Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  She turned her head and stared at me. Not a wise move given the way she drove. I yelled, “Watch the road!” as I hugged the sides of this passenger seat of doom, stared out into the streets of Bombay, and asked, “Both of whom? Me and Claire? Now that would be kinky. Can we shelve this discussion, Ms. Kumar?”

  “For now, Ms. Walsh. But as you may have already surmised, I’m a nosy little girl. So expect the topic to come up again. And the both of you, as you very well know, is you and Brig. Think. Did he leave with the Claire babe? No. He left with you. Lordy, you are so lame. Two idiots nuts about each other and too stupid to admit it.”

  “And what about you and Jake, since we’re on the subject of limping idiots. When do I find out what’s the deal with the pair of you?”

  She pursed her lips. “Later.”

  She punched the accelerator so hard I had to grab the dash to keep from flying over the back seat and onto the Bombay streets.

  I turned up the car radio to a preset classic rock station. Strains of Cat Stevens’s “Hard-Headed Woman” wafted around us. Perfect. Two stubborn females sitting in a car with no top sailing along Marine Road trying to pretend we weren’t focused on the men in our lives.

  We gratefully changed topics to the news from New York. Which Grammy winners were sleeping with other Grammy winners. Whether the new art exhibit at the Guggenheim would be removed or destroyed by the PETA activists who were angry it contained splotches of possum fur. Which Emmy winner had been jailed for sleeping with another underage same-sex Emmy winner. We contined discussing these important issues until we reached Asha’s place.

  Asha had done her own decorating for her flat in the Malabar Hills area of Bombay. Posters of her movies lined the walls of the den. The living room featured canvas artwork that looked like original masterpieces. They blended comfortably with the Queen Anne furniture that included large chairs and a huge sofa that invited visitors to sit and forget the cares of the day. I could have sprawled on that sofa within minutes and stayed forever, but as usual, hunger began to win out over rest.

  My mother would have swooned with envy over the kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art gadgets and utensils. An expensive range topped the center island. A woman even smaller than Asha nodded at me when I popped my head in to inhale the scent of what smelled like lasagna. Asha’s cook. I had already gathered that the words “Asha” and “cooking” were not to be used in the same sentence.

  Hunger beckoned, but cleanliness now superceded all. Asha pointed me to the guest bedroom. Another treat. The bed was king-sized, dressed with a light antique quilt in shades of taupe and gold. I set my bag on a Victorian rocker in the corner beside an eight-foot-tall armoire.

  To the right of the bedroom beckoned the joys of the huge guest bathroom. I had to wonder what opulence the master bath offered when I stepped into what I assumed was the lesser of the restrooms. A Jacuzzi sat right in the middle. And there would be no knife attacks on any plumber this night. Hot water spewed in abundance. The gods smiled. As did I.

  An hour later, Asha and I were diving into what had indeed proved to be lasagna accompanied by garlic bread, salad, and a red wine that must have cost more than the Jacuzzi.

  I glanced at her. “I have to ask you. How do you get a cook who looks like a Hindu goddess who’s been dead for over two thousand years to make a dish worthy of Mama Leone’s? Voodoo?”

  She howled. “What? You a hoot owl? You. Who. Hin-doo. Who’s. Voo-Doo. Oooo!”

  “Quit that! I’ve had a long day. My linguistic skills deserted me somewhere at the top of that hideous Ferris wheel.”

  Asha grinned. “I won’t be able to hear a word with an ‘oo’ sound for a week without laughing, but I’m letting yooo off the hook for now.”

  I crossed my eyes at her. “Tell me about this cook, okay?”

  “Mala, my chef? Isn’t she great? Actually, when I first hired her, she cooked curry, curry, and on alternate Sundays, more curry. With a bit of vindalooo and tandori chicken thrown in on holidays. Tasty, but limiting. When my parents came for a visit, my mother took Mala in hand and gave her every recipe Mom had kept from her wonderful dinner group in Woodbridge. Italian, Russian-Jewish, French, Norwegian even. Mala, bless her ancient little heart, was thrilled. I now dine internationally any night I chooose to hang out at home.”

  I nodded, then cocked my head. “As opposed tooooo?”

  “Oh, heck, Tempe. I’m a film actress in India. I’m expected to do a bit of partying.” She grinned. “Can’t disappoint my fans, you know. So I try and hit the clubs at least once a week.”

  I did not trouble to stifle my laugh. “And I’m sure it’s a great hardship on you, Miss Celebrity!”

  She chortled. “Well, they used to call me the original party girl back in the States, so living up to the image isn’t exactly a stretch. Speaking of which, want to go out in a bit?”

  I stopped midbite and considered the offer.

  “Yes and no. Yes, I need some kind of real relaxation after the last couple of days. No, because I’m scared witless that one of the various ruffians looking for me will hear about a red-haired American female carousing around the city, and suddenly I’ll be forced to hide in a brothel taking tricks to keep from ending up floating around one of the beaches.”

  “Ouch. You do have a vivid imagination, don’t you?”

  I grinned. “At times. Also, if your idea of partying tonight has anything to do with dancing, count me way out. My aches have aches on top of aches.”

  Asha sipped her wine and studied me. “Hmmm. What say you to a few games of pool?”

  “Pool? Like The Hustler or Color of Money? As in Gleason and Newman and Cruise, oh my?”

  She beamed. “And solids and eight ball and cues, oh my!”

  I giggled. “Racking and chalking and sticks, oh my?”

  A wicked grin crossed her face. I held up my hand before the rhyme escalated into the obscene.

  Asha winked. “Fine, I’ll be nice. And you can just watch if you want. There’s a great pool hall downtown. Mainly gets the office crowd and some college kids. I don’t get hassled there, they play American music, and I really doubt it’s the kind of place where the felons you’ve attracted since you’ve been here will be hanging out.”

  “I have to tell you, I don’t play the game. Will that mess up your fun? I mean, it sounds terrific and I do want to come with you, but just to sit and watch. The operative word being sit. My feet have had it. I miss my bunny slippers I left back in Manhattan.”

  “Sitting is not a problem, Tempe. There’s a group of guys from Dhava’s College who regularly try to defeat the film actress here. I, however, am unbeatable thanks to an old Jersey boyfriend who preferred a night at the pool hall to a night in bed. I keep telling the kids this––well, not about the boyfriend––but that I’m invincible. They love getting whupped anyway.”

  “Uh, huh. Right. I’m sure.”

  “You can ask them if you come with me. And you’re welcome to sip sodas or even sleep in the corner while I rack ’em up. Then I’ll treat you to a frozen hot chocolate at this new American dessert place with the money I make from the boys.”

  This sounded even better. A chance to relax, listen to the sound of voices and music without needing to contribute, and watch Asha flirt with the college kids. And all while staying out of range of Shiva’s Diva’s pursuers.

  Chapter 15

  Unlike Asha, I had never dated a pool shark who showed me the finer techniques of “six ball in the side pocket.” In or out of high school, college, or beyond. I was engaged, briefly, to an actor who confirmed my father’s dire warnings about “creative sleazebags” when he took me to Atlantic City for a spot of gambling using my money. But most of the men who’d asked me out the last few years have been lawyers. Dates consisted of fancy restaurants, Broadway shows, the ballet, and the opera.

  So going to the Pool Palace could be added to the growing list of Tempe’s newest experiences. At least this one should be c
alm. I figured watching a few quiet games of pool would be a nice respite from crooks, filming, Ferris wheels, and killers. Not to mention Yale Liberal Arts graduates with intermittent Irish brogues and permanently seductive blue eyes.

  I found a spot in a corner of the room where there should have been a sign reading “Tired Dancers Flop Here.” The chair replicated the oversized, overpillowed monstrosities seen on such television shows as Leave It to Beaver. The I’ m-watching-the-Jets/Giants/Yankee s-so-don’t-bother-me-now chair. This chenille-covered antique had been placed at an angle to allow the sitter to either watch the action in the hall or choose one of the numerous magazines littering the small table to its left.

  I leaned back and plopped my legs over the armrest. I wasn’t being rude; plenty of others sat in the same position. Asha was right. It was a comfortable pool hall.

  I picked up a magazine with a cover featuring Asha Kumar cuddled next to a tiger winking at the reader. (Asha, not the tiger.) I picked up another glossy. Again a magazine devoted to the film industry. Again, Asha smiling from the cover. Different picture; same tiger. I began searching through the piles. All fan magazines, all devoted to the stars of the screen. Asha was on the cover of at least ninety percent of them.

  I glanced over at my new friend. Barbara Ashley Kumar, celebrity and one of the highest-paid actresses in India. She was clad in a pair of tight faded jeans and a plaid shirt I swear I’d seen prominently displayed at a Goodwill store in Manhattan two weeks ago.

  India’s darling pointed to the far right side of the pool table with her right hand, took a swig from the bottle of beer in her left, then reached up and set it on a mantle two feet over her head. She leaned over the table, adroitly sent the ball into that far right pocket, and howled in sheer glee. The four kids playing with her, none of whom looked over eighteen, groaned then grinned. They were not a bit concerned that they’d just been trounced by a thirty-year-old starlet with an accent out of The Sopranos and a bank account like a CEO headed for prison.

  I snuggled back into the chair, closed my eyes, and let the music and the quiet chatter and the clanking sounds from the pool tables wash over me.

  A pool cue jabbed into my ribs. Darn. I must have been snoring. I could find no other excuse for this mild assault on my person.

  I looked up, prepared to do battle with Asha, who I figured had been the one doing the poking.

  “Tempe. Up. Time to go.” The voice was raspy and the face was pale.

  Brig.

  “Why are you here, Brig? Do you have built-in radar that tells you when I’m somewhere enjoying myself or resting or being involved in something that’s safe and doesn’t include you?”

  “Tempe. No time. Take a look over by the bar and you’ll see why an unobtrusive exit is highly recommended.”

  I inched to the left to see around Brig’s impressive chest, then I squeezed back into the chair trying to make myself as small as possible.

  “Patel! Oh crap. Not good. How the hell did he know we were here?”

  “Tempe, he hasn’t seen us yet. Which is why this is a good time to find the door.”

  “And how do you suggest we sneak out of here without attracting the notice of sweet Seymour over there? And where’s Asha?”

  “I told her the bad news a few moments ago. But she’s not in danger. As far as I know, none of the goons who are eager to get their mitts onto the statue, and/or us, are aware she’s anything other than what she is. We’re the ones in the soup.”

  “So? Do we have a Plan A to disappear? Is there some crazy costume tucked in your pocket I can wear that will allow us to leave without having to fight our way out of disaster?”

  Brig’s eyes glazed for a moment. I knew he was remembering another pool hall in Dublin. He smelled the smoke, heard the screams.

  I grabbed his arm. “Brig. This isn’t Ireland and it’s not twenty years ago. We’ll be fine, I promise. Plan A?”

  He tried to smile. “Okay. There’s a back way out from that room where Asha’s now wiping the floor with those benighted college boys. She loves Plan A. She’s going to be engaged in playing a very noisy game with the kids that will hopefully provide a very noisy diversion. Meantime, you and I will crawl under the tables and sneak through to make our way to that door.”

  As plans go, I thought it stunk, but I didn’t want to say so. First we had to get to Asha’s table without Patel’s seeing us. Then we had to get down on the floor without the entire pool-playing population pointing at the two idiots and asking why those two idiots were bonding with the linoleum rather than standing and chalking sticks. Then we had to open that door and casually stroll into the street where, doubtless, Seymour had several confederates stationed and fully armed.

  But I set down my magazine without protest, stood, then followed Brig toward the pool tables.

  I was right. The plan stunk. No sooner had Brig and I hit the room where Asha anxiously awaited our arrival than Patel spotted us. Braying the Hindi word for yes—“Haan!”—he lunged across the room. The bodies of three jeans-clad kids lay in awkward positions on top of the table where they’d landed when Patel pushed his way through.

  Brig grabbed my hand. “Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “Run like hell.”

  We did. Plan B quickly ended as badly as Plan A. It appeared that Patel had backup. Four ugly guys who could have been sent over to Vivek Studios by Central Casting to play brutal villains. Scars down cheeks, scars on bald heads, scars on noses and chins, and expressions as nasty as the scars. And not a one (outside of Patel) was less than three hundred pounds of solid muscle.

  They formed a semicircle around Brig and me, with Patel in the middle. Patel took a small knife out of his breast pocket. It looked too tiny to do a lot of damage, which was encouraging. But when the other four displayed similar cutlery, I lost any hope of getting out of this without an awful lot of bloodletting. Mine. And Brig’s.

  The same keening, screeching, harridan-from-hell sound that had forced Ray Decore to lose focus at the Taj Majal filled the Pool Palace. Asha.

  I had to admire that set of lungs. I’ve heard fire engines in New York with less volume. All five thugs turned to see the origin of the racket. At the same time, a screaming elf in jeans entered the fray with a pool cue twirling like a lethal baton in the hands of a mad lead majorette.

  The chalk end of the cue hit bruiser number one in the eye. Asha twirled the larger part of the stick around, then she hit bruiser number two in the chin.

  This appeared to be the perfect time for Brig and me to go into our own improvised routine. Up came my knee into the groin of goon number three. Rude, but necessary. Brig went for higher ground. He popped an elbow into the nose of number four. This left Mr. Patel, at least until the four recovered, which would be in seconds. Patel snarled and lunged for me. I spun with a pirouette worthy of Pavlova and sent my foot into his chest.

  It should have been a great move. But Patel expected it. He grabbed my foot and held on to my ankle.

  The gleam in Patel’s eye shouted “ankle twist imminent!” I knew this. I expected to hear a pop louder than Asha’s wail when Patel suddenly dropped my foot, then dropped to the floor. One of Asha’s pool-playing pals stood over Seymour. The remains of a heavy, ugly lamp lay around Mr. Patel in large pieces.

  For a second no one moved. Thugs one through four seemed as stunned as their boss. A condition that was bound to change to rage very soon.

  I looked at Brig and at Asha. “Okay, troops. Outta here.”

  They nodded. Asha bestowed a nice kiss on the heroic college student, then all four of us delivered simultaneous blows to the bruised gang awaiting word from their fallen master. Nose, groin, shin, chin. Didn’t matter. We needed to injure them just long enough to allow us to get out of the Pool Palace without any of them recovering and then grabbing an appendage of ours or throwing another knife.

  We ran to the front exit, then down to the street where three of Asha’s fans stood guardi
ng their beloved’s car. With Brig aiming for the driver’s seat, we jumped in, then threw kisses to the excited trio. With a squeal of tires guaranteed to make a mechanic cry, Brig steered the car out of its space and back onto the road.

  I soon discovered his driving made Asha’s expertise behind a wheel seem tame. I yelled, “Where did you learn to drive? Watching Bruce Willis in Die Hard Three going through Central Park?”

  “I’ll have you know I drove a cab in Paris for two years.”

  “Good God.” With one voice, Asha and I bellowed, “Aagh!”

  “Wimps,” said Brig. “Both of you. You’ve got a problem with sidewalk driving?”

  “Excuse me!” he yelled to the terrified street vendor who was trying to turn his cart before Brig clipped the front end. The vendor didn’t quite make the full turn. He yelled and offered a gesture to us that was less than polite. It involved the middle finger of the vendor’s right hand.

  “Anyone following us yet?” Brig asked. I turned, which was difficult since Asha was sitting on my lap, a necessity in the two-seater. The streets were so jammed with vehicles I had no way to tell if any of them were interested in her convertible or not.

  “Don’t know.”

  He nodded. “I’m going to drop you ladies off at Asha’s, then hide the car in Jake’s neighborhood.”

  An indignant Asha rapped his shoulder. “Wait up there, boss. Why can’t I keep my car at my own home?”

  “Because it’s very distinctive. How many blue two-seater 1957 T-Birds are currently driving through the streets of Bombay? If any of those boys back at the Pool Palace caught a glimpse of us jumping into this beauty, we’ve had it.”

  He didn’t mention that even if the car went in for a paint job and a fin cut, and emerged fire engine red and finless, the T-Bird wasn’t the only thing that had been recognized. Asha’s picture flashed from the covers of half the magazines at the pool hall. If and when Patel and comrades recovered, they’d realize who she was—and further get the message that she’d been instrumental in aiding the two people determined to keep them from their precious statue. Asha had just joined the ranks of the hunted.