Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick
Hot Stuff (27 page)
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.
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.
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.”
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 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.
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?”
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.”
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.
had
managed to escape, it should be written up in Ripley's. Brig's hotel window was five stories above sea level.
Other books
The World is a Stage by Tamara Morgan
A Brief History of the House of Windsor by Michael Paterson
Dying Days 3 by Armand Rosamilia
Sasha’s Dad by Geri Krotow
Everlasting Enchantment by Kathryne Kennedy
A Dragon for December (Wiccan-Were-Bear Book 11) by R. E. Butler
Zola Flash (The Zola Flash Series Book 1) by Alexander, T. Marie
All Inclusive by Judy Astley
House Party by Eric Walters
The Sleeping Dictionary by Sujata Massey
