I took his hand and smiled at Ray. “We’ll talk in a bit. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Ray did not return my smile. The gun shook in his hand, but he hadn’t dropped it.
I started to feel nauseated. “Ray? What’s the matter? You have this strange look on your face.”
“I’ve never shot anyone before, Tempe. I’m debating the best way to go about it.”
“Excuse me? Are you nuts? Are you going to try and take on Mahindra or Patel, the goons who’ve cornered the market on villainy? Don’t. You’d never stand a chance.”
Brig squeezed my hand. “He’s not talking about our Indian friends, Tempe. Are you, Mr. Decore?”
Ray gave a slight bow. “Very astute, Mr. O’Brien. Tempe, for a woman who earns her living through communication skills, you’re not quite up to your usual intellectual standards today. And O’Brien? Please, sit back down. You are far too tall to suit me.”
I shut my eyes. “Oh crap.”
“Ah. She’s finally caught on.”
I had. I muttered, “You’ve somehow turned into another bad guy, haven’t you?”
I turned to Brig. “Remind me to tell Jake, if we get out of here with limbs intact, that this is an okay plot twist for one of his films. Not very original, but not completely clichéd either.”
With Brig’s hand holding mine, I attempted to edge closer to the door.
Ray coughed. “Tempe, do not move. Now then. You’re a beautiful young lady and perhaps I have a way you can avoid floating around Bombay’s harbors. I’m even confident we can come to a nice arrangement as to a future relationship. But your newest companion? I’m sorry, young man. I can’t see where you fit into my plans to procure the Saraswati statue, then head to my villa in Nice for a few years.”
I held my hand up. “Whoa! Ray. Can we go back a frame or two? I’m confused.”
“You are? Why? I should think the situation would be quite clear to such a supposedly brilliant woman.”
“Well, let me see if I’ve got the rhyme and reason of this particular scenario. First, you hire me in New York to help you in negotiations for a statue you’re preparing to buy but which you are, in actuality, planning to steal. Sorry. Not original, Ray. Half of Bombay feels the same.”
Brig nodded. Great. He agreed with my assessment. He should. He was part of the half.
“Be that as it may, Ray, we get here after an excruciatingly long flight with you trying to hit on me, which isn’t really relevant but I thought I’d throw it in anyway.”
I turned to Brig. “Where was I?”
“Hot Harry’s. Almost.”
“Ah. Okay, there we are in the middle of transactions with Khan and all hell breaks loose. Ray supposedly gets shot. I hide, meet Brig, haul butt, and get an unofficial tour of the seamier side of Bombay, which is also not relevant, although it was certainly interesting, at least to me. Then today I come back here with Brig to try and discover how you are and learn that you have lost your mind. Have I left anything out? Is that about it?”
“Correct. Up to a point. And that point is where a large amount of rupees would have been exchanged. An amount, my dear linguist, that translated to a million five, as I’m sure you recall. An amount I had no intention of paying.”
“Aye,” sighed Brig. “There’s the rub.”
I threw a glance at Brig. Quoting Shakespeare in stressful situations. A fascinating, if annoying, trait.
Ray nodded. “Exactly. The rub. In a way, Mahindra did me a favor when he and his thugs came barging in. Except that forced me to, as you so nicely phrased it, haul butt and hide from Mahindra in a disgusting cellar while I held an even more disgusting cloth to my bleeding ear. I bled a lot.”
“Not enough,” muttered Brig under his breath.
Ray shot him a look but didn’t ask him to restate his comment. Instead, he turned back to me. “Now you tell me there’s another set of goons? Patel? Was he the ugly one who came over during negotiations and offered me a cigar? Not that it matters. When I returned to Hot Harry’s late last night and discovered the statue had disappeared, I was not pleased.”
Brig squeezed my hand a bit harder. I did not flinch. I did not want to betray any movement that smacked of communication between Brig and me to the man holding a weapon aimed in our direction. I knew without words what Brig wanted to say with that touch. In what Ray might call succinct language, it translated as, “Shut up.” As in “Don’t tell him that Shiva’s Diva made it out with us.”
Ray did not know who had ended up with the statue. Which could be the primary reason those bullets were still in that gun instead of lodged in Brig’s chest. Or mine.
Ray glared at me. “Would you happen to know where that statue is now?”
“No, Ray, I don’t. Honestly. I would imagine it’s residing either in the Mahindra mansion or the Patel pit. Maybe Khan himself retrieved it.”
I hadn’t lied. Brig had hidden Shiva’s Diva sometime this morning and hadn’t filled me in on her most current location.
Ray took a step closer to Brig, who’d found a nice perch for himself on the edge of the bed.
“What about you, Mr. O’Brien? Would your knowledge be a bit more up-to-date than Tempe’s?”
He whacked Brig on the head with the muzzle of the gun. O’Brien must have possessed one heck of a strong Irish temple because, although he swayed, he remained upright.
Ray sighed. “Idiot playing the hero. Why don’t I just shoot Tempe and see if that refreshes your memory?”
He turned toward me. I sent up prayers to Saraswati, Shiva, St. Cecilia (patron saint of music), and St. Swithen (patron saint of what? Irish Robin Hoods?) to get us out of this.
A high-pitched keening wail sounded from just outside Ray’s door. The noise sounded like a cross between a moose in heat and a wild boar during a roundup. It produced a painful racket and provided a great distraction.
Ray whirled. Brig kicked the gun out of his hand. I threw the nearest large object, which happened to be the suitcase full of Armani shirts, at Ray’s head. The door burst open. There stood Asha, still dressed in the maid’s costume.
She held the door for us and in Hindi yelled, “Go! Now! It ain’t getting any better!”
Brig and I did not waste time congratulating her on either her award-winning performance as the subservient hotel employee or the hideous noise she’d just made in order to get that door unlocked without Ray noticing.
I’d really whapped Ray with the suitcase. He was rocking and swaying on his knees. His hands were clasping his head where two pink silk shirts from the tossed luggage had landed. Brig and I leapt over the kneeling, crying, newly discovered miscreant, then charged out of the room.
The three of us galloped with the grace of stampeding oxen toward the fire stairs located at the end of the hall. A pair of English tourists inched back inside the elevator from which they’d been trying to exit. As one, we turned and yelled, “Sorry!”
With true English aplomb, one of the elderly ladies called, “Not a problem, dears.”
I could hear her as she turned to her companion and exclaimed, “Elizabeth? Did you see her? It’s that darling little film star. Asha Kumar. From Pirate Princess. I wonder if this is part of a scene? On location, as they say. And if we might be in it?”
Chapter 11
We made it into the lobby and out of the hotel without further incident. Once we neared the parking area, Asha walked up to the valet and requested that her convertible be retrieved within the next thirty seconds. She stated that if it arrived sooner, the valet would be on the receiving end of a nice baksheesh (i.e., tip).
Our intrepid starlet had shed her maid’s costume somewhere along the fire-escape stairs. So, even if Ray saw a small woman roaring out of the Taj Mahal Hotel parking lot in an outrageous blue classic T-Bird, he wouldn’t recognize the keening lunatic who’d aided Brig and me in his room. And he clearly wasn’t up on Masala cinema, since, unlike the English tourists, he hadn’t recognized her to beg
in with.
Brig and I found shelter behind an airport shuttle van and watched Asha speed away. We saw the valet smile as he counted the wad of rupees Asha had given him. I tried to convince Brig to jump into the van, head to the airport, and find the first flight headed toward the States or other points north. Brig pointed out that his passport was in Jake’s home safe and that mine doubtless now fed fishies at the bottom of the bay. He didn’t bother to mention he also had no intention of leaving Bombay without Shiva’s Diva in his hot little hands.
Brig picked the lock of the van. We crawled inside the shuttle van so I could change back into my black jeans and shirt in relative privacy. I’d clung to my clothes the whole time I’d been in Ray’s room, along with the three towels that had “Taj Mahal Hotel” embroidered on the hem. I now sat on one of the seats facing the center of the van and began to remove the maid’s costume.
“Wow.”
I turned.
Brig had politely held the towels over the back window of the van-now-dressing-room. But he was looking at me, not outside. “I knew black lace was the right choice.”
“Brig. Wait. This isn’t the time. Brig. Oh hell.”
Brig edged closer. He touched my face with gentle fingers, then let his hands travel down to black lace garment number one, the bra with the front-closure clasp. My breath was coming in short spurts now. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. The clasp gave way.
Sunlight streamed into the back of the van.
“Elizabeth! Look! It’s those other two darling actors who were with Miss Kumar. This is so thrilling! To actually see a movie in progress. But I was under the impression that kissing wasn’t normally done in the Masala movies?”
I’d dived for both the floor and my T-shirt the instant the door to the van had opened and the sun, plus the two English tourists, brightened the interior.
Brig turned and barred them from seeing me. A lot of me. I quickly snapped the bra clasp back together while inwardly cursing the English. No wonder the Irish were always pissed at them. Their sense of timing was nothing short of criminal.
Brig’s brogue filled the van. The Brits might not like the Irish politically, but few females can resist that sexy baritone sound.
“Ladies, so good of you to be so enthusiastic about the film-makin’ progress! Yes, indeed, you can be seein’ us onscreen in a few months. Carnival of Lust is the name of the flick, and while Miss Walsh and I be naught but poor players, Asha Kumar and Raj Ravi will star. This one will also be distributed in the Isles.”
By this time, I had my underthings back in place and my shirt back on. We all sat in the van while Brig and I graciously signed autographs for these ladies who seemed to think meeting us was the highlight of their stay in Bombay.
Brig jumped down from the van, then helped lower me to the ground as well. “We’ll be off, then, Miss Elizabeth, is it? And you, lovely lady?”
The other woman beamed and squeaked, “Margaret.”
“Margaret. A foin, name, that. We’el, ladies, you be enjoyin’ yer stay, then, and we’ll be wishin’ ya well.”
After a spate of farewells, Brig and I left the van (and the maid’s uniform). After a short wrestling match with my conscience, I also left the towels.
We barely made it outside before the driver of the shuttle arrived. He was carrying Elizabeth and Margaret’s luggage and announcing that they were due to leave for the airport momentarily.
Brig and I nodded to him, then ran across the parking lot heading for the nearest train station, the Victoria Terminus. It took us thirty minutes to weave our way through the crowd waiting to buy tickets. I checked from time to time to see if my ribs were still intact from the pushing, shoving, and less-than-polite nudging from everyone trying to make it onto the train.
Traveling by rail in Bombay is not like taking the subway in New York or Boston or Chicago. At Victoria Terminus, the starting point for most of the trains, one stands on the platform along with several thousand other travelers watching for the next train with an empty car to pull up. While that train is still in motion, one jumps on board between large open doors, rather like a cattle car, in order to find a spot to stand when the train pulls out again to the next destination.
What the heck. I’d done somersaults and swings off a chandelier at a saloon. This was easy. We even found two seats and wedged ourselves between two men wearing white Nehru hip-length jackets and cotton pants. Ignoring the two foreigners, they yelled across us about the latest stock-market dive and whether the Euro currency would take over the system of rupees in India.
One of the men shrugged, nearly knocking my chin into my nose, then hollered, “I bought the DVD of Pirate Princess last night. My wife and I watched it five times.”
The other man nodded, hitting Brig’s shoulder more than once. “I got it three weeks ago. I’ve seen it more than three hundred times now. I love the part where Asha is lowered down into the cave where Spot the tiger sits waiting.”
Brig winked at me and I wondered if the film I had yet to start, Carnival of Lust, would garner as much attention. Businessman number one answered my unspoken query.
“I can’t wait to see Asha’s new one, Carnival of Lust, with Raj Ravi. They are so marvelous together.”
The two men were still chatting about film and film stars when Brig grabbed my hand and motioned to me to follow him. Getting off the train was similar to getting on. One waited for an opportune moment when the train was doing less than twenty miles per hour, then one jumped.
We took refuge at a restaurant called The Queen’s Quarter that overlooked Juhu Beach. Very British, except for the Hindi waiters. Teatime had ended but quite a few patrons remained at their tables enjoying the afternoon break. Including one lady who sat watching the boats on the harbor. In quiet solitude.
Brig ordered tea and pastries for us, then suddenly excused himself and walked over to the lady’s table. He leaned down and began to chat. I’d been on the receiving end of Brig’s chats. It appeared another willing victim had succumbed to the famous O’Brien charm. She seemed so entranced that she hadn’t even responded with either words or a slap. She just kept nodding and smiling.
I wavered between confused and ticked. Brig and I had come close to giving two tourists a close-up view of a rather erotic scene less than an hour ago. Now Brig was chatting up another female. It didn’t make sense.
The lady turned. My breath caught. It was the woman I’d seen with Brig in the photo I’d found at his hotel.
Beautiful did not begin to describe the spectacular features. Her complexion was olive and it was clear. Her small nose wouldn’t have been utilitarian had it been one whit tinier. Her mouth was full. Her eyes were huge and the color of dark chocolate. Natural highlights leaning toward chestnut glinted from her perfectly coiffed dark hair.
Brig motioned to me to join them. At least this was someone he knew. He hadn’t been hitting on some babe just to torment me or keep from being bored during tea.
I stood. Time to meet the goddess.
Brig stated, “Tempe Walsh. This is Claire Dharbar.”
She smiled at me but said nothing. I smiled back and said “Hello.” She inclined her head toward me and said nothing.
Brig took my hand, bent down and kissed my palm, then whispered, “I have to talk to Claire now about the Diva. It’s very important, believe me. Do you mind waitin’ at our table? They’ve brought the tea things out. With scones, darlin’. So have at it. All you want.”
What could I say? “No, Brig. I do mind. I’m sitting here with messy hair and bruises on my body, really wanting to call it a day, and you’re yakkin’ it up with Miss-I’m-too-Superior-to-Talk-to-You-You-Peasant. The woman didn’t even bother to say hello. But thanks, Mr. O’Brien, for at least ordering tea and pastries for the food hound here. I’ll just go now and gobble down the specials The Queen has displayed on the tea carts today.”
I kept silent.
I sat. I drank tea. I ate two scones, one muffin
, and two divinely decadent Indian pastries made of carrots and raisins and pistachio nuts all swimming in cream. I watched Brig talk and Claire Dharbar listen. I tried to stop visions of them entwined in one another’s arms making passionate love in a dark room while Shiva’s Diva smiled over their heads.
Nutty. Neither had done anything to warrant my having this lurid vision. Jealousy is not a nice emotion. I resolved to work on that less-than-admirable aspect of my personality. One I never knew existed until this day.
“Tempe? You done eating?”
I looked at my clean plate. “I’d say so. Unless they serve samosas here.”
He laughed. “Sorry. This place is Western food only, except for a few desserts. We’ll get you some at Jake’s. His cook does a marvelous potato-and-pea samosa.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
He politely helped me up as he said, “Grand. We’ll be off then. Ready?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
I followed him out of the restaurant. Claire sat and watched the bay. Brig and I hailed a rickshaw and took off in silence.
Chapter 12
Brig and I stared at each other across the coffee table in Jake Roshan’s lavishly decorated living room.
“So, do we have a plan? Wait. Let me rephrase that. Do you, Briggan O’Brien, have a plan? Now that other surprise elements—who should have been good guys but are now bad guys—have entered the playground of this already crowded court?”
“Aren’t you mixing your metaphors?”
“Don’t start with me. Just tell me there is some way to get out of Bombay, alive. Soon. Oh crap. I still don’t have my passport.”
Brig leaned against Jake’s luxurious sofa.
“Wish I did have a plan, Tempe. I wasn’t terribly surprised that Ray had joined the ranks of the felons but, unfortunately, that raises the growing number of miscreants on our tails.”
I muttered, “Not to mention another interested party on your tail.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just admiring the, uh, woodwork in the room.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Hot Stuff Page 9
