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Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick

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BOOK: Hot Stuff
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Chapter 11
We made it into the lobby and out of the hotel without further incident. Once we neared the parking area, Asha walked up to the valet and requested that her convertible be retrieved within the next thirty seconds. She stated that if it arrived sooner, the valet would be on the receiving end of a nice
baksheesh
(i.e., tip).
Our intrepid starlet had shed her maid's costume somewhere along the fire-escape stairs. So, even if Ray saw a small woman roaring out of the Taj Mahal Hotel parking lot in an outrageous blue classic T-Bird, he wouldn't recognize the keening lunatic who'd aided Brig and me in his room. And he clearly wasn't up on Masala cinema, since, unlike the English tourists, he hadn't recognized her to begin with.
Brig and I found shelter behind an airport shuttle van and watched Asha speed away. We saw the valet smile as he counted the wad of rupees Asha had given him. I tried to convince Brig to jump into the van, head to the airport, and find the first flight headed toward the States or other points north. Brig pointed out that his passport was in Jake's home safe and that mine doubtless now fed fishies at the bottom of the bay. He didn't bother to mention he also had no intention of leaving Bombay without Shiva's Diva in his hot little hands.
Brig picked the lock of the van. We crawled inside the shuttle van so I could change back into my black jeans and shirt in relative privacy. I'd clung to my clothes the whole time I'd been in Ray's room, along with the three towels that had “Taj Mahal Hotel” embroidered on the hem. I now sat on one of the seats facing the center of the van and began to remove the maid's costume.
“Wow.”
I turned.
Brig had politely held the towels over the back window of the van-now-dressing-room. But he was looking at me, not outside. “I knew black lace was the right choice.”
“Brig. Wait. This isn't the time. Brig. Oh hell.”
Brig edged closer. He touched my face with gentle fingers, then let his hands travel down to black lace garment number one, the bra with the front-closure clasp. My breath was coming in short spurts now. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. The clasp gave way.
Sunlight streamed into the back of the van.
“Elizabeth! Look! It's those other two darling actors who were with Miss Kumar. This is so thrilling! To actually see a movie in progress. But I was under the impression that kissing wasn't normally done in the Masala movies?”
I'd dived for both the floor and my T-shirt the instant the door to the van had opened and the sun, plus the two English tourists, brightened the interior.
Brig turned and barred them from seeing me. A lot of me. I quickly snapped the bra clasp back together while inwardly cursing the English. No wonder the Irish were always pissed at them. Their sense of timing was nothing short of criminal.
Brig's brogue filled the van. The Brits might not like the Irish politically, but few females can resist that sexy baritone sound.
“Ladies, so good of you to be so enthusiastic about the film-makin' progress! Yes, indeed, you can be seein' us onscreen in a few months.
Carnival of Lust
is the name of the flick, and while Miss Walsh and I be naught but poor players, Asha Kumar and Raj Ravi will star. This one will also be distributed in the Isles.”
By this time, I had my underthings back in place and my shirt back on. We all sat in the van while Brig and I graciously signed autographs for these ladies who seemed to think meeting us was the highlight of their stay in Bombay.
Brig jumped down from the van, then helped lower me to the ground as well. “We'll be off, then, Miss Elizabeth, is it? And you, lovely lady?”
The other woman beamed and squeaked, “Margaret.”
“Margaret. A foin, name, that. We'el, ladies, you be enjoyin' yer stay, then, and we'll be wishin' ya well.”
After a spate of farewells, Brig and I left the van (and the maid's uniform). After a short wrestling match with my conscience, I also left the towels.
We barely made it outside before the driver of the shuttle arrived. He was carrying Elizabeth and Margaret's luggage and announcing that they were due to leave for the airport momentarily.
Brig and I nodded to him, then ran across the parking lot heading for the nearest train station, the Victoria Terminus. It took us thirty minutes to weave our way through the crowd waiting to buy tickets. I checked from time to time to see if my ribs were still intact from the pushing, shoving, and less-than-polite nudging from everyone trying to make it onto the train.
Traveling by rail in Bombay is not like taking the subway in New York or Boston or Chicago. At Victoria Terminus, the starting point for most of the trains, one stands on the platform along with several thousand other travelers watching for the next train with an empty car to pull up. While that train is still in motion, one jumps on board between large open doors, rather like a cattle car, in order to find a spot to stand when the train pulls out again to the next destination.
What the heck. I'd done somersaults and swings off a chandelier at a saloon. This was easy. We even found two seats and wedged ourselves between two men wearing white Nehru hip-length jackets and cotton pants. Ignoring the two foreigners, they yelled across us about the latest stock-market dive and whether the Euro currency would take over the system of rupees in India.
One of the men shrugged, nearly knocking my chin into my nose, then hollered, “I bought the DVD of
Pirate Princess
last night. My wife and I watched it five times.”
The other man nodded, hitting Brig's shoulder more than once. “I got it three weeks ago. I've seen it more than three hundred times now. I love the part where Asha is lowered down into the cave where Spot the tiger sits waiting.”
Brig winked at me and I wondered if the film I had yet to start,
Carnival of Lust
, would garner as much attention. Businessman number one answered my unspoken query.
“I can't wait to see Asha's new one,
Carnival of Lust,
with Raj Ravi. They are so marvelous together.”
The two men were still chatting about film and film stars when Brig grabbed my hand and motioned to me to follow him. Getting off the train was similar to getting on. One waited for an opportune moment when the train was doing less than twenty miles per hour, then one jumped.
We took refuge at a restaurant called The Queen's Quarter that overlooked Juhu Beach. Very British, except for the Hindi waiters. Teatime had ended but quite a few patrons remained at their tables enjoying the afternoon break. Including one lady who sat watching the boats on the harbor. In quiet solitude.
Brig ordered tea and pastries for us, then suddenly excused himself and walked over to the lady's table. He leaned down and began to chat. I'd been on the receiving end of Brig's chats. It appeared another willing victim had succumbed to the famous O'Brien charm. She seemed so entranced that she hadn't even responded with either words or a slap. She just kept nodding and smiling.
I wavered between confused and ticked. Brig and I had come close to giving two tourists a close-up view of a rather erotic scene less than an hour ago. Now Brig was chatting up another female. It didn't make sense.
The lady turned. My breath caught. It was the woman I'd seen with Brig in the photo I'd found at his hotel.
Beautiful did not begin to describe the spectacular features. Her complexion was olive and it was clear. Her small nose wouldn't have been utilitarian had it been one whit tinier. Her mouth was full. Her eyes were huge and the color of dark chocolate. Natural highlights leaning toward chestnut glinted from her perfectly coiffed dark hair.
Brig motioned to me to join them. At least this was someone he knew. He hadn't been hitting on some babe just to torment me or keep from being bored during tea.
I stood. Time to meet the goddess.
Brig stated, “Tempe Walsh. This is Claire Dharbar.”
She smiled at me but said nothing. I smiled back and said “Hello.” She inclined her head toward me and said nothing.
Brig took my hand, bent down and kissed my palm, then whispered, “I have to talk to Claire now about the Diva. It's very important, believe me. Do you mind waitin' at our table? They've brought the tea things out. With scones, darlin'. So have at it. All you want.”
What could I say? “No, Brig. I do mind. I'm sitting here with messy hair and bruises on my body, really wanting to call it a day, and you're yakkin' it up with Miss-I'm-too-Superior-to-Talk-to-You-You-Peasant. The woman didn't even bother to say hello. But thanks, Mr. O'Brien, for at least ordering tea and pastries for the food hound here. I'll just go now and gobble down the specials The Queen has displayed on the tea carts today.”
I kept silent.
I sat. I drank tea. I ate two scones, one muffin, and two divinely decadent Indian pastries made of carrots and raisins and pistachio nuts all swimming in cream. I watched Brig talk and Claire Dharbar listen. I tried to stop visions of them entwined in one another's arms making passionate love in a dark room while Shiva's Diva smiled over their heads.
Nutty. Neither had done anything to warrant my having this lurid vision. Jealousy is not a nice emotion. I resolved to work on that less-than-admirable aspect of my personality. One I never knew existed until this day.
“Tempe? You done eating?”
I looked at my clean plate. “I'd say so. Unless they serve samosas here.”
He laughed. “Sorry. This place is Western food only, except for a few desserts. We'll get you some at Jake's. His cook does a marvelous potato-and-pea samosa.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
He politely helped me up as he said, “Grand. We'll be off then. Ready?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
I followed him out of the restaurant. Claire sat and watched the bay. Brig and I hailed a rickshaw and took off in silence.
Chapter 12
Brig and I stared at each other across the coffee table in Jake Roshan's lavishly decorated living room.
“So, do we have a plan? Wait. Let me rephrase that. Do
you
, Briggan O'Brien, have a plan? Now that other surprise elements—who should have been good guys but are now bad guys—have entered the playground of this already crowded court?”
“Aren't you mixing your metaphors?”
“Don't start with me. Just tell me there is some way to get out of Bombay, alive. Soon. Oh crap. I still don't have my passport.”
Brig leaned against Jake's luxurious sofa.
“Wish I did have a plan, Tempe. I wasn't terribly surprised that Ray had joined the ranks of the felons but, unfortunately, that raises the growing number of miscreants on our tails.”
I muttered, “Not to mention another interested party on your tail.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just admiring the, uh, woodwork in the room.”
“Oh. That's nice.”
I glared at him. He appeared far too smug. Well, why shouldn't he? He knew where he'd hidden the darn statue. And now it seemed he also had a strong idea of her ultimate destination.
I took a sip of tea. One has to love the British and their traditions. Academic endeavors stop for tea. Divorces are stalled for tea. Scandals rock the world, rioters riot, but the island of Great Britain, and consequently the nations they'd held close to their collective vests for hundreds of years, stop everything for tea.
In my own private world that had gone mad in the last two days, this example of the teatime polite ritual and civilized behavior had become a godsend. Be that god Shiva, Saraswati, or Swithen.
Brig took a sip from his cup, then grabbed a large bite of scone and crammed the full piece into his mouth. I plopped three scones on my own plate and took another look around my latest temporary residence.
Jake lived in the Juhu Beach area, not far from where Brig and I had met Claire Dharbar this afternoon. Juhu Beach, a place once famous for the
filmi
crowd and their wild parties, as well as for luxury hotels and houses, had settled into a predominantly middle-class existence but it still held appeal.
Jake Roshan was considered part of the
filmi
elite and his house reflected that status. There were five bedrooms, four bathrooms, two living room/den areas, a maid's quarters, a library, an office, a rec room filled with videos, DVDs, games, and a dartboard. In Bombay, this was palatial for normal folks, but not ostentatious for an award-winning cinema director.
Brig and I had taken one short rickshaw ride to Jake's. That had been fun. A kid of perhaps twelve took the scenic route and the three of us sang operatic arias, pop, and country and western hits. He'd parked by a pair of small iron gates, then escorted us to Jake's door, bowing and blessing us and grinning widely over the tip Brig had placed in his hand.
I smiled, thinking about our teenage singing driver.
“We should have introduced him to Jake. He could probably use him on a film.”
“Who?”
“Rickshaw Ricky. Or whatever his name is.”
Brig nodded. “He gave me a business card when I was doling out rupees. You were busy gawking at Jake's house. I told the kid to show up on the lot and give the guard my name. I'll get him an audition with Jake during filming tomorrow. Then you can watch over him Thursday.”
Brig took another sip of tea.
I squinched my eyes at him. “Hold on. I thought you were going to be dancing merrily through the back lots of the studio both days?”
Brig nodded. “Wednesday only. The men aren't in any scenes Thursday. And I have people to see.”
“About the statue? Brig, are you going to sell her to another party I haven't met yet?”
Or to Claire Dharbar, who I guess I have met? Briefly.
“Tempe. Trust me. I can't tell you anything just yet, but I promise, Shiva's Diva will be in very good hands if I get things worked out. And you and I may just end up blessed after all.”
“Yeah, right. I feel blessed, hunted through the streets and alleyways and hotel rooms of Bombay.”
I chewed on the scone. It was excellent. I wanted to steal whomever Jake had hired as his cook more than anyone in Bombay wanted the Diva. After two bites, though, the food suddenly tasted like sawdust. Tears welled up in my eyes. Brig's own eyes widened.
“Tempe?”
“Sorry. I'm just thinking about Ray Decore. Damn. Jeremy, my boss, had warned me Ray fancied himself a lady-killer. Little did I know that would turn out to be literal, not figurative. But I can't believe Ray is as corrupt and evil as the other brutes. You think he really would have shot us?”
Brig nodded. “I hate to say it, but I do. Although maybe it's just temporary lunacy due to the curse. Ray fancies himself an artist because he likes to acquire fine things. Right? But he's a collector. Period. And Saraswati has a way of dealing with poseurs. It's as though the lady knows whom she wants holding and keeping her. And she gets angry when it's the wrong one.”
Saraswati wasn't the only female with this attitude. I myself had strong feelings about who did, or did not, hold me. I brushed that thought aside and instead pondered Brig's assessment of a statue bearing responsibility for changing a man from good to bad.
Not that Ray had been a saint; he'd been somewhat of a cad about pursuing a relationship, but that's different than killing an ex-employee. Brig's theory sounded a bit wacky, but nonetheless I felt comforted with his ideas concerning the why of Ray's treachery. Plus Brig's sweet attitude toward my impromptu crying jag. I smiled at him and offered him the last two scones from my tray.
“I feel better believing Ray is just misguided right now. Maybe he'll come to his senses when he gets back to New York. Thanks, Brig, for understanding.”
He took the scones and flashed a take-your-breath-away smile at me. “I was about to say the same to you. Thanks. For the scones, mind you. I love them. Mum makes lovely cranberry-orange scones for the Christmas holiday.”
“Sounds divine.”
“I'll tell her to whip up an extra batch this year.”
“Where does she live?”
“Most of the O'Brien clan is still in Riverdale.”
“There're more of you?”
He nodded. “Four brothers. All older. There's a ten-year gap between me and the youngest of that first lot. And Mum and Da are still thriving. I keep them young.”
“I would have thought your poor mother's hair turned stark white when you hit talking age. And no girls? She must have climbed the walls a dozen times a day when you and your brothers were growing up.”
Brig closed his eyes.
“Brig? What? Did I say something wrong?”
He opened his eyes but the look in them chilled me. He gazed at the window overlooking one of Jake's gardens. He glanced at me, then back out the window.
“I had a sister. She's dead.”
I wanted to jump through that window and forget my insensitive comments about O'Brien men and no girls.
“I'm so sorry. Oh, Lord, why did I say that about your mom and girls.”
He shook his head. “You didn't know. It's okay. Really. Annie died when I was nine years old. She was fifteen at the time.”
“Dear God. What happened? Was she sick?”
Brig stood and walked toward the window as if movement might lessen a hurt still fresh after twenty years.
“She was a gymnast. Like you. Tiny though. She took after my mother, unlike all of us boys. My dad's six-six and I'm the runt at six-four. Anyway, we lived in Dublin then. Annie would drag me along with her to gymnastics practices and to her meets. That's where I learned the moves I still can do.”
He paused, turned, lifted his cup as if studying the design, then placed it back on the saucer. His voice grew husky.
“Annie'd been invited to a party up at the rec room at the church. The good priests had just received a donation of two pool tables and all the kids were coming in to play a few games.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared at the tea cup as though willing it to speak to him.
“Mum said it was all right for Annie to go alone, since it was a church function and in the afternoon and all. We were to meet her after, then go over to my aunt's for supper, so we got in the car and drove to the church, and we couldn't find a place to park except for about three blocks away. I get out and Mum gets out and—we hear the blast and see the smoke and the fire.”
My tears had started falling the instant he said “blast.” I knew.
“IRA? A bomb?”
He sat back down across from me. “Don't really know who set it. One of the radical elements who specialized in that sort of behavior back then. Remember me saying how the
gardé,
how any cops, can be a force for good or evil?”
I nodded.
“Well, the police never could seem to find any leads as to where this particular bomb came from. Not who brought it into the church, nor how it came into Dublin. Mum and Dad suspected a group that had done more than one church bombing in and around the area the last two years or so, but the police swept it under the rug.”
He looked at me. “It's a better group now, so I'm told. The coppers.”
He then put his head into his hands and cried. I reached for him and held him, and we rocked together, clinging to each other until one of us was able to speak again.
Brig sighed. “It's all so stupid, really. A silly game of pool on a bright afternoon in May. And who gets killed? A bunch of young kids and two priests.”
He smiled. “Those two were the sharpest pool players in all of Dublin though. I'm sure they've got a game going somewhere up in heaven. Hustling all the poor rabbis and ministers who come in lookin' for a match. Probably taking on Saint Peter himself.”
We sat quietly, drinking our tea while Brig dealt with memories and I tried to banish the visions of horror.
Brig took another bite of his scone and asked, “What about you? You mentioned your mother being a film nut. Where does she live?”
I welcomed the opportunity to turn to a happier subject. “She is indeed a film nut. She also loves live theater and opera and ballet. She swears she'll never leave New York as long as Broadway and the Met remain.”
“Ah. Your mum and mine have probably bumped into one another during Wednesday matinees a time or two. My mum is also a fan of musical theater and fine music.”
He smiled. “And
Riverdance
, don't ya know. We'll invite your folks up for tea soon.”
Riverdance
. And tea. This sounded very good. Intimate. I began envisioning cozy chats with Mom and Mum beaming at their darling children. I sighed.
“Better make it my mom only. She and my father have been divorced for years and years, and they do not get along. I think I'm the cause. My father wanted a male entrepreneur and he got a taller duplicate of my mother. Why they married in the first place is beyond me. And her. I think it was his blue eyes, which was the only thing I inherited from him as far as either Mom or I can tell.”
I changed topics to avoid discussing my father.
“By the way, Mr. O'Brien, I keep meaning to ask this. The night we met in the back of Hot Harry's you were spouting Gaelic like, well, a native. Since then, you've stuck to English like you were born and bred in the Bronx. So, were those phrases the limit to your repertoire? Or were you trying to impress me while we did our duck-and-cover routine?”
He grinned. “A bit of both. I know more Gaelic than I use. Usually comes out in stressful situations. Also, and don't get mad, it was fun to test your skills.”
“Test? Why?”
“Ray introduced you to Mr. Khan as his interpreter when you first entered Hot Harry's. Khan asked you, in Hindi, what languages you knew. And you rattled off the basics first. French, Russian, German, Italian, Spanish. Well, now, most opera lovers can spout a few phrases in any of those.”
He winked at me. “Then you got this funny, wonderful smile on your face. You said, ‘also Japanese, some Chinese, Parsi—and Gaelic.' Perked me right up. I wanted to know the truth of your relationship with Ray. Find out if you really knew these languages, or if you were some gorgeous bimbo he'd met in New York who'd read a travel guide on India and learned a phrase or two to impress him.”
“So you tried out a few phrases in Gaelic.”
“Aye. Forgive me?”
“What, for doubting me? Nothing to forgive, Brig. You didn't know me at all. I didn't know you. And let's face it, I thought you were one of the hordes of hooligans there to pillage and rob the poor Americans.”
BOOK: Hot Stuff
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