Between calls for updates on Mr. O’Brien, Mahindra quizzed me about New York. The cosmopolitan criminal hadn’t made it to the Big Apple yet.
I kept him engrossed for thirty minutes with a history of the city, starting with the Native Americans’ negotiations with Peter Stuyvesant. Then I updated the lecture to include George Washington’s less-subtle transactions with the British from the fort in northern Manhattan.
I tried to remember everything I knew about the 1800s heyday of Irish street gangs and their hostile negotiations with at least five different sections of various other immigrants. I thought Mahindra would enjoy that since he’d scheduled a one-on-one with Mr. O’Brien of the O’Briens from Dublin and Riverdale later this evening.
I finished with a few current events about the attempts of various New York mayors to negotiate with squeegee wipers, jaywalkers, smokers, and unlicensed street vendors.
“We will visit New York someday,” Mahindra declared. “Stay at the Four Seasons. I shall show you off when we attend performances of the Metropolitan Opera, and we shall dance at the Rainbow Room.”
I grabbed the glass of wine the waiter had just refilled and chugged it down. I did not like the sound of those “we’s.” I couldn’t help but remember Jake’s script for Carnival of Lust where Asha’s character gets taken to the Royal Yacht Club for a slice of royal seduction by a smooth-talking kidnapper.
I quickly asked Mahindra to name his favorite opera, hoping to steer the conversation toward listening to the greats, rather than focusing on waltzing with Tempe at one of the city’s famous night spots.
“Tosca. By Puccini.”
I nearly fell off my chair. I’d just seen Tosca a month ago. It’s not a pretty story, although the music is gorgeous.
Tosca, a singer, loves Mario, an artist. Mario is hunted by Scarpia, an obsessed villain. Scarpia wants Tosca for himself. The parallels to Brig, me, and Mahindra were a bit too close. At least Tosca manages to stab Scarpia, but then she and Mario both die. He gets shot by a firing squad. She jumps off a parapet in despair. Ouch.
I changed topics, even if the newest subject might cause some annoyance. “Mr. Mahindra.”
“Kirkee, please. Or, since you Americans prefer a less formal name, Kirk.”
“Mr. Mahindra. Why are you going to so much trouble to get Shiva’s Diva? Aren’t there other statues as precious that don’t come with a curse? And without all this hassle to acquire them?”
He frowned. “Because it is mine. I had agreed to pay Khan’s price. I arrived at the saloon at the proper time. And my prize was stolen in front of my eyes. First, by that idiotic American Decore who could not begin to understand what he attempted to take. Then by a resourceful Irishman who indeed understands how precious is the Saraswati but has no right to the statue. Yet he sneaks off into the night with it. He swaggers and boasts as if Saraswati were his to dispose of as he pleases.”
This was not the right question to have asked the man. Mahindra’s voice lost that oh-so-civilized tone. His English became too proper. The man was pissed.
“Then! As though it were not insult enough for Mr. O’Brien to run all over Bombay with the statue, enter Seymour Patel. A man lower than the snakes who crawl on the ground. A man who had Saraswati in his grasp for less than a day. A man who lost her because he was so stupid as to allow his hideous old mother to carry the statue. A man too dumb to see he was fleeing a building that had not even the whisper of smoke.”
He smiled at me then and lifted his glass in a toast.
“I do not normally hold with the idea of beating up on elder ladies, but in this case, Tempe, I must applaud you.”
“I didn’t really beat her up. I just tackled her. If she’d simply let go of the Diva, I wouldn’t have punched her. Well, that’s not true. I might have anyway just because she’s guilty of bad parenting by bringing a swine like Patel into the world.”
He nodded. “Quite so. And you accomplished your goal. Unfortunately, you then delivered the statue back to Mr. O’Brien. Leading to the present state of affairs.”
Kidnapping and ransom had been reduced to a state of affairs. So the deaths of Brig and me at the end of the night would be labeled, what? An unfortunate set of circumstances? That would be the phrase. Rather like Ray’s murder in a back alley.
My eyes opened wide. I’d just realized Kirk Mahindra had witnessed my boxing match with Patel’s mother. He’d watched Patel leave the building. Which also meant he’d seen Ray Decore enter the alleyway and meet his death. And had done nothing to stop it. Or caused it, then cleverly blamed and framed Patel?
My hand shook as I reached for the gajar halwa, the carrotbased dessert sprinkled with pistachio nuts that had just arrived at our table. I love this stuff. I could have it for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. Not too sweet, not too tart. Just right. But this night, Goldilocks could not even taste a morsel. I tried to reason with Kirkee.
“Mr. Mahindra? I suppose my question wasn’t so much why you think you hold claim to Shiva’s Diva, but why you want the statue at all. Doesn’t the curse worry you?”
He laughed. “So Briggan O’Brien has convinced you of the validity of the legend. What is it they say of the Irish and their lies? Blarney? That is all that is, Tempe. Tales to frighten the weak or weak-willed into believing that this particular statue has any power to do anything besides fetch a magnificent price.”
“Well, they sounded pretty real to me. I think Brig said once that the previous unlawful owner of the Diva became speechless not long after the guy stole her.”
He waved his hand in the air with a slight twist to the wrist. “Rumor. All rumor. Designed to raise the price and discourage lesser buyers from entering the bargaining process. But the blessing? Ah, now this I do believe. Saraswati is the goddess of communication and speech and music and the arts. She has blessed many who have worshipped her throughout the centuries.”
His face darkened slightly, then brightened as he stared at me. “You may not know this, but she is also a goddess of fertility.”
“I’d heard.”
“Well then, it is pointless to address the why of those of us who would possess her.”
Hot damn. The fog lifted. Mahindra had the bucks. He might even have the modicum of culture needed to appreciate the goddess’s blessing of artistic gifts. But his real reason, besides the greed associated with wanting a prize no one else had, was a stunner.
Mahindra, bless his loathsome little heart, wanted kids. Little Kirkees. My dinner companion could have been the Indian version of the Godfather, wanting to pass along the family business to heirs and sons of heirs. And considering the way he’d been staring at me, I knew he now wanted to add red hair to the gene pool.
I opened my mouth to tell him that Saraswati is also a refined goddess and a bit selective with her gifts. That she despised violence and warfare and that he might truly be getting the Diva ticked off with such activities as kidnapping and murder. I didn’t get the chance.
Beethoven’s Fifth rang out again. This time Kirk did not seem pleased with what he heard. He slammed the flap of the phone over the numbers and stood.
“It is time to leave. Tempe, come.”
I didn’t know what had transpired, but since Mahindra’s anger level had risen about five notches, I assumed Briggan O’Brien had just pulled a fast one. Perhaps he’d slipped out of his room while Mahindra’s guard patiently paced the halls waiting to escort him to Hot Harry’s. If the sneaky Irishman had managed to escape, it should be written up in Ripley’s. Brig’s hotel window was five stories above sea level.
I’m ashamed to admit I wondered, for only a brief second, if Brig would bother to show up at Hot Harry’s at midnight. Then I remembered two nights spent in his arms. Earthshaking, back-clawing, sweat-soaking nights.
Mahindra put his hand on my elbow. I shrugged it off, but he entwined his fingers through mine as he steered me toward the exit doors of the Yacht Club, waving greetings to one and all. After the initial di
sgust of feeling his touch, I barely noticed. I thought of those nights with Brig and I knew. My rescue was already in motion.
Chapter 37
Symmetry. That’s what Mahindra had called it. But when I found myself seated at the same table where I’d watched bullets whizzing by and felt the force of one remove an earring, I had a few other words I could’ve used for Mahindra’s choice of venues. All of them were words that would have caused my paternal grandmother to grab the nearest bar of soap and rinse out daughter Tempe’s mouth. I shudder.
I touched the new earrings Brig had bought for me. I hadn’t taken them off except to sleep or to bathe. I tilted my chin in defiance of the situation. Brig would be here. He would save me.
The tables at Hot Harry’s had been turned back to upright positions. Chairs had been neatly placed at those tables. Glass had been swept away and the odor of booze had been replaced with scents of spicy incense. I did spot a candy wrapper on the floor but charitably concluded Hot Harry himself might have dropped it. If indeed Harry existed.
The saloon wasn’t exactly back in business, but the cleanup seemed to be in the last stages of completion before Harry started welcoming paying customers again. I squinted. The sail from my earring lay under the table where I’d sat with the Ray Decore less than a week ago.
Mahindra and I had arrived at the saloon at 11:45 P.M. Time enough for Kirk’s boys to check all exits, entrances, and storerooms in case Brig and a contingent of gun-toting Irishmen waited to liberate me and make off with the statue. Leaving Mahindra without his prize once again.
Mahindra even remembered the trapdoor leading to the cellar. He probably still felt the bruises on his butt caused when Brig had flung that door open and toppled him.
Reports from all business associates indicated that no one matching Brig’s description crouched behind the bar, hid inside a barrel, lit up a chandelier, or clung to the underside of a table like a tick to a dog.
Mahindra sat in the chair where Ray had been sitting only a week ago. No pineapple sodas or bourbon-filled drinks were on the table tonight. There was no hooded Strider in the corner. No Strider anywhere in sight.
Midnight. Nothing. No big, handsome Irish pirate came breezing through the saloon door holding a statue and screaming, “Unhand my woman, you fiend!” Or even a succinct, sweet, “Tempe, tar!” (Come.)
Twelve-thirty. Mahindra began pacing and caressing the gun he’d taken out of his coat pocket. I have no idea what the gun laws are in Bombay, but Mahindra did not seem concerned that he carried a concealed weapon on him the way most men carry a wallet.
One o’clock. Kirk Mahindra’s patience dried up. And my hopes and time were pretty much in the trash. I began to imagine something that might explain why Brig O’ Brien had failed to show at the appointed time.
Scenario number one. Seymour Patel had been released from jail (bail by Mommy?) and had been waiting for Brig on the ground when he’d slithered down the wall of the Sea Harbor Hotel. Patel had slit Brig’s throat and grabbed the Diva.
No. Not realistic. Patel doubtless remained in the pokey making friends with large, bisexual gentlemen as ugly as his mother. Gentlemen who admired him, if you get my drift.
Number two. Brig had managed to get the Diva to whomever he’d intended selling her to all along. He was now working on getting a credit return. “Look, I’ll give you this bloody marvelous horse trophy instead. And really, you believe Saraswati will bless you? Ha! Imagine that grace tripled. A woman’s life for the statue. A life belonging to my love, a lass as fair as the mist rising above the moor on a moonlit night.”
In that scene, Brig was still trying to wrest or charm the statue away from this anonymous buyer. He’d lost his watch and didn’t know midnight had come and gone. Simple. Not great, but easy to understand.
Number three. Brig had decided that the fling with the American babe he’d met in a darkened storeroom had been a grand thing, to be sure, but not worth the price of ivory. So he’d snuck out of the hotel, Diva in hand, then boarded Flight 703 to everyone’s favorite spot—Pago Pago. With Claire or Asha or that little dancer who’d been winking at him all week from the bottom of the roller coaster.
Number four. I never got to number four. Mahindra stared at me and I knew he could see my thoughts. Every damn one of them. He probably even knew the flight number to Pago Pago and the name of the dancer.
Mahindra took a deep breath. It did not calm him down. He began screaming curses at Brig, Brig’s mother, Brig’s father (who apparently had not married Brig’s mother according to the translation I gleaned), Brig’s ancestors and, if he had one, Brig’s dog. I caught Hindi versions of snake and altar, followed by fire. Those words spoken in the same phrase worried me.
He finally reverted to English and lowered his volume to announce, “Enough! We have waited an hour for this scoundrel to uphold his end of this ghastly transaction.”
Not good. Exit honored guest, babe of my heart, and future mama of Mahindras. Enter ghastly transaction. Bottom end of a deal gone bad.
“Tempe. I am truly sorry. You are a delightful, beautiful, young lady and I had great hopes for us. I foresaw a long future together with the blessings of the goddess. But I cannot break my word. Ever. I can promise you, however, the method of death will be painless.”
He couldn’t be serious. Even Mahindra had to think twice before killing me. So he had buddies on the Bombay police force. He needed to understand that Americans don’t take kindly to having one of their citizens, especially an innocent female tourist type, being (a) shot, (b) stabbed, or (c) poisoned, then left to rot in the corner of a dive like Hot Harry’s Saloon.
Ray’s death had made the national news of India. Ray’s friend headed up a very prestigious law firm. A law firm that doubtless had half of NYPD and Interpol already checking into Ray’s murder. No matter how low I might be on the ladder of Tucker, Harrison and Deville, Esquires, nonetheless, my toes did cling to a rung or two.
I tried to explain this to Mahindra. He didn’t care. The curse of the Diva had overtaken him in at least one way. His ability to understand clear communication with another human being had diminished. He waved away my words about my job and my boss and the swarms of angry New York cops who would stomp him into the ground once they discovered darling Tempe Walsh hadn’t made it back to Manhattan.
Mahindra lifted his gun. I shut up.
He sighed. “I am what you Americans call a crack shot. If you stay still, Miss Walsh, the bullet will enter your skull correctly and you will feel only a twinge. Again, this saddens me to end our relationship.”
How he’d reckoned the “only a twinge” bit eluded me. Maybe he’d met his fate the same way in a previous incarnation? It didn’t matter. Twinge or no, I was not going gently, quietly, or with a damn brass band into this night.
I tipped my chair back and fell to the floor. I slammed the bottle Mahindra had been so unwise as to leave on the table across the sandaled foot of a goon hovering nearby.
In the middle of getting to my own feet, I heard a noise. I looked up at what had once been a door leading to the roof of Hot Harry’s and was treated to the spectacular view of Briggan O’Brien crashing through, screaming Gaelic curses at the top of those magnificent lungs.
He landed directly on top of Mr. Fat Goon (the one I’d imagined wearing my cute outfit with the conch belt). The goon shouted as Brig hit him in the mouth with a tote bag.
Brig turned to me with, “Tempe, lass, how are you?”
“I’m okay. Nice entrance, by the way. You must show Jake. He could use it in the sequence in the ringmaster’s den. You know, where Asha has to swing from the chandelier?”
“Ah. Good. I was hopin’ to impress you.”
“Well, you did. By the way, what’s in the bag you thwapped villain number one with?”
“That would be the entire lot of the sex toys our friendly vendor delivered with the Diva.”
“Hmmm. Smart idea.”
“Ready to go?”
“Tar, lass!”
Mind you, we hadn’t been conducting this reunion on the floor while sipping tea. As soon as Brig landed on Fat Ugly Goon, I began looking for a way to elude Mahindra and his gun. Fortunately, Kirk had remained a bit stunned after witnessing Brig’s swashbuckling entrance. So, I stayed on the floor, grabbed the nearest chair by its legs, then thwacked Kirk’s elbow from my position underneath. I hit his funny bone right where it hurts the worst. He dropped the gun.
Brig ran to me, bestowed a quick kiss on my lips, then the pair of us turned to see who was doing what. A skinny hooligan, who looked like Stan Laurel to Fat Ugly Goon’s Oliver Hardy, fired his gun in the air, then aimed it at Brig. Brig knocked it out of his hand using a swift chop on the wrist, then he punched “Stan” in the nose and turned to see who was the next idiot with a weapon.
That would be Fat Ugly Goon again. He raised his knife and threw it inches from my feet, then smiled at me. Great. Guns had been fired. Knives had been thrown. Hot Harry’s had sparkled again with blazing bullets and flashing blades. I reached up to see if the earrings Brig had given me were still in place and unharmed. They were.
Brig yelled, “Ais!” (Back.) We were of one accord. Time to leave before Mahindra and company recovered.
Symmetry. It had worked last week, so I vaulted over the counter again, grabbed the top of the chandelier, swung out, and ended up in the storeroom.
This time Brig swung in right beside me. We looked at the barrels that had been broken and strewn around the floor. Not a single barrel remained intact, and we saw nothing we could stand on to help us through that window leading to the alley.
We heard a war cry that chilled my blood, then the sound of glass shattering. I had a feeling Miss April had not survived this current destruction of the bar counter. Mahindra screamed, “Give me the statue and I will let you live!”
Brig began tossing broken barrels in front of the door to the storeroom. Someone, probably Mahindra, was now kicking that door. Since it was made of steel, that wasn’t going to help, but I felt sure a few bullets in the keyhole would solve the problem of unlocking it.
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