Hot Stuff (8 page)
Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick
I liked this girl. I had a feeling we'd be great roommates. Then I wished I hadn't remembered why I needed a roommate. She seemed to sense that my thoughts had shifted from New Jersey drivers to something more serious. She glanced at me while she slipped into a tight spot in front of a delivery truck and behind a beat-up ancient sedan.
“Tempe? What, by the grace of Brig's little goddess, is going on?”
“That's a very good question. I wish I knew the answer to it.”
I narrated the events of the last twenty-four hours, beginning with the shoot-out at Hot Harry's Saloon. She listened with true concern when I told her how Mahindra's men had sent me somersaulting into a storeroom to escape their flying bullets and how Patel's men had made me their private dartboard. She loved hearing about my bump-and-grind routine at C.C. Curry's and wanted more information about where, and in what circumstances, Brig and I had spent the night.
I skimmed over the details of kissing Mr. O'Brien but did say I was now dressed in clothes purchased by Mr. O'Brien because I had nothing else. She tried to interrupt to ask about my sleeping attire while at the Sea Harbor Hotel, but I cut her off by telling her Brig's latest news about a man resembling one of the thugs removing my stuff from the hotel.
She hit the brakes. Hard. At least we were at a red light. One of the few she'd stopped for. She twisted in her seat to look at me.
“Do you have any idea what Brig intends to do? I mean, he's got this statue, the bad guys think you've got it, you're both about to hide outâif appearing in a film that will be seen by millions can be considered going undercover. And where will this Shiva's Diva end up? Has Brig even said?”
I lifted both brows and grimaced. “I haven't a clue. Do you realize I still don't know yet if the man who hired me as a translator is even alive?”
“Well, hell, girl, time for the ladies to do a bit of sleuthing. Leave the boys out of it since they haven't done a real terrific job of managing this situation so far.”
She grinned. “Besides, I've always wanted to be Nancy Drew. I have all the books. I can get in and out of haunted houses, up and down spiral staircases, and sneak behind hidden bookcases. I could hot-wire a car by the time I hit twelve. Not that Nancy ever did, but I thought it was a useful skill to acquire. So, whatcha say, Walsh?”
An invitation to embark on a bit of private investigation with India's latest cinema celebrity. A spunky, mad-driving starlet who thought her fiancé was a double-A-battery-run rat and who had a secret desire to be a covert operative. With Asha by my side, the previous twenty-four hours with Brig were about to look like a tea party with my great-aunt Genevaâa ninety-year-old agoraphobic who hadn't stepped outside of her house for forty years.
Chapter 9
Asha decreed our first stop would be the Taj Mahal Hotel. I liked this idea. I hoped to find the sweet little old maid who'd been so kind as to give Brig O'Brien all that information about my belongings, including my passport.
The Taj Mahal Hotel is an architectural wonder in contrasts. Old meets new. India meets England. It's a five-star hotel that offers restaurants, nightclubs, spas, aerobic classes, and a pool. It can best be described as a grand, expensive palace. Ray had paid for my room as part of my salary. There was no way I could afford such a luxurious hotel otherwise. I'd felt like a trespasser all six hours I'd spent there.
Not so Miss Asha Kumar. This was her turf. Accompanying Asha gave me a new outlook on how one navigates the snob factor at classy hotels.
To begin with, Asha didn't bother dealing with parking once we reached the Taj Mahal Hotel. She stopped the car inches away from an eager, trembling valet, then waited for him to open her door. I stepped out on my own, although I did use the door instead of jumping out the top. Asha tossed her keys at the kid, then she grabbed my arm and we sauntered into the Taj Mahal Hotel like two starlets in search of paparazzi to tempt.
I did not look like the same girl who'd checked in yesterday morning. That Miss Walsh had been groggy from airsick meds, rumpled and wrinkled, but still appearing professional in a brown business suit. I'd wanted to make it clear that this interpreter was here to do a job. Period. Which was why before I left for Hot Harry's, I'd changed into my navy two-piece suit, slapped on a tinge of mascara and blush, and pulled my hair back into a bun.
This afternoon I had on one of the new outfits Brig had bought for me at Kemps Corner. Tight black jeans with a matching cap-sleeved black silk top. My hair was loose and waving over my shoulders. While I hadn't quite matched the outrageousness of the cosmetics for my impromptu performance at C.C. Curry's, I did sport decent amounts of blush, eyeliner, mascara, taupe eye shadow, and a nice shade of apricot lipstick; all items Brig had thoughtfully included in the gift bag. The man might be a rogue, but his taste matched my own. All the colors had been carefully chosen for a true redhead.
I had to banish thoughts of Brig from my mind before embarking on this little exercise in detection with Asha, the thirty-year-old celebrity vixen loved by millions. Ray might have had authority and that distinctly American businessman swagger, but Asha had presence and panache. I took a deep breath and prepared to follow her lead, wherever it took me.
There were perks to standing beside Asha Kumar at a hotel counter listening to a voice that easily changed from pure Jersey to the refined tones of an Indian actress with an impeccable command of both Hindi and English. Within moments, Asha and I were in the luxurious suite of the hotel manager, a Mr. Chopra. The offices looked out over the harbor, and for a few moments I simply enjoyed taking in the view.
Then we got down to business. I'd warned Asha that since we still didn't know who all the players were in this game, it would be best not to reveal too much about Shiva's Diva. She showed me she knew how to take direction without losing control of the action.
She smiled at Mr. Chopra. Heck, she practically simpered.
“Mr. Chopra. This is Miss Tempe Walsh, a dear friend of mine from the States. She came for a visit and checked in here two nights ago. When she sent someone back for her things earlier today so she could come to my apartment, she discovered that someone not authorized had checked out for her, and her things had been removed. Naturally, I am most upset at this lack of courtesy!”
Asha was good. She'd given the basics. She hadn't really lied either. Barbara Ashley Kumar had become my dear friend about two hours earlier. So she told the truth at least in that. I liked knowing I now had three friends in Bombay.
Asha turned and winked at me. Chopra grabbed his phone, dialed someone at the desk, and tried to find out why such a mess had occurred at his hotel.
Asha whispered, “No biggie. Basic Improvisation 101. I teach it twice weekly. I can lie like a rug. Anyplace. Anytime. Not, however, with anyone. Regardless of what the tabloids say.”
I tried not to laugh. Chopra turned and smiled at us both.
“I am so sorry, Miss Walsh. The desk clerk informs me that the mix-up appears to be the result of your traveling companion misunderstanding your plans.”
I threw him a sharp look. “Traveling companion?”
“Yes. A Mr. Raymond Decore from New York City. Apparently, he told the clerk you had a friend in the city and would not be returning to the Taj Mahal.” Chopra looked concerned. “Mr. Decore did not seem to know the friend was Miss Kumar, our beautiful lady of the cinema.”
I nodded. “And did Mr. Decore happen to say where he'd taken my things?”
“The clerk did not know. He did not ask, you see, not wishing to insult the man. I believe he assumed, that you and he, that is . . .”
Chopra turned red.
Asha rescued him. “He thought they were a couple, yes?”
He nodded in the affirmative. “Yes. I am most sorry that he reached this conclusion. Apparently, Mr. Decore specifically gave that impression. I do apologize.”
I stared at a small boat with sails gliding across the water. What a nice place to be on a sunny afternoon. No worries other than how much wind would rise to allow the sailor to whip past the yachts and cargo ships and head for open space and freedom.
I touched my ear. Last night a pair of cute, inexpensive sail-shaped earrings had dangled there, then been destroyed. Today, fancy earrings swung in their place. A good trade all in all. But now it appeared Ray Decore's very identity had been stolen by one of Mahindra's or Patel's minions. I wasn't sure if I felt angrier over my things being missing or my reputation being sullied.
I smiled at Chopra. “Perfectly reasonable assumption. Mr. Decore and I are business associates.” I giggled. “And Mr. Decore presumes too much. I'm sure you've seen that kind of behavior before at the hotel?”
He nodded, relieved I hadn't pitched a fit.
Asha launched back into the meat of the matter. “Mr. Chopra, do you have any idea where Mr. Decore was going? Back to the States?”
He looked surprised. “Oh, he did not check out. Perhaps I did not make that clear. He merely said Miss Walsh now had other accommodations.”
Bingo. Mahindra, or perhaps Patel, had usurped Ray's room as well as his name. I opted for Mahindra. Patel didn't have enough class or English to fool a hotel desk clerk.
We thanked Mr. Chopra for his kindness in answering our questions, then Asha autographed several pictures of herself for him and his family.
Chopra beamed. “My wife adores you, Miss Kumar. We have seen
Pirate Princess
at least three hundred and fifty times. We have the DVD. My favorite part is you with Spot the tiger.”
Pirate Princess
at least three hundred and fifty times. We have the DVD. My favorite part is you with Spot the tiger.”
Asha whispered to me as we left, “The DVD just came out three weeks ago.”
I had to rent this flick when I had a chance.
We left the enthralled manager and headed for the new wing of the hotel. Ray Decore's room was on the fifth floor, as was my original room six doors down from his. Each room on this side of the hotel had a balcony and a view of the harbor, amenities I hadn't used since I'd spent my first three hours in Bombay sleeping. After that my night had been taken up with dodging bullets, shedding clothes, getting kissed, and listening to O'Brien talk. The latter being the most timeconsuming. The kiss had been the most. Just two words. The most.
I couldn't think about Brig right now. I stopped the elevator at the fourth floor. Asha looked surprised.
“What? I thought you were one up?”
“I am. Well, was. But it occurs to me that I can't just knock on the door and tell some poor stranger, âHey! This is my room and I want my stuff!' Right?”
Asha nodded. “True. We also can't go pounding on Ray Decore's door with the same question. I have a feeling a brand-new, innocent visitor from Finland or Russia now occupies
your
room. But, I'll bet money that one of Mahindra's gonzos is snoozing on Decore's bed.”
your
room. But, I'll bet money that one of Mahindra's gonzos is snoozing on Decore's bed.”
She punched the Open button on the elevator and we stepped out onto the fourth floor. Teatime. We didn't see a soul in the hall. Everyone must be out at the cafés enjoying a nice brew and a scone. Sounded like a good way to spend this hour. My large brunch from Café de la Plaz had become a wisp of memory.
A maid passed by with a load of fresh linens. She ignored us, intent on making her delivery and perhaps heading to the hotel kitchen for her own tea break.
Asha nudged me with her elbow.
“Ouch!”
“Shh! Wimp! I have a plan.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? You haven't heard it yet.”
“Asha, I've known you, what, two hours? Long enough to see wheels turning. Wheels grinding out little ideas like dressing up as maids and sneaking into Ray's old room.”
Asha looked at me with admiration. “You're good. Actually my plan was to ask that maid if she'd mind checking to see if the so-called Mr. Decore is currently flat out on his back snoring, or fornicating, or chanting mantras in his room, but I like your idea much better.”
I groaned. “Asha! I'm sorry I suggested it. This is bound to turn into one of those British farces where everyone and his brother are in maid or butler costumes and hiding under beds or in bedsâwith each other. I'm not ready for that particular production, thank you.”
“I did six of those plays in high school, and they're a lot like Jake's movies. Easy. It's all in the timing. Now just hang here a minute.”
She took off down the hall after the maid. I could see an excited conversation taking place but couldn't hear the substance. Asha sauntered back within minutes.
“I am
sooo
good. I told her I'm researching for a part and you're a new actress who's doing a scene with me. The red hair kinda bothered her, but I explained that Jake wanted more foreigners in this particular film. More than me, that is. And I have dual citizenship.”
sooo
good. I told her I'm researching for a part and you're a new actress who's doing a scene with me. The red hair kinda bothered her, but I explained that Jake wanted more foreigners in this particular film. More than me, that is. And I have dual citizenship.”
This business of taking off on tangents during moments of stress seemed contagious.
“Asha, you're worse than Brig. Get to the point.”
“Oh. I asked where we could find uniforms and keys. And she told me.”
Definitely perks to hanging out with a movie star.
Like most hotels, Taj Mahal used those ghastly ATM-style cards that force one to insert it and then in a mad dash try to open the door while the green light is still blinking. I suppose they're better for inhibiting robbers accustomed to jiggling nail files, bobby pins, or other sharp instruments into keyholes. Then again, I'm sure any clever thief can manage a way to insert his driver's license or credit card into the darn thing and gain easy entry.
We had to trek down to the basement to the maid's closet to get the uniforms and key cards, but we were back in the elevator and on the fifth floor within twelve minutesâwith a passcard that should open Ray's door.
We looked ridiculous. A redheaded fair-complexioned woman towering over a tiny dark-haired girl who looked barely out of puberty. But the few people either entering or exiting the rooms on floor five didn't seem to notice. Amazing how invisible one can become in a black and white uniform. Especially to those folks who look on anyone in service as unworthy of attention.
Asha nudged me again. I nearly dropped the load of towels draped over my arm. If she continued poking me, I'd have bruises larger than my entire torso by nightfall.
“What?”
“I think it's best if I go into Ray's room first. The bad guys know you. They don't know me.”
I stared at her. “Bombay's sweetheart of cinema? You don't think they'll recognize your face? Like it's not plastered over half the billboards in town? Like there's anyone outside of Mahindra, Patel, and me who hasn't seen
Pirate Princess
at least four hundred times? Why don't we just bring in Spot the tiger and stick him in a uniform while we're at it?”
Pirate Princess
at least four hundred times? Why don't we just bring in Spot the tiger and stick him in a uniform while we're at it?”
She drew herself up to her full height of four foot nine and sneered at me. “Well, excuse me, but I can do this. I'm an actress. I'm in a maid's costume. Aside from no one bothering to see the face atop the collar, I'm about to do the veil thing.”
I sighed. Asha had managed to find two veils amongst the starched uniforms and had sashayed out with them under her arm. She handed me one, then eyed me critically.
“Put it on. Plenty of Muslim women work in hotels. No one will think a thing about it. Really, Tempe, that stupid little cap will
not
hide Miss Flaming Carrot Top.”
not
hide Miss Flaming Carrot Top.”
I did as asked. Even if Mahindra's and Patel's goons didn't quite remember my face, the red curls were enough to blow my cover. I felt certain my hair had been the tip-off to Patel at C.C. Curry's that all was not kosher last night.
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