Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I glared at him. He appeared far too smug. Well, why shouldn’t he? He knew where he’d hidden the darn statue. And now it seemed he also had a strong idea of her ultimate destination.

  I took a sip of tea. One has to love the British and their traditions. Academic endeavors stop for tea. Divorces are stalled for tea. Scandals rock the world, rioters riot, but the island of Great Britain, and consequently the nations they’d held close to their collective vests for hundreds of years, stop everything for tea.

  In my own private world that had gone mad in the last two days, this example of the teatime polite ritual and civilized behavior had become a godsend. Be that god Shiva, Saraswati, or Swithen.

  Brig took a sip from his cup, then grabbed a large bite of scone and crammed the full piece into his mouth. I plopped three scones on my own plate and took another look around my latest temporary residence.

  Jake lived in the Juhu Beach area, not far from where Brig and I had met Claire Dharbar this afternoon. Juhu Beach, a place once famous for the filmi crowd and their wild parties, as well as for luxury hotels and houses, had settled into a predominantly middle-class existence but it still held appeal.

  Jake Roshan was considered part of the filmi elite and his house reflected that status. There were five bedrooms, four bathrooms, two living room/den areas, a maid’s quarters, a library, an office, a rec room filled with videos, DVDs, games, and a dartboard. In Bombay, this was palatial for normal folks, but not ostentatious for an award-winning cinema director.

  Brig and I had taken one short rickshaw ride to Jake’s. That had been fun. A kid of perhaps twelve took the scenic route and the three of us sang operatic arias, pop, and country and western hits. He’d parked by a pair of small iron gates, then escorted us to Jake’s door, bowing and blessing us and grinning widely over the tip Brig had placed in his hand.

  I smiled, thinking about our teenage singing driver.

  “We should have introduced him to Jake. He could probably use him on a film.”

  “Who?”

  “Rickshaw Ricky. Or whatever his name is.”

  Brig nodded. “He gave me a business card when I was doling out rupees. You were busy gawking at Jake’s house. I told the kid to show up on the lot and give the guard my name. I’ll get him an audition with Jake during filming tomorrow. Then you can watch over him Thursday.”

  Brig took another sip of tea.

  I squinched my eyes at him. “Hold on. I thought you were going to be dancing merrily through the back lots of the studio both days?”

  Brig nodded. “Wednesday only. The men aren’t in any scenes Thursday. And I have people to see.”

  “About the statue? Brig, are you going to sell her to another party I haven’t met yet?” Or to Claire Dharbar, who I guess I have met? Briefly.

  “Tempe. Trust me. I can’t tell you anything just yet, but I promise, Shiva’s Diva will be in very good hands if I get things worked out. And you and I may just end up blessed after all.”

  “Yeah, right. I feel blessed, hunted through the streets and alleyways and hotel rooms of Bombay.”

  I chewed on the scone. It was excellent. I wanted to steal whomever Jake had hired as his cook more than anyone in Bombay wanted the Diva. After two bites, though, the food suddenly tasted like sawdust. Tears welled up in my eyes. Brig’s own eyes widened.

  “Tempe?”

  “Sorry. I’m just thinking about Ray Decore. Damn. Jeremy, my boss, had warned me Ray fancied himself a lady-killer. Little did I know that would turn out to be literal, not figurative. But I can’t believe Ray is as corrupt and evil as the other brutes. You think he really would have shot us?”

  Brig nodded. “I hate to say it, but I do. Although maybe it’s just temporary lunacy due to the curse. Ray fancies himself an artist because he likes to acquire fine things. Right? But he’s a collector. Period. And Saraswati has a way of dealing with poseurs. It’s as though the lady knows whom she wants holding and keeping her. And she gets angry when it’s the wrong one.”

  Saraswati wasn’t the only female with this attitude. I myself had strong feelings about who did, or did not, hold me. I brushed that thought aside and instead pondered Brig’s assessment of a statue bearing responsibility for changing a man from good to bad.

  Not that Ray had been a saint; he’d been somewhat of a cad about pursuing a relationship, but that’s different than killing an ex-employee. Brig’s theory sounded a bit wacky, but nonetheless I felt comforted with his ideas concerning the why of Ray’s treachery. Plus Brig’s sweet attitude toward my impromptu crying jag. I smiled at him and offered him the last two scones from my tray.

  “I feel better believing Ray is just misguided right now. Maybe he’ll come to his senses when he gets back to New York. Thanks, Brig, for understanding.”

  He took the scones and flashed a take-your-breath-away smile at me. “I was about to say the same to you. Thanks. For the scones, mind you. I love them. Mum makes lovely cranberry-orange scones for the Christmas holiday.”

  “Sounds divine.”

  “I’ll tell her to whip up an extra batch this year.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Most of the O’Brien clan is still in Riverdale.”

  “There’re more of you?”

  He nodded. “Four brothers. All older. There’s a ten-year gap between me and the youngest of that first lot. And Mum and Da are still thriving. I keep them young.”

  “I would have thought your poor mother’s hair turned stark white when you hit talking age. And no girls? She must have climbed the walls a dozen times a day when you and your brothers were growing up.”

  Brig closed his eyes.

  “Brig? What? Did I say something wrong?”

  He opened his eyes but the look in them chilled me. He gazed at the window overlooking one of Jake’s gardens. He glanced at me, then back out the window.

  “I had a sister. She’s dead.”

  I wanted to jump through that window and forget my insensitive comments about O’Brien men and no girls.

  “I’m so sorry. Oh, Lord, why did I say that about your mom and girls.”

  He shook his head. “You didn’t know. It’s okay. Really. Annie died when I was nine years old. She was fifteen at the time.”

  “Dear God. What happened? Was she sick?”

  Brig stood and walked toward the window as if movement might lessen a hurt still fresh after twenty years.

  “She was a gymnast. Like you. Tiny though. She took after my mother, unlike all of us boys. My dad’s six-six and I’m the runt at six-four. Anyway, we lived in Dublin then. Annie would drag me along with her to gymnastics practices and to her meets. That’s where I learned the moves I still can do.”

  He paused, turned, lifted his cup as if studying the design, then placed it back on the saucer. His voice grew husky.

  “Annie’d been invited to a party up at the rec room at the church. The good priests had just received a donation of two pool tables and all the kids were coming in to play a few games.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared at the tea cup as though willing it to speak to him.

  “Mum said it was all right for Annie to go alone, since it was a church function and in the afternoon and all. We were to meet her after, then go over to my aunt’s for supper, so we got in the car and drove to the church, and we couldn’t find a place to park except for about three blocks away. I get out and Mum gets out and—we hear the blast and see the smoke and the fire.”

  My tears had started falling the instant he said “blast.” I knew.

  “IRA? A bomb?”

  He sat back down across from me. “Don’t really know who set it. One of the radical elements who specialized in that sort of behavior back then. Remember me saying how the gardé, how any cops, can be a force for good or evil?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, the police never could seem to find any leads as to where this particular bomb came from. Not who brought it i
nto the church, nor how it came into Dublin. Mum and Dad suspected a group that had done more than one church bombing in and around the area the last two years or so, but the police swept it under the rug.”

  He looked at me. “It’s a better group now, so I’m told. The coppers.”

  He then put his head into his hands and cried. I reached for him and held him, and we rocked together, clinging to each other until one of us was able to speak again.

  Brig sighed. “It’s all so stupid, really. A silly game of pool on a bright afternoon in May. And who gets killed? A bunch of young kids and two priests.”

  He smiled. “Those two were the sharpest pool players in all of Dublin though. I’m sure they’ve got a game going somewhere up in heaven. Hustling all the poor rabbis and ministers who come in lookin’ for a match. Probably taking on Saint Peter himself.”

  We sat quietly, drinking our tea while Brig dealt with memories and I tried to banish the visions of horror.

  Brig took another bite of his scone and asked, “What about you? You mentioned your mother being a film nut. Where does she live?”

  I welcomed the opportunity to turn to a happier subject. “She is indeed a film nut. She also loves live theater and opera and ballet. She swears she’ll never leave New York as long as Broadway and the Met remain.”

  “Ah. Your mum and mine have probably bumped into one another during Wednesday matinees a time or two. My mum is also a fan of musical theater and fine music.”

  He smiled. “And Riverdance, don’t ya know. We’ll invite your folks up for tea soon.”

  Riverdance. And tea. This sounded very good. Intimate. I began envisioning cozy chats with Mom and Mum beaming at their darling children. I sighed.

  “Better make it my mom only. She and my father have been divorced for years and years, and they do not get along. I think I’m the cause. My father wanted a male entrepreneur and he got a taller duplicate of my mother. Why they married in the first place is beyond me. And her. I think it was his blue eyes, which was the only thing I inherited from him as far as either Mom or I can tell.”

  I changed topics to avoid discussing my father.

  “By the way, Mr. O’Brien, I keep meaning to ask this. The night we met in the back of Hot Harry’s you were spouting Gaelic like, well, a native. Since then, you’ve stuck to English like you were born and bred in the Bronx. So, were those phrases the limit to your repertoire? Or were you trying to impress me while we did our duck-and-cover routine?”

  He grinned. “A bit of both. I know more Gaelic than I use. Usually comes out in stressful situations. Also, and don’t get mad, it was fun to test your skills.”

  “Test? Why?”

  “Ray introduced you to Mr. Khan as his interpreter when you first entered Hot Harry’s. Khan asked you, in Hindi, what languages you knew. And you rattled off the basics first. French, Russian, German, Italian, Spanish. Well, now, most opera lovers can spout a few phrases in any of those.”

  He winked at me. “Then you got this funny, wonderful smile on your face. You said, ‘also Japanese, some Chinese, Parsi—and Gaelic.’ Perked me right up. I wanted to know the truth of your relationship with Ray. Find out if you really knew these languages, or if you were some gorgeous bimbo he’d met in New York who’d read a travel guide on India and learned a phrase or two to impress him.”

  “So you tried out a few phrases in Gaelic.”

  “Aye. Forgive me?”

  “What, for doubting me? Nothing to forgive, Brig. You didn’t know me at all. I didn’t know you. And let’s face it, I thought you were one of the hordes of hooligans there to pillage and rob the poor Americans.”

  He winked. “Me? A hooligan? Never. I tell you what. I’ll be happy to toss in a Gaelic word or two from time to time throughout the years just to give you sweet memories of how we met.”

  That statement, as had several he’d made earlier, implied a future between the two of us. A possibility that eluded me right now with the way things stood with the craziness about Shiva’s Diva. Romance seemed difficult to sustain while one tried to avoid all the bad guys and get the statue delivered into safe hands.

  I rose, then took the empty tray through five rooms to deposit it in Jake’s kitchen. And discovered Jake himself at the end of this trek.

  “Jake? I thought you were at the lot dealing with carpenters and sound men for tomorrow’s shoot.”

  A morose Jake sat on a stool behind a bar counter.

  “I was. For once, everything went smoothly. Too smoothly. No yelling, fighting, bruised hands, bruised feelings, or broken bones. I came home.”

  “So why do you look like Vivek Studios just burned down?”

  He lifted his cup and stared at it. “Asha.”

  “This is why you’re sitting here drinking hot water?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  I pointed to the empty tea holder and the clear liquid in his cup. “No tea, Jake.”

  He grabbed a canister and filled the strainer. “I cannot believe that woman has me so distracted I don’t know my own name.”

  “Loser.”

  We turned. Brig had entered the kitchen, announcing his presence with that one word.

  Jake snorted. “Loser? Is that what I am, or my name?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, thank you, my friend. Loser. Just what I needed to hear.”

  Brig winked at me, then slapped Jake on the shoulder. “Jake, me boy-o, listen to me. You’re letting the lady grab you by the, uh, nose and lead you to the end of a plank. Where you appear to be prepared to jump. Be a man, man! Stand up to the lass.”

  Jake sighed. “I would if I had any idea as to why my sweet intended has suddenly decided to perform the first two acts of Taming of the Shrew. I’m not sure there’ll be a third.”

  He aimed his appeal at me. “Tempe? You were with her all afternoon. Did she say anything about me?”

  I hated to disappoint the lovesick director, but I had to be truthful. “Honestly? We talked about Jersey and New York and clothes and my adventures in Bombay. Sorry. Maybe when things are calmer, she’ll feel like confiding.”

  I snickered. “What am I saying? Calmer? When will that be? Sometime between Mahindra chasing me into the harbor, Patel throwing me out of a speeding train, or Ray shooting me in the back while I’m trying to do high kicks and turns in the middle of Carnival of Lust?”

  Jake looked at Brig with concern. “Is she all right? Tempe, when did you last eat something real? Or sleep?”

  I shook my head. “I’m all right. I won’t break down. At least not today. I make no promises for tomorrow.” I smiled at Jake. “And that’s only after the shoot. No hysterical ranting or sobs while filming. Which reminds me. When do I learn these dances I’m in?”

  Jake looked surprised. “Tomorrow. I have already choreographed them. I teach them on the set. Then we film the numbers. Much more efficient than days of rehearsal.”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  “You’ll do a good job, Tempe. These are easy steps, especially for someone as graceful as you. And you took dance in college. You’ll think you’re in beginners class.”

  Brig poured water over the now-full tea strainer in Jake’s cup and handed it to him. Then he winked at me.

  “Just be prepared to do a few flips and handsprings as well as those high kicks.”

  “And that would be . . . why?”

  Brig lifted his eyes to the ceiling to avoid meeting my gaze. Jake stirred his tea and answered, “Because Mr. O’Brien spent an hour regaling me with the tale of Tempe Walsh vaulting over bars and springing off tables. This is the first time I’ve had a real female gymnast in one of my films. I plan to make as much use of your talents as I can.”

  “Ah. Got it. Fine. I’ll agree to any and all tricks as long as Briggan O’Brien matches me—trick for trick.”

  Brig walked back into the hall adjoining the kitchen. He casually placed both hands on the floor, then assumed the position of a handstand. He then balanced, first usi
ng only the left hand as support, then the right. He rolled out into a somersault, finishing on his back. He next executed a perfect kip where the “kipper” jumps to his feet from a flat position without use of his hands to aid him. Gene Kelly did more than one in The Three Musketeers.

  I hated to admit it, but Brig’s was even better.

  Chapter 13

  I scanned the lot looking for an expected cast of thousands for the dance sequences in Jake’s movie. Or at least hundreds. The Indian videos I’d seen on cable back in Manhattan always seem to have a swarm of dancers wriggling down steps in front of fountains or temples. First the men hop in circles. Then the women swirl and bump and flip wrists and ankles. Then the leads end up superimposed over each group in the final editing of the film while a voice-over track provides the singing.

  Today, on a set made up to look like a giant cave, I counted only forty dancers. Twenty guys. Twenty girls. Thankfully, I didn’t have to deal with a mob, yet there were enough people to hide behind.

  Tempe Walsh, the redheaded native New Yorker, trying to blend into the chorus of a group of dark-haired female dancers, none of whom appeared to be taller than four foot six in a temple set somewhere in a carnival. The mind boggles.

  “Yo! Tempe. How’s tricks, girl?”

  Asha Kumar came striding toward me with a most unstarletlike gait and a large grin over her pixie features. She was dressed in costume today. A sparse one. Her halter top barely covered essentials and the harem pants consisted of swatches with silk on top of them. Perhaps costumes like this were the reason all the men in Bombay were enthralled with this diminutive actress who showed a feisty attitude and superior figure.

  “Asha! You should have stayed with Brig and me after our little run-in with Ray. I got to do a spectacular jeté onto the filthiest train in the filthiest rail station I’ve seen since they started the renovations on the subway at 168th street. I also met the Ice Princess of Bombay, but that’s another story.”

  She hugged me, then stepped back.

  “I always hated that street station. I’d walk half a mile to avoid using that ghastly exit. That horrible elevator never had less than fifteen too many people on it, and the stupid fan in there never worked. And there was no other way to get to the street because the damn stairs were always locked. When did they do them? The renovations.”