Hot Stuff

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I opened my mouth again and said, “You can just drop me at the nearest rail station. If there is one. I’ll catch a train and a cab back to the Vivek lot.”

  He shook his head. “You are so quick to jump to conclusions. I’ve no intention of dumping you at some filthy train depot at this time of night. What kind of rotten fiendish lout do you take me for? And what makes you think I don’t want your beautiful face sitting beside me on this fine evening?”

  “Because Asha and I were nuts to think you’d be joyriding around Bombay and parts north to retrieve Shiva’s Diva and sell her tonight.”

  “Well, you’re both right and wrong on that little assumption, luv. And not terribly brilliant about your execution of that assumption.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am on my way to rescue the Diva. You and Asha got that right. I don’t want the statue sitting in one place longer than a day, what with the various bloodhounds sniffing about for her.” He glanced at me and smiled. “Including two snoopy females who should know better.”

  “Oops.”

  “It’s all right. I know Asha. She gets a thought stuck in her head and the devil’s own brigade can’t budge her. And you’re still thinking this is some grand adventure instead of the deadly game it is. So you’re letting Asha talk you into playing Charlie’s Angels. Badly, I might add. I knew you were in the Jeep long before I ever got in.”

  “Oh.”

  I seemed incapable of uttering anything but one-syllable exclamations. Or prepositions. Or whatever “oops” and “oh” constituted since I didn’t remember those words covered in Linguistics 101.

  Red faced, I looked up at Brig’s profile. He focused his concentration toward getting past two huge trucks that were hogging two full lanes and driving at speeds under twenty miles per hour. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. So I did.

  “Um. How did you know I was in here?”

  “Your scent. I know that scent. It’s a heady scent, Tempe Walsh, far stronger than any Paris perfume. It’s filled my senses for the last week. And I’m not referring to any musk left over from Jake’s maid’s quarters.”

  “Oh.”

  I was back to a one-syllable word but with a different meaning this time. I settled back in the passenger seat and took a deep breath. He didn’t sound angry. Amused, yes, but not angry.

  “Brig? Where were you—now we—going? Where did you stash the statue?”

  “Mahalaxmi Racetrack.”

  I stared at him. “Wait. I know that name. I read about it in my guidebook. It sounded like a fun place to see. But I thought it closed summers and was only open for the winter season. You hid the statue there? Where? I mean, the in-plain-sight thing worked at Jake’s with all his little statuettes and idols and dust collectors, but at a racetrack? Even if they have trophies, I don’t imagine they have Hindu gods and goddesses resting in the case.”

  “As to the first question, yes. And no. The track is closed until November. Which is perfect. No tourists, no business tycoons or die-hard gamblers swarming around. No one except groundskeepers and a few hosts to show the tourists around. And I didn’t hide it in an awards case.”

  “No?”

  He patted my hand. “You’ll see.”

  “As long as it’s not resting under a bundle of hay filled with horse, uh, hosties.” I thought about that. “No. I can’t see you stashing our beloved goddess in a nasty place.”

  “No horse stalls.” He inclined his head as he continued to weave in and out of what had now turned into traffic on the order of commuter hell in any big city.

  I glanced at Brig. “Do you mind if I ask why, if you planned on moving the Diva tonight, you didn’t just hide her better the first time after the sex-toy guy brought her back? Oh hell. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound as snotty as it came out. I just meant, uh . . .”

  “I know what you meant. Why not just find a place to conceal the goddess that’s a mite more permanent? So I don’t have to keep running all over the city hiding, then out of the city, rehiding. If that’s a word.”

  “I’ll look it up sometime. So?”

  “Simple really. I didn’t want to alarm any of our gallant band of Shiva retrievers—that’s you, Asha, and Jake—but last night someone followed me from about midway across Bombay all the way out to the trailers on the lot.”

  “Oh, terrific. Could you tell which one of our dogs sniffed out your trail? I assume it was one of the three. Please don’t tell me we’ve managed to attract a fourth. Or maybe Khan has reentered the hunt?”

  He nodded. “No, no. It’s still one of the Terrible Trio. I can’t be absolutely certain, but I’d say it was Mahindra. Whoever it was had hired a cab. Mahindra’s smart enough to do that, knowing I wouldn’t be able to see who was in it.”

  “Do you think he tailed you to the racetrack?”

  “Honestly? No. I did a stupid thing, though. After I stashed the Diva at Mahalaxmi, I headed into Bombay for a stop at Claire’s. The lady you met earlier this week at the restaurant, remember?”

  My heart took a dive deeper than the statues resting in the lakes and bays of Bombay. Claire. Well. How honest of him to tell me he’d seen her. But the fact that he’d visited her first, then headed over to my trailer to do what we’d done all night?

  Every thought and feeling I had was leading me back to another one-syllable four-letter word. An extremely unprintable one ladies aren’t supposed to use. I substituted “ouch” in my own mind instead.

  I tried to focus on Brig’s actual words and eagerly honed in on the mention of “pot of tea.” That sounded pretty innocent.

  “So, you think he followed you from Claire’s? Right? Um. Where does she live?”

  “This isn’t a permanent residence for her. She doesn’t live in Bombay. I drove to her hotel.”

  Double ouch. A hotel. Around midnight? The hour for romance. I had to stop thinking this way.

  “Um. Where is she from? The permanent home, I mean.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he pointed just ahead of us around a curve. “Mahalaxmi Racetrack.”

  I squinted into the darkness until I caught a decent glimpse of well-kept grounds and a luxurious clubhouse. Row after row of trees I couldn’t even name (other than palm or banyan) bordered the entrance to the parking area.

  “Oh, Brig! This is nice. I’m not a betting person, but I love watching the Derby races on TV, and I visited Hot Springs, Arkansas, one time during a college break. Just seeing the horses that close while they’re running is a thrill. Gorgeous creatures. I wish the track was open.”

  Brig smiled. “Did you bet at all? Down at Hot Springs?”

  “Three dollars on the daily double. I lost. So much for the career of a budding gambler.”

  I peered out into the night at the track. Quiet. Dark. Peaceful. A total switch from our usual nightspots.

  “Hey! We passed the parking area. Where you going?”

  He pointed to another building about a quarter mile away from the road. “There.”

  “Is that part of the track? Stables or something? Doesn’t look big enough. Wait. Is it a clubhouse?”

  “Tempe, um, don’t get mad now. First, let me explain that when I got back this evening, I did go to your trailer to tell you I’d be off to retrieve our Diva. I wanted to ask you to be patient and not to come with me. For damn good reasons, darlin’.”

  “Uh oh. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “You won’t like the rest either. It gets worse. Last night I hid Shiva’s Diva in a new club for gentlemen. Brand-new. I heard about it from one of the dancers on Carnival of Lust while we were balancing on our heads.”

  “Is this another ladies club? Faux strip joint?”

  He nodded. “Not so faux. It’s sort of theme based on the Masala movies. Posters of various films all over the place, music from the soundtracks as well.”

  I brightened. “That doesn’t sound too bad. You know me and movies. What’s the name of the c
lub?”

  “Acchaa Nasal Garam Cheez. And I’m no expert in Hindi, but loosely translated I believe it means ‘Hot Things Thoroughbreds. ’ Or more simply, ‘Hot Mares.’ ”

  “Well, that makes sense around the racetrack.”

  “Tempe. Now listen to me. You do not want to go in there. I promise you. Which creates a bit of a problem.”

  “Why? It sounds kind of fun. For a strip joint I mean. Like a fan club for film buffs and horse lovers.”

  “You’re thinking of C.C. Curry’s. Women in saris wriggling and not really doing much else. This place is about four steps removed. Just like their clothing. Think New York. Eighth Avenue. The old Forty-Second Street hangouts. Before it got Disneyfied a few years back.”

  “Oh. We’re talkin’ down to the skivvies then?”

  Brig laughed. “You might say so. Skivvied and then some.”

  “Well, maybe I’d just better hang out by the Jeep. Do my nails. Keep the radio on and sing ‘MacArthur Park’ along with Donna Summer’s Hindu duplicate in Bombay.”

  Brig assumed his brogue. That meant trouble coming.

  “We’el, that’s where that problem comes in. From my understandin’ of it, you see, some of the, er, clientele here like to take the girls out and do a bit more than just look. I might have to be sluggin’ a few faces who thought you had a ‘For Sale’ sign on you just because you’re outside hangin’ by a car.”

  “Ah. In that case, I’ll go in with you. Hang tight to your manly coattails and we can make it quite clear that I’m already sold. So to speak. Will that work?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. And I would feel better with you by my side. I always do. I might also be sayin’ you’re by far the grittiest lass I believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowin’ all my thirty years on this earth.”

  I beamed. It might not be the most romantic declaration of love, but I felt warm all over and not just from the summer night.

  I leapt out of the Jeep. “Lead on, O’Brien.”

  Chapter 31

  The doorman at Hot Mares put the snoot in snooty. Or snotty. Either way he had a bad attitude. Impeccably attired in a uniform with more gold-trimmed tassels than my first costume for Carnival of Lust, he looked down his nose at the two visitors daring to ask to see the owner. The nose comment is figurative. Both Brig and I were considerably taller.

  But Mr. Doorman made up for his lack of inches with an attitude straight out of The Wizard of Oz. “What? You dare ask to see the great Oz? Or in this case, the Ozzettes? Are you flippin’ nuts?”

  Brig assumed his best Irish brogue. He told the man that we were “inquirin’ about a job for the lass here who’s a well-known exotic dancer from the States and Great Britain.” Brig claimed to be my agent.

  The doorman’s demeanor changed. “From the States? I am so sorry to have been delaying you out in this heat. Please. You must come in at once. I shall personally find Mr. Bombay and bring you to him for introductions.”

  I almost missed this shift in demeanor. By the time he’d gotten to the name Mr. Bombay (they had to be kidding) I’d been escorted inside, had taken a look around, and started hunting for the nearest closet. I wanted to hide there until Brig brought Shiva’s Diva out from wherever he’d consigned her last night. The goddess herself must now be casting curses over this damnable den of decadence, depravity, degradation, and degeneracy.

  This was indeed not C.C. Curry’s. No delectable odors of samosas or curried rice wafted through the air. Air? Did I say air? No air existed. Just lots of cigarette smoke. I clung to the safety of Brig’s hand. We passed between tables filled with men stuffing rupee notes into what scraps of fabric remained on the women writhing above them. No one smiled. Not the men. Not the women.

  “Brig,” I murmured. “We’re about to meet a manager who thinks I want to end up on a tabletop in less than skivvies. This is not what I had in mind for my next job interview. Any ideas? Plan A or B?”

  Brig didn’t answer me. He was continuing a running commentary for the doorman, who’d cleared a path for us toward Mr. Bombay’s door.

  Finally Brig squeezed my hand and muttered, “Not a one. Yet. But Plan A will hit before you find yourself auditioning in the buff. I promise. If I have to fight every despicable beggar in the place while you run like Spot the tiger with the Diva.”

  Oh good. He did have a Plan A. Which would undoubtedly turn into one of those Plan B scenarios that usually sent us flying into worse pickles with more bruises than Plan A.

  The doorman couldn’t have been more than five-two, but next to Mr. Bombay, he loomed. Bombay came up to my chest. The little creep ignored me completely. Except for that aforementioned chest, which he stared at so long I considered smacking him in his overly large nose and forgetting why we were there. Bombay pumped Brig’s hand, then rudely asked just what we thought we were doing walking into his club with assumptions he’d be interested in some unknown girl.

  Brig oozed out every bit of Irish charm he possessed. The brogue had grown thicker than a fog on a Celtic moor. I waited for the Gaelic phrases to pop out next. Not that he’d need them. I doubt Mr. Bombay caught more than two words of Brig’s monologue, but the two he did catch were vital: “Top dollar.”

  I gathered that meant my services. Top dollar for Miss Tassels la Tour. I almost ruined Brig’s pitch by breaking into loud guffaws over that one.

  It was silly and clichéd, but it impressed Mr. Bombay. He looked me up and down with a thoroughness that made me feel like one of the horses at the racetrack. Even digging through whatever remained in the horse stalls would be preferable to enduring this kind of stare. I felt naked. Nauseated. When Bombay licked his lips, I considered diving through the one small window in his office to head for the stables.

  “When can Miss la Tour start? I believe we have an opening tonight?”

  If Brig had said yes I would have killed him with my bare hands. But the King of Prevarication took over.

  “No, no! Miss la Tour is not some cheap understudy, mind ya. We’ll be wantin’ the contracts signed. And she has to have her own costumes. No sharin’ with the other lasses. And dressin’ rooms as well, don’t ya know.”

  “Yes, yes. This I understand. My best girls have both. And no, she will not table dance. Stage only.”

  Brig had done it. After a few more minutes of business negotiations, we had a deal worthy of one of India’s film stars. No Shiva’s Diva in hand as yet, but I felt confident Brig would get us out of Hot Mares with the goddess wrapped in a box with a bow. Which was more than the strippers were wearing.

  We paused at the door of Bombay’s office. Brig turned and smiled at the little toad. “One other bit of a t’ing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll be wantin’ ta inspect the sound system yer lads have here. ’Tis most important for Miss la Tour’s music ta be hard over bettar speakers than we’ve been subject ta dealin’ with at lessar cloobs about the city.”

  The brogue had passed beyond dense. But Bombay got the gist. As did I. Brig had hidden the statue somewhere in the sound booth. How he’d managed it the night before with the doorman from hell standing guard I didn’t care to imagine. Probably disguised himself as an electrician come to check the wiring. Then actually did check it.

  Everything was going great until Mr. Bombay stopped me at the bottom of the stairway leading to the booth.

  “Miss la Tour will stay here with me while you are shown around upstairs. There is little space in the booth. She can see what some of our other ladies are doing onstage here. Learn from my dancers what my clients want and expect.”

  I had a damn good idea what his clients wanted and expected. Cable blue channels show the activities nightly unless one’s TV set contains child locks. I tried not to smack Bombay across the room.

  Neither Brig nor I could come up with a good response to a suggestion that made me want to toss my tea pastries. Brig gave my hand a quick, inconspicuous squeeze, then turned and galloped up the stairs.

 
; Mr. Bombay and at least a hundred other leering males aimed their eyes, thoughts, and lust in my direction. That meant they were now ignoring the girls on the tables. Suddenly female eyes became hostile.

  I was a deviation from the typical girl these men saw every night writhing and grinding. All the brown-skinned, brunette, tiny Indian girls. In walks the tall, pale-skinned, red-haired foreigner. A new toy to ogle. To take home. To use.

  I blessed whatever instinct had made me dress in basic black. Especially jeans and a long shirt top. Sweat trickled down my forehead and all over my torso. My already pale skin turned ashen. Bombay stared at me.

  “You appear uncomfortable, Miss la Tour. Is this different from the clubs in America where you have danced?”

  An excellent question. There are topless and “all nude” joints up and down certain avenues in Manhattan. I’d seen the posters and the neon signs outside as I scurried past. I’d never gone in and had never wanted to, so if this differed from “clubs in America” I hadn’t a clue.

  And I needed to respond to the creep’s question.

  I faced an improv, and improv fast, situation. Where the hell had Brig disappeared? Was he having to talk his way around some arrogant sound tech to get under a board filled with wires so he could pop out with a tote bag he hadn’t brought up there with him only two minutes ago?

  I tried to smile at the manager. Owner. Sleazebag. Whatever his claim to fame. Filthy pimp came to mind.

  I had to say something. I had to move somehow. But I had suddenly morphed into some kind of woodland creature being hypnotized by one of Brig’s dreaded snakes. Any moment now the silent intensity would stop. The venom of the lust in this den would bite into me. Destroy me.

  That thought made me remember Brig on top of the snake cage at the set and his bravery in getting down without hysterics or staying frozen and making someone come and rescue him. I took a deep breath and prepared to dazzle Mr. Bombay with one long, nonsensical bit of monologue.

  I winked at him, then said with my most obnoxious and outdated American slang, “Yo, dude! You have, like, a rad club. Awesome, doncha know. I just love the posters of all the films everywhere. Excellent of you to do this up like a Masala movie set. Do you get out to see many of them? They’re truly cool, like rad, man? Extreme phat. And so many made every year. Quite a money-maker for the country, like wack? What’s your favorite flick? Or do you have one? I, like, haven’t had a chance to go, dude, but you know, me and my homeys do get them on DVD back home at the video stores, so, like, I’ll just have to check them out when I’m back in the ’hood, doncha know?”