Charming Grace (38 page)

I edged a Birkenstock that way. “Go ahead and club me with an ankle weight. I expect your years as an enforcer for the mob taught you how to bash somebody without leaving a mark.”

“I ought to knock out one of your front teeth. A tooth for a tooth.”

“I didn’t knock your teeth out. I only loosened two caps.”

“Cut the crap. I know what your plan is. You’re going to infiltrate my brother’s movie and fuck it up.”

“I’m a consultant. I plan to consult. That’s all.” She backed me against the pine, pushing her angry face close to mine. I smelled sweat and Diamond’s Sin, her spicy perfume line. “Ah, the scent of aerobics and incense.”

“I’m
watching
you, Grace. And I’m keeping my eye on Noleene, too. I don’t know what kind of magic you have between your legs, but you’re using it on him pretty freakin’ well,
aren’t
you? You sure know how to pick men, Grace. First a goofy loner with a death wish, and now a loser ex-con.”

“You never had many friends as a child,
did
you?”

“Noleene’s doomed. He’s a follower, not a leader. Big dreams but no balls. My brother rescued him, but it won’t stick. So I’m making it my job to do damage control. Your big Cajun humper is bound to end up back in the big house because of some stupid scheme his brother cooks up. It’s a given. When that day comes, I don’t want the media hitching my brother’s family-man image to the Noleene shit wagon. I’m going to get rid of Boone Noleene long before that happens.”

“The fact that your brother, his wife, and his kids adore Boone and trust him implicitly must fry your grits. He earned that trust, and you
know
it.”

She stabbed a middle finger at me, leveling it at my eyes, the long nail threatening to skewer my baby greens like a talon. “All I have to do is prove to my brother that Noleene’s helping you pull your little inside job on this movie,” she whispered. “And he’ll be gone for good.”

“Don’t buy a sweater for that cold day in hell.”

“Gone. . .for. . .good,” she emphasized. She backed away, turned the deadly finger upward so it became The Finger, smiled, and headed back down the trail toward Camp Senterra.

Whump.

Diamond whirled around as the ankle weight slammed into the trunk of an oak, inches from her head. The hard, heavy, misshapen weight flopped to the ground beside her.

“You forgot your heart,” I said.

SCENE:
Daylight; lunchtime; one of the most famous restaurants in Atlanta. Harp, Grace, Grunt, and Siam Patton crowd around a table.

HARP

                  (to Grace)

Honey, it’s my
job
to catch the Turn-key. Don’t worry so much.

GRACE

I just don’t understand why you have to risk your life running around in the woods after this bomber.

GRUNT

Our job is saving lives.

GRACE

But—

SIAM

Listen, chick, life’s not a beauty pageant, okay?

First of all, I
never
whined about Harp’s work. Secondly, if that idiotic Diamond clone, Siam Patton, had really existed, and had
really
opened her muscled little mouth to say what the script said she said to me, she’d have been pulling my salad fork out of her forehead five seconds later. And thirdly, nothing and no one, not even me, could have gotten Harp up to the top of the Atlanta restaurant where that bogus scene was being filmed, 80 floors above ground level. He hated heights, even in a hotel.

The only other time a film had been shot in the sky-high glass tube known as Atlanta’s Westin Peachtree Plaza, a stunt man did a deliberate high dive out a window on the fifty-seventh floor. The film was
Sharkey’s Machine
, the year was 1977, and Burt Reynolds was the star. Now the film was
Hero
, the year was now, and though he didn’t order anybody to jump through the plate glass, Stone made Burt look like an amateur in the ego department.

The Sundial
, that famous, glass-walled, revolving restaurant perched on the Westin’s roof, shifted in tiny increments, showing a global view of the city and distant horizons of the whole top half of Georgia. The Confederate carvings of Stone Mountain, the historic black business district of Auburn Avenue, the MLK, Jr. memorial, President Carter’s official library, Margaret Mitchell’s gravesite, CNN Center, the Braves’ home —Turner Stadium, unofficially known as The Ted—and Piedmont Hospital— where Harp had died, fighting the Turn-Key—all of that heart-of-Dixie, heart-of-mine heritage pirouetted around us as if the Westin were the centerpiece of a giant clock. Senterra Productions had taken over the restaurant for one day of filming. I felt like pressing my face to the Sundial’s enormous windows and yelling for a traffic helicopter to rescue me.

Because, on top of everything else, I was babysitting a snake. Not the boa constrictor, at least. But still.

Every once in a while, my Senterra Productions tote bag emitted a muted sound like a baby rattle. Joe The Copperhead, shaking his tail. Not a good sign. The tote bag was tucked under a restaurant table beside my purse.

Copperheads are one of the most unfriendly species of snake in the entire South. They’re thick, rust-colored snakes, with fat, triangular heads and evil eyes. One bite from an adult copperhead can’t kill a person, but unless you enjoy antibiotics, steroids, and plastic surgery to remove chunks of dead skin around the fang marks, being bitten is no fun. I knew this because Harp had been bitten as a teenager, fending off a snake I surprised in the Downs’ greenhouse.

He never blamed the snake for biting him.

Maybe that was why Joe’s owner had come to trust him. Marvin Jerimiad Constraint, didn’t trust many people. He was known to his few friends—by
friends
, meaning the snake and Harp—as ‘The Crazy Bastard.’

“The crazy bastard is the best tracker in five states,” Harp always said. Harp liked Marvin. He understood a reclusive, hollow-dwelling, society-hating mountain man. “Marvin’s not dangerous to anybody except mice,” Harp said. “A man’s got to keep his snake fed.”

Marvin had come down from the hills only twice in his life: Once, to cry at Harp’s funeral. And now, to work on the set of
Hero
.

“I need a voice coach,” Lowe had said to me. “Someone who speaks Harp’s exact mountain dialect. Admit it, Grace. Every time I do a Southern accent I see you covering your face.”

“I’m sorry, but your accent is terrible. Forrest Gump, meet Crocodile Dundee.” I paused. “Bless your heart.”

He moaned. “Grace, please. I’ll do anything to get this right. I can’t control much about this fiasco of a film, but I can at least speak the lingo well. There’s got to be some bloke out there who talks like Harp—someone you can recommend.”

So I called on Marvin. To be precise, I didn’t
call
him, since he didn’t own a phone. I sent a polite note via a forestry service ranger, promising to pay all his expenses and to send someone to drive him for the five-hour round-trip trek from his mountain hollow to the big city. I also sent the gifts Harp used to give him: a bag of homemade cheese straws, a box of rolling papers, a case of name-brand gin, and a gift certificate for twenty feeder mice from a north Georgia pet shop. Marvin was won over by civilized correspondence backed up by edible goods for him and Joe. Plus he wanted to honor Harp’s memory. He showed up in Atlanta on schedule.

He didn’t mention he was bringing Joe to keep him company.

When I saw Marvin arrive carrying a camo-covered box with air holes, every short hair on my body stood out straight. I said some horrified things under my breath, then went to find Boone. He didn’t even blink when I told him a four-foot-long poisonous snake was now secretly residing on the Senterra Productions’ movie set, not to mention in the elegant confines of Atlanta’s most famous trademark restaurant.
The Sundial
had survived drunken Lithuanian hockey players during the ‘96 Olympics. I wasn’t sure it could survive Marvin and Joe.

“It’ll be okay,
chere
,” Boone said. “You watch the snake, and I’ll watch Marvin. Unless you want it the other way around.”

After a moment of thought, I said, “I prefer the snake.”

Marvin was somewhere between forty and a thousand years old, missing two front teeth and most of his common sense. He favored plaid Goodwill shirts with army surplus fatigue pants, and believed a secret cabal of Rotarians—aided by Shriners, the government, and atheists— was out to rule the world. As I said, he didn’t trust many people. When I introduced him to Boone his emotional hackles rose like the feathers on a ruffled rooster.

“Bodyguard? Security man? You just stay away from me, mister.”

Boone arched a brow. “That a snake in your bag, or are you just glad to see me?”

“The snake is a test from God. You plannin’ to cause God some grief?”

“No, but if that snake gets loose in this restaurant, I’ll cause
you
some grief.”

“You gonna snitch on me?”

“Not as long as you keep your snake to yourself. I got nothing against snakes. Snakes just want to be left alone to do their business. As far as I’m concerned, snakes deserve their own bill of rights.”

Marvin studied him in surprise, then frowned at
me
. “This feller’s got the light of angels behind him. Same as Harp. Don’t you let
this
one get hisself killed protecting sinners.”

Awkward moment. Tender moment. Unhappy moment. Boone glared at Marvin. I pretended to peer inside the air holes of Joe’s cage.

So now Boone and I were babysitting a snake. We left Joe in his box inside a Senterra Production tote bag, sequestered safely under a table. Then we took up a position in the shadows near a plush, secluded booth where Marvin faced Lowe. Marvin ordered and drank three imported beers without saying more than ten words, and those ten were directed at the waiter. Lowe frowned and asked him questions, which Marvin ignored. Suddenly Marvin plucked a tall, exquisite, bird-of-paradise bloom out of a bud vase.

And ate it.

“I think that might be bad for your stomach, mate,” Lowe said, staring at him.

“Who you callin’
mate
, boy?” Marvin said loudly. His voice took on the timbre of stagnant molasses. “You want to
mate
with me, boy?”

Lowe gaped at him. “Who you callin’
mate
, BOY,” he echoed perfectly.

Marvin scowled. “You makin’ fun of me, boy?”

“You makin’ fun of me, boy?”

“In about five seconds I’m gonna
gut
you and eat your intestines, you goddamned foreigner.”

“In about five seconds—” Lowe stopped when he realized what Marvin had just said. He gave a shaky chuckle. “Mr. Constraint, I’m just practicing what you say.”

“Why?”

Lowe exhaled slowly. “Your accent, your dialect—fantastic! Let me get you on tape so I can study every detail of your voice.” Lowe punched the
record
button on a miniature tape recorder. Lowe placed an open script in front of Marvin. “Read some of Harp’s lines for me, please.”

Marvin leaned back, squint-eyed, chewed the chomped stem of the bird of paradise, then consented to pick up the script. He read silently for a minute, then put the script down and stared at Lowe. “If Harp Vance ever said dumb shit like
this
in front of me, I’d’ve skinned him alive and used his meat for stew.”

“Just read it out loud, okay?”

“
I ain’t readin’ this shit
.”

“Please, mate. I mean, Mr. Constraint.”

“Nope. I’m
outta
here. This is an abomination to Harp Vance’s memory.” Marvin threw the script down and turned around in the booth, searching. His eyes locked on me. “Why are you helpin’ these people make a fool of your husband?”

Prickles of shame washed over my skin. The obvious answers died in my throat.
Excuses
. “Because I can’t stop them.”

“You could walk away. Turn your back. Ain’t nobody twistin’ your arm to be here.”