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Starched Shirt smiled at me. Cool. We were going to be civilized.
    He spoke in English. “Miss Walsh. Thank you for rescuing Saraswati from the filth of the floor. Now please hand it over and you will not be hurt. This I promise.”
    It was a line straight out of a clichéd action flick. Nonetheless, that statement penetrated the air with all the force that three evil-looking miscreants holding cutlery and revolvers behind the leading man could produce.
    I decided to bluff him out.
    â€œThis bag? Oh, really, Mr., uh, Mahindra. You think I would have been so blasé, so cavalier, as to leave this behind if it contained Shiva’s Diva?”
    His eyebrows shot into the middle of his forehead.
    â€œShiva’s Diva? Where did you hear that term used? I did not call her that. And how do you know my name?”
    To hell with Brig. He’d left me here to play poker with a group of killers.
    â€œBriggan O’Brien, with whom I unfortunately shared an intimate moment-in-hiding earlier while your thugs were shooting up the place. That’s what he called this statue of Saraswati everyone seems so eager to acquire. At any cost, I might add. And I figured you had to be Mahindra since Patel is a pig, and I remember he was the one who threw the cigar at the gentleman I came in with. The gentleman your bullet hit. The gentleman who seems to have vanished. Any idea where?”
    Mahindra laughed. It was not a nice laugh. He ignored my last question. “O’Brien? I should have known he would be in the middle of this fiasco.” He stopped laughing. “I trust the moment did not become too intimate, Miss Walsh. Briggan O’Brien is not a fit companion for a lady such as yourself.”
    Aha! A statement Mr. Mahindra and I agreed on. I wanted to continue the topic of the fascinating life of Brig O’Brien—and divert Mahindra from such topics as statues and tote bags—when one of the minions grunted. Or perhaps it was a growl.
    Grunt or growl. Neither fashioned a pretty sound.
    I pointed. “I believe one of your posse wants you.”
    â€œPosse?”
    â€œYour buddies. The thugs. Hooligans.”
    He shook his head. “Business associates, please. You offend them and me with such vile terms. Although I like this word ‘posse.’ It is very American.”
    Out of date as slang by at least fifteen years or so, but he was right. Very American. Maybe Mahindra liked Americans. Maybe I could smooth talk him with the latest chitchat from the Big Apple long enough to allow me to saunter out into the night with the Diva in hand.
    He stared at me. All thoughts of gossip fled. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I’m sure he saw it. Sensed the fear causing it.
    He nodded, checked his watch, then stated, “I have other plans for this evening. So, kindly give me the statue or forfeit your life. Avi is quite handy with knives. As for myself, I prefer guns. I find them to be much cleaner. But Avi is a friend. He must be allowed a little leeway in such matters. I would hate to damage that pretty face or even cut a lock of your auburn hair. Enough delay. Please. The statue.”
    Uh oh. Tempe, the lady with the auburn hair, had degenerated to what was now Tempe the dartboard. “Enough delay” sounded serious. I smiled at Mahindra, then swung the bag at Avi and his collection of sharp silverware. Shiva’s Diva must have connected with something precious on the man, because his grunts changed to definite howls.
    I then turned and swung my right leg in a brilliant fan kick toward the chin of minion number two. I finished with a basic punch to the nose of minion three as I silently thanked my martial arts instructor in Manhattan. But I soon realized that all offensive mutilate-the-minion moves were useless when Mahindra reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun.
    Suddenly he and the gun sprawled on the floor. In their place, dark hair still perfectly groomed and white