Charming Grace

  I held out my hands to the guard. “Tex and Mojo must have passed along more information than that before they left with Mr. Senterra.”

  The guard sighed. “Here’s all they said, ma’am: Armand Noleene left prison two days ago and hasn’t been seen, since. He’s already violated the terms of his parole by not checking in within the first 24 hours. Boone Noleene plans to talk to a prison priest who may have some clues, and then he’s going to look up some of his brother’s old friends for help.”

  I froze. “Armand Noleen’s ‘old friends’ are almost all criminals.”

  “That’s why Tex and Mojo told me to tell you to stay here. They said you can’t find Boone in the places he’s going and even if you could, he doesn’t want you to set foot near the people he’s going to deal with.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s all I know.”

  Mika stepped forward. Her green Vance eyes were large with worry. “Can you tell me anything about Leo Senterra? He was on his way to the movie set when everything happened this morning. Then he met with his dad and got. . .got vaporized, or something.”

  “The only word I’ve had is that Mr. Senterra’s wife, daughters, and son were on the jet that left Atlanta this afternoon.”

  “Leo wouldn’t leave without telling me! He’s been kidnapped!”

  The strains of the Star Trek theme suddenly emitted from her tiny cell phone. She popped the phone to her ear. “Leo! You’re where? Hiding in the restroom somewhere over Oklahoma? Omigod.” Mika listened intently for a minute, shifting from one Birkenstocked foot to another, an agitated hand rising to her hair, which she’d recently done in tiny dreadlocks. By the time Leo finished his part of the conversation, her black dreads were wound in her fist and she had tears in her eyes. “You let your dad run your life. He says jump and you still just do it. You’re afraid to even call me where he can hear you!”

  More listening, more dread-winding, and now the tears slid down Mika’s angry expression. “Don’t even bother. No. Don’t even tell me. I don’t care if he’s upset and needs the family’s support right now. You’re a grown man. Act like one! No, don’t give me any excuses. Run back to La-La-Land. Stay there. Let him twist your arm until you give up and join the army or the navy or the marines or. . .or the World Wrestling Federation, for all I care! Go ahead and be miserable and become the stupid he-man your dad wants you to be! Maybe some day you’ll have the courage to be your own kind of man, but clearly, right now you don’t have the courage to be mine.”

  She snapped the cell phone shut, jabbed it in the pocket of her baggy painter pants, and sobbed. “We were going to boldly go where no one had gone, before.”

  G. Helen put an arm around her. “Men. Can’t live with ‘em; can’t live without ‘em. And can’t ship ‘em off to another planet.” She and Roarke traded rueful smiles, then G. Helen led Mika into the shady front yard for some private crying time.

  I pivoted toward the security guard again. “Just tell me how to get in touch with Tex and Mojo.”

  “They’re on the jet, ma’am. You can’t talk with them. Mr. Senterra controls all calls on board.”

  Roarke arched a gray brow. “Unless they’re smart enough to hide in the toilet.”

  The guard turned red. “Excuse me, I’ve got work to do. Mr. Senterra wants this house closed up until further notice. I don’t know if or when he’s coming back.” The guard went inside and shut the door.

  I paced. “I have to go to Louisiana. I have to try to find Boone and help him. I can’t just sit here.”

  Roarke stopped me with a big, callused hand on my shoulder. “This is between him and his brother. It’s been comin’ a long time, and it needs to be settled.”

  “Armand will get Boone hurt.”

  “Could be. But Boone has to decide whether to let him call the shots for the rest of their lives.” He paused. “With that said, I’m gettin’ on the next plane to Louisiana, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, but. . .what makes you think you can accomplish more than I can?”

  Roarke smiled grimly. “Let’s just say I know the kind of people who know the people Armand calls friends.”

  Chapter 19

  Armand was in trouble. I knew that much. Where, how, and how bad, I wasn’t sure. But after three days of making the rounds in places where the rounds can get a man squarely killed, I was about to find out.

  I walked into a suburban New Orleans showroom full of flowery-colored little Japanese cars and told the lady at the desk, “I’m Boone Noleene. I’m here to see Terence McCarthy. I have an appointment.”

  Before she could so much as pick up her phone, a skinny, middle-aged black guy dressed for country-club golf leapt out of a back hallway. “I’ve got it, Shalell.”

  She looked startled. “Yessir, Reverend McCarthy.”

  “Hold my calls. No calls, and no knocks on my door, please. Nothin’.”

  “Yessir.”

  McCarthy, frowning, grabbed me by one arm and tugged me down a paneled hallway. When we were safely behind the fancy door of his paneled office, he shook his head and blew out a long breath of relief. “I spotted you on the security camera, boy. I was hopin’ you wouldn’t just walk in through the front door.”

  “Well, hey, Titter, it’s nice to see you again, too. Stolen any good cars lately?”

  “Don’t you call me by that name.” He thrust a finger in my face. “I haven’t gone by that name in a lot of years. I’m a respectable automobile dealer now. And a Baptist preacher. Got me a couple of nice little chillen in private school and a nice Baptist wife who don’t know nothing about the car thief who used to be Titter. I’ve gotten right with the Lord, Noleene, which is why I’m tryin’ to help you and Armand.”

  “I been talkin’ to a lot of our past business associates. But I never thought I’d get a call from you.”

  “Believe me, I didn’t want nothing to do with this situation of yours. But I took a likin’ to you and Armand back when you, hmmm, did some business with me, and I’d rather not see Armand end up at the bottom of some swamp wearin’ concrete boots. So I agreed to get a message to you.”

  I went very still. “What message?”

  “Your bro is in deep shit with some bad-ass money boys. All those gambling deals he was runnin’ from prison? Well, seems Armand got himself accused of skimming a little off the top, you know. The boys think he’s stashed a couple of million dollars in some Caribbean bank or something. They want their money back.”

  I groaned silently. “Where do I go, and who do I see?”

  The former Titter McCarthy, now the Right Reverend Terence McCarthy, pressed a piece of paper in my hand. “I wrote it all down. Now get outta here. Don’t you tell a single soul you ever knew me. And may the Lord bless you and Armand.”

  “I keep hopin’,” I said.

  Two million dollars. Two million. Dollars. Holy merde. I had a chunk of money in good investment accounts, thanks to three years’ of being overpaid by Stone—those regular raises hadn’t gone out the window—but at best I could put together maybe seven-fifty in cash, less than half the asking price for Armand’s life. The address Titter gave me turned out to be an old tin-roofed warehouse and office out in bayou country, not that far from where Armand and I grew up.

  Like a smart man, I phoned ahead.

  “You got my brother,” I said. “I want him back.”

  “Come and see us with money in hand, and we’ll talk,” said a thick down home voice with no humor in it.

  “If my brother’s not healthy, then ain’t nobody goin’ to be healthy.”

  “He’s a little banged up, but he’ll do. That’s what he gets for trying to leave the country without payin’ his bills.”

  Leave the country? What the hell had Armand tried to do? Head for the Caribbean and play at bein’ a pirate? Why didn’t he tell me?

  I didn’t know how I’d get two million bucks in quick cash, now that I was a Cajun persona non g
rata with Stone, but I knew I’d beg, borrow, or steal to do it. “I’ll get you the money, and you keep my brother upright and breathin’.”

  “That’s a deal, partner.” The asshole hesitated a second. Then, “But I want a bonus. Get me Stone Senterra’s autograph, too.”

  Shit.

  “You must’ve been a lousy criminal,” a voice said behind me in the bayou diner where I was staring into a cup of coffee at two a.m. “You’re easy to track down, and you look guilty as hell.”

  It was Roarke. He dropped into the chair across from me while I stared at him in disbelief. He looked worse for wear, in a coffee-stained shirt and old jeans, his eyes hollow and tired. “I been all over this damned state for the past few days, looking for you in every outhouse and casino and bayou bar. Get me a cup of coffee.”

  “For an old ex-con who likes to meddle in dangerous business,” I said gruffly, “you act mighty smug.”

  “It was either me come lookin’ for you, or Grace. Her grandma’s pretty much got her under twenty-four hour guard, makin’ sure she doesn’t head for the airport.”

  I straightened.

  Grace. “I don’t want Grace worryin’ about me.”

  What a lie. I didn’t want Grace hurt. But I did want her to worry about me. To care. To love.

  Roarke saw right through me. “So you want her to celebrate if you get your brains beaten out tryin’ to rescue Armand?”

  I sagged. “Guess you know what’s goin’ on.”

  “Yep. I have resources. Old cons.”

  “I need money. A lot of it. I’ve got a chunk of my own, but it’s not enough.”

  “Tell me something—did your mama raise any fools? Don’t you understand that these shit-kickers will take your money then kill you and Armand just for insurance?”

  “I have to take that chance. It’s not like I can get the police involved. That’d be the end of Armand, for sure. Look, these gambling honchos aren’t interested in killin’ people they don’t have to kill. They mostly just want their money.”

  “If it’s that easy—which it ain’t—I can give you the money,” Roarke said simply.

  I stared at him. “You don’t have to—”

  “Call it an advance on your salary.”

  After a second, I got my voice under control and said, “If you do this for my brother, I’ll draw houses for you the rest of my life. For free. Happily. I swear.”

  “Let’s get Armand out of trouble, and then I’ll talk to you about terms.”

  “There’s only one thing I need that you can’t loan me, and that I can’t get for these dicks who have Armand.”

  “What?”

  “Stone’s autograph.”

  Roarke pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Sounds like you’ve come up with the perfect assignment for Grace. Gettin’ that autograph will keep her busy.”

  “He doesn’t stand a chance,” I said.

  “My name is Grace Vance, and this is my niece, Mika DuLane, and I expect you have a pair of security passes waiting for us,” I told the guard at the studio entrance. I handed him our drivers’ licenses as I.D. Mika and I traded sly looks over the tops of our skinny black sunglasses. The bright California light made us squint at each other like cats smiling at birds.

  The guard looked through his files, nodded, then handed us a pair of intricate badges with holographic bar codes. High-tech stuff, and only for VIPs. God bless Tex and Mojo. “There you go, ladies.”

  We hung the badges around our necks, fluffed our hair, then headed into a labyrinth of huge soundstages and offices. We looked harmless enough in snug jeans and pastel tank tops, just a pair of Hollywood babes pretending to be Julia Roberts and a teenaged Halle Berry. As we sashayed innocently toward the largest of the soundstages, where a huge sign above one entrance said DEEP SPACE REVENGE, PRODUCTION IN PROGRESS, we got more than a few admiring looks from technical guys, male studio execs, and even a few recognizable actors.

  “It’s working,” Mika whispered. “Boobs and tight jeans are like some kind of distractor shield on a starship.”

  “Let’s hope we get inside that soundstage over there before anyone realizes I’m the Grace Vance who trashed Stone’s movie.”

  “Swish your booty more,” Mika ordered solemnly.

  “Any swishier and I’ll look like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  Mika chortled. I swished. It worked.

  Tex and Mojo were waiting for us. They’d managed to stake out the sound stage’s main door. I exhaled with relief as they waved us inside.

  “Lord-a-mercy,” Tex drawled. “I’ve got no idea how y’all got onto this set or what yahoo got you them passes. You got any clue, Mojo?”

  Mojo shook his head and looked heavenward, as if answers might float down from the stage’s cavernous, industrial ceiling. “It’s just one of those unexplainable lapses in security.”

  I kissed each man on the cheek. Tex sighed. “Heard any more from Boone?”

  “No. I only get information through Jack Roarke. Boone made him swear to keep me in the dark about their location. They’re getting the money together and waiting for me to express-mail a signed photo of Stone.”

  Mojo frowned. “We could have gotten you—”

  “I’m here to get a lot more than Stone’s autograph.”

  Tex and Mojo stared at me. “We were afraid of that,” they said in unison.

  “Stay in the shadows and pretend you didn’t know what I intended to do,” I said to Mika. I kicked off my shoes then started climbing a series of brightly lit ledges and crosspieces, all painted a shiny steel color, meant to mimic the outer section of a giant, multi-tiered space station. The fake space station was surrounded by a bee hive of scaffolds and walkways dotted with cameramen, boom operators, and assistant directors, none of whom had spotted me yet. Nor had two dozen actors—dressed either as lizard-like aliens or human astronauts. They were too busy clinging to the ledges, perches, and crosspieces of the S.S. Senterra’s fake hull.

  Miko called in a loud whisper, “Be careful. There are intergalactic monsters in latex suits up there. You could get a rubber burn.”

  I smiled grimly and kept climbing. Generations of Appalachian Southern womanhood whispered, You have to take care of business, Bless Your Crazy Heart.

  And so I would.

  Stone was the bulky, silvery astronaut a few yards above me. Apparently he was in the midst of filming a scene in which his main acting job was to appear weightless. He had one arm wrapped around a strut of the fake spaceship the way a gorilla hangs onto the play bars at the zoo.

  “Stone!” I yelled. “You can’t get away from me by hiding in outer space!”

  When he looked down and saw me coming he began flailing his free arm. Lobsters trapped in the tank at seafood restaurants look less upset when they see the chef. The world’s highest-paid action star began yelling at me from behind the Plexiglas shield of his silvery fake helmet. Even muted, he sounded furious.

  “You.” Stone’s spit speckled the inside of his visor. “Haven’t you done enough to me already?”

  Alarms sounded. The director yelled Cut, and cameramen perched on cranes gaped through their lenses in disbelief.

  By then I was twenty feet above the studio floor with my bare toes gripping the struts. In another few seconds I reached Stone, who fervently tried to wave me away. I anchored myself in the folds of some squishy silver netting that was supposed to mimic a lizard-alien spider web or something, then grabbed Stone by his spacesuit.

  “Boone’s in trouble! I know you know about it! He needs your help! You can’t just ignore him!”

  “Get off my ship!” Stone shoved his visor up. “This is some kind of scheme to get me to hire Noleene back, isn’t it! Give me one good reason to believe a single word you say! He’s probably sitting at the Downs waiting for me to call him up and beg him to forgive me for firing him! Nobody cares that my feelings are hurt! Nobody cares that my serious debut as a director has been brought to a big, scr
eeching halt!”

  “Stone, listen, this is no scheme—”

  “If I want to finish making Hero I have to recast the main parts and film at least half the movie over again from scratch! From scratch! You and Boone planned it that way! You brainwashed my actors! So don’t tell me about trouble!”

  “I’m not lying to you, I swear! Boone really is in trouble! He and Jack Roarke are somewhere in Louisiana planning to pay two million dollars in ransom for Armand! They can’t go to the police because the guys who have Armand will kill him if the police get involved! If you could just help me find Boone and Roarke, if you could just persuade them to let you schmooze with these thugs, use your star power to dazzle the bastards—”

  “Hah! You can’t make up a better story than that but you accuse me of being a bad writer?”

  “Stone, for godssake, what I’m telling you isn’t a scheme to get Boone’s job back! Believe me! You’ve got to help him! What about honor? And loyalty? And gratitude for all Boone’s done for you?”

  “All he’s done? He helped you sack my movie! I treated him like family but he paid me back by sabotaging my movie! And now you want me to believe he really needs my help? Do I look stupid?”

  “Yes, but that’s beside the point!”

  Two beefy security guards grabbed me from behind. Simultaneously, two stagehands reached Stone on the platform of a cherry picker. Stone backed into the platform’s metal basket like a crab retreating into its sand hole, glaring at me and waving his arms in frustration. He had all the frantic dignity of a giant silver dung beetle. “Go home!” he yelled at me. “I’m not trusting you and Noleene again!”

  “Stone! Please!”

  The brawny security guards pulled me onto a walkway then hustled me down a flight of metal stairs. “Who got you a security pass?” one demanded.