Hot Stuff (12 page)
Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick
“Actors. Please, take five. No. Scratch that. Perhaps we will make it thirty. Or forty. Then we will start on the flips. Brig? You can do handsprings like Tempe's, right?”
Brig nodded and I thought about his sister, Annie, who'd dragged her little brother to gymnastic practices. I wondered if performing those handsprings brought up hurtful memories.
Brig winked at me. “Once I learned how to do spectacular handsprings, I used them to run from the coppers in Riverdale and all. Easier to jump from car to car. Off the hardtops, you know.”
I was relieved he seemed to be taking a light look at these tricks. But I couldn't respond. I'd hit depletion for the day. Tired, dirty, and hungry were the best descriptions of my mood and feelings. If Mahindra himself had come flying onto the set doing handsprings and swinging from Ferris wheel to roller coaster using a king cobra as a rope, I wouldn't have cared. I wanted water and whatever junk food might be found at the service tables. Lots of it. Now.
I shuddered. I shouldn't have started thinking about Mahindra. I glanced around the set. So far, the day had been serene. If one could use that term for hours dancing in the arms of Briggan O'Brien and unsuccessfully avoiding hands that had a tendency to hit spots of the body not described in the Fred Astaire rule book. But at least no one had burst onto the lot with guns blazing and knives bared. Yet.
Chapter 14
By the end of Day One on the set of
Carnival of Lust
, I found I was grateful that my pragmatist father had steered me toward a linguistics job rather than dancing. I was ready to head back to the Taj Mahal Hotel and fill out an application to be a maid. Maybe hunt down Ricky the rickshaw driver and ask if he'd like to trade positions.
Carnival of Lust
, I found I was grateful that my pragmatist father had steered me toward a linguistics job rather than dancing. I was ready to head back to the Taj Mahal Hotel and fill out an application to be a maid. Maybe hunt down Ricky the rickshaw driver and ask if he'd like to trade positions.
My body ached from the hours of endless aerial aerobics and splits and back and front walkovers and side crab crawls. In two-inch go-go boots and flying tassels.
I'd concluded that Jake Roshan was certifiable. Insane. Bonkers. No wonder Asha had called off the wedding. The man was a good two reels short of a full film.
One example of Jake's lunacy was his decree that I should spend the majority of the afternoon of Day One on the top of the Ferris wheel. This sounded rather nice until I discovered I wouldn't be reclining in one of the frantically rocking seats gazing down over my castmates on the ground. Oh, no. Jake wanted me standing on my head on top of those seats or springing from my hands to come bouncing off the seat just below. He loved the shots of me staring in terror at the huge foam mattress on the ground placed there to catch the crazy American should she not make the next seat.
I thanked Saint Swithen, for whom I'd developed an irrational fondness, that this Ferris wheel stood only half the size and half the height of most Ferris wheels one finds at fancy American amusement parks. So all my falls would be from only about twenty feet up instead of fifty or more. Besides, if I crashed, no one would notice. They'd be too busy listening to Asha and Raj mime singing love songs underneath me on solid ground.
I considered asking Jake whether it wouldn't be more dramatic to have the film lovers crooning to each other half a mile above and let the new lead dancer pirouette below, but Jake seemed entranced by all the red hair flying in the breeze.
And what about Brig, one might ask? The reason I hadn't yelled, “Strike! Call my union!” was that I could see Mr. O'Brien doing the same ridiculous tricks on the other side of the wheel. About once an hour we got to leap together. I felt oddly reassured seeing the look of terror on his face. I knew it mirrored the one on mine.
It was now 7:00
P.M
. Brig had gone to Jake's for a muchneeded shower. Asha had whisked me into her convertible. We were heading for her place for some extensive cleaning. If the water at Asha's wasn't second-degree-burn-level hot, I planned to head for the nearest bazaar, buy a long knife, and personally kill Asha's plumber. First, though, I'd stop at Jake's to carve up Brig for getting me into the movie business.
P.M
. Brig had gone to Jake's for a muchneeded shower. Asha had whisked me into her convertible. We were heading for her place for some extensive cleaning. If the water at Asha's wasn't second-degree-burn-level hot, I planned to head for the nearest bazaar, buy a long knife, and personally kill Asha's plumber. First, though, I'd stop at Jake's to carve up Brig for getting me into the movie business.
I closed my eyes when Asha nearly plowed into three bicycle riders in suits who were trying to avoid her convertible by staying on the side of the road. All three of whom began screaming at her as they found themselves in the dirt after she passed.
I began to muse about what little tricks Jake had in store for tomorrow's shoot. I felt certain Brig could, and would, supply suggestions. “I've got it, Jake! Have Tempe come swingin' down off a rope to be landin' in front of the elephant. Do a nice backflip off the llama, then somersault next to the cobra under the tent. That would be so much fun on film!”
Asha, wisely, stayed silent. She'd had a fairly easy day. She and Raj, her costar, had been on terra firma, gazing into each other's eyes and warbling along with recorded music that had sounded from my sixteen feet above like Sonny and Cher set to a disco melody with a rap beat.
Amidst the curses of an elderly man, riding a ridiculously large Harley motorcycle, who'd been inches away from being knocked into the bay across from Marine Road when Asha made a sharp turn, Jersey girl finally broke her silence. “Where do you suppose Brig is going tomorrow?”
I sighed. “Lord knows. Brig said he an errand, presumably one having something to do with Shiva's Diva. Which leaves me at the mercy of Jake Roshan, director from the Marquis de Sade School of Film.”
Asha giggled. “He is a pain, isnt' he? But his movies win awards like crazy. Wait. What errands?”
“I don't know. Brig probably has unsavory associates in every continent from Bombay to Moscow. Although I guess those aren't continents, are they? Well, anyway, I'm sure he's about to wheel and deal and sell Shiva's Diva to the highest, sleaziest, closest crook who'll be crazy enough to pay his price.”
“Ouch. You have such a high opinion of our Mr. O'Brien. I thought you two were hot for each other.”
The memory of his kisses battled to overtake my senses. I sat up straight and tried to keep my voice even.
“Hot is Briggan's middle name. I imagine he has girls drooling over him in every one of those continents as well as the unsavory business associates. I do not wish to join the ranks of the âloved-'em-left-'em' strewn around the world.” I paused, then added, “One of whom I think I met yesterday.”
I told her about Claire Dharbar and about finding that picture of her posing with Brig.
Asha avoided crashing into a stall at the side of the road by a foot. This was not due to her usual bad driving. Her laughter had become so raucous she couldn't see.
“Asha! Damn! Think we can make it home without carrying half a load of fruit or whatever with us?”
She straightened the wheel. “Sorry. No harm done. Didn't hit a soul. And see? He's already setting the stand back up. Not even an orange juiced.”
“Right.”
She grinned. “It's just thinking about you and Brig. Girl, if ever two people were nuts for each other? Well. Shall we say poster children for Lovers Inc.? And I don't know who this Claire chickie is, but if he met her at a restaurant with you sitting at a table nearby, it isn't likely they're going to go off and do, uh, anything kinky.” She added, “By the way, that's both of you.”
She turned her head and stared at me. Not a wise move given the way she drove. I yelled, “Watch the road!” as I hugged the sides of this passenger seat of doom, stared out into the streets of Bombay, and asked, “Both of whom? Me and Claire? Now that
would
be kinky. Can we shelve this discussion, Ms. Kumar?”
would
be kinky. Can we shelve this discussion, Ms. Kumar?”
“For now, Ms. Walsh. But as you may have already surmised, I'm a nosy little girl. So expect the topic to come up again. And the both of you, as you very well know, is you and Brig. Think. Did he leave with the Claire babe? No. He left with you. Lordy, you are so lame. Two idiots nuts about each other and too stupid to admit it.”
“And what about you and Jake, since we're on the subject of limping idiots. When do I find out what's the deal with the pair of you?”
She pursed her lips. “Later.”
She punched the accelerator so hard I had to grab the dash to keep from flying over the back seat and onto the Bombay streets.
I turned up the car radio to a preset classic rock station. Strains of Cat Stevens's “Hard-Headed Woman” wafted around us. Perfect. Two stubborn females sitting in a car with no top sailing along Marine Road trying to pretend we weren't focused on the men in our lives.
We gratefully changed topics to the news from New York. Which Grammy winners were sleeping with other Grammy winners. Whether the new art exhibit at the Guggenheim would be removed or destroyed by the PETA activists who were angry it contained splotches of possum fur. Which Emmy winner had been jailed for sleeping with another underage same-sex Emmy winner. We contined discussing these important issues until we reached Asha's place.
Asha had done her own decorating for her flat in the Malabar Hills area of Bombay. Posters of her movies lined the walls of the den. The living room featured canvas artwork that looked like original masterpieces. They blended comfortably with the Queen Anne furniture that included large chairs and a huge sofa that invited visitors to sit and forget the cares of the day. I could have sprawled on that sofa within minutes and stayed forever, but as usual, hunger began to win out over rest.
My mother would have swooned with envy over the kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art gadgets and utensils. An expensive range topped the center island. A woman even smaller than Asha nodded at me when I popped my head in to inhale the scent of what smelled like lasagna. Asha's cook. I had already gathered that the words “Asha” and “cooking” were not to be used in the same sentence.
Hunger beckoned, but cleanliness now superceded all. Asha pointed me to the guest bedroom. Another treat. The bed was king-sized, dressed with a light antique quilt in shades of taupe and gold. I set my bag on a Victorian rocker in the corner beside an eight-foot-tall armoire.
To the right of the bedroom beckoned the joys of the huge guest bathroom. I had to wonder what opulence the master bath offered when I stepped into what I assumed was the lesser of the restrooms. A Jacuzzi sat right in the middle. And there would be no knife attacks on any plumber this night. Hot water spewed in abundance. The gods smiled. As did I.
An hour later, Asha and I were diving into what had indeed proved to be lasagna accompanied by garlic bread, salad, and a red wine that must have cost more than the Jacuzzi.
I glanced at her. “I have to ask you. How do you get a cook who looks like a Hindu goddess who's been dead for over two thousand years to make a dish worthy of Mama Leone's? Voodoo?”
She howled. “What? You a h
oo
t owl?
You
.
Who
. Hin-
doo
.
Who
's.
Voo-Doo
.
Oooo
!”
oo
t owl?
You
.
Who
. Hin-
doo
.
Who
's.
Voo-Doo
.
Oooo
!”
“Quit that! I've had a long day. My linguistic skills deserted me somewhere at the top of that hideous Ferris wheel.”
Asha grinned. “I won't be able to hear a word with an âoo' sound for a week without laughing, but I'm letting
yooo
off the hook for now.”
yooo
off the hook for now.”
I crossed my eyes at her. “Tell me about this cook, okay?”
“Mala, my chef? Isn't she great? Actually, when I first hired her, she cooked curry, curry, and on alternate Sundays, more curry. With a bit of vinda
looo
and tandori chicken thrown in on holidays. Tasty, but limiting. When my parents came for a visit, my mother took Mala in hand and gave her every recipe Mom had kept from her wonderful dinner group in Woodbridge. Italian, Russian-Jewish, French, Norwegian even. Mala, bless her ancient little heart, was thrilled. I now dine internationally any night I
chooose
to hang out at home.”
looo
and tandori chicken thrown in on holidays. Tasty, but limiting. When my parents came for a visit, my mother took Mala in hand and gave her every recipe Mom had kept from her wonderful dinner group in Woodbridge. Italian, Russian-Jewish, French, Norwegian even. Mala, bless her ancient little heart, was thrilled. I now dine internationally any night I
chooose
to hang out at home.”
I nodded, then cocked my head. “As opposed
tooooo?”
tooooo?”
“Oh, heck, Tempe. I'm a film actress in India. I'm expected to do a bit of partying.” She grinned. “Can't disappoint my fans, you know. So I try and hit the clubs at least once a week.”
I did not trouble to stifle my laugh. “And I'm sure it's a great hardship on you, Miss Celebrity!”
She chortled. “Well, they used to call me the original party girl back in the States, so living up to the image isn't exactly a stretch. Speaking of which, want to go out in a bit?”
I stopped midbite and considered the offer.
“Yes and no. Yes, I need some kind of real relaxation after the last couple of days. No, because I'm scared witless that one of the various ruffians looking for me will hear about a red-haired American female carousing around the city, and suddenly I'll be forced to hide in a brothel taking tricks to keep from ending up floating around one of the beaches.”
“Ouch. You do have a vivid imagination, don't you?”
I grinned. “At times. Also, if your idea of partying tonight has anything to do with dancing, count me way out. My aches have aches on top of aches.”
Asha sipped her wine and studied me. “Hmmm. What say you to a few games of pool?”
“Pool? Like
The Hustler
or
Color of Money?
As in Gleason and Newman and Cruise, oh my?”
The Hustler
or
Color of Money?
As in Gleason and Newman and Cruise, oh my?”
She beamed. “And solids and eight ball and cues, oh my!”
I giggled. “Racking and chalking and sticks, oh my?”
A wicked grin crossed her face. I held up my hand before the rhyme escalated into the obscene.
Asha winked. “Fine, I'll be nice. And you can just watch if you want. There's a great pool hall downtown. Mainly gets the office crowd and some college kids. I don't get hassled there, they play American music, and I really doubt it's the kind of place where the felons you've attracted since you've been here will be hanging out.”
“I have to tell you, I don't play the game. Will that mess up your fun? I mean, it sounds terrific and I do want to come with you, but just to sit and watch. The operative word being sit. My feet have had it. I miss my bunny slippers I left back in Manhattan.”
“Sitting is not a problem, Tempe. There's a group of guys from Dhava's College who regularly try to defeat the film actress here. I, however, am unbeatable thanks to an old Jersey boyfriend who preferred a night at the pool hall to a night in bed. I keep telling the kids thisââwell, not about the boyfriendââbut that I'm invincible. They love getting whupped anyway.”
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