Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick

Hot Stuff (25 page)

BOOK: Hot Stuff

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Chapter 33

Brig parked the Jeep across from another ratty tenement. Literally. The rats doubtless paid monthly rent to slumlords and had better apartments than most of the human residents. For a moment I felt sorry for Patel. No one should have to live like this. The fact that over half of Bombay's population did was a sad fact of life.

A few homeless beggars wandered the street in search of shelter for what remained of the night. Other than those achingly miserable people, Brig and I appeared to be the only folks stirring.

The door leading into what passed for a lobby stood open. The latch was broken and bottles and cigarette butts were littered from the door to the stairwell. Posters from old Masala movies graced the walls. I spotted an ad for
Pirate Princess
on the wall nearest the elevator and couldn't help wondering how many times Patel and Mama had seen the DVD.

I whispered to Brig, “Do you think such a thing as a smoke alarm even exists? This place doesn't look like it's exactly up on the latest hardwired equipment.”

Brig pointed to an alarm pull. It had been painted bright red and appeared to be new. Next to the alarm pull stood an ancient elevator. A sign in Marathi reading “Out of Order” had been tacked over the Up button. It looked like it had been there since before India won independence from the Brits. Around 1947? Heck if I could remember just now.

Brig headed back outside. “Give me about four minutes, then hit the alarm and start yelling. Then get yourself back out onto the street and hide behind anything taller than you are.”

“Wait. Brig. You're taking the fire escape, right? To get to the window? What makes you think Patel won't use that to run out?”

“He's on the first floor. It'll be much easier to leave by the door, especially with dear ol' Mum in tow.”

“You don't think he'll know it's us and grab the statue as he leaves?”

Brig exhaled soundlessly. “It's a chance we've got to take. If he does and you spot him with anything that looks like our goddess, you whistle.”

“I can't.”

“Why? You afraid they'll spot you and begin the chase?”

I blushed. “It's not that. I don't know how. Never could whistle. I've tried to learn at various times in my life but never got the technique down.”

He grinned. “What's that line from the old Bogart and Bacall film about putting lips together and blowing? You must know it, Miss Movie Buff. Anyway, whistling lessons are definitely in the program for later. All that lip pursing. I'm looking forward to it.”

He leaned down and gave me a nice sample, then winked. “Meantime, if you see Patel with Shiva's Diva or any package that even looks like her, well . . . let me think for a second. I don't want you to scream. That could attract their attention.”

“So what do I do?”

“Sing.”

“Sing? Oh. Sure. Okay.”

How he figured singing would cause less notice than screaming I couldn't fathom. It wasn't logical and it wasn't sane. But then, breaking into the apartment of a kidnapper and thief might not merit an award for great analysis or sound thinking.

Brig kissed me again and I must admit I clung to him and extended that “lip pursing” even while keeping an eye out for anyone who might decide to enter the building.

Brig left. I stayed in the filthy lobby and waited four minutes. Not a second more. Then I yanked hard on the alarm and immediately began to scream “Fire!” in Hindi, Marathi, and what I hoped resembled Gujarati. I even yelled out a “Run for your lives!” in English and one “
DÃ³iteÃ¡n
!” just for Brig.

It worked just as Brig had predicted. Terrified residents streamed down the stairs and into the lobby. I could hear others scrambling down the fire escape. I said a quick prayer to various gods and goddesses that no one would be trampled in all this.

I hurried out with the first wave of those who'd been in the lobby, then hid behind a sandwich board sign that enticed readers to hit the Kohlbari Bazaar for the best deals in town. I even paused to check out their claim for silk saris at rockbottom prices and made a mental note to stop byâif I lived through the night.

I hadn't seen Brig come sneaking out from behind the building just yet. I tried not to worry. Perhaps a minute, maybe two, had passed since my latest act of felony. Or misdemeanor. Or whatever penalty the good people of India imposed for sounding a false alarm.

I spotted a sleepy Patel stumbling outside. He wore no shirt and held nothing except his ever-present knife in his hand. Cool. Brig should be able to get inside the apartment. With Brig's talent for finding hidden objects, he'd be in and out with our ivory statue before I finished reading the Kohlbari ads. In my stupidly innocent glee, I almost did a jig worthy of my Irish dancing thief.

Then I spotted the woman huffing and shuffling about three steps behind Seymour Patel. She looked to be in her seventies. Stringy white hair plastered to her skull appeared to be in need of a good shampoo. Her clothes were just as filthy. Sometime in her life she'd gone from being pleasingly plump to obnoxiously obese. Patel's mother. I did not jump lightly to this conclusion. The woman mirrored her ugly son in every feature down to the sour expression on her face. And if that weren't enough to give her away as a very close relation, she carried Shiva's Diva in her left hand.

Not in a bag. Not wrapped. Not even protected from prying eyes under Mama Patel's disgusting, dirty, faded gray sari. Our goddess, exposed for all the world to see. And right now I was the world most interested.

Brig had said to sing if I spied Patel transporting the statue. Well, Mrs. P. Senior, not Seymour Junior, was the one doing the carrying, but it looked like a Patel and it smelled like a Patel, and it had the Diva. So I sang.

I have to stop the action for a moment here because I feel impelled to point out in defense of the upcoming moves that my mother was a child of the sixties. One who'd never quite gotten over her days with the peace, love, and flower children. One who'd kept every vinyl album from every sixties rock, folk, or solo artist from The Beatles on. And played them for her darling daughter Tempe, who learned to love Cat Stevens and the Moody Blues and Jefferson Airplane and the Mamas and the Papas. And Three Dog Night.

Maybe all my references to Three Dog Night this past week had unhinged my brain. Maybe the fact that Mrs. Patel resembled one of the homelier canine breeds (at a guess, bullmastiff) further fomented my imagination. Whatever the catalyst, I started to sing “Mama Told Me Not to Come.” The entire chorus.

Eighty faces whirled to gawk at the girl crouching next to the bazaar ad who was blasting out classic rock at three in the morning during a fire drill. Seymour and Mama were two of them. Both faces twisted in rage. Mother was just as pissed as baby boy. Which is why, again in defense of my actions, I did something totally shameful. I tackled a woman over forty years my senior.

For an overweight, elderly female, this dog was tough. As I grabbed the Diva, Mama P. bit my hand, then kicked me in the shin. I screamed and brought her to the ground, almost gagging from the odor of gardenia perfume. Apparently, dousing herself in exotic floral scent was her alternative to bathing in real soap and water.

I wrapped one arm around what appeared to be a waist and flung her on her back. We rolled on the ground for another twenty seconds before I was able to maintain a good grasp on the statue. I jumped up, then dove into the crowd of gaping fans who'd been cheering for one or the other of us. My beret fell to the ground, letting my red hair shine under the street lamps. Crazy American girl gone wild. I scooped up the beret and took off still singing.

I ran in the direction of where we'd parked the Jeep. Brig met me there. Neither of us bothered to open a door. We jumped in, Brig turned the ignition, and we hauled out of this tenement slum neighborhood. We caught glimpses in the rearview mirror of the shirtless and barefoot Seymour Patel running after the Jeep screaming curses. Mama, the wrestling queen, sprinted right next to him.

“You okay?” Brig asked.

“I think so. Some scratches from Mrs. Patel's badly manicured nails plus a bite on my arm. Nothing that can't be taken care of with dabs of iodine and a tetanus shot. The woman had more rust than screws on a boat dock. You?”

“I'm fine. But then I didn't just go ten rounds with a repulsive, ancient harridan.”

I turned red. “I did, didn't I? My gosh. My mom always taught me to respect my elders. A lesson that went sailing across the bay the instant I saw Madam Patel with the Diva.”

I paused.

“Yes, Tempe? What is it you're not saying?”

“Well, I did have another teensy incentive for jumping on Her Hideousness. The lone item Seymour carried with him from the nonburning building glistened in the night. Yep. Patel's favorite big bad blade. He flung it at me just before I had the one-on-one with his nasty mater. Then he retrieved it.”

Brig turned the wheel of the Jeep and aimed the vehicle back toward Patel's neighborhood. I grabbed his arm.

“Brig! Are you nuts?”

“I'm taking this Jeep and driving it over the stinkin' son of a bitch. That's not nuts. It's a necessity.”

“No! Let's just get out of here. We've got the Diva. Let Patel and his mother work out who lost it.”

“He deserves killing, ya know. He and the ugly, misbegotten dame who birthed him. Man's probably been reincarnated as a flippin' terrorist at least twenty times and racked up more bad karma than we've put miles on this car. Damn him. Damn all the blighters who take down innocent women and children. They don't deserve to live.”

I stayed quiet. I knew Brig was also thinking about his sister and the cowards who'd blown up a hall full of teens to prove a political point. I had a feeling Brig's temper would diminish if I did nothing to spur it on. And while I might secretly agree with the sentiments expressed, I had no desire to carry them out or let Brig take his anger to an uncontrollable level. Finally, Brig quit ranting and simply stared at the road ahead.

I let a moment or two pass, then I began to sing again. Another Three Dog Night classic but one more soothingâ“Old Fashioned Love Song.”

Brig visibly relaxed after the first verse. “Sorry, lass. I've got the full Irish temper, and you'd best be knowin' it. But you've got a nice way of dealin' with me. Plus one fine voice.”

He chuckled. “Your warning song wasn't quite what I expected, but it worked. I knew it was you. I immediately jumped out the window. The sight of you punching out Mama Patel came as a bit of a surprise, but a welcome one. I'm proud of you, Tempe.”

I leaned back in the seat and sighed.

“Well, it didn't go quite as planned. Not that anything we've tried has gone as planned. But it worked.”

I stood straight up in the Jeep and yelled, “Yes!” then hurriedly sat back down when Brig hit a bump.

I smiled at him. “We got her back. Shiva's Diva. Safe and sound.”

He smiled back. “We do. Although it's just for the moment. Just for the moment.”

There were several meanings to this statement. The first might be that a furious Patel would not appreciate having the statue ripped from his (or his mother's) grasp within hours of his stealing it.

Secondly, Mahindra might be sleeping peacefully at this hour in his high-rise, but he hadn't called it quits either. And I felt confident we hadn't heard the last from Raymond Decore. Once Ray regained a bit of strength, he'd be back in the hunt. No doubt feeling less than charitable toward anyone involved in keeping Shiva's Diva, including Mr. Decore's ex-employee and her new friend, the handsome Irishman with the temper.

Lastly, one other person had become uppermost in my mind. The other unnamed someone who apparently had some legitimate claim on the goddess. Claire Dharbar.

“Brig?”

“Hmm?”

“We can't go back to our trailers tonight. I mean, everyone knows that's where we're staying now, don't they?”

He nodded. “They do. But I think we'll be fine there for what's left of the night. It's three-thirty now. Even if Patel gathers his minions and comes after us, it's a two-hour drive from this part of Bombay. Jake's got security guards around the shoot now. Patel might think twice before tangling with a contingent of guards who pack large guns and have a lot of incentive to keep the director and actors on this film safe.”

“Yeah?”

“Jake's paying a nice price for this little security team. After he saw how easily the thugs kidnapped his lovely Asha, he did not want to leave anything to chance.”

“That's good. For all of us.”

“Rest a while, Tempe. I'm wide awake. We'll make it back to the lot safely. I promise not to drive like I'm in either Paris, Boston, or Jersey.”

BOOK: Hot Stuff

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