Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I had visions of Brig at age fourteen or so running off to join a traveling circus. Or perhaps bribing the keepers at the Bronx Zoo to let him come inside and sing lullabies to the animals, elephants included.

  Brig didn’t answer, which was no great surprise. I patted Bambi again.

  “Well, Mr. O’Brien, now that your darlin’ lass is calm, can we get back to last night?”

  “Sorry. Where did I leave off?”

  “Spying on me.”

  “Well, if you must put it that way.” He winked, then turned back in time to steer Bambi away from a frightened vendor below us. “I was not sneaking around, simply making sure that neither Mr. Mahindra nor his acolytes would detect my presence.”

  “I suppose that means you were lurking in the bushes?”

  His shoulders shook slightly. I assumed he’d been stricken with a fit of laughter. He sobered a bit.

  “It might if there’d been bushes to lurk in. Unfortunately, as you may or may not have noticed during your little chat with Kirk, it’s pretty open between that bench and the trailer. Vivek Studios is one big desert.”

  “So?”

  “So I perched at the top of the roller coaster, which ended up as a nice place not to be detected. And Tempe, neither you nor Mr. Mahindra were blessed at birth with quiet tongues. I could hear every word.”

  “Did you like the way I sicced him on Ray?”

  “I did. Nicely done. Mahindra is not stupid. He knew I had Shiva’s Diva in my possession. Trying to pretend you didn’t know it as well would have been sheer folly. Dangerous folly. If I had a hat, I’d tip it to you for such a savvy prevaricatin’ tale, lass. ’Twas worthy of the wee folk themselves.”

  I disliked having to address my questions to his back, but Bambi seemed intent on nosing through the crowd in search of a snack, meaning Brig had to concentrate on steering his latest conquest. It forced me to converse without benefit of seeing his face.

  “Why didn’t you come to Raj’s trailer after he left?”

  “Because I followed Kirk and the lads all the way to the Taj Mahal Hotel to have a listen in on his visit to Ray Decore. I imagine having Kirk pop up at his door might have been bit of a shocker for Raymond.”

  I saw no point in asking how Brig had managed this without transportation at hand. It didn’t matter. Brig hadn’t needed to follow Mahindra. He knew right where he’d be going, which was right where I’d sent him.

  “What happened? Could you get into the hotel? Well, not the hotel, of course you could, but up to Ray’s room? Could you hear anything? Did they fight?”

  He did laugh then. A rich laughter echoed by the roar of Bambi. It appeared she thought Brig was talking to her.

  Another round of patting and caressing behind the elephant’s ear ensued. I waited patiently for the bonding to halt. Once all was calm, Brig told me what he’d heard. Or not heard.

  “I have to grant the Taj high marks for soundproof walls. I hid in the hall behind a large luggage rack and couldn’t hear a blessed thing. I did see Mahindra rapping on Ray’s door. Ray answered and Mahindra walked in and came out no more than six minutes later. I waited till the man had gone down in the lift, then I knocked on Ray’s door and announced room service. To my relief, he answered he hadn’t ordered any.”

  “Why relief?”

  “I knew the man was still alive and well. Mahindra hadn’t murdered him.”

  This was good and bad news. My conscience felt easier knowing that my fib hadn’t caused injury to anyone, even someone as despicable as Ray Decore. But I was worried. Mahindra now knew Miss Tempe Walsh possessed a prevaricating tongue. He also must have surmised Brig still had Shiva’s Diva. In which case, Mr. Mild Mellow could turn into Mr. Testy Terror should Kirk care to visit me again.

  I sighed. “Okay. Great. We’re back where we started. With the whole lot of them on our trail.”

  “Now, now. We’ve made some headway. We know that Ray is alive and one of the villains. We know Patel doesn’t know about Ray. We know that Mahindra knows where you’re staying and that he fancies you. So does Ray. You’ve got quite a way with the older men, Tempe. Too bad Seymour is a mite closer to our age. Otherwise you might be able to charm him as well.”

  “Huh? Go over that last again. Have you lost all your wits? Breathing in too many high altitudes lately? First the Ferris wheel, then the roller coaster, now Miss Bambi here. It’s blunted your brain.”

  “It’s not the heights, lass. ’Tis your own sweet self that’s got me fair not knowin’ which way is up or down. If ’twere only Ferris wheels and such, well, you’ve also been climbin’ them. So your brain would be just as befogged.”

  Brig halted the elephant. He turned and wrapped his arms around me. “My brain is completely befogged, Tempe. And you’re the cause.”

  Scents of curry and almonds and fried vegetables wafted up from the various vendors who’d entered the parade at this point. Shouts, prayers, and voices raised in song should have been deafening. The blanket on which I sat was rough. At any other time, I’d be complaining about the chafing and itching. But at this moment, every one of my senses was in tune to this man as he ignored the crowds below, leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

  I returned the soft pressure. I let my hands roam under the vest across his bare back and let my tongue explore his mouth and let my body shiver in anticipation of where this moment had to lead.

  I could dimly hear shouts coming from somewhere to our left.

  “Brig! Tempe! That’s really nice! Can you keep it up for another minute or two?”

  Jake and his Panaflex were following us. Brig and I drew apart. Brig’s eyes took on a wicked gleam as he waved his hand to the omnipresent director and again pressed me close to him and kissed me with an intensity no camera would ever catch.

  We might have continued the activity to an X-rated level had Bambi not been jostled by another elephant who let out a large roar of dissatisfaction. Or greeting. Perhaps mating. I’m not up on elephantspeak.

  I adjusted my seating so as not to end up in the street if Bambi decided to play bumper cars with the other pachyderm. I tapped Brig on the shoulder after he turned to calm the girl.

  “Brig? Any idea where Jake wants us to end up? Uh, geographically, that is.”

  “Chowpatty Beach. Jake wants to film the ecological disaster when the seventy-foot statue of Ganesh gets dipped into the water. I’ve heard that the good people of India have started using recyclable materials to build the statues that get baptized at the end of the festival. Then again, I wouldn’t want to go snorkeling down there for a few years yet.”

  For some ridiculous reason I assumed the dunking place would be in, say, another hour or so. Tops.

  Six hours later, we rode up to Chowpatty Beach. The actual dunking of the statue wasn’t due until late evening, but by that time, it wouldn’t matter to me if the EPA itself came storming in to protest. Excuse the crudity, but my butt hurt. I wanted off the elephant. Now.

  Bambi’s trainer, or keeper, or significant other was waiting for his darling at the beach. Brig climbed down, then helped me off the elephant’s back. We gave Bambi a few fond hugs, pats, and peanuts, then looked around for Jake and Asha.

  Jake waved to us from a terraced café. Great. Perhaps the restaurant would have more than tea snacks. I needed a hot meal and a glass of wine. Or more. Asha had promised me a decent lunch hours ago.

  “Hi, Jake. Where’s Asha?”

  “She’ll join us soon. She saw some snake charmer doing a hootchy-kootchy dance behind that clown with the cymbals.” (And he meant clown literally.) “She ran off to see if she could entice him to do a scene in Carnival of Lust or lend her the serpents so she might perform herself. She wants to outdo the tiger scene from Pirate Princess.”

  Brig made a wry face. “Just make sure I’m back on the Ferris wheel or roller coaster or something way above the ground for that shoot. Snakes and I do not get along.”

  I saluted Brig with my glass of pinea
pple soda. I decided to let thirst win out over the need to relax. Perching on an elephant’s back all day makes one hungry, thirsty, and smelly. I avoided thinking about the latter.

  I smiled. “What’s this? The intrepid Briggan O’Brien, jujitsu expert, rival of Michael Flatley for the lead in the next installment of Riverdance, victorious in battle over villains, and charmer of beasts and beauties throughout the world, is scared of a little old cobra?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah.”

  I turned to Jake. “Whatcha think? Can we hire a few anacondas or copperheads as extras in the film? Then just sit back and watch Mr. O’Brien dance a few steps not originally choreographed?”

  Jake didn’t answer.

  “Jake?”

  “What? Oh, sorry, guys. I haven’t been listening. What did you say?”

  I glanced at Brig. Other than the time Jake had been pouring hot water into his cup sans tea bag, he’d never appeared distracted. He was always on. Always sharp.

  “Jake? What’s wrong?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Asha should have been here by now. She knows this place. The crowds are thinning, at least where the bulk of the festival has been held. There are so many different statues of Ganesh thrown into so many different venues of water. Chowpatty Beach is just one. The biggest, but still just one. And Asha is good at maneuvering through crowds.”

  He tapped his watch again. “She should be here.”

  Brig offered, “Maybe she decided to take the car?”

  I shook my head. “Not in this mess. We parked here this morning specifically so she wouldn’t have to deal with it later.”

  I glanced at Jake. He’d bit clean through his lower lip. Blood dripped onto his shirt. He ignored it.

  “Jake. I bet she’s engaged in a very prolonged discussion with the snake guy. Or she’s autographing headshots of herself from Pirate Princess. I swear everyone I’ve met in Bombay has seen it four hundred times.”

  He nodded, then chugged down an entire bottle of beer.

  “There’s just one problem. Asha is indeed a talker. She’s a pain in the you-know-what when she wants to be, and she loves practical jokes. She also loves her fans and will talk to them for hours outside the studios or invite them to her flat for tea.”

  Brig and I grinned. That was our Asha. But the grins turned to frowns when Jake continued his assessment of his fiancée.

  “There are two rules Asha swears by. One is being ultimately professional when she is working. The other is an almost fanatical adherence to promptness. In the five films we have done together and even in our personal life together, I have never, not once, known her to be late. She said she’d meet me here at six. It is now six forty-five and no sign of her.”

  Brig stood, threw down a few rupees on the table, helped pull my chair back, then stared at Jake.

  “Time to go. Normally I might agree that Asha just lost track of time with the snake man. But with everything that’s happened in the last few days with the statue, I think we need to find her. Tempe? Any ideas?”

  “Um. How about checking her car? It’s close by, and I think she left her cell phone in the glove compartment. If she’s okay, just off communing with the snakes or something, she might have called that phone and left a message knowing you’d be worried.”

  Jake brightened. “Good thought. She knows I had to leave mine at home today to recharge batteries. So she couldn’t call me if she needed to. Tempe? Lead the way. Do you remember which garage?”

  I did. When Asha had parked earlier this morning, she had suggested I make note of various landmarks in case she and I got separated and I needed to make my way back to the car alone.

  The first thing I’d noticed had been the street vendor who’d printed the words “Best bhelpuri in Bombay” in English on the awning of his immobile cart. Down the block stood a stall that sold balloons. Next to that stall I’d seen a small boutique advertising pendants and other jewelry from the States. I remembered it because the whole place had been painted colors of red, white, and blue.

  Brig muttered to himself as we walked to the garage. “My fault. It’s the Diva. I know it.”

  Asha’s car still sat in the same parking spot. But there was no Asha inside. She never closed the top, so we reached in and opened the glove compartment. Success. Her cell phone lay nestled inside a wad of tissues. The light blinked, signaling that she had messages.

  Jake punched in the code necessary to retrieve the calls. We heard Asha’s voice quivering, “Uh. Mr. Roshan? If you’re getting this, I’ve run into a bit of trouble. I can’t make our business meeting.”

  The message continued. “I ran into, uh, an acquaintance who has, uh, persuaded me to accompany him for the evening. Perhaps longer. I’ll be in touch.”

  Brig began shouting, “Damn them! It’s one of our stinkin’ thugs. Bastard! He’s got her!”

  Brig continued to yell while he kicked the side of the car again and again and again until a large dent appeared. His face had turned bright red. I worried that between his intense anger and the heat of the city he’d have a stroke.

  “Stop! Brig. Brig! Calm down. It’s not going to do her any good if you wreck her car.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, half-heartedly kicked the tire, then sank to the ground.

  “My fault. All my fault. She’s gone.”

  He was right about the last two words. Asha, just like the princess she portrayed in Carnival of Lust, had been kidnapped. But this was no movie.

  Chapter 23

  “Where does Jake keep the sugar? Do you know?”

  Brig absently waved toward the top of one of the cabinets in Jake’s kitchen. “Up there. Canisters. Flour. Sugar. Coffee beans. Chocolate chips. The basics.”

  “Thanks.”

  I opened the pantry and hit the jackpot. All the basics indeed, plus flavored coffees and teas. I grabbed a handful of chocolate chips and stuffed them into my mouth as I began grinding coffee beans. Within minutes I had a nice pot of hazelnut Kahlúa coffee brewing for any and all who needed it. Which meant Jake, Brig, and me.

  After we’d heard Asha’s guarded message, we’d jumped into the convertible. Brig hot-wired her car while Jake replayed the call, and I prayed no harm would come to my friend. I wanted to throw myself into the water with the elephant statues for not going to the American Embassy and turning the problem of the Diva over to them. My fault.

  Brig had wasted no time driving to Jake’s. He’d stayed silent except for occasional obscenities directed toward whichever scumbag had snatched Asha.

  We’d been back at Jake’s about an hour. Brig and I had gone off to shower for significant lengths of time to get the pungent odor of Bambi removed from our bodies. Since I returned to the musky maid’s room and had to use her fragrances, I ended up smelling like a hooker in heat. Which I suppose was better than the previous odor of a pachyderm in a panic.

  Jake had spent that time pacing and cursing. Sounds of a fist smashing against the wall in the living room could be heard periodically during the fifteen minutes I spent digging through Jake’s closet searching for something to fit me. I refused to don the now-ripe elephant-scented jeans and shirt I’d worn for the festival. I found a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, dressed, then followed the sounds of swearing coming from the kitchen.

  Both guys were popping tops off beer bottles and checking the wall phone every five minutes to make sure it worked.

  “No word, I guess?” I asked.

  “No,” had been the terse answer from both men.

  I poured the coffee. The three of us sat on the stools behind the counter where just days ago Jake had sipped hot water and mooned about his latest breakup with Asha. It seemed so silly now.

  The phone rang. Three mugs slammed down on the counter as one. Hot coffee spattered.

  Jake hit the speaker button. Before he could say hello, we heard, “Roshan?”

  I closed my eyes. I knew that voice. Last time I’d heard it, those dulcet ton
es had been screaming vile language at me at the Pool Palace. Seymour Patel. Damn. Of the three primary players in this game of hide-the-statue, Patel, in my opinion, took top honors as the nastiest.

  Jake made no pretense of misunderstanding the reason for this call. “You want Shiva’s Diva.”

  “Yes.” Hindi curse word, curse word––I blushed. “We know O’Brien stole it at Harry’s. We want it. Simple. I trade. The statue for that”—curse word, curse word—“Miss Kumar. We know she is lover even though she pretends all business.”

  Brig tilted his chin, then motioned to Jake. The motion declared “Yes.”

  Jake closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then spoke into the receiver. “Where and when?”

  “I call three hours with orders.”

  Jake began to scream in the Marathi dialect. Since Hindi had been my main language focus before I came to India, I could grasp only half of it.

  Jake put Patel’s curses to shame. He called the man a “filthy son of a camera.” Wait. That might mean camel. Wrong translation. I shook my head and opened my eyes wide when Jake told Patel that his ancestors had never married. Or if they had, they’d married their sisters. Or brothers. I interpreted something about a hanging and a stretching and burning in there as well. I believe the words “draw and quarter” and “hot tar and sticky feathers” were used.

  Finally, Jake returned to English and told Patel that if he hurt one hair on Asha’s head, he, Jake Roshan, Yale graduate and award-winning film director, would chop off several essentials of Seymour’s anatomy. Essentials that would make it impossible for Patel to create progeny of his own, whether with his mythical sister or any other female.

  Patel took it well. Doubtless Jake’s epithets were mild compared to what most of Seymour’s confederates, or his enemies, called him on a daily basis.

  He even laughed. “Three hours, Roshan. You listen to orders. I say once.”

  Jake yelled, “Wait!” but I could hear the click as Patel hung up on him.