by D. A. Bale
“But what does this mean for Seth?” I asked.
“I’ll tell him you’re a no-go,” Grady admitted, “and he’ll have to let a DEA agent or Ranger handle the job.”
“And if he won’t?”
“Then he’ll be looking at disbarment and hard time.”
“Seriously?” My voice went up a couple of notches. Janine would be proud of those high notes. “I mean, he’s the one who came to you…well, technically me. You guys wouldn’t put him in jail for that.”
Grady shrugged. “It’s a possibility. Whether under duress or his own culpability, Seth has admitted to moonlighting within a drug-running organization. At this stage, he either cooperates or goes down with the ship.”
“This is Dallas. There are no ships.”
“Regardless, the choice is his.”
“Which is now my choice,” I returned.
“True.”
No pressure or anything.
“Look,” Grady continued with a sigh. “I’m only the liaison here since this is outside ATF mandate. If you’re reconsidering this, I’ll wait to inform the DEA pinheads who outrank me until after your trip.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Then I can sleep on it.”
Ah, sleep. How I needed thee.
“Only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Grady gave me the hot-and-bothered – er, agent stare down again. “Until further notice, avoid outside contact with Seth unless he’s just a patron in the bar. Don’t talk about this with friends or family. And most importantly, don’t tell Zeke.”
***
On that happy note, so much for sleeping on my decision. Sleep simply eluded me over the next couple of nights as I contemplated Seth’s – and now my – situation. I mean, I was dating the guy’s best friend, so how was I supposed to avoid him? Saturday left me with too much time in my head while I finished packing and preparing for Louisiana. Getting out of town right about now turned out to be a good thing, ‘cause I had way more to think about than to worry about Radioman’s apology tour text-mania. Thank God for moms and best friends.
Mom had provided plenty of notice ahead of time that wheels up on the Gulfstream was Sunday at two o’clock – sharp. That was her way of saying I needed to be at the airfield with all luggage in tow no later than one hour ahead of takeoff. Even after setting my alarm clock, phone alarm, getting a call from my mother after the early church service and from Janine less than twenty minutes later, and then having my best friend pound on my front door – whew! – the car service dropped us off at the private terminal a mere fifteen minutes before flight time.
Blame it on my furry feline.
Slinky’s grown less than fond of travel. Well, it isn’t so much the traveling part as being stuffed into the cat carrier after all of the home hopping and residential rearrangements we’ve dealt with the past several months. Nowadays anytime Slinky sees the carrier come out from the closet, he scurries away to an all-new hiding place that requires me to learn the dying art of contortionism. I never realized how skilled cats were at opening cabinet doors.
But I digress.
When we hit the tarmac at about a thousand miles-per-hour and screeched to a stop guaranteed to leave skid marks that’d make a NASCAR driver proud, I was surprised to see the De’Laruse private jet being fueled for takeoff. The Bohanan Gulfstream G650 was nothing to sneer at, but it was a far cry from the grandeur and luxury of the Boeing BBJ class. Besides having seating capacity of well over twice the number of occupants, the BBJ boasted a starting price tag in excess of seventy-five million. After Charlotte De’Laruse had finished ordering extravagant upgrades, it was likely more in the range of a quarter billion.
And I ain’t talking rubles or rupees, folks.
I kept a firm grip on the critter carrier as we passed off enough luggage for a month’s stay and hoofed it up the staircase into the plane.
“Welcome aboard, Miss De’Laruse,” the blond middle-aged flight attendant said with almost a curtsey. “Miss Bohanan, it’s good to see you again.”
“Hi, Kit,” Janine returned. “Is everyone else aboard?”
“Yes, ma’am. Pre-flight check will be complete once we finish fueling, so you’ll wish to buckle up as soon as possible. Can I get you ladies something to drink from the galley?”
“Diet Dr. Pepper for me,” Janine called over her shoulder as she muscled her way into the conference room.
“And for you, Miss Bohanan?”
“Jack Daniels…straight up.”
The perpetual smile drooped ever so slight and unnaturally white teeth clenched to hold it in place. “I’m sorry, but the De’Laruse jet is a dry zone. Can I interest you in anything else? A cola perhaps?”
“Just messing with you, Kit. I’ll take a Dr. Pepper too…with sugar,” I joked, though I’d have given anything right then for a stiff drink. I’d need it to get through the next hour of close proximity to the sperm donor. If I’d been thinking clearer earlier instead of playing find-the-feline, I’d have stashed some contraband in with the cat.
The recessed lighting guided us through the conference slash dining room at the front of the plane and around the divider wall into the more comfortable living room styled center section. We were greeted by pursed lips and sour expressions from the motherly duo.
“Janine Adelaide De’Laruse,” her mom cried. “Where have you been?”
Uh-oh. It’s never a good sign when your full name comes flying out of your mother’s mouth.
“Well…uh, you see…,” Janine stammered.
“You were given strict orders to arrive no later than one o’clock,” Charlotte scolded.
“But we had…”
“Because of your complete negligence and disregard for others, we will not make our two o’clock takeoff window, which will then delay our arrival and worry your poor grandmother to death…and on the week of her ninetieth birthday.”
“We could always call and let her know if we run late,” I suggested.
“Victoria,” my mother interceded with a miniscule head shake, though I don’t know if it was on my behalf or in spite of my mouth. The accompanying stern set of her lips and the glint in her green eyes suggested the latter.
Janine continued trying to right the situation. “I’d be glad to make the call to Grandma-ma.”
“Don’t blame Janine. It was all my fault,” I said, before plopping Slinky’s crate on the cream lambskin chair on the opposite side of the plane and buckling the cat in place so he could keep an eye on me during the flight.
“But I phoned you, Victoria,” Mom said. “Twice.”
Must’ve missed one somewhere in there. “Okay, then more like Slinky’s fault,” I clarified. “He’s developed an aversion to travel of late.”
Janine buckled up next to me. “We had a terrible time finding him.”
“And then I had to pull off some pretty interesting moves to get him out,” I added, extending the footrest and reclining. “Got a stitch in my side the size of Texas to prove it.”
Though that might’ve been more from our jog across the tarmac to the plane. But hey, what a mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?
Janine glanced around. “Did we beat Dad?”
“Your father is not accompanying us,” Charlotte replied, before staring out the window in morose concentration.
“Mom?” I called across the expanse separating us.
Was it true? Was I really gonna get a reprieve from a week of listening to the sperm donor recite all the ways I’d failed him as a daughter?
Mom tossed a concerned look toward her best friend then leaned our way. “Your fathers had some last-minute urgent business to attend to in Houston. They took the Gulfstream down immediately after church services this morning and will join us in a day or two.”
Or three or four if my dad had anything to say about it. But hey, who’s complaining? Less days for me to work out new ways to avoid him. He probably needed a little extra free time to add t
o his photographic stash anyway, since I possessed the bulk of his digital dalliances from the early years. Purely for self-preservation purposes, I assure you. At least Mom’s explanation answered the question of why we were taking the enormous De’Laruse jet on such a short jaunt.
“Did Georgie go with them then?” Janine asked as Kit brought our drinks.
She set a sugar packet on the table next to mine. Talk about taking things literally, but I guess I did ask for a Dr. Pepper with sugar. Did no one nowadays understand the concept of a witty joke? Sarcasm anyone?
Charlotte rejoined the conversation at the mention of the favored only son of the De’Laruse clan. “Georgie was looking for something in the bedroom suite earlier.”
“We’ve secured the doors, and are ready to taxi. Please insure the swivel feature on your seats remains locked until we are safely in the air,” Kit said, standing as if before royalty. “Shall I inform Mr. George, Mrs. De’Laruse?”
“Yes, Kitty. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to young Georgie. The future of the De’Laruse empire rests with him.”
I kept my eye roll between Janine and me as Kit walked around the partial wall case then opened the rear bedroom door. The accompanying squeal and slam signaled the younger De’Laruse was up to his old tricks.
The lesson here? It’s always a good idea to knock before entering any room where George was concerned. Little more than thirty seconds later the bedroom door opened and shut again, and a red-faced Kit, accompanied by a much younger disheveled flight attendant, walked quickly through toward the jet’s nose.
George De’Laruse followed moments after, just as the co-pilot made the final announcement over the intercom that we were preparing to taxi, and the weather was good all the way to Hammond, Louisiana.
“Buckle up quickly, Georgie dear,” Mrs. De’Laruse called over her shoulder, completely oblivious to what her baby-faced boy had been up to.
Looking for something, my ass – more like looking for a piece of ass. When it came to the De’Laruse DNA milkshake, something truly frightening must’ve been added to the mix somewhere. George came out of the womb groping the breasts of every woman within a five-mile radius. And no, he wasn’t just looking for a dinner invitation. Doubt if Charlotte ever breast-fed either of her offspring.
Which might go a long way in explaining George’s desire to get as much mammary gland nourishment from as many women as possible now.
All two-hundred and fifty pounds of blubber and over-stimulated hormones plopped onto the wraparound sectional right behind Janine and me and flicked on the television. I kept my eyes forward, but it did little to dispel the notion of the De’Laruse plane being a dry zone. Smelled like young George had a stash hidden somewhere in the plane’s rear.
“Hi, Vicki,” he slurred near my ear. “After we level off, wanna join the Mile High Club?”
The plane jerked as we taxied toward the runway. George used the moment to full advantage, slamming against the back of my chair and reaching around to grab a handful of my blouse – and everything in it.
What’d I tell you?
Janine sucked in a shocked breath before I proceeded to twist the hand that tried to feed from my mammary glands – and got a satisfying whimper from the clammy calamity culprit.
“I’m already a member,” I whispered, and gave his wrist another twist for good measure.
George yelped like a hound dog that had lost his favorite bone.
“Janine, leave your brother alone,” Mrs. De’Laruse cried, then tempered her tone. “Georgie, it’s time to sit down and buckle your seatbelt before you hurt yourself.”
Fifteen minutes into the familial frolicking, and we were already off to business as usual among the head-in-sand crowd – and once again, it fell to me to keep George-the-Slimeball in his place. Over the years, I’d come to the realization that George had grown on me – like a fungus. Between the greasy, product-infused hair, perpetual pimples, and always appearing rumpled like he’d just fallen out of bed, the youngest De’Laruse – on whom the family placed all their hopes and dreams – was a walking, talking, spokesman for contraception.
And all without saying a single word.
A chuckle burbled inside me like carbonated soda. Then I chuckled some more. I put my head against Janine’s shoulder to stifle the stirring girly giggles as if I’d become ten again. Janine covered her mouth and leaned in toward me like the two little devious and devilish girls we used to be.
Maybe the devilish part was more me. Okay, okay – the devious too.
Janine whispered, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Oh, yeah.”
My best friend and I were headed on a trip together like the days of old – the good, the bad, and the ugly brother. Time once again to plot some old-fashioned antics to terrorize and traumatize one cushioned and coddled younger De’Laruse sibling. At least that gave me something else to think about besides my job situation, drug runners, attorneys, guy friends, and crying in my beer – er, Dr. Pepper.
Damnit.
Chapter Five
Bald cypress, elm, and two hundred year-old oak trees that had survived Hurricane Katrina’s wrath, hovered along the periphery of the paved drive leading from the highway to Heaven’s Gate, the antebellum home of the Louisiana branch of the De’Laruse family tree. The tunnel-like effect blocked the afternoon sun as we bounced nearer the mansion situated east of Hammond.
Between the five of us we had enough luggage to fill three cars. Good thing Adelaide De’Laruse had sent not just the limousine but the Bentley too. The beautifully restored 1928 Bentley had been the pride and joy of Louie De’Laruse – Lou to his friends – before his untimely demise. Well, at the age of ninety-seven I guess it wasn’t untimely. More like sudden. Unexpected. Though he’d smoked cigars like a chimney stack his entire life, Old Man De’Laruse had never known a single sick day – until he finally grew sick of the constant nagging.
But I digress.
Janine and I got the luck of the draw – or more like got a running head start off the plane – and secured rights to ride in the Bentley from the Hammond airport to the manor. The familiar scent of cigar smoke had wafted from the interior the moment we set foot inside the old car.
I breathed deep. “Have you taken liberties with Old Man De’Laruse’s cigar stash since he’s been gone, Pierre?”
The long-time De’Laruse driver smiled at me in the rearview mirror, his gray eyes filled with mirth despite the studious demeanor. “It’d be a shame to let ‘em to go to waste, Miss Victoria.”
Janine leaned forward. “How do you get them past Grandma-ma?”
The edge of Pierre’s top lip twitched. Nailed him. “He’s joking, Janine.”
Pierre chuckled. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited, Miss Victoria. I’ve forgotten how perceptive you are.”
“It’s a gift,” I said, relaxing into the tufted leather seat.
Janine glanced between us with a quick sniff. “But it does smell like Grandpa-pa’s cigars.”
“That it does, Miss Janine,” Pierre acknowledged. “The leather holds onto the old fumes while the heat from the sun brings it to the surface. I could steam the seats clean of it, but the scent is a comfortin’ reminder of all the years I drove for Mr. De’Laruse.”
“I still miss him,” Janine said.
“As do I,” Pierre acknowledged.
The car puttered along in uncomfortable and emotional silence for a mile or so until I broke it. “I’m surprised Addie hasn’t sold the Bentley. Does she actually let you drive her around in it?”
Pierre shook his head and rubbed a loving hand over the dashboard. “Miss Adelaide prefers the limousine. I’m only allowed to drive this car around the circular drive a couple times a month to keep it in runnin’ order. Doubt if she’d ever entertain the idea of sellin’ this beauty.”
We rounded a curve then thudded-thudded-thudded over the old creek bridge. The De’Laruse clan had farmed thousands of Louis
iana acres until the Civil War brought their operation to a screeching halt. Many plantations were burned out by the advancing Union Army, especially after taking the port at New Orleans and then Fort Pike on Lake Pontchartrain. But Heaven’s Gate had survived, becoming a staging point for the Union Army’s ground operations – all because of the nearby rail lines.
‘Course this did nothing but fuel rumors of collusion with the Union. But don’t you dare say such things to Adelaide De’Laruse’s face and denigrate her late husband’s great-granddaddy. Better to do like everyone else in the area.
Say it behind her back.
Probably the biggest reason for the continued grinding of that rumor mill was due to the addition to the story of hidden Union gold, whose amounts have grown wilder than the oaks. From gold bullion to bricks. From a single trunk to a whole boxcar full. Over the years, the rumors had expanded faster and grown wider than George’s waistline. Janine and I had even set out on our own pursuit for buried treasure many a time while visiting the vast property.
‘Course we were kids then too.
The tree tunnel opened up to reveal manicured lawn and enormous flower boxes lining the way as we approached the namesake gate. The tall cast iron scrollwork outlined angel wings in the center that parted when the gates opened as if welcoming us to Heaven.
Get it – Heaven’s Gate?
Oh, never mind.
Every time I’d gone through said gates growing up, I’d half expected a bright shining light to burn a hole in my retinas and a chorus of angles to shout out hallelujah, she made it after all!
Three stories of white columns loomed before the car convoy as we puttered up the circle drive and around to stop in front of the grand home. After Pierre assisted us from the Bentley then left to assist Maurice with the limo luggage, our fledgling group of five mounted the wide steps. The angel wing motif continued with the leaded glass transom above the thick oak double doors.
A familiar nail-biting nasal tone greeted our entrance. “I’m so glad you could finally make it.”
