Holy Rollers

When Grant Lambert and Chase LaMarca—partners in life and crime—learn that $7 million in not-so-petty cash is hidden in the safe of a rightwing mega-church, they assemble a team of gay and lesbian criminals to infiltrate the church and steal the money. But this Gang That Can’t Do Anything Straight quickly finds its plans complicated by corrupt congressmen (and their gay aides); an “ex-gay” conference; an FBI investigation; the unexpected appearance of a long-lost relative; and—most jarring for these born-and-bred New Yorkers—life in the northern Virginia suburbs. And then there is Dr. Oscar Hurley—founder of the church—and his right-hand man, the Rev. Dennis Merribaugh, who prove themselves every bit as adept as the professionals when it comes to larceny…

Holy Rollers

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Holy Rollers

© 2011 By Rob Byrnes. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-614-4

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: November 2011

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Greg Herren

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

If I thanked everyone who deserved to be thanked, these acknowledgments would read like a phonebook. So I’m trimming the list down. If you don’t see your name, know that you’re in my thoughts. Unless I just forgot to mention you, that is.

Thanks to my agent, Katherine Fausset of Curtis Brown, who’s stood by me for a decade; to my partner, Brady Allen, who puts up with me as I pace and talk to myself whenever a deadline approaches; to my Writing Posse for their support and wisdom; and to my Non-Writing Posse for keeping me more or less grounded, even if they don’t always appreciate that it’s All About Me.

Thanks to everyone who let me turn them into a fictional character, not that any of them had a choice.

Thanks to my friend and—now—editor, Greg Herren. In fact, thanks to everyone at Bold Strokes Books—especially Len Barot—for making me feel at home. It has been a wonderful experience to become part of the Bold Strokes family.

Finally, thanks to Becky Cochrane: editor, proofreader, cheerleader, and awesome friend.

To everyone who uses religion as an excuse for intolerance, hate, and greed…thanks for making this so easy.

In the beginning, there was a 2008 Ford Taurus traveling north at a few miles per hour over the speed limit on the New Jersey Turnpike, piloted by a prematurely grizzled man in his mid-forties as another man—also in his forties, but wearing it better—rode shotgun.

“North Carolina,” said the passenger.

“Already have it.”

Chase LaMarca, who was the man riding shotgun, leaned forward in his seat, straining to make out the rear license plate on the car they were passing. “New York.”

“Already have it,” grumbled Grant Lambert, the man behind the wheel, without looking across the seat at Chase.

“Hard to make out the new blue and gold New York plates. I got used to the white ones. You know, with the Statue of Liberty on ’em.”

“I grew up with the blue and gold ones,” said Grant. “Glad they’re back. Makes me feel like things are back to normal.”

Chase shifted slightly in his seat. “If you’re only a few years older than me, how come I don’t remember them?”

“Sometimes a few years are all that matter.” It sounded like a reasonable answer, although Grant had wondered the same thing. “It’d be helpful if you kept your eyes on the road. And I don’t mean just on the license plates.”

Chase shifted again until he was almost parallel to Grant. “I can keep track of the cars while I’m watching the plates.”

“And don’t forget—”

“
And
yes, I can keep track of the cops, too.” Chase turned back until he was facing forward. He was silent for a moment, and then said, “New Jersey.”

“You don’t have to keep saying ‘New Jersey.’ New Jersey license plates are not a novelty on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

“Sorry.” Chase blew away a wisp of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”

“Things are interesting enough.”

Chase started to say something but backed off. It was scorching hot, even with the Taurus’s air conditioner struggling to keep them comfortable. They’d also been driving for hours. Between the heat and fatigue, Grant was cranky. Chase had offered to take the wheel, but Grant would have none of that. The car was his—at least
now
it was—and he’d be doing the driving.

They fell silent, the only sound inside the car the hum of the tires against the Turnpike for several minutes that felt longer than they were, until Chase finally said, “Bingo! Just ahead in the center lane. Ohio plates.”

“I told you, we’re not playing that game anymore.”

“No, it’s a Lexus. And if I’m correct, it’s a late nineties Lexus.”

Grant focused his eyes on the dark green Lexus with Ohio plates in front of them and allowed himself a tiny bit of hope. “Looks like what we’re shopping for.” He concentrated on the silhouette outlined through the rear windshield. “And unless someone’s taking a nap, it looks like the driver’s alone. That’s good, too.”

“Plus,” Chase added as they drew closer to the Lexus, “I think that’s an automobile club sticker on the bumper.”

Not that it meant anything…or at least not
every
thing. Grant knew professional mechanics who were members of the auto club. Still, it slightly increased the chances that whoever was driving that Lexus was a rookie under the hood, which was another positive sign.

They followed the car awhile until they passed a sign reading O
ZZIE
N
ELSON
S
ERVICE
A
REA
3 M
ILES
.

“Time to get to work,” Grant said, flashing the Taurus’s headlights to signal the Lexus.

It took most of the three miles to the service area to get the attention of the other driver, and even then Grant had to pull up next to the car and motion to him. A round, hairless face looked back at him through thick glasses. The driver was uncomprehending at first, but finally seemed to decide maybe something was wrong because the Lexus’s right directional came to life as they approached the service area exit ramp. Grant followed, tailing the car until it braked to a stop in the parking lot.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Chase, opening his door.

“Cap!”

“Oh, right.” Chase reached down to the floorboard and found a baseball cap, pulling it over his spiky, freshly highlighted hair. He liked the look—it took years off him—but he also knew that the hairstyle would make him more much memorable to the guy in the Lexus. And Chase LaMarca had no desire to be remembered that well.

Cap in place, he left the car and approached the dark green sedan parked next to them.

The driver powered his window down. He was a large man—large in every direction—and bald except for a thin fringe of hair ringing his scalp. Despite the lack of hair, Chase made him out for late thirties, although the weight in his face kept the skin tight and gave him a somewhat boyish appearance, even as he sweated through his shirt in the sticky heat despite the air conditioning Chase could feel blasting from the interior.

“Is something wrong?” the man asked.

Chase nodded. “You’re leaking something.”

“What?” The driver looked perplexed. “What am I leaking?”

“Couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, you were leaking a lot of it.”

The man unstrapped his seat belt, and with effort, heaved himself out of the car. Chase motioned toward the front wheel well and they both crouched. It was an easy effort for Chase; a more laborious one for the heavy man next to him, who had to prop himself against the car with one hand, his knees creaking under the weight.

“Looked like it was coming from around here,” said Chase, pointing at nowhere in particular.

The man wheezed from heat and minimal exertion. “I don’t see anything.”

Chase looked around and finally saw a damp spot on the pavement, where he pointed next. Behind him, he heard Grant get out of the Taurus and close his door.

“What about there?”

“That doesn’t look like a leak. It looks like someone spilled something.” He turned his head toward Chase, his expression showing both distrust and confusion. “I really don’t think anything was—”

“Here it is,” said Grant from somewhere they couldn’t see.

“Where are you?” asked Chase.

“Back of the car.”

Chase and the Lexus driver dropped to their hands and knees—again an easy maneuver for Chase and major exercise for the other man—and looked along the undercarriage to where Grant’s finger pointed to a large, fresh puddle of dampness below the tailpipe. “That’s transmission fluid.”

Chase popped back up to a crouch and duck-walked a few feet to where Grant knelt at the rear of the car, leaving the man no choice but to follow. Although for him, duck-walking was not an option.

“That doesn’t look like transmission fluid to me,” he panted when he finally joined Grant and Chase.

“Trust me.” Grant dipped his index finger into the liquid. “That’s transmission fluid.”

“Definitely,” Chase agreed.

The man’s eyes narrowed and he regarded them warily. “Is this some sort of scam?”