not that Nancy ever did, but I thought it was a useful skill to acquire. So, whatcha say, Walsh?”

  An invitation to embark on a bit of private investigation with India’s latest cinema celebrity. A spunky, mad-driving starlet who thought her fiancé was a double-A-battery-run rat and who had a secret desire to be a covert operative. With Asha by my side, the previous twenty-four hours with Brig were about to look like a tea party with my great-aunt Geneva—a ninety-year-old agoraphobic who hadn’t stepped outside of her house for forty years.

  Chapter 9

  Asha decreed our first stop would be the Taj Mahal Hotel. I liked this idea. I hoped to find the sweet little old maid who’d been so kind as to give Brig O’Brien all that information about my belongings, including my passport.

  The Taj Mahal Hotel is an architectural wonder in contrasts. Old meets new. India meets England. It’s a five-star hotel that offers restaurants, nightclubs, spas, aerobic classes, and a pool. It can best be described as a grand, expensive palace. Ray had paid for my room as part of my salary. There was no way I could afford such a luxurious hotel otherwise. I’d felt like a trespasser all six hours I’d spent there.

  Not so Miss Asha Kumar. This was her turf. Accompanying Asha gave me a new outlook on how one navigates the snob factor at classy hotels.

  To begin with, Asha didn’t bother dealing with parking once we reached the Taj Mahal Hotel. She stopped the car inches away from an eager, trembling valet, then waited for him to open her door. I stepped out on my own, although I did use the door instead of jumping out the top. Asha tossed her keys at the kid, then she grabbed my arm and we sauntered into the Taj Mahal Hotel like two starlets in search of paparazzi to tempt.

  I did not look like the same girl who’d checked in yesterday morning. That Miss Walsh had been groggy from airsick meds, rumpled and wrinkled, but still appearing professional in a brown business suit. I’d wanted to make it clear that this interpreter was here to do a job. Period. Which was why before I left for Hot Harry’s, I’d changed into my navy two-piece suit, slapped on a tinge of mascara and blush, and pulled my hair back into a bun.

  This afternoon I had on one of the new outfits Brig had bought for me at Kemps Corner. Tight black jeans with a matching cap-sleeved black silk top. My hair was loose and waving over my shoulders. While I hadn’t quite matched the outrageousness of the cosmetics for my impromptu performance at C.C. Curry’s, I did sport decent amounts of blush, eyeliner, mascara, taupe eye shadow, and a nice shade of apricot lipstick; all items Brig had thoughtfully included in the gift bag. The man might be a rogue, but his taste matched my own. All the colors had been carefully chosen for a true redhead.

  I had to banish thoughts of Brig from my mind before embarking on this little exercise in detection with Asha, the thirty-year-old celebrity vixen loved by millions. Ray might have had authority and that distinctly American businessman swagger, but Asha had presence and panache. I took a deep breath and prepared to follow her lead, wherever it took me.

  There were perks to standing beside Asha Kumar at a hotel counter listening to a voice that easily changed from pure Jersey to the refined tones of an Indian actress with an impeccable command of both Hindi and English. Within moments, Asha and I were in the luxurious suite of the hotel manager, a Mr. Chopra. The offices looked out over the harbor, and for a few moments I simply enjoyed taking in the view.

  Then we got down to business. I’d warned Asha that since we still didn’t know who all the players were in this game, it would be best not to reveal too much about Shiva’s Diva. She showed me she knew how to take direction without losing control of the action.

  She smiled at Mr. Chopra. Heck, she practically simpered.

  “Mr. Chopra. This is Miss Tempe Walsh, a dear friend of mine from the States. She came for a visit and checked in here two nights ago. When she sent someone back for her things earlier today so she could come to my apartment, she discovered that someone not authorized had checked out for her, and her things had been removed. Naturally, I am most upset at this lack of courtesy!”

  Asha was good. She’d given the basics. She hadn’t really l
ied either. Barbara Ashley Kumar had become my dear friend about two hours earlier. So she told the truth at least in that. I liked knowing I now had three friends in Bombay.

  Asha turned and winked at me. Chopra grabbed his phone, dialed someone at the desk, and tried to find out why such a mess had occurred at his hotel.

  Asha whispered, “No biggie. Basic Improvisation 101. I teach it twice weekly. I can lie like a rug. Anyplace. Anytime. Not, however, with anyone. Regardless of what the tabloids say.”

  I tried not to laugh. Chopra turned and smiled at us both.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Walsh. The desk clerk informs me that the mix-up appears to be the result of your traveling companion misunderstanding your plans.”

  I threw him a sharp look. “Traveling companion?”

  “Yes. A Mr. Raymond Decore from New York City. Apparently, he told the clerk you had a friend in the city and would not be returning to the Taj Mahal.” Chopra looked concerned. “Mr. Decore did not seem to know the friend was Miss Kumar, our beautiful lady of the cinema.”

  I nodded. “And did Mr. Decore happen to say where he’d taken my things?”

  “The clerk did not know. He did not ask, you see, not wishing to insult the man. I believe he assumed, that you and he, that is . . .”

  Chopra turned red.

  Asha rescued him. “He thought they were a couple, yes?”

  He nodded in the affirmative. “Yes. I am most sorry that he reached this conclusion. Apparently, Mr. Decore specifically gave that impression. I do apologize.”

  I stared at a small boat with sails gliding across the water. What a nice place to be on a sunny afternoon. No worries other than how much wind would rise to allow the sailor to whip past the yachts and cargo ships and head for open space and freedom.

  I touched my ear. Last night a pair of cute, inexpensive sail-shaped earrings had dangled there, then been destroyed. Today, fancy earrings swung in their place. A good trade all in all. But now it appeared Ray Decore’s very identity had been stolen by one of Mahindra’s or Patel’s minions. I wasn’t sure if I felt angrier over my things being missing or my reputation being sullied.