script?”
The script supervisor shook her head. Stan groaned.
“And once I’m gone, be sure to try our new gluten-free recipe,” Boyd said to the now visibly confused actress. “It’s every bit as good as our classic mix.”
Stan closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “CUT!”
Boyd got to his feet and turned to the director. “That felt good to me. It resonated with emotional legitimacy.”
Stan looked up at Boyd with a pained expression. “You’re a pancake.”
“Thank you,” Boyd said, giving Stan a slight bow of gratitude. “If you believe that, then I have succeeded. Shall we do it again?”
“No way in hell,” Stan said. “You’re history. Turn in your butter patty and pancake suit. I’m shooting the scene with a computer-generated pancake in postproduction.”
Boyd was on his way to the wardrobe truck when he saw Kate O’Hare leaning against the side of a storage locker. He hadn’t seen Kate in months, not since he’d helped her, Nick, and the mysterious private security agency they worked for find a fugitive and recover half a billion dollars in stolen money. Boyd didn’t know who Kate and Nick
really
were, but they’d given him a juicy role to play and paid in cash, and that’s what mattered to him.
“Those people have no artistic integrity,” Boyd said, pointing at the house he’d just left.
“They didn’t appreciate your psychologically tortured pancake,” Kate said.
She’d never had a conversation with someone in a pancake suit before. But even in that costume, Boyd somehow managed to maintain his dignity.
“You saw my performance?”
She nodded. “The costumers were watching it on monitors in the wardrobe truck. I peeked while I was waiting for you.”
“Then you know that my portrayal was dead-on. He breaks into homes and asks children to eat him. He’s obviously not a well-adjusted pancake.”
“Look at the bright side, Boyd. Now you’re available for another job. One that pays a lot more than this and doesn’t require you to wear a hat of melting butter.”
“What’s the role?”
“Star of a reality TV show shot on location in Palm Beach, Florida.”
“I’m in.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know what we’re really going to be doing.” She looked around. There was no one close enough to eavesdrop, but she lowered her voice to a whisper anyway. “We’re stealing back a stolen object from someone and returning it to its rightful owner.”
“A noble cause and a great part. What more does an actor need to know?”
“If we’re caught, we could be killed, or if we’re really lucky, sent to prison for ten years.”
Boyd waved off Kate’s concern. “It’s still better than playing a pancake for philistines.”
• • •
Carter Grove was living in a forty-nine-million-dollar, twenty-three-thousand-square-foot beachfront estate in Palm Beach. The mansion had taken him three years to build and an additional two years to furnish. The house had a massive, domed rotunda in its center and twin two-story limestone-clad wings branching out on either side. It even had gargoyles carved in stone perched in the eaves.
“Carter modeled his place after Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, Louis XIV’s inspiration for the Palace of Versailles,” Nick said, standing with Kate on the beach in front of the house. “That should tell you something about Carter’s delusions of grandeur.”
“The only thing missing is a moat.”
“Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte was built starting in 1658 by Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s state treasurer,” Nick said. “In 1661, Fouquet invited his boss, Louis, over for a big housewarming party. The king took one look at the opulent castle and was so jealous, he confiscated it and threw Fouquet in prison for life. Maybe that’s why Carter waited until he left the White House to build this.”
Kate thought the house looked as out of place on the white sand beach as a tuna casserole at the Last Supper. But Nick fit right in
The script supervisor shook her head. Stan groaned.
“And once I’m gone, be sure to try our new gluten-free recipe,” Boyd said to the now visibly confused actress. “It’s every bit as good as our classic mix.”
Stan closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “CUT!”
Boyd got to his feet and turned to the director. “That felt good to me. It resonated with emotional legitimacy.”
Stan looked up at Boyd with a pained expression. “You’re a pancake.”
“Thank you,” Boyd said, giving Stan a slight bow of gratitude. “If you believe that, then I have succeeded. Shall we do it again?”
“No way in hell,” Stan said. “You’re history. Turn in your butter patty and pancake suit. I’m shooting the scene with a computer-generated pancake in postproduction.”
Boyd was on his way to the wardrobe truck when he saw Kate O’Hare leaning against the side of a storage locker. He hadn’t seen Kate in months, not since he’d helped her, Nick, and the mysterious private security agency they worked for find a fugitive and recover half a billion dollars in stolen money. Boyd didn’t know who Kate and Nick
really
were, but they’d given him a juicy role to play and paid in cash, and that’s what mattered to him.
“Those people have no artistic integrity,” Boyd said, pointing at the house he’d just left.
“They didn’t appreciate your psychologically tortured pancake,” Kate said.
She’d never had a conversation with someone in a pancake suit before. But even in that costume, Boyd somehow managed to maintain his dignity.
“You saw my performance?”
She nodded. “The costumers were watching it on monitors in the wardrobe truck. I peeked while I was waiting for you.”
“Then you know that my portrayal was dead-on. He breaks into homes and asks children to eat him. He’s obviously not a well-adjusted pancake.”
“Look at the bright side, Boyd. Now you’re available for another job. One that pays a lot more than this and doesn’t require you to wear a hat of melting butter.”
“What’s the role?”
“Star of a reality TV show shot on location in Palm Beach, Florida.”
“I’m in.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know what we’re really going to be doing.” She looked around. There was no one close enough to eavesdrop, but she lowered her voice to a whisper anyway. “We’re stealing back a stolen object from someone and returning it to its rightful owner.”
“A noble cause and a great part. What more does an actor need to know?”
“If we’re caught, we could be killed, or if we’re really lucky, sent to prison for ten years.”
Boyd waved off Kate’s concern. “It’s still better than playing a pancake for philistines.”
• • •
Carter Grove was living in a forty-nine-million-dollar, twenty-three-thousand-square-foot beachfront estate in Palm Beach. The mansion had taken him three years to build and an additional two years to furnish. The house had a massive, domed rotunda in its center and twin two-story limestone-clad wings branching out on either side. It even had gargoyles carved in stone perched in the eaves.
“Carter modeled his place after Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, Louis XIV’s inspiration for the Palace of Versailles,” Nick said, standing with Kate on the beach in front of the house. “That should tell you something about Carter’s delusions of grandeur.”
“The only thing missing is a moat.”
“Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte was built starting in 1658 by Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s state treasurer,” Nick said. “In 1661, Fouquet invited his boss, Louis, over for a big housewarming party. The king took one look at the opulent castle and was so jealous, he confiscated it and threw Fouquet in prison for life. Maybe that’s why Carter waited until he left the White House to build this.”
Kate thought the house looked as out of place on the white sand beach as a tuna casserole at the Last Supper. But Nick fit right in
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