by Sandra Hill
Leroy had gaped at him and said, “Are you nuts? If I start saying ‘golly gee!’ or ‘good heavens!’ or ‘son of a toad!’ they’re either gonna cart me off to the loony bin, or some big bruiser of a convict is gonna think I’m gal-boy bait.”
“You could be right. Maybe you should only speak when spoken to until you can control your tongue, around outside people, at least.”
Using an ancient laptop—at least three years old—Leroy had compiled a list, peck by peck with his big fingers on the small keys to the tune of various colorful swearwords, of all the people who had auditioned so far and those on the list yet to perform, along with background data, like were they prone to shank anyone who rejected their dubious talents?
“You doan want too many yodelers,” Tante Lulu advised Ivak now as they sat side by side in the auditorium.
She must think I am a lackwit.
René, who was a Cajun musician and had masterminded numerous LeDeux talent shows up and down the bayou over the years, made an interesting observation. “You’re taking this too seriously, cher.”
I have no choice but take it seriously. Do the job or scram (from the warden). Do the job or face unpleasant consequences (from St. Michael).
“You gotta have fun with it. Adopt a joie de vivre attitude.”
Joy of life. That is just great. Joy to my Angola world.
“You’re treating this like finding flea shit in a pile of pepper, my friend,” René continued.
Exactly.
“Sorry, Auntie, for my bad language.” René turned back to Ivak. “Stop trying to find the best singer or dancer or yodeler.”
“What the hell should I be looking for then? The worst singer or dancer or yodeler?”
“Maybe. For example, the Sonny and Cher act you told us about.”
“Me ’n Charmaine could create some neat costumes for them,” Tante Lulu offered.
Ivak could only imagine what those two would come up with. An inmate in fishnet stockings and a wig, paired with a guy wearing fur and nothing else. Fun times on the tier block that night!
Today Tante Lulu was wearing her talent scout outfit, presumably what she thought the Hollywood crowd wore. A knee-length white dress, belted at her tiny waist, similar to that famous dress of the screen sex goddess Marilyn something-or-other. If she stepped over an air vent, Ivak might have a stroke. And she very well might topple over with those wedge-heeled white sandals she wore. To top it all off, she wore a blond wig that was beyond description. Suffice it to say, there were curls.
But that was beside the point. René was on a roll now. “And combine some of the acts, too. Like Leroy’s horn with a soul singer.”
“Hey!” Leroy objected. “I never agreed to participate.”
Ivak gave him a telling scowl that pretty much said, Be a team player or I won’t help you.
Leroy muttered under his breath.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh! I have an idea.” Tante Lulu was practically jumping up and down in her seat. “We could get about ten hottie convicts to do a Chippendale kinda dance routine. Tee-John was a stripper once fer about a week; he could teach ’em how. They could start out wearing them old-fashioned striped uniforms. And mebbe we could even find a few men that looked like Richard Simmons. Yum!”
There were so many things wrong with what she’d just said that Ivak didn’t know where to begin. First, he mouthed to René, “Richard Simmons? The exercise nut?”
René grinned and nodded his head.
“Tante Lulu, I don’t think the warden would want that kind of racy act in the show,” Ivak tried to explain as politely as he could. We’d probably have a riot amongst the rest of the prison population wanting the “hotties” for their latest girlfriends. Or boyfriends. “Besides, I think we’d have trouble finding a large number of ‘hotties’ willing to dance and bare all for the crowds.” Actually, that wasn’t quite true. With the right incentive, and it wouldn’t have to be much, desperate men at Angola would do just about anything.
As for Warden Benton, he’d probably agree to a beauty pageant with the men in Speedos if he thought it would rake in more cash, some of which would surely fall into his pocket. Or else, he’d do it just to irritate me.
Please, God, don’t let the idea enter his fool head.
“Betcha I could find a bunch of hot prison Chippies,” Tante Lulu insisted. “Leroy here, fer example, he’d make a great Chippie.”
“Whaaat? No fuc—no way! Playing the trumpet is one thing. Baring my . . . um, horn is another. No frickin’ way!”
Well, at least Tante Lulu had succeeded in getting Leroy’s agreement to play his horn.
“You doan hafta swear,” Tante Lulu said, a bit offended that no one had jumped on her suggestion.
“Let me explain why I’ve tried so hard to find real talent here,” Ivak said to Tante Lulu and René. “I hate the Angola Rodeo. Untrained inmates ‘volunteer’ to cripple or kill themselves getting gored by angry bulls. The rodeo makes a joke out of men’s desperation. The inmates are expendable entertainment.”
“Put a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride to Hell,” Tante Lulu proclaimed.
“What does that mean?” Ivak couldn’t keep up with the old lady’s quirky sayings.
“Desperate men do desperate things,” she explained.
Ivak couldn’t argue with that.
“If you feel so strongly about the rodeo, tell the warden,” René advised Ivak.
“Do you think I haven’t? That’s probably why he assigned me this job. Sorry, Tante Lulu,” Ivak said then, glancing her way, “I know Pierce Benton is a friend of yours, but honestly he’s a man who enjoys being seen as a kindly dictator, when in actuality he’s a bit of a sadist. In my opinion.”
“Hah! I trust that man as far as I could sling an alligator by the tail.” Tante Lulu waved a hand in dismissal. “Doan be apologizin’ ta me. I know Pierce is a toad. Allus was. But sometimes you gotta risk a few warts and pond scum ta get things done.”
Don’t I know it? In my case, it’s slime I’ve got to risk. Lucie slime.
“Besides, Pierce does a lotta good here, too, I reckon. The prison ain’t nearly as bad as it was some years back. They usta call it the Alcatraz of the South.” Tante Lulu sighed philosophically. “Sometimes you gotta take the good with the bad.”
“Guess you’ve got more restraint than I have.”
“I know how you feel,” René said. “Sometimes a good fist in the face holds a lot more appeal than nicey-nice. I used to work as an environmental lobbyist. Believe me, I know all about being polite to people you don’t respect.”
Ivak was liking Tante Lulu and her family more and more. “Prison dehumanizes men, emasculates them, turns even good men bad. Don’t get me wrong, I know how bad the crimes are that these inmates have committed, and I understand the public could not care less about what happens inside these gates, and I know that most of them are irredeemable, but—” Ivak stopped short when he realized that he was sermonizing. Him . . . a world-class sinner . . . sermonizing people? It was a fine turn of events when the fox turned preacher. “Oh shit! I sound like a half-baked, bleeding heart ACLU-er.”
Tante Lulu patted his hand. “Yer jist showin’ you have heart, honey.”
A dead heart.
Time to get back to the business at hand.
Next up was Calvin Corl, a skinny, elderly, black lifer from Alabama who was going to sing the hymn “Amazing Grace.” René went over to the out-of-tune upright piano to accompany the singer. He promised to bring his own keyboard next time.
Calvin wasn’t a bad singer, and his voice was strong for someone so frail, but he rushed through the song so fast that it was hard to understand the words.
Despite René’s admonition that they didn’t need perfection, Ivak couldn’t stand any more. He jumped up and walked over to the low dais on which the auditions were being held.
“No, no, no! Calvin, that is probably the most beautiful hymn in the word. Each word should be savored
. You need to draw out each word, like A-maaa-ziii-ing Graaaa-ce. Do you see what I mean?”
Calvin shook his head slowly, and tears filled his rheumy eyes.
“Now, Calvin,” Ivak said, putting an arm around his shoulder. “You have a fine voice. You just need to take your time. Close your eyes and feel the words. Like this.”
With that advice, Ivak closed his own eyes, and began to sing. Soon, he was lost in the sweet lyrics. He and his brothers had good voices, they’d discovered. Like angels, some said.
Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
The most wonderful thing about this song was that it appealed to almost every person in the world, each making a personal connection with the message. He was especially fond of the stanza that finished some versions of the hymn:
When we’ve been here ten thousand years,
(or more than a thousand, as I have)
Bright shining as the sun,
(and, yes, vangels were shiny angels-in-training)
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
(like forever)
Than when we’d first begun.
(which last count was one thousand, one hundred, and sixty-three years ago, give or take)
As Ivak’s voice trailed off and he slowly opened his eyes to tell Calvin that was how he wanted him to sing the song, he saw that the inmate was staring at him, slack-jawed, as if he was seeing some glorious apparition. It was then that Ivak realized how silent the small auditorium was. René must have stopped playing. Turning, he saw that Tante Lulu was weeping silently, Leroy and René were staring at him with shock, and spectators had come in from the corridor . . . prison staff and a few trusties . . . and were standing at the back, equally stunned.
Ooops! he thought, and immediately admonished himself. Do not call attention to yourself, lackwit. Do not call attention to yourself, lackwit, Do not . . .
“Uh, that’s how I want you to try to sing the song,” he told Calvin.
“You were born on Crazy Creek if you think I could ever sing like that,” Calvin protested.
“I’ve had years more practice than you have,” Ivak assured him. Many years more! More years than you can count. “You’ll do fine. Just slow down and think about the words.” And this time, while René accompanied him, Calvin sounded pretty good.
They were able to accomplish a lot by the time Tante Lulu and René went off to have lunch at the Ranch House. Leroy had to report for work at the Angolite. Ivak had a job to do, too. A van full of new inmates was being brought in, and Ivak liked to be there to help in any way he could. In particular, he tried to protect those younger, weaker inmates . . . “fresh fish,” who would be pounced upon by older, jaded, evil-to-the-bone predators to serve as sexual partners, or even sexual slaves, bought and sold.
To Ivak’s surprise, eight of the ten new inmates were vangels sent by his brothers to infiltrate the prison and act as backup for Ivak in routing out Lucies in the area. Ivak had nothing to do with inmate assignments, but he noticed that each of the eight was sent to different living quarters. Mike’s doing, he assumed. Two in the Main Prison where the most hardened criminals were housed, and the others to the camps. They made eye contact with Ivak, but did not speak to him directly. The other two inmates were repeat offenders who were familiar with Angola and not in need of Ivak’s help.
It was only then that Ivak allowed himself to think about Gabrielle. And not just the kiss, either. There was that wild erotic dream to mull over . . . and over . . . and over.
With a smile, he called Tante Lulu’s telephone at her cottage. It was one p.m., so Gabrielle should be up and about by now, even though she had appeared totally exhausted last night when he’d carried her into the tiny bedroom.
Now that he had other vangels in place here at the prison, he might be able to get away for an hour or two to spend some time with his soul mate. Assuming that is what she was. He needed more time with her to make sure. Maybe, if he was lucky, she would still be in bed. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could try some of Trond’s near-sex activities. Or they could reenact last night’s dream.
Turned out he was not to be lucky that day.
After showering and changing his clothes, he teletransported himself to the bayou cottage. And found it empty. How could that be? Her car was still back in New Orleans since he’d teletransported them both here. Could she have been taken by Lucies? No, they would have no way of tracing her here to this location; nor would they have reason to pursue an innocent, leastways not until they made a connection with him, or Leroy.
Quickly, he teletransported back to Angola and stomped into the newspaper office. “Where the hell is your sister?”
“Huh?” Leroy said, glancing up from the computer keyboard he had been pecking away at, writing an article, Ivak presumed. “You told me that she wouldn’t be visiting me today because she was resting at Tante Lulu’s.”
“That’s where she’s supposed to be, but I just came back from there, and the place is empty.” He could tell that Leroy was about to ask him how he’d gotten to Bayou Black and returned here in such a short time, but Ivak cut him off. “I left a note for her, ordering her to stay at the cottage today, not to come to the prison. And Tante Lulu left a note telling Gabrielle that she would be back late this afternoon, that she and her nephew would handle things related to the talent show for the time being. I can’t imagine why she would leave—”
“Wait a minute.” Leroy held up a hand to halt Ivak’s next words. “You frickin’ ordered my sister to stay home?”
Ivak nodded tentatively.
Leroy started laughing hilariously. “You dumb fuck! You don’t know my sister at all.”
Nine
You can’t hold a good woman down . . .
Gabrielle awakened abruptly to bright sunshine and noticed by the St. Jude clock on the bedside table that it was a shocking ten a.m.
Well, no wonder, after that dream last night. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? Her face burned just thinking about what she had done.
When was the last time she’d had a dream like that?
Never.
When was the last time she’d slept so late?
Not since she was in college, before law school.
Her inner alarm had been a dependable wake-up call at six a.m. as long as she could remember. In fact, her best work was done during those early morning hours before the rise and shine of the rest of the world.
Ah, well, she thought, stretching. She’d been under a lot of stress lately. Forget about six a.m. How about waking up every hour during the night, worrying about Leroy?
Suddenly, she recalled the events of the night before. Not the dream. The other events.
Had she really witnessed those horrific creatures in the back courtyard of the Anguish restaurant? Had Ivak Sigurdsson, the Angola chaplain or whatever he was, really told her that fantastic story about demon and angel vampires? Had she willingly agreed to leave her apartment in the city to come stay here at Tante Lulu’s cottage? Or had she been under some kind of spell?
Well, she was under no spell now. With belated determination, she jumped off the bed and immediately noticed the blue feather on her pillow. Picking it up, she had the odd impulse to sniff it. The fine hairs stood out all over her body as she recognized the scent of cloves and sandalwood.
Shaking her head to clear it of the creepy sense of unreality that surrounded her, she tossed the feather, chagrined to see it flutter back onto the pillow. Following the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee through a silent house, she made her way to the kitchen.
There was no one in the kitchen, but there was a note. Two notes, actually. The first, on a piece of writing paper with a St. Jude letterhead, was from Tante Lulu, of course. Her small, perfect script read: “Gone with René to Angola to help with the talent show. Make yourself at home and rest today. Tante Lulu.�
�
The other note was from Ivak. For a blip of a second, Gabrielle had a memory of the man placing her in bed last night, tucking her in, and kissing her forehead. Was that a memory, or a dream? And then there was the dream itself! Looking down, she saw the same clothes she’d had on last night . . . the silk PJs . . . and bare feet.
Ivak’s note said in big, masculine strokes: “Stay here today, sweetling, and be safe. You are under my shield now. I will take care of everything. Ivak Sigurdsson.”
“Stay here today,” she repeated aloud. Did the man dare to give her orders? Did he think she would stay home like a meek little lamb, just because he said so? Hah! She hadn’t planned to go to Angola today anyhow, having been there yesterday, but she had a job and a two p.m. meeting with all the employees at the Second Chances office in New Orleans to go over the schedule of legal cases for the next month. Leroy was not the only inmate they were working to release from prison. Not by a Louisiana long shot.
Gabrielle drank two cups of the strong coffee that Tante Lulu had left in the pot on the stove, along with a platter of scrambled eggs and sausages and heavenly light, buttered biscuits that had been left warming in the oven. It was only then that Gabrielle recalled that she had no car here. She had no memory of how she’d gotten here, but knew instinctively that it hadn’t been in her car. When she looked out the window to the driveway, her suspicions were confirmed. She was trapped here in the middle of bayou nowhere with no vehicle. After a couple of minutes of pondering, she picked up her cell phone and called the number of Charmaine’s beauty spa in Houma, which was tacked on a small bulletin board in the kitchen.
“Charmaine LeDeux, please?” she said to the receptionist.
“Who’s calling?”
“Gabrielle Sonnier. I’m at her aunt’s place on Bayou Black.”
“Just a minute. Here she comes.”
“Charmaine Lanier here.”
Oops. Gabrielle realized that she had asked for Charmaine by her maiden name. “Hi, Charmaine. This is Gabrielle Sonnier. Listen, I’m kind of stuck out here at your aunt’s place with no transportation. Is there a taxi service or a bus I can catch to New Orleans? I have a two o’clock appointment.”
