Brig pulled his shirt back on.
“Ladies. ’Tis been a lovely night, but I have to be leavin’ ya now.”
“Where are you off to today?”
“Remember I told you I had a business errand for this day? One that will hopefully get us out of this pickle with the statue. I’ll be back before close of filming.”
He closed the door behind him. I lay back on the hard little pillow and groaned. “I hate that man.”
Asha snickered. “Right. I see that. You look rumpled and far too happy for a girl who didn’t enjoy a nice night of passionate sex with a hunk.”
I sat back up. “Wrong. Wrong. And more wrong. Believe it or not, Brig did not touch me. Hell, we were both too stinking tired from beating up thugs and racing around train stations and picking locks to have been able to do anything illicit even if we’d had the inclination.”
I threw Asha a sharp look. “Which I’m not saying we did.”
“Did what?”
“Have the inclination.”
I crawled out of the bed, headed for the small bathroom, and slammed the door shut. I had viewing privacy but not much else. Asha’s voice could be heard echoing through the thin walls. “You are so full of it, Tempe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“ ‘Have the inclination.’ What rot. The pair of you would be on each other like goats on grass if you ever had one night when you weren’t being chased all over the city every waking minute.”
I didn’t answer. I turned on the water in Raj’s small shower stall and stepped in. Maybe if I let it run for an hour, Asha the smart-ass would disappear. Go back to the set. Go back to the pool hall. Or New Jersey.
Asha was reclining on the bed when I stepped back out of the bathroom. A current issue of People magazine lay on her lap. For once her picture did not grace the cover. She grinned at me.
“Did you know that Court TV is now the highest-rated cable show in America? That is so cool. They were barely able to get courts to allow them camera access when I left Jersey last time. Well, except in Florida. Either there are way more felons in Florida or the courts there were nicer to the TV people. They used to have a trial a week in Miami alone.”
Tears suddenly filled her eyes. I forgot about being pissed at her for inserting her opinions about my love life into nearly every circumstance.
“Asha? What’s the matter?”
“You keep asking why Jake and I broke up this last time? Well, it’s simple. I want the wedding in Woodbridge. Mr. Director thinks it’d help both our careers if we had a big blowout here on the set of Carnival of Lust. With the dancers dancing behind us. Watch, he’ll soon ask you to swing in on a rope and drop flowers overhead.”
“Ah. Um. Would that be so awful? Not the flower rope trick. That would be beyond tacky, not to mention scary. But, I mean, you’re both film people. The publicity would be great and everyone loves you here. Can’t your folks fly out? Would they?”
She sniffed. “Yeah. They can. And Daddy would love to be back in Bombay.”
One small tear trickled down her cheek. “But, Tempe? Hell. I want to hit Atlantic City for a crack at the slots. I want to go swimming down on the beach by Asbury Park. I want to eat really greasy burgers at the diner on Route 9 where I know every waitress by name. I want to head into New York and catch all the latest shows on Broadway.”
I had to smile. “In other words, Queen of the Masala Movies, you’re homesick.”
She flicked her index finger toward me in a pure Jersey gesture of “you got that right.” Then she rose.
“Thanks for understanding. Wish I could get Jake to do the same. He’s so wrapped up in movies all the time, he forgets that in real life, people need to visit the places where they grew up. Hey. Think you can get some of my feelings into his thick skull? Would you mind?”
I linked my arm through hers as we flung open the door of Raj’s trailer and stepped into the bright sunshine.
“I’ll be happy to make the effort for you, but I doubt I’d have much chance of success. Think about it. This is the man who blithely makes a girl he’s known for less than a day perform feats of unrealistic daring and undeniable stupidity on large carnival set pieces.”
Asha nodded. “True.”
I continued my tirade. “And all these crazy stunts are simply to get the right look for his movie. You think he wants to be told he needs to forego publicity and thousands of worshipping fans adoring their beloved star as she becomes his missus?”
She sighed, then grinned. “Hey! If I do manage to persuade Jake to do the deed back home, will you be my maid of honor?”
“Hell, yes. Assuming I survive my stay in Bombay. Or even get home. I still don’t have my passport.”
Before Asha could respond, we were joined by the group of female dancers. Jake had scheduled women-only scenes for today’s shoot. Jake also greeted us. As customary on the set, his manner remained professional.
“Ladies. Good morning. Tempe, today we’re filming the sequence where Asha, as the princess, decides to fight her captives, including the ringmaster’s mother. She discusses this decision with her women companions through the song. Asha. No dancing for you in this scene, remember? Tempe will lead the girls while you sing, sitting on the giraffe on the carousel. Tempe, the costumer is waiting for you.”
This business of learn, rehearse, then shoot, all in costume and all in one day, seemed damned bizarre to me, but I knew Jake was short on money. At least we had a script. Most Masala movies don’t. Cutting the budget meant slicing extraneous rehearsal, so I agreed with Jake’s reasoning. Staying independent was preferable to ending up tied to the Indian Mafia business types who seemed to own most of the filmmakers in Bollywood. Or worse, ending up dead.
My outfit this day was a complete departure from the two-piece-bathing-suit- fifties-era gold jobby of the day before. Reena, the cursing costumer, must have joined Jake watching VH1 videos from the eighties.
I looked like a taller version of Pat Benatar in her wonderful video about girl runaways in the streets of Los Angeles. “Love Is a Battlefield.” Funky short skirt with a handkerchief hem of many colors, hair tied up on my head, a ton of bracelets on my arm. Reena had also stuck me in a strapless tube top. I prayed it would stay on in case Jake had me doing backflips. I had no desire to start (and end) my career in Indian film as a topless gymnast.
Jake began taking us through the steps. The choreography seemed knocked off from the same Benatar video. Lots of low walks with snapping fingers, closed fist shaking, and hip pumps. Jake did add a few splits (for guess whom) followed by floor twists.
It reminded me a bit of break dancing, also from the eighties era, except Jake wanted a lot more wriggling and writhing. I’d been told to use the wooden floor stage for the latter. I worried about splinters ending up in tender places when I had time to be concerned about anything other than not snapping a bone or two in my back and neck.
Asha stayed seated on the giraffe on the carousel singing and wriggling. Envy overtook me. She definitely had the easier part of the number.
Then Jake motioned for me to climb onto the jaguar next to her and start thrashing and grinding on the beast. The welloiled beast. I fell off the first three times I attempted to spin on the saddle. (Who puts a saddle on a giant carousel jaguar?)
Jake added one other touch. He hit a button. The animals, plus Asha and I, now began moving in circles. I clung to the neck of my jaguar and ended up with my body parallel to the ground. Next thing I knew, I went sailing off the carousel into the air. Twenty female dancers pulsed hips and shoulders and tried to avoid the red-haired missile rocketing through the center of their circle.
I landed on my butt, then glanced at the clock above the tent where Jake and the cameramen hid from the sun. Nine o’clock. As in A.M. A long day loomed ahead of me.
I wondered if Brig was spending his in an air-conditioned, stationary, Bombay restaurant seated across from a beautiful woman named Claire.
Chap
ter 18
I’d nailed it. It was a long, grueling day. I danced. I writhed. I twisted. I flipped. I flopped.
The plot of Carnival of Lust centered around a princess kidnapped by a pirate pretending to be a ringmaster at a carnival. The princess is tortured to reveal the whereabouts of a ruby she’s hidden. After a great deal of running, hiding, slapping and kicking, the princess refuses to have sex with the pirate but gives up the location of the ruby.
The princess then keeps trying to get back to her true love, the owner of a cybercafé in Bombay. She prays to the goddess Parvati, consort of Shiva and destroyer of evil, to help her escape the privateering thug who has held her hostage. Parvati helps the princess evade the creep, then rains down fire, brimstone, and a few other choice plagues to smite the bad guy. The princess makes her way to Bombay (scene to be done at the Flora Fountain sometime next week) and is reunited with the love of her life, who, not surprisingly, has managed to get the ruby back. Everyone lives happily ever after.
Jake had written in a huge marriage scene near the end of the movie. That scene had given Jake the idea for what he wanted for a nuptial event with Asha. No wonder she was ticked. Life imitating art can be fun if one likes dancing around a carnival tent. For exchanging vows, it seemed somewhat less than romantic.
At ten till four, we took a break for tea. Asha waved me over to her table near the back side of the open-air tent. I sank into a chair. Since it was not made in the shape of an animal, nor did it stand over sixteen feet tall and go in circles, I sighed with pure pleasure.
“Killer, isn’t it?” Asha smiled at me.
“What? The day, the dancing, or your once and occasional intended?” I shot back.
“Hmm. All three.”
I took the cup she handed me, then drank it down with very unladylike speed. I handed it back to her and inclined my head toward the teapot for more. She smiled and poured another. I lifted the cup in a toast.
“I take my hat off to you, Miss Kumar. Or my bandana.”
I reached up and pulled off the large kerchief and the scrunchie that bound my curls up into a high ponytail.
“This is tough work, Lady Starlet. Heck. I spend most of my time in an air-conditioned office looking over documents in the language of the day. I never realized how exhasuting a day in front of cameras could be. It never dawned on me that I’d find myself dancing on top of a giant jaguar moving in circles.”
Asha winked at me. “Or sailing through the air when the giant jaguar moved a bit too fast?”
“Oh, yeah. Remind me to thank Jake for that little maneuver. Asha, this is worse than yesterday when visions of falling off that damn Ferris wheel haunted me the entire time I was flipping up there. Life less than sixteen feet in the air ceased to exist. I didn’t even know I’d passed beyond pooped till Brig and I snuck into Raj’s trailer.”
She took a dainty sip of her tea, then ruined the effect by cramming half a scone into her mouth.
“Swy ah make da goo dough.”
“Say again? You want a gooey doughnut?”
She swallowed. “That’s why I make good dough. As in money, honey. Although the celebrity stuff is fun. It’s great having fans asking for autographs. Getting seated before anyone else in restaurants. Seeing my picture on billboards all over town and beyond. But making a fantastic salary is important. And one reason why I can put up with the long hours of a shoot and the heat and the insanity and Jake being a jerk.”
I reached for my second scone. “Ah. I wondered when his name would creep into the conversation. You guys still haven’t made up?”
She shook her head. “Nope. And I’m not giving in. I want my wedding in Jersey. And if he can’t see that, then he can just grab some little chorus wench and marry her right here on the lot.”
“Right. Just after you scratch this mythical girl’s eyes out.”
“Pretty much.” She smirked. “Tonight, however, I may get my chance to seduce Jake over to my way of thinking.”
“Yes?”
“We’re staying with a friend of Jake’s on his yacht. Separate rooms, so far. But, on a nice yacht sailing around the harbor under the moonlight, I think I can convince that imbecile I adore how classy and romantic a more private ceremony would be.”
“Sounds good.”
She giggled. “Yep. Besides, Jake’s really nuts right now. Normally when we break up, we make up within twenty-four hours. I’ve held out for five days. He’s cuckoo. Clueless off the film set. Can’t function. Can’t form a coherent sentence. I’ve seen it. You’ve seen it. Brig has not only seen it, he spent an hour during the break yesterday afternoon telling me what a disaster his former roomie is without me.”
The giggle turned into a belly laugh. “I like it! Jake is so ready to agree to any and all demands.”
I chewed and nodded. Asha’s talent for timing seemed right on. She understood it better than a watchmaker in Switzerland. A look of concern suddenly flashed across her tiny features.
“Tempe? Is this okay with you? I mean, us not being here? You’re on your own tonight. One reason Jake accepted the invite on the yacht is because he figures he and I will be safer there. He thought you’d be fine staying at Raj’s trailer again.”
“Oh geez. That’s right. Patel spotted you last night. And, unlike Ray, who thinks movies and America are synonymous and exclusive and movie stars the same, I’d imagine Seymour knows who you are. You’re not the most invisible babe around, Miss Queen of Bollywood.”
She chuckled. “If that goon didn’t know before, he does now. I nailed the sucker with a pool cue and some serious wailing. But now that he’s been walloped by Asha Kumar? Well, it’s not tough to get my address. I’m listed. And if they know me, they may know that Jake is, has been, and will be again, my best beloved. He’s never made his address a secret either. Fans are cool. We have people over for tea all the time. I just don’t think I’m including Patel or Mahindra in the next invitation.”
“I’m so sorry I got you into this mess.”
“Why? Hell, I’m enjoying the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush that comes with bopping bad guys and hauling A down dark streets. Seriously, Tempe, it’s not your fault. I’m not even sure it’s Brig’s fault, although it seems to me he has a strange way of doing business. Whatever that business may be.”
“Don’t even go there. I keep waiting for the cops of several continents to join the chase here.”
“I doubt it’s that bad, but you might want to pin Mr. O’Brien down on his chosen profession before you guys post any banns. Anyway, don’t worry about me or Jake. We’re fine. Take care of yourself. Raj’s trailer is clean; he’s offered it to you for as long as you need it. I had one of the hired help at my place bring your stuff by today when they brought mine. You’re set.”
After a long afternoon spent repeating dance moves and doing handsprings off of carousels, an evening relaxing in Raj’s trailer sounded divine. I opened the door, using a key this time, then sank down on the bed Brig and I had shared, all too innocently, last night. And I let the worry that had been with me since this morning invade my mind.
Brig hadn’t shown up at the set. He hadn’t called Jake. He hadn’t sent a message by e-mail to Jake’s laptop computer our director kept in his work trailer. No carrier pigeons had flown by and dropped a note, or anything else, on my head. I had no idea where Brig had gone this day, but I recalled his saying he’d be back before sundown. Or something equally dramatic.
“Before close of filming.”
The shoot ended at seven. At seven fifteen, I had trotted over to eat at the service table still set up for cast spending the night in the trailers. After chatting with two of the dancers who’d wanted to know what America was really like (“Are there cowboys in the streets shooting at each other?”) and devouring a dinner I didn’t taste, I made a graceful exit.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be friendly or act as ambassador for the States. I needed to be in the shelter of the trailer. I needed t
o worry and curse and fume and wonder if Brig was lying with his throat cut in some dark alleyway near Hot Harry’s or lying on Juhu Beach with the dark bewitching wench named Claire Dharbar.
A small TV sat on a table near Raj’s kitchen. I turned it on, more for noise than anything else. U.S. president in France to discuss something vital like the price of croissants. American rock singer caught with his pants down in some sex-and-gun scandal. Stock prices dropping third day in a row. The usual. I turned it off and toured the trailer in search of reading material.
There was an assortment of magazines in a rack near the bed. I sifted through them. I found an article about Kirkee Mahindra, business tycoon and collector of objets d’art. Kirk had made his money in real estate holdings and ownership in big financial firms. The article described the original Matisse paintings and Rodin sculptures that decorated his penthouse apartment.
Great. The man was a celebrity. Ninth cousin or something to the Mahindra family who appeared to own half of India. Their wealth had been acquired in the tractor business, although Kirk did not seem to be involved in that branch of the family.
Ha! That was where Brig had hied off to. He was doubtless riding down Marine Road on a tractor owned by one of the nicer and gentler Mahindras, waving to throngs of women who looked like Claire Dharbar. They were throwing kisses and tube tops with tassels at him while Matisse’s Blue Nude did aerial flips off of Rodin’s The Thinker.
Someone pounded on the door. I awoke, startled. Brig. Why he hadn’t just picked the lock was a mystery, but maybe he thought knocking would be the wiser action in case Raj had decided to oust his visitor and stay at the trailer himself.
I opened the door—and hoped I was still dreaming. In front of me stood Mr. Kirkee Mahindra. Entrepreneur. Art collector. Killer.
Chapter 19
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