Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Over a year ago. Jeez. When were you last in Manhattan?”

  Her face fell. “Don’t ask. Let’s just say the ball has dropped in Times Square a few New Year’s Eves. Hey. Change topic. You look great in the costume. Isn’t Reena a wonder?”

  Reena must be the designer and seamstress who’d thrown together an outfit overnight for the new American dancer. She deserved the Edith Head award for fast sewing and the Richard Blackstone for most tasteless.

  She’d decked me out in a two-piece creation somewhat like a bathing suit. Made out of gold satin, it moved when the wearer moved while still clinging to the body. A small tassel swung from the center of the bra top. A longer tassel fell from the waistband. In actuality, the tassel swung from a hip, not a waist, band if one were to get literal about tassels. My waist was quite bare. But at least, unlike my costume at C.C. Curry’s, my feet were not. Go-go boots that must have come from a vintage boutique hugged my size sevens and added another two inches to my height.

  Asha removed a thread from the strap of the bra. “By the way, Miss Walsh. I thought you were supposed to bunk with me last night. Where did you stay? Before I forget, I have your duffel bag. You left it in the car. So, didja stay with Brig? You guys get it together?”

  I sighed. “Brig and Jake decided I’d be safer if I didn’t try and get to your place. So I stayed at Jake’s. Alone. In the maid’s quarters. Not bad, really, although a definite odor of musk clung to the sheets and I had to borrow her nightie, which about hit my stomach and also reeked of musk. I didn’t care. Exhaustion hit about two seconds after I saw the bed.”

  Asha snickered. “I know that room and that maid. Let’s just say she has a few issues about her looks, so she overcompensates with scent. I sneeze for hours when I’m at Jake’s.”

  This could be the perfect time to ask about Jake and the soured romance. Before I could frame a polite inquiry, we were joined by my soon-to-be dancing partner, Briggan O’Brien.

  “Asha. You look fresh and raring to go. Did you enjoy playing the mad maid yesterday? Damn, but you’ve got some pipes on you. You could earn a good living keening at the wakes across Ireland.”

  Asha and I surveyed Brig like construction workers ogling the secretaries walking across a site in their spike heels. My pulse reached a max aerobic rate. Asha still had use of her voice, which was good since my vocal chords seemed to be taking a break.

  “Yo, Brig. You look, um, interesting. That outfit really brings out the true you.”

  Brig was dressed in black. All black. Tight black pants, black blouse, black duster down to his knees. Black boots up to his knees. He looked every bit the pirate he was doubtless descended from.

  He preened. “Like it? I think my presence in the ranks of the dancers caused a bit of consternation with the costume lady. All these lads under five-seven and here comes the giant. She actually screamed when she saw me. Scared the living fool out of me. I’m only sorry Tempe wasn’t there to translate. I have no idea what language the lady used, but I do know it was colorful.”

  He bowed. “Miss Walsh. I didn’t see you this morning at breakfast at Jake’s. Missed you, luv. Where’d you go?”

  “I had a fitting with that same costumer who spouted the same language at me. I think it was the color of my hair she really objected to. She also wasn’t crazy about my height. And if it makes you feel better, I didn’t understand a word either. Probably one of the other seventy-five languages of India I didn’t study before being crazy enough to get on that plane with Ray.”

  I wriggled my shoulders and grinned. “If I had to guess? I think Reena cursed both Brig and me with far worse than Shiva’s Diva herself ever imagined. I’m sure there was something in her tirade about enjoying seeing my hair fall out and feet fall off. Oh yeah. That I’d end up with a nervous twitch twenty-four-seven.”

  Brig had a light in his eye. “Too subtle for Reena. She was probably praying to Kali, who is not known as a nice god, that our blood would soon cover the tents of the tiger and the elephant. Or that Ravana, the demon god, will send us flying into Chowpatty Beach just as the elephants are tossed in during the Ganesh parade.”

  He grinned. “Not real elephants, you know. Just big replicas. Let’s see. Maybe our ears would grow like the elephants and cover our toes. Maybe . . .”

  Before he could hypothesize another outrageous curse, I heard my name called along with Brig’s and Asha’s.

  Jake stood on a chair about forty feet away. He was yelling through a cone-shaped old-fashioned megaphone that hid his lips.

  We were in trouble. This became clear when his next words were, “Miss Kumar. Miss Walsh. Mr. O’Brien. I’m so glad you’ve chosen this moment for a reunion, but some of us are ready to work. If you would deign to favor the rest of the cast with your presence, perhaps we can start filming only forty minutes late.”

  He’d morphed into Jake Roshan, director. Not Jake Roshan, drinker of hot water and lovesick swain. Asha, Brig, and I immediately galloped over to join the other dancers and the male lead, Raj Ravi. Cast members ignored Jake’s plea for timeliness and continued milling about, gabbing and chugging down coffee or tea from plastic cups.

  Brig and I spent the next thirty minutes fielding questions from the excited group of dancers as to why two foreigners had been so gracious as to join their ranks in this film. They wanted to know where we were staying. They wanted to know where we were from. They wanted to know what other movies we’d been in back in the States.

  But mostly, they wanted us to say yes when they asked, “Isn’t Asha Kumar simply the most charming, beautiful actress ever to grace the Indian cinema? Have you seen Pirate Princess? Where Asha is with Spot the tiger?”

  There are serious problems in Bombay. They range from pollution, to Mafia-style crime, to extreme poverty accompanied by a frighteningly large percentage of homeless who beg in the streets. Muggers can outnumber the tourists. But the Indian people? Hospitality, warmth, and friendliness flow in abundance. And the dancers in Carnival of Lust tripled those last three qualities.

  The female dancers wanted to know if Brig and I were an item. How they came by that notion I have no idea. The fact that I seemed to find it difficult to keep my eyes off the Irish bandit this day just couldn’t have anything to do with their suppositions.

  Brig winked at me when one of the young male dancers loudly asked if we were shacking up together. He didn’t quite state it that way, but the intent of “You share space, yes?” seemed clear.

  I couldn’t hear Brig’s answer. Just as well. Doubtless it was outrageous and filled with charming tales of his seduction of the tall American who’d fallen into his arms two days ago. We’d now made it to day three. No telling how far this relationship would progress by nightfall, at least in the eyes of the chorus.

  Jake grew impatient with the chatter coming from his cast. “Enough! We’re already behind schedule. Tempe, Brig, Asha, Raj. Front and center, please.”

  Front and center? That worried me. My understanding had been that Brig and I were supposed to blend with the masses, preferably in the back row where the tall folks get stuck.

  Jake smiled at me. “Tempe. You and Brig will be doing a dance directly behind Asha and Raj while they sing. Tempe? Midway through this number, you will do an aerial flip off that low wall and then a series of leaps across the area in front of the Ferris wheel.”

  In keeping with the title of this flick, the setting included carnival tents. There was also a sacred temple, stuck behind the Tilt-a-Whirl for no reason I could think of. Ferris wheels, roller coasters, and carousels dotted the landscape of the lot. Huts lined with enormous stuffed animals and actors in carny workmen garb and top hats filled a lot about two hundred yards wide and long. Another lot held empty animal cages that would be filled with real lions and tigers and bears and the like in the coming days.

  I gathered that my activities would consist of leaping and hopping and turning and darting between the various rides and—oh dear—the snakes and
elephants and tigers and llamas that suddenly began arriving on the set and heading toward those cages. Well, the snakes and the tigers were headed that direction.

  Asha shrieked, “Spot! It’s Spot!” and headed toward the tiger cage, eager to greet and bond again with the tiger who’d shared the duet with her in Pirate Princess.

  I watched the elephant ramble into a large cage. When it turned, I noticed a little cap on its head that read “Binky.” Cute. The llama had ended up in a little open-air pen. She glanced at the cast of dancers she’d joined, then started chewing what little grass she could find.

  I turned back to Jake. “You want me to do what? Where?”

  He smiled, and explained again. I sighed. If I had to end up knocking off cartwheels in front of the large cobra now entwined around a stereotypical basket, I’d rather just go back to C.C. Curry’s and see if they needed me for the night. I’m not scared of snakes, but I’d prefer not doing a slow waltz with one.

  Jake then showed Brig and me the steps we were to do before I began my series of spectacular jetés and flips.

  Jake had obviously been watching a good amount of championship ballroom dancing competition on cable, along with too many VH1 and BET videos. Within minutes, Brig and I were attempting to perfect a combination of rumba and tango, mixed with some homegrown hip-hop and a sprinkling of A Chorus Line.

  Jake also liked lifts. That is, he liked having others do them. Brig had me in the air more times than the Ferris wheel had hit the top mark.

  What Jake either didn’t notice, or did but enjoyed, was the way Brig let me down from these lifts. Rather like one of the cobras, I slid over Brig’s chest, clutching his torso, then slid farther. A process Brig prolonged. I became warmer and more flushed with each lift and drop.

  The other dancers applauded and cheered when Brig lowered me into a deep dip, then stared into my eyes while I lay on the ground, hands held tightly within his. The gleam in Brig’s eye grew brighter. He leaned over. His lips headed for mine. Jake yelled, “Cut!”

  I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. The exact memory and feel of the kisses Brig and I had shared since the night we met kept flooding through my mind and body. I stood up and walked about five steps away from Brig and tried to compose myself.

  A Bollywood film set that was less than two hours away from a city filled with killer thugs was neither the place nor the time to conduct a romance. Especially with a man who was too charming, too handsome, too bright, too enigmatic, and possibly too involved with a lady of mystery and unbelievable beauty.

  “Nice work, Tempe. Brig.” Jake beamed at us both. “I knew you could do it. You two dance together as though you’d been partners for life.”

  Partners for life. I spied Asha giggling at me from a perch on a large carousel giraffe. I crossed my eyes at her, then gave my full attention to Jake.

  “Actors. Please, take five. No. Scratch that. Perhaps we will make it thirty. Or forty. Then we will start on the flips. Brig? You can do handsprings like Tempe’s, right?”

  Brig nodded and I thought about his sister, Annie, who’d dragged her little brother to gymnastic practices. I wondered if performing those handsprings brought up hurtful memories.

  Brig winked at me. “Once I learned how to do spectacular handsprings, I used them to run from the coppers in Riverdale and all. Easier to jump from car to car. Off the hardtops, you know.”

  I was relieved he seemed to be taking a light look at these tricks. But I couldn’t respond. I’d hit depletion for the day. Tired, dirty, and hungry were the best descriptions of my mood and feelings. If Mahindra himself had come flying onto the set doing handsprings and swinging from Ferris wheel to roller coaster using a king cobra as a rope, I wouldn’t have cared. I wanted water and whatever junk food might be found at the service tables. Lots of it. Now.

  I shuddered. I shouldn’t have started thinking about Mahindra. I glanced around the set. So far, the day had been serene. If one could use that term for hours dancing in the arms of Briggan O’Brien and unsuccessfully avoiding hands that had a tendency to hit spots of the body not described in the Fred Astaire rule book. But at least no one had burst onto the lot with guns blazing and knives bared. Yet.

  Chapter 14

  By the end of Day One on the set of Carnival of Lust, I found I was grateful that my pragmatist father had steered me toward a linguistics job rather than dancing. I was ready to head back to the Taj Mahal Hotel and fill out an application to be a maid. Maybe hunt down Ricky the rickshaw driver and ask if he’d like to trade positions.

  My body ached from the hours of endless aerial aerobics and splits and back and front walkovers and side crab crawls. In two-inch go-go boots and flying tassels.

  I’d concluded that Jake Roshan was certifiable. Insane. Bonkers. No wonder Asha had called off the wedding. The man was a good two reels short of a full film.

  One example of Jake’s lunacy was his decree that I should spend the majority of the afternoon of Day One on the top of the Ferris wheel. This sounded rather nice until I discovered I wouldn’t be reclining in one of the frantically rocking seats gazing down over my castmates on the ground. Oh, no. Jake wanted me standing on my head on top of those seats or springing from my hands to come bouncing off the seat just below. He loved the shots of me staring in terror at the huge foam mattress on the ground placed there to catch the crazy American should she not make the next seat.

  I thanked Saint Swithen, for whom I’d developed an irrational fondness, that this Ferris wheel stood only half the size and half the height of most Ferris wheels one finds at fancy American amusement parks. So all my falls would be from only about twenty feet up instead of fifty or more. Besides, if I crashed, no one would notice. They’d be too busy listening to Asha and Raj mime singing love songs underneath me on solid ground.

  I considered asking Jake whether it wouldn’t be more dramatic to have the film lovers crooning to each other half a mile above and let the new lead dancer pirouette below, but Jake seemed entranced by all the red hair flying in the breeze.

  And what about Brig, one might ask? The reason I hadn’t yelled, “Strike! Call my union!” was that I could see Mr. O’Brien doing the same ridiculous tricks on the other side of the wheel. About once an hour we got to leap together. I felt oddly reassured seeing the look of terror on his face. I knew it mirrored the one on mine.

  It was now 7:00 P.M. Brig had gone to Jake’s for a muchneeded shower. Asha had whisked me into her convertible. We were heading for her place for some extensive cleaning. If the water at Asha’s wasn’t second-degree-burn-level hot, I planned to head for the nearest bazaar, buy a long knife, and personally kill Asha’s plumber. First, though, I’d stop at Jake’s to carve up Brig for getting me into the movie business.

  I closed my eyes when Asha nearly plowed into three bicycle riders in suits who were trying to avoid her convertible by staying on the side of the road. All three of whom began screaming at her as they found themselves in the dirt after she passed.

  I began to muse about what little tricks Jake had in store for tomorrow’s shoot. I felt certain Brig could, and would, supply suggestions. “I’ve got it, Jake! Have Tempe come swingin’ down off a rope to be landin’ in front of the elephant. Do a nice backflip off the llama, then somersault next to the cobra under the tent. That would be so much fun on film!”

  Asha, wisely, stayed silent. She’d had a fairly easy day. She and Raj, her costar, had been on terra firma, gazing into each other’s eyes and warbling along with recorded music that had sounded from my sixteen feet above like Sonny and Cher set to a disco melody with a rap beat.

  Amidst the curses of an elderly man, riding a ridiculously large Harley motorcycle, who’d been inches away from being knocked into the bay across from Marine Road when Asha made a sharp turn, Jersey girl finally broke her silence. “Where do you suppose Brig is going tomorrow?”

  I sighed. “Lord knows. Brig said he an errand, presumably one having something to do with Shiva’
s Diva. Which leaves me at the mercy of Jake Roshan, director from the Marquis de Sade School of Film.”

  Asha giggled. “He is a pain, isnt’ he? But his movies win awards like crazy. Wait. What errands?”

  “I don’t know. Brig probably has unsavory associates in every continent from Bombay to Moscow. Although I guess those aren’t continents, are they? Well, anyway, I’m sure he’s about to wheel and deal and sell Shiva’s Diva to the highest, sleaziest, closest crook who’ll be crazy enough to pay his price.”

  “Ouch. You have such a high opinion of our Mr. O’Brien. I thought you two were hot for each other.”

  The memory of his kisses battled to overtake my senses. I sat up straight and tried to keep my voice even.

  “Hot is Briggan’s middle name. I imagine he has girls drooling over him in every one of those continents as well as the unsavory business associates. I do not wish to join the ranks of the ‘loved-’em-left-’em’ strewn around the world.” I paused, then added, “One of whom I think I met yesterday.”

  I told her about Claire Dharbar and about finding that picture of her posing with Brig.

  Asha avoided crashing into a stall at the side of the road by a foot. This was not due to her usual bad driving. Her laughter had become so raucous she couldn’t see.

  “Asha! Damn! Think we can make it home without carrying half a load of fruit or whatever with us?”

  She straightened the wheel. “Sorry. No harm done. Didn’t hit a soul. And see? He’s already setting the stand back up. Not even an orange juiced.”

  “Right.”

  She grinned. “It’s just thinking about you and Brig. Girl, if ever two people were nuts for each other? Well. Shall we say poster children for Lovers Inc.? And I don’t know who this Claire chickie is, but if he met her at a restaurant with you sitting at a table nearby, it isn’t likely they’re going to go off and do, uh, anything kinky.” She added, “By the way, that’s both of you.”