Ringer (25 page)

Grant shot a glance back into the house. It was the well-established glance all men have when worried that their girlfriend or wife will see them with another woman.

“Gina, how did you get here?”

“Not here, come.” She jogged down the drive, her magnificent figure in the little black dress swaying. What man could possibly resist following this woman off into the dark? Well, there may be some. I am not one. Neither was Grant. He suppressed a smile and followed.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SEVEN

PURITY WAS AGAIN SITTING ON
the beach nursing a bottle of rum. The light from the bar in the distance was splayed across the beach, and I followed it, shoes in hand, up to where Purity’s hair glowed and fluttered in the breeze.

I dropped onto my knees in the sand next to her. “Something tells me you sit here often, yes?”

“Morty, why won’t you fuck me?” Her eyes didn’t leave the waves.

“We’ve been through that, darling. I am like a brother, nothing more.”

“I could tell you liked that brunette.”

“Yes, she is quite charming. I would bed her if I could, but that has nothing to do with you. No more than if you slept with someone else. Unless, of course, this person might harm you. We should go.”

“Morty, would you do something for me?”

I shrugged. “That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“There are certain things I would do for you and others I would not.”

“Would you break the Ten Commandments?”

I thought about that a moment. “I would not make a false idol, but I might use the Lord’s name in vain if you insisted. I think God is made of tougher stuff and not that sensitive about such things.”

“What about steal?”

“If your life depended on it, yes.”

“Would you kill?”

“Same answer.”

“Have you killed anybody before?”

I laughed. “If I had I would not tell you or anybody. I am not an idiot.”

Her eyes met mine. “So you have?”

I smiled, shaking my head. “No, Purity.”

“If Robert Tyson Grant tried to kill me, would you defend me?”

“Of course. If Robert tried to hurt you, I would not allow it. If you tried to kill him, I would try to prevent that as well. Killing is far too popular as it is.”

Purity drained the rest of the rum from the bottle and threw it toward the ocean. “If you had to, would you kill Robert Tyson Grant to protect me?”

I stood with a groan. “Come, we should be going. Your father will be worried, and the Sixth Commandment says you shall not make your parents worry. Besides, I fear Satan is out tonight.”

“I’ll go if you answer.”

“Fine, then my answer is yes.”

“Yes what? Imagine now, you come in and Robbie is naked, on top of me, raping me, and has a gun to my head, and you have a gun. Would you shoot him?”

“I might, I really don’t know, Purity. Come, let’s go.”

“Not until you answer. Would you kill Robert Tyson Grant to protect me?”

“Yes, I would kill Robert Tyson Grant to protect you. Come on, to your feet, young lady.”

Purity uncrossed her legs and wobbled to her feet, sandals in hand.

“You think Satan is out tonight, do you, Morty?”

“Of course. I think it was one of his agents that attacked you this afternoon.”

Purity took a halting step and wobbled again. “Carry me?”

I shrugged, lowered my shoulder into her crotch, locked my arms around her legs, and hefted Purity like a sack of expensive potatoes onto my shoulder.

She said, “Oof!”

Thus I trudged across the sand and black night toward the floodlights of El Rolo, the drunken heiress draped over my shoulder.

“Everything jake, Morty?” Wilmer’s bulk was dominating the French back doors to the bar.

“Yes, it would seem so, I just need a car.” I could feel Purity snoring on my shoulder blade.

“I usually carry her like this.” Wilmer cradled his arms.

Behind my back, Purity was conscious enough to find an empty bottle of Visine in her cleavage and tuck it into my jacket pocket, all unseen.

“Hm, yes, well, I wish that I could, too. Is there a way around the side here so I don’t have to go through the crowd?”

“I’ll show you.”

Wilmer thumped out of the floodlights into darkness, and I followed along a sandy path through scrub pine and grass that led to where the rides were out front.

Wilmer turned, bent, and put his arms out, and I jackknifed so that Purity rolled into his arms. He turned to one of the town cars where a kid had opened the back door. Resting Purity’s shoulders on the leather backseat, he clamped her thighs in his hands and slid her like a casket into a hearse and shut the door.

“I’ll be right back, I just have to pay the bill.”

“No need, Morty, she has a running account, and we don’t accept cash.”

“Well, I am sure you do.” I fished through my pocket for a twenty. “You certainly seem to provide full service.”

Wilmer held up a hand the size of a dinner plate. “I don’t take tips for doing my job. ’Sides, you’re from the neighborhood. We do solids.”

I put the flat of my entire hand in the center of his palm. “Solid.”

In East New York, it was understood that when you did someone a “solid” it was a favor that would be repaid, an open debt, like when you got a buy-back from a bartender or a free coffee at the deli. Solids were classic Brooklyn—people there were very nice and helpful, but not at their own expense. You didn’t get something for nothing, and there was an underground economy whose currency was favors and minor kickbacks at every level, almost like bartering. You never knew if you would be paid back for the favor, but there was a sense that it was good to have a lot of unpaid favors out there, like uncashed checks or a 401(k) or karma. There was a name for people who knew and honored this system of checks and balances:

“You’re a stand-up guy, Wilmer, thanks.”

He just nodded his giant head and waved as he turned back to El Rolo.

*   *   *

I found a term in this screenwriting book I’d never heard before, something called a racing cutaway, where the screen is briefly blurred by the camera turning quickly before it stops on a scene somewhere else completely—let’s try that here, because now we have to get back to the mansion a half mile away. So the camera pans quickly away from me, screen blurred, and when the camera stops we see Tony in the back of the limo, peering over the seat and whispering on his phone.

“She’s going for the ring, that’s what I’m saying. We saw Purity at the bar just like Abbie said we would, but she was with the Mexican, the one who chased me off, and this Mexican told Gina that the ring is magic, that it belonged to Jesus Christ, and he’s a secret agent from the pope or something trying to get it back from Grant. Hm? I dunno. Anyway, she told him about when I attacked Grant in Manhattan and stuff, and sold the Mexican on the curse idea, that Satan is after the ring, she’s here at Grant’s mansion trying to get the ring back and hand it over to Morty. Hm? Morty is the name of the Mexican. I can’t put her on the phone. I dunno where she is. I’m in the limo. Hm? Well, I last saw her when she got out of the limo. I was asleep, but I woke up. Hm? Well, she met Grant at the door, and they run off down the road together. It’s dark down there, I can’t see nobody. That’s right, she said she’d get the ring from Grant and hand it over to the Mexican to end the curse. Hm? Her dress doesn’t have no pockets, so I don’t think she has the wax ring. Hm?” Tony’s eyes turned glassy. “Oh, she could put it there, huhn?”

*   *   *

Another racing cutaway, to a clearing in the scrub pines just off the driveway. In a shaft of moonlight, Gina has Grant by the shirt front, her large, dewy eyes looking up into his. Grant in turn is holding her lightly by the shoulders, blinking rapidly, his lips churning alternately with resolve and longing.

Gina tears open his shirt and puts her hand on his chest.

“You have removed the amulet!”

“It itched,” Grant mumbled.

“Robert, I had a vision, it all came to me, I know about the ring! It is from the finger of the conquistador Hernando Martinez, and fashioned from gold that once held the true cross! You must return it! It is stolen, as if from Christ himself! How did you get it? Did
you
steal it?”

Grant winced, and was just about to kiss her when she pushed him away and cast her gaze on the ground.

“I see, you stole the ring.”

Grant stepped forward, his breath coming faster. “I did not steal it. Someone else…”

“Then how did you come by it?”

“It was Pasqual, he stole the ring. We were boys at the La Paz orphanage, we didn’t know any better. Pasqual, he had the ring, and when a home and family was found for him in Brooklyn, and he was to leave the orphanage, he gave it to me, so that I would find parents.” His lie was seamless.

“And you did?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not return the ring then?”

Grant sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Then you must return it now.” Gina turned, her palm out flat between them in the moonlight. “I will give it to the Mexican, to Morty.”

Through the trees behind them, the headlights of a car coming down the drive flash. The car was Purity and me returning to the mansion.

The gold ring of Caravaca glistened in the blue light as Grant held the one hand up and gripped the ring with the other. Then he paused.

“Did you have any visions about us? About you and me?”

Gina’s hand gracefully held his face. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him passionately on the mouth, the two of them one silhouette.

When she pulled away, Grant’s hand was still where it was but the ring was gone. His face was aglow with infatuation, not moonlight. She opened her palm, and in it shone the holy ring of my ancestors.

“Come,” she whispered, closing the ring into her one hand while leading him back to the house with the other.

*   *   *

Another racing cutaway, to Dixie entering Purity’s bedroom and flicking on the lights. I followed behind Dixie, with Purity over my shoulder. I bent and flopped Purity onto the bed with more force than I intended. Dixie lunged for the Perrier bottle that almost tipped off the bed table.

Purity moaned and rolled over.

I arched my back. “Carrying her is not as easy as it looks.”

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Morty?” Dixie shot me a suspicious glare. “What were you doing out with her, staying here?”

I laughed. “As I recall, Dixie, you sent me out here in that crappy green car. I would just as soon be in Manhattan. So if I can just have the ring, and a ride to the train station, I think we can wrap this up.” My mind was on the plump little desk clerk back at the hotel. Perhaps she was working late.

“Let me find Robert.” Dixie thrust the Perrier bottle into my hand. “Could you see that Purity drinks this? She’ll feel better for it in the morning. Then turn off the lights.”

*   *   *

Cut away briefly to Paco peering through the cracked door of the guest cabana, his yellow predator eyes fixed on the illuminated balcony doors.

*   *   *

I sat on the bed next to Purity. “Purity, you want to drink this?” I gave her a shake, but she just moaned. With a sigh I set the bottle back on the nightstand. “Well, it is here if you want it.”

I draped the comforter over her and went to the French doors to the balcony. The curtains were blowing with the sea breeze, so I shut the doors, and latched them.

*   *   *

Cut away to Paco’s yellow eyes going dark when I shut off the room light.

*   *   *

I came down the stairs, jacket over my shoulder, and found Dixie crossing the foyer from the living room.

“Robert? Robert??”

“Is he not here?” I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“We arrived together,” she barked from the other room, reappearing in the foyer, her hips swaying with determination in the purple jungle print pants, those amazing implants bouncing ever so slightly under the lavender pleated bustier. What can I say? The notion that perhaps Grant had gone out for ice cream gave me ideas. After all, it was only the previous evening that Dixie and I were as one, so the images of passion were fresh in my mind. Let us remember that I had consumed my share of wine, and that the previous year in Mexico had not exactly been a bonanza of beauties.

Impulsively, I took her by the hand as she passed and twirled her toward me.

“
Querida,
I am sure he just stepped out to the Dairy Queen. Perhaps we should just relax with a glass of wine and wait for his return.”

*   *   *

Cut to Purity in bed, moonlight through the window making crosses on the wall. She lifts her head and scans the room through the veil of her hair.

Rolling off the side of the bed, she popped deftly to her feet and tossed her hair back. On a side table she found an elastic next to the Perrier bottle and put her hair into a ponytail. Her eyes were bright and determined—it would seem she had not been drunk after all, yes? From the dresser she pulled out a pair of black sweatpants and pulled them on under her dress. Then she pulled the dress over her head, dropped it to the floor, and kicked it under the bed. She turned to the dresser so that our R-rated film audience is not cheated the sight of her lovely tanned breasts. I think we’d only seen these breasts when she was tanning in the first part of the movie. Or did we see them when she was in bed with Skip? The same cup size as Dixie’s, they had a very pleasing and decidedly fruitlike, fresh, young shape, and did not stand rigidly at attention like the implants, if you know what I mean.

If you don’t, well, more’s the pity.

*   *   *

Cut away to Paco leaving the confines of the cabana and making a beeline for the rock wall next to the balcony.

*   *   *

Dixie yanked her hand away from mine. “
Please,
Morty.”

She turned from me toward the front door.

“Dixie, really, it is a sin not to make the best of every predicament.”

I stepped up behind her and cupped my hand on her bottom just as she opened the door.

She yelped, both from the surprise of my fingers caressing her fruit and from the sight of Robert on the stoop. His shirt was torn open, and he wore a giddy twist to his lips. Next to him stood the curvaceous and utterly stunning fortune-teller’s niece, Gina.