“What are you going to do?”
“See some friends who might have a bit of influence with the local authorities and plead with them to convince the gents at the jail that I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
I tossed my shirt back over the chair with the ease of Tassels la Tour and stepped, topless, into the restroom.
“Feel free to give them my number, lad. I’ll be more than happy to attest to exactly that fact.”
I shall spare everyone the details of the trip on the train to Vivek Studios. A trip that can be summed up in three words. Long, dirty, and noisy. Oh yeah. Two more. Crowded and unpleasant. By the time I got to the lot, I had no desire to go dancing around a set that consisted of a dirt road where cars came zipping by and not much else.
But, being a responsible person, I let Reena garb me in her latest concept of American dance queen (i.e., cutoff jeans and a red halter top). I went out and I performed the cartwheels, flips, and splits that had somehow become part of every dance scene Jake stuck me in. I whipped off a quadruple pirouette while standing in bare feet on pavement and didn’t even flinch, because this particular responsible little actor/dancer had become a very distracted one.
Visions of Brig in, beg pardon, the brig, haunted me. Visions of Brig being rescued from the brig by a Kirk Mahindra who had unofficial grilling styles in mind made me clench my teeth so hard Jake had to ask if I’d been hurt.
He and Asha had pounced on me the instant I stepped out of the cab. The actors had been given an uncharacteristically long lunch break. I suspected Jake was being kind just so he and his intended could get caught up on the activities of the previous night. The first half anyway. I adored both Jake and Asha but I was not going to entertain them by providing details concerning bedding down with Brig O’Brien. An activity I knew damn well Asha craved to learn about in Technicolor and Dolby THX sound.
She had to settle for the other news. “Ray’s dead?”
“Oh yeah. Unless he palmed his ID off on some other fifty-ish American with gray hair, a physique courtesy the best trainers in New York, and a thigh wound courtesy of whatever leftover weapon from your kidnap rescue got him.”
“Well, that pretty much nails it down,” Asha said. “Which bum bumped him off?”
I winced. I couldn’t be quite as blasé about this as Asha. I actually had known the man. She’d just snuck out of his room, then yelled at him through a door.
Ray and I had boarded a plane in New York less than a week ago. We’d even enjoyed a few hours of nice conversation during the times I’d been awake and he hadn’t tried making a pass. Ray had been a friend of Jeremy, my boss. Although Ray had apparently lost his mind and adopted a penchant for criminal behavior, I still hated for the man to have died alone in an alley in a foreign country as his killer stood over him watching as his life oozed away. Well, that might be over-romanticizing both the man and his demise.
His death wasn’t a joke. I sent up a silent prayer that Ray would find peace in a better place.
And a cooler one. The Bombay heat combined with rehearsing had me sweaty and thirsty. I inhaled four two-liter-sized bottles of imported French water in less time than it takes to drink one cup of tea. Then I started in on the tea as well. Five cups in all.
It should come as no surprise then, that after finishing the first sequence of steps for the princess-hitching-a-ride scene, including that quadruple pirouette, I might need to use the facilities. I’ve never been fond of Porta-Potty restrooms, so I hiked a half mile to my own trailer. The one where I’d enjoyed about three hours’ sleep two nights ago. The one where I’d enjoyed the other four that same night with Brig.
The one where, this day, like our own Shiva’s Diva, I got bagged.
Chapter 35
It was obvious to all parties involved in l’affaire Shiva’s Diva that Brig and I had a thing going. I’d been seen with him in enough situations to allow Kirk Mahindra to figure out that Brig meant more to me than a chance to meet Jake Roshan, break into films, and become a Masala movie star. Mahindra had seen sparks flying between Mr. O’Brien and Miss Walsh long before Miss Walsh admitted they were sparks of desire and not just the flash of bullets or knives whizzing by.
So Kirkee decided the way to get to Brig was to get me. He explained this while I sat, hands tied behind my back, in his luxurious white stretch limo that cruised easily out of Vivek Studios.
“You must understand, my dear Miss Walsh, that I believe coming to you is the quickest course of action to take following Patel’s wretched deeds of last night. I refer, of course, to the death of Raymond Decore.”
I sighed. “I somehow figured Patel had been the scum who’d sent Ray to meet his Maker. Didn’t seem your style. Not that I’m really up on your style. But you seem to have more class than dispatching people in alleys.”
Mahindra inclined his head, then patted my knee. I tried not to visibly shudder. The man might be a gentleman thief and kidnapper, but he still possessed a quick trigger finger. I wasn’t exactly comfortable riding with him.
Kirk stated, “As well as being beautiful, you are a wise and perceptive lady. If I had been the one to decide that Ray Decore did not need to live, I would have sent one of my business associates to his hotel room with instructions to increase his morphine dosage. Patel is indeed a pig. But a knife in the stomach in a filthy alley? Tasteless. Low class. Messy. Inept.”
Not to mention damn rough on the knifee’s guts. I managed to refrain from vocalizing this thought.
Mahindra continued, “I must say, however, that Patel’s actions during the Ganesh festival in seizing Miss Kumar then offering up her release in exchange for the Saraswati statue was nothing short of genius. It gave me the idea to do much the same with you. And I have no doubt, having seen you interact with Mr. O’Brien more than once, that he will trip over himself with great speed to rescue you with the goddess in hand.”
He stared at me. “One goddess for another. Very fitting.”
“Mr. Mahindra, I’m not so sure Brig even has the statue anymore. I believe there are a few other parties involved. People you may not even be aware of. Other buyers.”
He waved his hand, brushing off those pesky others. “I know of several interested buyers. But I have taken steps to insure that Mr. O’Brien will be too busy today to notify anyone that he has the statue. He is currently dealing with inspectors at the police station. He has no time to sell the Shiva’s Diva, as you call her. Why that name, I must confess, I am still unclear.”
“You saw Brig at the station?”
“Wearing handcuffs and looking most unhappy. Indian jails are not pleasant places. Especially for the foreigners. I rather doubt Mr. O’Brien will be so pretty the next time you see him.”
“But if he’s in jail, how are you supposed to exchange me for her? The statue, that is?”
He glanced at his watch. A Rolex.
“By this time, proof that Mr. O’Brien had nothing to do with Raymond Decore’s murder will have been handed to the lead inspector on the case. A good man. I’ve known him for many years. We were at school together and played on the cricket team.”
This did not surprise me in the least. Mom raised me on too many wiseguy movies where the mobster is best buds with the police commissioner. She and I spent many marathon weekends watching Cagney, Bogart, Pacino, and De Niro play nicey-nicey with the feds. But this particular scene I was playing seemed more reminiscent of the Sheriff of Nottingham holding Maid Marian hostage to ensnare Robin Hood than of any gangster flick.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight so far. One of your filthy goo—excuse me, business associates, arranged for Brig to be arrested. After Brig has had enough time in jail for the thugs to beat the, uh, charm out of him, you’ll send in the next wave. The cavalry arrives with proof that Brig busied himself with other activities far, far away during the time Ray met his sad fate. Correct?”
Mahindra brightened as though envisioning the whole scene with sadistic delight.
“Precisely, Miss Walsh. At this moment, so I have been told, Mr. O’Brien is walking to the parking lot to retrieve his impounded vehicle. We assume he will next attempt to drive out to the film site and reunite with the lady he desires. You. Who he believes will be waiting at her trailer to comfort him after his ordeal in prison.”
“I take it he’s not going to get very far?”
“If Mr. O’Brien would join the modern world and carry a cell phone, it would make my life much easier. But, since he insists on going about without adequate means of communication, I simply have to track him down.”
His own cell rang. Beethoven’s Fifth. Mahindra answered and listened quietly. A smile flitted across the refined features. He closed the flap of the phone.
“Briggan O’Brien is now heading back to the hotel where he stayed last night.”
Diplomatic of him to refrain from mentioning who else stayed with him. Namely, Tempe Walsh, latest victim of a snatch and grab.
“Mr. O’Brien has been informed that you are currently in my company and that if he wishes for that to change, he needs to meet us at the hour of midnight, tonight, at the appointed place with Saraswati.”
“I gather Brig agreed to whatever terms your associate laid out?”
“Most definitely. But I am afraid the young man used language ill befitting a gentleman. Most disgraceful. However, once my position had been made clear, he stated he would be more than pleased to deliver the Saraswati statue to me.”
“Well. Nice to know someone’s plans around here are swimming along so nicely.”
He frowned. “I am only sorry you did not heed my advice concerning association with Mr. O’Brien. Tracking him down all week has been a tedious waste of my time, although having the chance to get to know you has made the effort worthwhile. For this, I am most grateful.”
Mahindra’s phone rang again. I tried to focus on his responses. Partly to see what I could learn about Brig’s situation, but also to avoid thinking about Mahindra’s last words to me and the soft, caressing tones he’d used to say them. Not to mention the intent behind them.
His discussion over the wireless was conducted in an Indian language I hadn’t covered in my course from Louie’s Lingo software. Not that anything Kirk said made a difference in the execution of this latest game of Saraswati tag.
Perhaps Brig could figure out a way to fool Mahindra into thinking Brig had given him the statue. Much the same way Patel had tricked us at the strip joint by substituting the horse trophy. We’d kept that trophy in Brig’s hotel room. He could wrap it up, stick it in whichever tote bag he had, hand it to Mahindra, grab me, and run like hell.
Mahindra glanced at me and hit the hold button on his phone. “If you are entertaining thoughts that Mr. O’Brien will be able to switch the Saraswati for another statue, you must forget them. My associate will be accompanying the man to his hotel. I doubt O’Brien will find another statue the appropriate height and weight to exchange anywhere in that room. And he cannot leave his hotel. My men will not allow that.”
Well. I hadn’t actually been thinking, “substitute statue for statue,” unless one could call a trophy from a horse race a statue, but Mahindra had honed in on my thoughts far too easily. Then again, the man had practice in all kinds of crooked commerce. My experience dealing with thugs, robbers, kidnappers, and murderers had started only a week ago. My mind wasn’t trained in the art of trickery and deception. Two words, however, that might well fit the man I loved. I brightened.
Brig would find a way to rescue me and still hang on to Shiva’s Diva. I had confidence. My Riverdale Robin Hood had a gift for chicanery and sneaky behavior. Brig had plenty of other talents, too, but I didn’t want to think of those while I sat next to Kirk Mahindra.
I smiled, not wanting Mahindra to see the fear inside me. A fear that diminished a bit more with every thought of Briggan. He’d come up with something. I hoped. If Plan A didn’t work (and let’s face it, we’d been pretty lousy at Plan A’s this week), then he’d hit Plan B. Or C. Or a thug. Whichever came first.
I nodded at Mahindra since I couldn’t motion with my hands. Still tied. Like I might, what? Jump out of a limo equipped with child-lock doors and that clipped along at seventy plus, then try to hitch a ride wearing my red halter top and cutoffs?
“Mr. Mahindra? Where exactly is this exchange going to take place?”
A look of near bliss crossed the man’s features.
“Symmetry, my lovely Tempe, has been defined as balance and harmony creating beauty. A definition most apropos to tonight’s enterprise. At midnight you and I will be at the table where you sat a week ago with Raymond Decore. At Hot Harry’s Saloon.”
Chapter 36
Getting kidnapped by an Indian criminal had not topped my list of New Year’s resolutions this year. But since the activity had made it into my repertoire of life experiences I least wanted to repeat, I was glad the kidnapper of choice was Kirk Mahindra and not Seymour Patel.
Poor Asha had been tucked into a van, bound, gagged, then forced to endure an hour or so crammed into an archway waiting for rescue. Plus she’d had to deal with Patel himself, a man not known for appreciating the niceties of polite society.
Not so Kirkee Mahindra. This kidnapper had driven the kidnappee (i.e., me) around in an air-conditioned limo. Soothing classical music played around me.
Once we were at Mahindra’s residence, he had untied the cord around my wrists, then escorted me into his high-rise apartment, the exterior of which was indeed painted gold. During the elevator ride to the twenty-ninth floor, he’d nodded politely to his neighbors and chatted about the price of oil and the new yoga class at the high-rise spa.
He had not hidden me away in a dark room in his flat, then shoved bread and water down my throat before sticking a filthy rag in my mouth to shut me up. Nope. Mahindra had ordered an elderly servant to rustle up some tea and snacks and let me lounge in a den filled with business magazines featuring India’s top tycoons. Mahindras graced every cover. Kirkee’s distant cousins, who I assumed were the legitimate branch of the family.
A discreet rap on the den door around ten P.M. let me know the evening’s frolic would be starting soon. The same servant entered with several cloths draped over her arm. I thought she planned to bag and gag me. Fine. Bring it on. I could take her down in a heartbeat. Older, fatter, a lot meaner, and with more teeth had tried and been annihilated only last night by Tempe Walsh, girl wrestler.
Then I realized the cloth was a dress. Well, more specifically, it was a sari. Sage green with the choli underpiece in a darker green. Great colors and they fit perfectly. Either Mahindra had a wife or lover my size who’d conveniently offered up the garment for the prisoner, or his personal shopper had spent the afternoon in bazaars with precise instructions as to the American’s height, weight, and coloring.
Neither thought was appealing. But I must admit I liked trashing my sweaty jean/halter-top costume and draping myself in something this deliciously beautiful. Reena could take lessons from Mahindra’s tailor.
The reason for the change in outfits became clear when Mahindra took me to dinner at the Royal Yacht Club. Hey, might as well show the kidnap victim a good time.
The Yacht Club was situated just north of the Taj Mahal Hotel. The gorgeous Gateway to India structure graced the club with its presence if one looked across the road. The south overlooked the bay. A landscaped garden sat between the bay and the club.
At least a dozen men in seafaring regalia strolled about the garden chatting about an upcoming yacht race. Mahindra introduced me to five political types as his guest from New York. Which I suppose was smarter than saying, “Mr. Sahib So-and-So? Let me introduce Tempe Walsh, kidnap victim and occasional stripper at C.C. Curry’s.”
Or, “This is Miss Walsh, aka Tassels la Tour. We’re having a flaming-hot affair, so don’t even think about disturbing us once we’re settled in drinking wine and chowing down on samosas.”
Or, “Yo! Hey, guys, meet
my babe. Don’t fall madly in love with her unless you’re into necrophilia. She’ll be a corpse by morning.”
Once inside, a waiter wearing a naval cadet uniform escorted us to a table overlooking the bay, then immediately brought drinks I hadn’t heard Kirk order.
One might be thinking at this venture, why didn’t Miss Tempe Walsh flee? Here we were out in the open. British officials sauntered by passing gallantries with my dinner companion and jailer. Any one of these guys would doubtless be more than happy to accompany the American to her own consulate, then tuck a business card into her bag in case she needed further assistance.
In a word? Ha. Even if Mahindra had given me a chance to speak in private with any of these gentlemen, Brig’s life was on the line.
Plus, Mahindra did not let me out of his sight. The one time I asked to be excused to powder my nose, the servant who’d brought me tea and the sari came attached to my hip. I thought she’d enter the damn stall until I politely informed her, in Marathi, that if I didn’t get a bit of privacy for this activity, I’d shove her ancient little nose into the nearest sink. I did have a modicum of respect left for my elders. I could have said, and meant, toilet. She backed off.
I had no phone on my person. The window in the restroom didn’t seem an option. Even if I could squeeze more than one thigh into that crack, I’d land in the drink. And the water wasn’t exactly up to the standards of the beaches in the Hamptons. I idly pondered whether parades of plaster-of-paris pachyderms pitched from the Ganesh festival rested peacefully in the bay below.
I had another reason for trying to stay calm during what could end up being my last meal. Mahindra’s constant use of his own cell phone. Mahindra kept calling the fellow watching Brig, then receiving calls from same every five grating minutes, so I hoped I’d learn something about Brig’s activities. From what I could gather from Mahindra’s end of the conversations, Brig had remained quietly in his hotel room like a good little boy. Taking a nap.
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