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  Serena’s home is located in the Altamira district in the Chacao municipality of Caracas. Its numerous hotels, restaurants and shopping malls flank Plaza Francia, a beautiful communal park. This upscale upper- and middle-class neighborhood is—or I should say, was—considered a safe haven in this large turbulent and often dangerous city, until the latest round of civil unrest.

  After driving into the city, Abu pulls up to a repair shop within a few blocks of the plaza. “We’ll have to walk from here. I’ve mapped out a route I hope is safe, but there are no guarantees,” he warns us. “If we run into any colectivos or motorizados—those are thugs who do drive-by shootings—keep your heads down. They think nothing of beating, shooting or jailing anyone who looks at them cross-eyed, including the international journalists who are here to cover the uprising. If we get separated, we’ll rendezvous back here at the garage.”

  No wonder Addison got the resort location for a pittance.

  “How can anyone live like this?” I mutter.

  “The middle class has been asking themselves that for the past year,” Abu explains. “The country’s university students have rallied them to speak out for real elections, in light of what the last two regimes have done to the country: crumbling infrastructure, an inflation rate of almost sixty percent, and a crime and murder rate that is the highest in the world. But the money flowing in from Venezuela’s oil wells will eventually drown them out. Serena’s husband, Tomas Marianni, teaches computer science at Colegio San Ignacio de Loyola. He allows the students to use his classroom to access the computers for social networking in support of the protests.”

  A few blocks later, we come across the campus of the college. National Guardsmen stand on every corner, rifles at the ready. Abu disappears into a shadow. The soldiers stare at Jack and me as we pass. At first, I’m surprised when Jack kisses me deeply in front of one. Then I remember the movie theater—where we saw She’s So Hot and I recognize the method to his madness. To play along, I giggle and scold Jack by saying “No, no! Vamanos!”

  The soldier smirks at our mild flirtations. We’re just some silly couple in love.

  By now, Abu has slipped past the guards and is a block ahead of us, and on the other side of the street. He walks into the entryway of a small apartment building. Unlike many of the others surrounding it, this one is only three stories high. Each of the apartments has a deck of some sort.

  When we get to the front door, Abu has already picked the lock and murmurs, “Second floor, southwest corner. It’s apartment two-zero-two. Knock twice, then twice again. I’ll stay out here and keep watch.”

  We nod and head up the stairs.

  We quickly find the apartment. When we give the coded knock, the door opens slightly. Serena’s face stares out at us. She looks a little plumper. She also looks anxious as she beckons us out of the hall.

  We shake her hand. Her husband, Tomas, is a short, slim man with an unruly mop of dark brown hair, and a bushy mustache. He stands against the wall. He holds an infant boy in his arms.

  The child explains Serena’s plumpness. “Congratulations,” I say.

  Finally, she smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Stone. As you can see, I am a mother myself, finally.” She takes her husband’s arm. “It is an honor to introduce you to my husband, Tomas Marianni, and my son, Paulo.”

  Jack and I shake his hand. I reach out for the baby. Tomas waits for Serena’s nod of approval before allowing me to take him.

  Still, Tomas does not smile. “My wife has told me about her captivity at the hands of this terrible man, Jonah Breck. I am grateful that you saved her from a tragic fate. We will forever be in your debt,” he says warily. “I take it your visit is not social. This is not a great time to be in Venezuela for its citizens, let alone Americanos. These days, everyone watches everyone else. Do you know if you were followed here?”

  “We did our best to avoid surveillance,” I assure him. “Serena owes us nothing. Breck was scum, and got what he deserved. However, the man who killed him, my ex-husband, is now one of the most powerful men in our country. He has doctored the webcam footage that was taken that day to make it look as if I was the one who killed Breck and Antoinette. Only Serena’s eye-witness testimony can save me from jail and possible execution.”

  Serena’s eyes fog over with fear. “I—I had hoped to put those memories behind me forever. Testifying is the right thing to do, but…I cannot leave my infant son or my husband.”

  Jack puts his hand on her shoulder. “We can arrange to have them accompany you.” He hesitates, then adds, “With all the turmoil going on here, if both of you would prefer to emmigrate to the United States, we will do what we can to help you with that as well.”

  Serena and Tomas turn to each other. Their faces reflect a flood of emotions. Surprise gives way to elation. Hope is tempered with fear. Almost simultaneously, both faces glow with a sense of determination.

  “As much as we love our country, our friends and our families, we now have Paulo to consider. I will go, as long as my family is by my side.”

  I hug her fervently. “Thank you, Serena, for giving me back my freedom.”

  “It is the least I could do for the woman who saved my life,” she whispers in my ear.

  “Our associate, Abu, will make the necessary arrangements,” Jack explains. “You’ll be contacted in a couple of weeks as to where to go, and who to meet. In the meantime, don’t mention these plans to anyone, even those you love most, or believe you can trust. Your lives depend on it.”

  They nod in unison. Their looks of determination do not leave their faces as Jack and I slip out the door.

  The lights in the building’s lobby are off. Abu rises from one of the shadows. When he gives us the high sign, we slip out a side entrance, and trace our path back to the street where we left our car.

  On the way back to the speedboat, Jack and Abu discuss the logistics of getting Serena and her family out of the country. I’m silent until Isla Margarita comes into view.

  It’s twilight. The sun is setting into the shimmering blue tropical waters. Abu slows the boat so that its engine’s growl is barely a purr.

  Jack comes up behind me and whispers in my ear, “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “You’ll have to come up with much more money than that,” I warn him. “At this very moment, my thoughts are priceless. I’ve been envisioning the day we’ll be free to enter the US, and Carl can’t do anything to hurt us, ever again.”

  “Thanks to Serena, that day is closer than you think.” He nuzzles my ear. “In the meantime, there is still a lot to be done. Whitford insists all scenes for the Hilldale interior shots will be done within the next three days. The production then moves on to its next location, Paris, where we’ll meet with the asset—the man who worked as Carl’s handler when he was merely a hitman for the Quorum. He can document Carl’s bloody rise to the top. Then onto England, where apparently Dominic has convinced a witness to testify on record regarding Carl and one of his hits. Soon, we’ll be free to go home, Donna.”

  Home, to Hilldale.

  I can’t wait.

  Until then, we’ll have a few more days in the sun.

  And then back to work, proving our innocence and Carl’s treachery.

  It’s why we get paid the big bucks.

  Chapter 10

  Some Like It Hot

  “So you got pinched in the elevator, so what?

  Would you rather be picking lead out of your navel?”

  —Tony Curtis, as “Joe/Josephine”

  As the newly elected president of your favorite star’s fan club, you can now set the protocol, which club members must follow! Here are a few set-in-stone rules:

  Any communication with the assistant to the personal assistant to the star in question should come from you, no ifs, ands or buts. By being the mouthpiece of all fawning acolytes, you’ll prove yourself irreplaceable—

  --Unlike the assistant to the personal assistant. Any screw-up on her part allows
you to backchannel the fans’ discontent directly to the personal assistant, which will eventually get her underling fired.

  And guess what? You’re now up for the position!

  In this position, you’ll prove your mettle! Feel free to audio record the personal assistant’s grouses about the star’s incessant requests. Now that you have access to the private cell phone digits of The One You Adore Above All Others, you can text her the audio feed.

  Voilà, as soon as the personal assistant is fired, you’re now in the number one position!

  As such, you know better than to hire the gal who replaced you as fan club president. Instead, you go for the time-honored tradition of hiring deaf and dumb eunuchs to fill out your star’s posse. The star you adore will appreciate your resourcefulness for keeping gossipmongers at bay, perhaps to the point of offering you a job for life—

  Something you’ve always wanted.

  One more word of advice: Be careful what you wish for…

  According to the tabloids, Willow’s mating season runs concurrent to her filming schedule. From what I’ve seen over the past week, I can vouch for this.

  Leda the wardrobe mistress’s prediction that sparks would fly between Reed and Willow was spot on. Apparently, their sex scenes are practically porn.

  Or as Addison puts it, “To hell with a ‘director’s cut.’ There’s going to be a ‘producer’s cut,’ and it’s going to be triple-X rated! The investors will recoup their money in no time!”

  The stars’ friskiness doesn’t end when the cameras quit rolling. The moans emanating from Willow’s cabana are so loud and so continuous that the Isla Margarita’s wild parrots have abandoned its banyan trees, likely never to be seen again.

  To Whitford’s relief, Willow and Reed’s foreplay and post-coital coziness include running lines together. “If they could memorize their parts while actually screwing, we could cut the production schedule in half,” he crows.

  “Have someone read it to them,” Addison suggests. “You know, like a fluffer.”

  Unfortunately, Reed has a short attention span. I find this out the hard way. I’m passing Reed’s bungalow just as Candy Cunningham, Willow’s stunt double, is departing. Thank goodness she’s too busy buttoning her blouse to see me. I duck out of sight just in time.

  Here’s hoping that jerk, Reed, can keep his other dalliances on the QT until the production wraps.

  I realize the odds of that are slim to none when I’m summoned to Willow’s cabana. It seems that every other woman working on the movie is here, too. Whitford is also present, as are the thin twins who are charged with keeping Willow ravishing, both onscreen and off. The twins have sly smiles, but Whitford is not smiling.

  Seeing that we’re all gathered, Willow’s female assistant, Augusta, locks the door behind us.

  I push my way toward Emma until we’re side by side. Like the rest of the women, she looks anxious. “Do you know what this is all about?” I ask her.

  “Yes! I heard Willow’s Pretty Posse gossiping about it in the make-up trailer,” she whispers, nodding toward the thin twins. In fact, sometimes I wonder if she keeps these know-it-alls under her bed when she’s entertaining Reed. They’re certainly slight enough to fit under it. “Apparently, Augusta saw some woman come out of Reed’s cabana. She went in snooping and found a thong—and it wasn’t Willow’s! Now Willow is on the war path!” A tear rolls down her cheek.

  Oh, no.

  I grasp Emma’s hand. “Oh…Emma!”

  “Yes, I know, it was so stupid of me! It happened almost a week ago now. Afterward, he forgot about it, as if it never even happened!” she bows her head, ashamed. “Just yesterday he tried to pick me up again. He didn’t even remember my name, let alone that he and I have already…you know.”

  Unfortunately, I do. “How about Arnie? Does he know?”

  She frowns. “He saw me leaving Reed’s cabana. He won’t even look at me now.” Tears fill her eyes again.

  “Shhhhh!” Augusta hisses at the murmuring crowd. “Willow must speak!”

  The crowd freezes.

  Willow makes her grand entrance from the cabana’s bedroom. She holds a tiny purse in her hand. She takes her place in the center of the group, which lines every inch of the cabana’s grand living room.

  “It has come to my attention that someone is sleeping with my leading man, Reed Horwitch.” With a flourish, Willow opens the bag—

  And pulls out a black thong.

  Everyone gasps.

  “Well, my little pretty, you left the wrong calling card. It has been your undoing. Your confession will now be public. Punishment will be anything but merciful—a one-way ticket off our little paradise, and the disgrace of being blacklisted from any future Montague production, let alone a film starring me.”

  Her ridiculous behavior is tempting me to admit to the act, but I can’t stand the thought that anyone would presume I’d go anywhere near creepy Reed, so I keep my mouth shut.

  Holding the thong high over her head, she circles the crowd slowly, like a panther sniffing out its cornered prey, all the while taking her time to scrutinize each and every face.

  I find Candy in the crowd. She has a smirk on her face. She’s been Willow’s stuntwoman on other jobs, and will never jeopardize her income. If Candy keeps her mouth shut, she’s got a job for as long as Willow’s face holds out. Apparently, the star needs a double on every movie involving vertical exertion, even if it’s just bending down to tie her shoes.

  “No takers, eh?” Willow’s words curdle with contempt. “Well then, you better hope I like your face. If I don’t, you’re out of here anyway—one by one, until the bad girl amongst you confesses.”

  The women are fidgeting like crazy now. With each step Willow takes closer to Emma and me, the more color drains from Emma’s face. Her hand is clammy. Suddenly I feel it rising—

  But I hold it firmly in mine.

  I won’t let her take the fall. We need her on this mission.

  She shakes her head furiously. “I can’t let someone lose her job because of what I did,” she whispers. She starts to speak out again, but I slap my hand over her mouth—

  “It’s mine!” Leda, the wardrobe mistress, yells out.

  At least, I think it’s Leda who screamed. Quite frankly, so many women are speaking at once that it could have been any of them.

  Everyone scrutinizes everyone else as, in unison, they exclaim, “What? You too?”

  Well, what do you know?

  The pandemonium is not helped in the least by Willow shouting, “Alright then, you’re all fired!”

  Emma is so upset that she runs out of the room.

  The rest of us are on her tail.

  As I pass Whitford, I hear him warn Willow, “No, sorry, but I can’t fire all of them! It would mean shutting down the production. Addison can’t afford that—and neither can you, Willow. Let’s just all put this behind us—oh! Sorry, wrong way to put it, I guess.”

  Willow storms off to the bedroom.

  She’s wailing again.

  The birds are gone for good by now. I guess the rest of the island’s inhabitants would leave as well, if they could fly.

  For Willow, the realization that Reed was boinking half the crew, means all out war.

  “To retaliate, she’s bedding Reed’s stuntman, Ellis,” Emma tells me.

  Talk about bad karma. Ellis is also Candy’s husband.

  Should either Candy or Ellis find out about the others’ dalliances, they would likely walk off the picture, and the production would shut down anyway.

  In the meantime, Willow has added fuel to the fire with a Tweet making a comparison of her lovers’ sexual prowess:

  @WillowHigginbotham

  @ReedHorwitch has stunted growth where it counts most  but @ReedHorwitch’s stuntman: is THE MAN! 

  A half hour later, Reed’s fans—who call themselves Reed’s WhoreBitches—launch a Twitter hate campaign against Willow:

  @ReedsWhoreBitches
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  @WillowHigginbotham is gaining so much weight on @WifeyAssassin that she should change her name to @PillowBigOnBottom!

  A photo of Willow is attached to the post. It has been doctored to make her look three times wider than her natural (okay, make that surgically-enhanced) physique.

  To add insult to injury, so many WhoreBitches have retweeted the post that it’s taken even less time than Ellen DeGeneres’ Academy Award tweet to crash Twitter.

  Publicly humiliated, Candy has requested a separate cabana from her husband. Knowing his temper, she keeps mum about her own indiscretions.

  It’s now all-out war between Willow and Reed. They’ve both requested that all mutual scenes be shot separately, using the others’ double as a stand-in.

  Whitford refuses to do it.

  To retaliate, they fluster each other by muttering cruel asides.

  Production is almost at a standstill. In the meantime, Jack and I are climbing the walls. Every day we spend on Isla Margarita puts us one day further away from proving our innocence.

  “Maybe I should go on ahead,” Jack suggests. “You and the kids can catch up with me there.”

  I shake my head emphatically. “No way! That would mean flying commercial—not exactly a smart thing to do when you’re sitting on top of the Interpol’s Wanted Persons list! If you remember, one of the reasons we agreed to work with Addison is because of Montague Studios’ private plane. It’s our free ride to France, and then England afterward.”

  “What good does it do any of us if the plane is sitting on the tarmac?” He’s pacing again. “We’ve got to come up with a Plan B.”

  “My Plan B is to murder the two idiots playing us,” I grumble.

  “I get the feeling their stunt doubles feel the same way,” Jack says. “Emma tells me Ellis and Candy had a big fight the other night.”

  Arnie knocks on our door. “Hey, can I speak to you both? I’ve…I’ve got a bit of a problem.”