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Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick

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BOOK: Hot Stuff
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Chapter 2
The first bullet decapitated the silver sail from my boatshaped earring. A second or third could capsize the entire craft. I screamed, leapt up, then dove for the closest empty area of floor. Which landed me next to the vending machine. I heard a ripping sound and glanced down at what had been my skirt.
My left leg was now exposed to midthigh. I ignored it in favor of eyeing the goodies above me. I could see Butterfingers and Baby Ruths. Snickers. Snyder's pretzels. A bag of peanuts was stuck in the drop slot. I paused for one insane second and wondered if I could ooch it out. A knife shattered the glass over the Milky Ways. So much for my snack. And my hiding place.
I rolled myself into a tight ball and somersaulted away from a smashed bag of Skittles, then executed a damn near perfect front handspring to propel myself onto the purple bar countertop. Miss April 1982 smiled at me. I shuddered.
A low-hanging chandelier beckoned. I grabbed it and swung myself toward the red and gold beaded curtain in the back of the tavern. I crashed through, rolled, then ended up behind several barrels of Rajit beer. There was a crack between two of the barrels. I wedged myself inside, then cautiously began patting various body parts to make sure none were missing.
Instead of losing a limb, I seemed to have gained one. An extra arm extended from my right side. I opened my mouth to scream and a hand clamped over my lips.
“
Éist do bhéal
!”
“Éist do bhéal?”
That first bullet must have killed me after all. I lay crouched behind barrels in a saloon in Bombay, yet I'd just heard someone say “shut up”––in Gaelic. I'd been right about hearing the word “deceiver” shouted only moments ago.
I was dead. Hungry and dead and bruised, and I'd landed in St. Patrick's Gift Shop in heaven where the stock boys spoke Gaelic.
The soft voice whispered again. “Quiet, lass! The hooligans are as yet unaware that we've chosen this as our small hidey-hole. 'Tis a nice idea to keep our presence a bit of a secret for a while. I'm not ready for one or both of us to be takin' part in their riot.”
Enough light seeped through a crack in the closed window to allow me a glimpse of the bright blue eyes staring at me. A scent of curry mixed with chocolate filled my nostrils. It emanated from at least two of the fingers resting over my mouth.
I yanked the hand away and spat, “Don't tell me what to do, laddie! I have no intention of yelling. Not yet anyway. Give me a moment to catch my breath, and I'm sure I can add to the general noise by screaming my lungs out.”
I took that breath, then added, “By the way, what's with the brogue? And the Gaelic?”
I could see a head bobbing. Just a shadow in the dim light.
“Good. That's good. You're reasonin' and not reactin'. Very good. Because if you were shriekin' like a normal lass, there's a bit of a possibility two young lives would be cut short very soon. The tall one in the overly starched shirt would feel no pain if he was arrangin' funeral pyres for other than grievin' widows. And the ugly bald one with the scars makes t'other look like a choirmaster. No ethics a'tall, that one. Murder. It's in his blood.”
The hand left my face and rested on my middle. I removed it none too gently.
“Who the hell are you? And who are those guys?” I groaned, then buried my face in my hands. “I can't believe I just said that.
Butch Cassidy
was on a cable channel two nights ago. Obviously I followed the dialogue too closely when Butch and Sundance kept asking that question.”
Teeth flashed in the dark.
“ 'Tis all right. You're not expected to be brilliant in neardeath situations.”
“Oh geez. This qualifies as one, doesn't it?” I took a quick breath. “Wait. I can't think about that or I
will
start howling. So instead, I repeat. Who are those guys?”
A cheerful voice responded. “Didden ya get introductions from yer man in there?”
“Yes and no. I got a name or two, but I wasn't really paying attention.”
“No? We'el, lass. Those guys could be Mahindra's thugs. Or Rashee's boys. Could be Himali Khan, the slimy seller. Where was I? Ah. Patel's goons. Take your pick. A bunch of evil-minded miscreants who are all equal-opportunity felons and all equally eager to make off with Shiva's Diva. As are we, now, right? I've been about includin' ya in the bidders, although now that I'm chattin' with ya, I'm not so sure you're part of this auction of thieves.”
I couldn't speak. I wasn't certain I wanted to. Or would get a chance to, the way the garrulous Irishman kept rattling on.
The top portion of the crop of curly black hair across the forehead nodded again, then a soft finger fell across my lips. A scent of curry filled my nostrils. His rich voice softened and the heavy brogue dropped to nearly nonexistent.
“Why don't we find safer climes and discuss this without fear of bullets ripping into delicate areas of our respective anatomies?” He grinned. “I'd like to keep my own delicate areas for more pleasurable pursuits. I'm sure ya feel the same?”
My voice came back. I aimed for defiant. What croaked out sounded scared.
“I'm in favor of keeping my anatomy and my pleasurable pursuits private, thank you. But I agree. I want out of here. Now.”
He nodded. “ 'Tis not a night for floatin' down the Back Bay of Bombay with holes in either of our delicate anatomical parts. Now then. I've a bit of a plan on exactly where and how we can make a discreet exit. Take a look.”
He pointed to the window across the room. I nodded. I helped him roll an unbroken barrel under that window, then set it upright. Within thirty seconds, we had a leverage toward the filthy glass above. He sat, then stood on the barrel, testing its ability to hold his weight.
This gave me a better chance to look at my fellow escapee from the thugs and miscreants, be they Mahindra's, Khan's, or Patel's, all of whom just shot the fool out of Hot Harry's Saloon.
That dark hair topped a wiry body dressed in a garish Hawaiian-print shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. The hooded sweatshirt was draped over one arm. He pushed back a shredded curtain and his face became visible in the moonlight shining through the window. A handsome face. Pointed nose, pouty mouth, blue eyes that matched his jeans. He looked about as dangerous as a sheepdog on the hunt for a chew toy.
I took the hand he extended to help me up onto the barrel and sent up more than one prayer that he had no connection to any of the shooters. Together we edged the window open. He raised his eyebrows to me in a silent question and I nodded. I put my hands on the sill and prepared to go through. I felt hands propel my bottom the rest of the way.
When we were well away from zinging bullets and the men shooting them, I planned to give this Irish charmer a few choice words about what body parts were off limits, even during escapes. But for now, I slid down to the ground, found a sturdy-looking pallet in the alleyway, shoved it under the window, grabbed his hand, and muttered, “Push through!”
“Ow!”
“Hush! I'm not pulling you that hard.”
“It's not that. I just scraped my hand over a nasty nail on this dratted sill. My fingers are bleedin'. I haven't had shots for years. I'll probably be endin' up with lockjaw by the time this night is through. Have to stay silent the rest of my days.”
He paused for a millisecond. “Hold on there while I'm thinkin' this over. Now, then. Did I get a tetanus vaccination along with the smallpox and the others? I wonder if that's on my passport. I'll be lookin' first thing when I'm in the light. Although I'm also rememberin' that particular document might not be on my person just now. No. 'Tis. I'm sure I brought it. I think it's in my sock.”
The thought passed through my head that a dozen rusty nails couldn't keep him quiet, but I resisted voicing the opinion. I grabbed his wrists, then pulled so the talker could be through the window and out of the club before any thugs not otherwise engaged in shooting one another noticed our absence.
A few more muttered Gaelic curses accompanied the Irishman's descent. I won't repeat these particular gems in case my mother ever reads this, but I added them to my vast repertoire of colorful swear words spoken in obscure dialects. Although, the last one confused me. It sounded like “
máthair shúigh
,” which means “squid.” A Gaelic curse for turning killers into calamari?
We stared at each other. He was even better looking in the dim light of the alleyway. Not the hooded, cloaked Strider from
Lord of the Rings
. More like a matinee idol, circa 1940s. Errol Flynn in
Robin Hood
.
I, on the other hand, was no Maid Marian after whirling around on the floor of Hot Harry's Saloon. I was certain I more closely resembled one of the Merry Men's horses after a foray through Sherwood Forest. My nose dripped from inhaling then sneezing out the dust from Harry's floor. My hair had turned from cinnamon to salt with dashes of chili powder peeking through the dirt. My makeup did not exist anymore. Doubtless it now decorated the bottom of a Rajit beer barrel.
Robin Hood beamed at me.
“ 'Twas a nice bit of flyin' and tossin' ya performed back there, lass. I counted two somersaults and at least one backflip. Are you a gymnast? You're rather tall for one if ya don't mind me sayin' so.”
“College team. Four years running. Would have made the Olympic squad except for the height thing you so politely mentioned. And I don't seem to remember dodging bullets while performing balance beam routines any of those four years.” I paused. “Or even when I did the tricks you love so well. Damn. This is not how I usually spend an evening.”
“No? What do you do with your nights, lass?”
“I don't think that's really any of your business, now, is it?”
Another smile blinded me.
“Perhaps not, but there's a wee bit of curiosity to be satisfied, nonetheless. 'Twould be sad to be thinkin' you're wastin' your nights with someone less charmin' than I.”
I can translate words in more than ten languages. However, the ability to string together a sentence that might be keen enough to respond with some intelligence to this man had vanished. Even in English.
His smile changed to a frown. He leaned down and lightly touched my ear. I shivered. Not from cold.
He stated quietly and without the brogue, “You've been bleeding.”
“What? Where?”
“All over. You've spatters on your collar. You may have been hit when that blighted excuse for a human being shot off your earbob.”
I hadn't noticed any pain. I reached up and patted my ear. I didn't feel any holes. No earrings left, but no holes.
And then I knew. Raymond Decore, the man who'd hired me back in New York to handle what should have been a simple job of translations, hadn't been as lucky as his employee. The blood was his.
Chapter 3
“I need to sit down.”
“Not now. Just listen. You've been doin' such a fine job of being stalwart and hardy and all that. Don't go faintin' on me before we're safe.”
I glared at him. “I'm not going to faint. In case you haven't noticed, I'm lopsided. That is, I'm walking lopsided. The heel of my right shoe seems to be missing. So, sitting and hacking off the left heel should balance me. I need balance just now. And I promise I won't pass out on you until I'm far, far away from this alley, and you, and this whole dreadful place.”
For once in our brief acquaintance, he stayed silent. He helped me to a stair stoop in the alley and even offered to help with the hacking process. He snapped the heel off with a quick twist of his wrist, then handed my shoe back to me.
I nodded. “Thanks.”
He smiled. “Not a problem. Um, I do hate to be bringin' this up, but you're covered in blood, and I don't think we're in the safest spot in Bombay, so perhaps we need to, if you'll excuse the saying, haul butt?”
“I don't believe I've ever actually voiced those two words, but I agree with the sentiment. I want to be as far from Hot Harry's as possible. By the way”—my voice caught—“this isn't my blood. It's, it's . . .”
A gentle hand took mine. “I know. The man you came in with.”
I nodded. “My boss. Sort of. I mean he hired me because my real boss recommended me as an interpreter. Raymond Decore. That's the man in the bar. Not my real boss. His name is Jeremy Tucker. He's not going to believe Ray got shot.”
I took a breath. “Slow down. Okay. Damn. This was supposed to be a simple transaction. No biggie. Go to this bar, finish up the deal to buy some stupid statue, wrap it up in a nice neat little box, and leave. What happened? Why did this turn into the St. Valentine's Day massacre?”
I turned to him and glared into his eyes. “And, no offense, but who the hell are you and how are you involved? I did meet a couple of those hooligans as you call them, but I thought they were just being friendly, coming over to welcome the Americans. I had no idea they'd be shooting at me, or I might have remembered their names.”
A lilting laugh followed my questions.
“With any luck you'll not need to be facin' 'em again, so you needn't be carin' who they are. On the other hand, as to names you'll be wantin' to remember? Try mine. Briggan O'Brien, the smartest, handsomest, and most talented of the entire O'Brien clan. The other things you're asking are a mite more complicated to explain. I'll be glad to try, but let's see if we can find a better spot for exchanging confidences. Where's your hotel? And what's your name, lass?”
“Since you asked so nicely, it's Tempe.”
He smiled. “Pretty, but a bit odd. What kind of a name is that? Like
tempus fugit?
Time and all that? Is it some kind of diminutive version? And why would your mother name you Time?”
I growled at him. “Tempe is a city in Arizona. Happens to be where I was born. If you don't like it, I'm sorry, but my mother didn't name me to please you. At least it wasn't in Snakeville or Hogpit or something equally classy in the Wild West.”
Briggan held up his hands in mock terror. “I do like it. It's charming. Just unusual. So you're from Arizona?”
“No. I am from New York. My grandparents live in Arizona where my mom delightedly gave birth to me. I say, and emphasize, delighted because during that particular January, the city of Manhattan delivered nonstop blizzards as well as one Tempe Walsh. So I've heard. Satisf ied?”
He nodded.
I sighed. “Can we try and leave this area now? Mr. O'Brien, my hotel is the Taj Mahal, and it's not exactly walking distance. Do you suppose a cab will pick up a couple of disreputable looking wrecks?”
He eyed me with a thoroughness that made me blush.
“Any cabby in the city would fair be givin' up a good tip just for the privilege of havin' such a lovely lass as yerself sittin' in his car. But . . .”
He seemed focused on my chest. I considered swatting him until he asked, “Are you wearing a blouse under that jacket? The collar and the top seem to be where most of the blood has, well, spattered. If you wouldn't mind tossing the jacket, I think we'd be a mite less noticeable.”
I took off the navy blue jacket with more than some measure of relief. India. Ninety-plus degrees at night and humidity. I hadn't been comfortable in the suit even before the fireworks erupted. Now that it was drenched with the blood of my employer, I had no desire to keep it on. Or even keep it. I handed it to Mr. O'Brien, who stuffed it in the nearest trash can.
I glanced up at him. “Mind if I ask why we don't just head for a police station? Those guys were not out for a fun night. They need to be behind bars. And not the kind that sell booze.”
Briggan shook his head.
“Not a wise move, darlin'. There's a foul stench of corruption from many of the officials here. I don't know who we can trust and who we can't.”
And what makes me think I can trust you?
Had I said it aloud? He stared at me with a coldness not yet exhibited throughout our escape from the storeroom.
But with his next words I realized he'd entered a world I had no knowledge of. A world thousands of miles away and a world that had seen more violence than Hot Harry's bar would ever play host to.
“Back in Dublin, the
garde
can be a force for real good or real evil. Some of the cops are ardent IRA supporters even now. And it's the same situation here. I suppose it's the same all over the world. But till we have certainty as to the separation of good from bad, we'd best stay on our own.”
“And so your plan is?”
“To head to my hotel. The hoodlums don't know where I'm staying. I imagine they are aware of the place you've tossed your suitcases. Because of your boss, ya know. We'll be safer away from a place they can track.”
“But Mr. O'Brien—”
“Brig. Please. Make it Brig. I don't think we should stand on ceremony after a life-threatening experience, do you? And don't be worryin' that I'll take advantage of you at the hotel. You've been through enough tonight. Me mum brought her boy up to be a gentleman.”
He smiled. It was a very charming smile. He glanced at my leg, which was now exposed up to my thigh by the ripped skirt. He leaned a bit closer and whispered, “Which isn't to say, mind you, I won't be attemptin' a bit of he-in' and she-in' on some other, finer, occasion. With your permission, of course.”
I had no words for any of this. I'd dived into a situation better suited for a live CIA operative, a Lara Croft or a leather-clad heroine from
The Matrix
. I make my living translating words. Most of the time I'm stationed behind a desk in an office. Leaping over, under, and through beer barrels while listening to the sound of gunfire over my head, then ending up with a man whose first language must be romance, hadn't been listed in my daily planner under “Jobs for Month of September.”
Which reminded me.
“Mr. O'Brien. Brig. Stop. I think before either of us go anywhere else, somebody needs to sneak back into Hot Harry's and see if Ray is okay. I mean, I just left the man there facedown on the table. Bleeding. He could be badly hurt. Even dying.”
Brig shot me a look. One of those are-you-daft looks. He then asked, “Are you daft?”
“Probably. Especially after tonight. I feel my brainpower seeping out of my head. But why do you ask?”
“Because Mahindra's thugs are doubtless still shootin' up the place. If Patel's goons haven't joined in and started shootin' back at him. Or knifing. Patel's fond of the blades. I don't think it's the safest place to be strollin' in askin' for the tab now, do you?”
I scowled. “And you think it's any safer for Ray Decore, who wasn't fast or agile enough to do the gymnastic routine I executed to end up in the storeroom with you? Or are you afraid I'll discover you're connected by your Gaelic lip and hip to one or more of those creeps?”
He bit his lip. Whether in shame or in laughter I wasn't sure.
“All right then, Miss Tempe Walsh. We'll head in by way of the side door leading directly to the bar counter. We can creep low, then stay underneath Miss April and peer through the holes the bullets made in the bar.”
I might have known he'd noticed Miss April. I almost missed his next words, thinking that Miss April, plastered lifeless on paper, doubtless had noticed him too. “But I'm telling you, Tempe, if I hear so much as a mouse moving inside, we're gone. Understood?”
I nodded, pleased that Brig O'Brien had enough kindness in him to help a man he didn't know because a lady he'd just met had asked for his aid.
We walked in silence back to Hot Harry's. All quiet on the saloon front. All quiet on the saloon back. Not a twitter from the saloon side door. Brig opened it about two inches, then peeked inside.
“Looks deserted. This is strange. Your boss is nowhere to be found. But the good news is I don't see anyone else around either, including Hot Harry, if such a man exists.”
He inhaled then blew out his breath with a whoosh. “Wait! Oh heavenly Saint Bridget!”
“What? What's wrong?”
“It's still there! Under the table where you were sitting. Just a bare glimpse peeking out from underneath a bag. Must be yours? The bag.”
“It's mine, unless you're talking about that filthy backpack thing Khan had. I know Ray carries a briefcase. I have this cool tote I got in Mexico City. Wait. What's under my bag? Ray?”
“They didn't find it! Saint Cecilia be praised.”
“What? Briggan! Will you just shut up and tell me?”
He winked at me. “I can't be doin' both, darlin'. What's inside there is the why of that shoot-out. She's the reason you're in India in the first place. The statue. Shiva's Diva. Quick, now. Inside and let's grab her and run before the thugs discover she's still here.”
I looked for the nearest heavy object to throw at the man. Since that appeared to be the statue of interest, the one he called Shiva's Diva, I decided it would not be prudent to toss her around like a volleyball.
So I yelled instead. “You
spadal teanga léitheid seo
! You didn't care whether we found Ray dead or alive. You just wanted to see if that stinking piece of ivory was still hidden in my bag—where Ray himself put it not two seconds before all hell broke loose in there.”
Brig had made it behind the bar by this time. I followed close behind him. Since I couldn't reach the statue before he did, I debated whether to grab one of the few intact bottles of booze that stood on the counter and conk him over his thick Irish head.
He put his finger to his lips. “Shh! Lass. Calm down. Let's not be alertin' the neighborhood to our presence. And did ya know ya just called me a tongue-depressing so-and-so?”
“I don't give a rodent's behind whether every bum in the vicinity pops in, and I intended to call you just that.”
That was a lie. The epithet I was going for was more interesting and a lot more obscene, but I screwed up my translations. A mistake I had no intention of revealing.
“I want to find out what happened to Ray. And I want out of here!”
Brig swung my gorgeous Mexican tote over his shoulder. I started to grab it. He lifted it up and out of my reach. I'm five eight, but the man topped me by a good seven inches.
“That's mine, O'Brien. Give it to me.”
“Ah. We've progressed to last-name familiarity, have we now? A name yelled at a male by a female who knows she's about to lose the game.”
“Duck!”
“What? Is that the best you can do for profanity?”
“Duck! Drop! Floor! Somebody's out there! Get down!”
We dove for the disgusting, greasy, boozy, filthy floor. A few candy wrappers lay next to the table. They smelled like Rajit beer. A few broken bottles had rolled under that table. Bourbon. Gin. Tequila. Each liquor reeking with an odor of its own.
For a moment I didn't care whether Brig, Mahindra, Patel, and Saints Cecilia and Bridget took off with my bag and the statue. I wanted a bath. A bubble bath filled with the most chichi fragrances I could find to disguise the fact that my body exuded scents like a sailor after six days of shore leave with the same, uh, lady.
The urge to be clean vanished faster than a soap bubble could pop. It was replaced with a different urge. Survival. That flash I'd seen in the window was gliding through the door.
It was the cigarette-smoking, Gujarati-speaking gentleman wearing the crisp white shirt. Which was still crisp and still white. He was flanked by what seemed like a battalion of hooligans. All carried weaponry straight out of
The Mummy
. And all weapons were trained dead straight at me, Tempe Walsh, linguist. Alone.
BOOK: Hot Stuff
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