Sunday Banana Pudding Wars. Held down at Francine’s Café, the wars had become somewhat notorious in the South.
“Speaking of Celia, rumor has it that one of the upcoming television show episodes will feature the Banana Pudding Wars.” I’d shoot to wound. Gertie had fought dirty when she’d mentioned Carter.
“Wonder who came up with that idea?” Gertie stilled. “Ida Belle, where is your head?”
Ida Belle slapped her hands against her ears as if she needed to steady the head in question. “What’s the matter now?”
“You should’ve told me about this.” Gertie thinned her lips. Her small nostrils pulsed. “What are we going to do with...” She jabbed a pointed finger at me. “Her?”
“The ‘her’ in question is right here,” I said, perturbed.
“What do you mean?” Ida Belle kept breaking beans. “She’s a big girl. Thanks to the young Deputy LeBlanc, she can even throw on some heels and walk straight in them.”
“On Sundays. And Carter doesn’t have a thing to do with what I’m talking about.” After a few quiet moments, strictly for theatrical impact, Gertie added, “Fortune, you have to leave town.”
“She’s right. They can call that television show anything they choose, but Bayou Babes is our story and that story includes you.”
I processed. Thanks to my knack for agitating the most dangerous arms dealer in the world, I’d been living in Sinful under an assumed identity. With cameras rolling, laying low was off the table, particularly when there was a lucrative reward for my head. To make matters worse, I was worth more alive.
I shuddered at the thought of torture. I enjoyed my job with the CIA and didn’t mind pulling a gun and using it. In my line of work, blood and guts represented a busy day at the office but agonizing pain and tremendous suffering?
I just didn’t see it working for me.
“You okay, Fortune?” Ida Belle looked up.
CIA Director Morrow had recently passed along some threats through our mutual contact. Fellow Agent Ben Harrison had taken the time to describe how Ahmad—the arms dealer who wanted me to survive forty days and forty nights of excruciating pain—planned to torture me. The man apparently didn’t believe in forgiveness. Sure, I’d killed his only brother, but he should’ve considered the ‘why’ behind it.
His brother was a criminal and deserved to die.
How it went down wasn’t my fault. The only weapon on hand was part of my wardrobe—which probably explained why the CIA’s best agents were still laughing over the “Stiletto Scandal” and further clarified why Gertie thought I should skip town.
“Fortune?” Gertie snapped her fingers in front of my face.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Isn’t she precious?” Gertie said, a hint of sarcasm hanging in her lip. “She arrives here in Sinful determined not to like it. Now she’d rather die than think about leaving.”
The phone rang. The vibrating device slid across the slick counter. I took a deep breath, still stuck on Gertie’s accusation. I’d rather die? I grunted. Not quite.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“Dead people don’t answer their phones, Gertie,” I said, satisfied with my response.
The phone kept buzzing. Ida Belle wagged her finger at Gertie and Gertie stretched her neck to see the caller ID. “Well before you select your casket and plot, you might want to grab that. It’s Carter and he’ll probably want to arrange a time to kiss you goodbye.”
Chapter Two
“So she just up and left?” Carter’s disappointment poured through the phone.
I almost felt bad for him. Almost .
Ida Belle and Gertie looked at one another and nodded. Knowing those two, they probably believed my kitchen was wired for surveillance.
“Did she say when she’d be back?”
“Speaking of Celia, rumor has it that one of the upcoming television show episodes will feature the Banana Pudding Wars.” I’d shoot to wound. Gertie had fought dirty when she’d mentioned Carter.
“Wonder who came up with that idea?” Gertie stilled. “Ida Belle, where is your head?”
Ida Belle slapped her hands against her ears as if she needed to steady the head in question. “What’s the matter now?”
“You should’ve told me about this.” Gertie thinned her lips. Her small nostrils pulsed. “What are we going to do with...” She jabbed a pointed finger at me. “Her?”
“The ‘her’ in question is right here,” I said, perturbed.
“What do you mean?” Ida Belle kept breaking beans. “She’s a big girl. Thanks to the young Deputy LeBlanc, she can even throw on some heels and walk straight in them.”
“On Sundays. And Carter doesn’t have a thing to do with what I’m talking about.” After a few quiet moments, strictly for theatrical impact, Gertie added, “Fortune, you have to leave town.”
“She’s right. They can call that television show anything they choose, but Bayou Babes is our story and that story includes you.”
I processed. Thanks to my knack for agitating the most dangerous arms dealer in the world, I’d been living in Sinful under an assumed identity. With cameras rolling, laying low was off the table, particularly when there was a lucrative reward for my head. To make matters worse, I was worth more alive.
I shuddered at the thought of torture. I enjoyed my job with the CIA and didn’t mind pulling a gun and using it. In my line of work, blood and guts represented a busy day at the office but agonizing pain and tremendous suffering?
I just didn’t see it working for me.
“You okay, Fortune?” Ida Belle looked up.
CIA Director Morrow had recently passed along some threats through our mutual contact. Fellow Agent Ben Harrison had taken the time to describe how Ahmad—the arms dealer who wanted me to survive forty days and forty nights of excruciating pain—planned to torture me. The man apparently didn’t believe in forgiveness. Sure, I’d killed his only brother, but he should’ve considered the ‘why’ behind it.
His brother was a criminal and deserved to die.
How it went down wasn’t my fault. The only weapon on hand was part of my wardrobe—which probably explained why the CIA’s best agents were still laughing over the “Stiletto Scandal” and further clarified why Gertie thought I should skip town.
“Fortune?” Gertie snapped her fingers in front of my face.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Isn’t she precious?” Gertie said, a hint of sarcasm hanging in her lip. “She arrives here in Sinful determined not to like it. Now she’d rather die than think about leaving.”
The phone rang. The vibrating device slid across the slick counter. I took a deep breath, still stuck on Gertie’s accusation. I’d rather die? I grunted. Not quite.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“Dead people don’t answer their phones, Gertie,” I said, satisfied with my response.
The phone kept buzzing. Ida Belle wagged her finger at Gertie and Gertie stretched her neck to see the caller ID. “Well before you select your casket and plot, you might want to grab that. It’s Carter and he’ll probably want to arrange a time to kiss you goodbye.”
Chapter Two
“So she just up and left?” Carter’s disappointment poured through the phone.
I almost felt bad for him. Almost .
Ida Belle and Gertie looked at one another and nodded. Knowing those two, they probably believed my kitchen was wired for surveillance.
“Did she say when she’d be back?”
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