Hot Stuff
The first bullet decapitated the silver sail from my boat-shaped earring. A second or third could capsize the entire craft. I screamed, leapt up, then dove for the closest empty area of floor. This 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 be keepin’ 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’ about 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 twould feel no pain if he was about 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 near-death 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 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 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 the Lord of the Ring movies. 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 make-up 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 you 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.
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