Ringer

by Wiprud, Brian M

  Grant took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had to take command of this situation. Dixie was a help, but he was not without his own resources and clever ways, especially when dealing with tricky business deals or situations. He felt like he was allowing himself to be frozen like a possum in the headlights because he could not understand their motives. How Asians did business and their priorities were still sometimes mysterious, yet he had always managed to deal with them, hadn’t he? Robert decided it was essential to look at this like a business deal.

  They want the ring in return for killing Purity. I want to give them money for this service. Is there a middle alternative? Making the deal is about finding alternatives.

  There was a gentle rap at the door.

  “Come!”

  His pixie-like assistant Kathy stuck her head in. “I e-mailed you a link. Can I get you anything else?”

  Grant nodded glumly. “Not at this time, thank you.” The assistant vanished.

  He sat at his giant desk, in his giant chair, and wiggled a computer mouse around until the video clip loaded. He did not shy away from Purity’s debacles. He needed to know how bad it was, if only to confirm that the curse needed to be over, that hiring the Mexican was the right thing to do.

  Chin in hand, he watched a TV reporter cheerily relate his stepdaughter’s latest embarrassment.

  “Purity Grant is back in the news, and back in court. You may recall her Lady Godiva stunt in which she stole a horse and rode bareback and bare-chested in Central Park. A guilty plea had been entered by her legal team, and now it was time to pay the piper. A sentencing was held this morning in downtown Manhattan. When Judge Carolyn Gehman asked Purity—yes, she did show up!—what her punishment should be, the wealthy heiress chose prison over community service! The judge declined Purity’s choice, instead fining her fifty thousand dollars for all the trouble she caused the police and court system, three hundred hours community service, and rehab. But that wasn’t the end of the excitement. On the way out of the courtroom, Purity Grant fainted.”

  They showed a film clip, taken with a phone.

  “She was carried from the building to an ambulance, and was transported to Beth Israel Medical Center, where she apparently is recovering from what sources are telling us is a hangover.”

  Grant blinked hard and played the clip again.

  He stood, leaned in, and played the clip again. This time he froze the film clip to a single image.

  “Good Lord! Kathy!”

  The pixie reappeared. “I have the lawyers on the phone.”

  “Forget the lawyers. Get me Ms. Faltreau at the Grant Foundation.”

  “Dixie?”

  “Yes!”

  The image on his screen was of Purity, fainted into the arms of his hit man.

  Me.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  WHAT MAKES A MAN IRRESISTIBLE to a woman?

  It is not found in a bottle of aftershave; let us get that part straight right away.

  It is not a chiseled physique, expensive clothes, or a flashy sports car—even though those may attract a woman’s attention initially. Like a peacock flashing his immense and colorful tail, these do not ensure eggs in the nest.

  What makes a man irresistible to a woman is being irresistible. You think I am playing games, but a man simply has to believe he is irresistible—if he does not believe it, she will not believe it. Now, I am not suggesting that a man swagger up to a woman and inflict a smoochie-faced embrace on her. I am asking the men out there to think! When a woman knows she is irresistible to a man, does she throw herself at him? Except with rare exceptions, the answer is no. Why? Because in order to be irresistible, you must create desire in the object of your passions. Desire is a tower built from the bricks of anticipation, and the bricks of anticipation are fired from the clay of waiting.

  Think again: If a desirable woman does throw herself at men, what happens? The men very often recoil, because any woman who is truly desirable knows she has a commodity for which she must find the best buyer for her charms. Or they take her and toss her aside. People do not give away what is valuable. While she may seem an attractive package, men will know that what is given away freely is cheap, and perhaps burdened with a mental disorder or worse.

  So let us review so there are no misunderstandings. To be irresistible you must be confident that you are desirable. You must make her anticipate an expression of desire in return. I think I said it before, but it is worth mentioning again: While being charming is essential, it is unwise to let a woman know you care too much, that she is a commodity you cannot live without. You must contain your passion, because if she thinks you desire her more than she desires you, well, my friend, I am afraid you are doomed. You are no longer a commodity at that point. She will cease to respect you, and like as not she will drive you out of your mind with games and shameless flirting with other men. Why? Because at the point she knows you are smitten, you can be used to affirm her irresistibility, which she is now free to use to attract other men whose desires are not so easily conquered, and are thus more valuable.

  I am explaining this in the hopes that some men can be rehabilitated from shabby circumstance. So that when they watch the dark, handsome actor who plays me they will not say, “Well, of course he can charm women, he is Jimmy Smits or Benjamin Bratt, he is dark and handsome and La Paz gentry.” It saddens me that so many men miss life’s crucial details, and that so many pretty women must sit home waiting for their irresistible man. So I implore oafish men everywhere to get in the game, as I am only one man, and these legions of women need you.

  And for the love of Jesus please go easy on the Old Spice.

  Which brings me to my date with Dixie, an occasion for which containing my desire was as difficult as it was crucial.

  Aside from the anticipation of being graced with Dixie’s considerable charms, the women of the previous two nights had me in a state of sexual agitation.

  So, what does a man bring to the apartment of a girlfriend of a millionaire? Even as a man of means, I certainly had no intention of trying to compete with the diamond tiaras, rare Parisian perfumes, and trips to Hawaii that Grant could ply her with. Yet flowers would have been too commonplace and romantic. I was not looking for love, only a lover—and what better suggests that than a fine bottle of sparkling wine?

  I ventured down Second Avenue until I found a large spirits shop and went in.

  The proprietor was a reedy woman pushing sixty with strawlike yellow hair, a purple sweater dress, and rhinestone glasses around her neck on a chain. She stood behind the register and looked over her glasses at me with a toothy smile.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “Are you a wine specialist?” I asked.

  “Looking for something special, are yah?”

  “I am. I don’t suppose you have any cold duck?”

  Her smile was frozen, and she blinked rapidly. “I believe we do. And you said you were looking for something special?”

  “I am not from this country. It is difficult to locate cold duck in Mexico.”

  “Holy smokes, I’ll bet it is!” She laughed softly. “So you’re looking for a sparkling red wine?”

  “I have always relied on the André vineyards for cold duck. Do you have it chilled?”

  With small rapid steps the proprietor led me to the champagne aisle and plucked a bottle of André cold duck from the bottom shelf. She took a deep breath and blew on the bottle; a puff of dust swirled from the label. “Two thousand and one was a good year for cold duck, sport.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “Are you suggesting there might be a better vintage in another brand?”

  “That is the only cold duck we carry. In fact, it is the only cold duck made in the world. However, if I might be so bold, what special occasion is this wine for?”

  “A beautiful woman.”

  “Her place or yours?”

  “Hers.”

  “Is she expensive?”
<
br />   “Expensive?”

  “Wealthy. Or a working girl?”

  “She works, but she is accustomed to the company of the wealthy, like myself.”

  She took the bottle of cold duck from my hands and put it back on the bottom shelf. “I like you, champ, so I’m going to do you a favor. You want to get lucky with this dame, am I right?”

  I knit my brow. “I wish to be charming, if that is what you mean. I have always found ladies enchanted with a chilled glass of cold duck.”

  “Were these ladies—ahem—like this rich broad?”

  “I’ll grant you, they were more casual.”

  “Fine. I’ll fix you up—but it’ll cost you more than six ninety-nine. You, sport, need a trendy champagne.”

  My nose wrinkled. “But champagne is not red.”

  “Ex-actly.”

  I shook my head. “Really, I appreciate your advanced knowledge of wines, but red is more sultry than white.”

  “Captain, you show up with cold duck and you’ll never charm her pants off.”

  “It must be red.”

  She laughed, scratching her head. Then she threw her hands in the air. “Eureka! Follow me.”

  She led me to the Italian wine section, went on tiptoes, pulled down a bottle, and displayed it for me. “At least this she’ll never have heard of before and won’t know it’s only thirty a bottle. It’s red, see? And it is naturally fizzy, not carbonated like the André.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “You say this is definitely superior to cold duck?”

  “If it isn’t, come back tomorrow and I’ll give you a free bottle of cold duck, howzat?”

  “The bottle is most elegant. As you say, perhaps something even more festive than cold duck is required.”

  She clapped her hands. “Goodie. Sorry, I don’t have it cold, but do you want a fancy wrapping for it?”

  “I think not. Do you sell champagne buckets?”

  “Yessiree bob. Nothing in gold plate or anything. See here.”

  “Glasses, too?”

  So it was that at eight that evening I rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor of an Upper East Side doormanned apartment building holding a champagne bucket containing two glasses and an iced bottle of Banfi Rosa Regale. My suit was freshly dry-cleaned, my nails manicured, my hair rakishly brushed back so that a lone black curl tumbled onto my forehead. I knew I was looking good. Everybody in the lobby couldn’t keep their eyes off me. In the elevator, an old man with a big cigar and a small dog asked me if I were Ricardo Montalban. Though I think he was joking (because Ricardo is, alas, dead), a resemblance to such a striking figure of a man is never a bad thing.

  Dixie opened the door to her apartment and stared at the champagne bucket. “Did you come through the lobby like this?” Ah, but she was ravishing, dressed in black silk pants and silver brocade top, the zippered kind, I imagined for easy access. Her hair was up in a naughty tumble, those adorable ringlets at her temples.

  I smiled secretively. “How else was I to deliver refreshments? In a plaid suitcase?”

  She looked both ways down the hall. “Come in, come in.”

  I stepped past her, through a small vestibule and into her living room. There were paintings on mustard-colored walls, art not intended to look like any particular thing, just a patchwork of colors and shapes. I liked the colors but had no use for random shapes. The furniture was modern, no wood, angular and upholstered flat, without pleats. Again, not my style, but not offensive. The important part of the living room was a couch with many throw pillows. It was nicely placed by the window overlooking the lights of Manhattan, and in front of a flickering gas fireplace. Opposite that was a small, open kitchen and facing bar. The bar was arranged with place settings for two. Excellent.

  I stepped over the glass coffee table in front of the couch, placed the bucket on the coffee table, set the two glasses aside, and slid the napkin-wrapped bottle from the ice. “I thought you might like this. While not wildly expensive, it is nonetheless difficult to find. Are you all right?”

  Dixie’s silver pumps seemed to step a little uncertainly toward me. “Yes, yes, of course, I’m just a little surprised by the, um, refreshment. That’s very gallant, Morty.”

  “You cannot tell me that I am the first guest to bring wine into your home?”

  “The first to bring it in the ice bucket with glasses. Through the lobby.”

  I favored her with a small laugh. “Where I come from, it is bad manners to be welcomed into another person’s home without wine. Especially before dinner.” I popped the cork into my hand and poured the fizzy red wine into the glasses on the table.

  With a cautious smile, Dixie took the glass I held out to her. “What shall we drink to?”

  “We have a quaint toast where I’m from: To old friends, new friends, and health of the chickens.”

  She clinked my glass, giggling. “Chickens?”

  I made a slight bow. “Where would any of us be without chickens?”

  “I don’t get you, Morty.” Sipping, she shook her head. “You’re not anything like what I expected. I can’t even imagine you doing what you do.”

  “God called. I cannot refuse Him. Ah, but you have a fine view, and I am admiring your art. Yes, you have a very cozy and charming home, Dixie. Shall we sit?”

  I offered her the corner of the couch, and she slid past me, still somewhat cautiously, I thought. She seated herself facing me, and I sat with my arm on the back of the couch.

  I thought perhaps we should film this scene in one long take. This will give the actors an opportunity for continuity in their mutual attraction and help sell the moment. A very slow circular tracking shot with us in silhouette against the fire and city lights might help to sex it up, too. That is all up to you, of course.

  “Morty, I don’t think I’ve ever had a sparkling red wine before. Well, except maybe cold duck when I was a kid.” She sipped.

  “Yes, cold duck is good, too.”

  Dixie slapped a hand over her mouth, and I sat forward.

  “Querida, are you all right?”

  She swallowed and laughed. “Don’t do that!”

  “What did I do?”

  “Don’t make me laugh while I’m drinking.”

  “My apologies.” I clinked my glass to hers. “Well, I hope that if I am not what you expected that it is a pleasant surprise and that if I amuse you it is agreeable. You seem a little nervous in my company, which you should not be, as I am a very relaxed and social person.”

  “Morty?” She took a gulp of her wine and set it on the coffee table. “Why were you at Purity’s hearing this morning?”

  I was about to sip but didn’t. “I am at a disadvantage. How did you know I was at Purity’s hearing?”

  “You were on TV with her in your arms.”

  Now I took a gulp of wine and set my glass aside. “But there were no cameras, they are forbidden.”

  “Someone took a video with their phone of Purity passing out and falling into your waiting arms.”

  “Remarkable. How did I look?”

  “Morty, what were you doing at that courtroom? And to be seen with Purity. Don’t you think that’s a little…”

  “Querida, there was time in my day to fill. I read in the paper that Purity Grant was going to be sentenced. I know these are public events, so out of curiosity, I went. And it was quite interesting. I met a reporter there who got me in.”

  “A reporter?” Her crystal blue eyes were wide.

  “He asked all kinds of questions of me, but I said little. Especially after Purity fainted into my arms.”

  “How little?”

  “So little I do not really remember what I said. This event—does it cause you concern, querida? Is it possible this is what is causing your anxiety for some reason? More wine?”

  Dixie slumped back into the corner of the couch in dismay and drained her glass. I refilled both our glasses.

  “You are one cool customer, Morty. You come here to
‘make things right’ and then you actually save Purity from being injured, and on TV. Doesn’t that seem just a little bit ironic to you? I would think that it’s best you stay out of sight and not be seen anywhere near Purity.”

  “Dixie, this seems to have caused you distress, and for that I am sorry. However, I am only God’s instrument. If in the course of events I save Purity or anyone else from injury, perhaps that is only part of the grand plan.”

  She sat forward, peering into my eyes, her cleavage beckoning me. “So this is part of the plan? I mean, the less I know the better—but what you’re saying is that…” Dixie put a hand on her forehead and looked at the fire. “Well, I suppose if you are seen on TV actually saving the monster, nobody would ever suspect you of…”

  “Querida, you must learn to relax, drink, and trust in God.” I patted her knee and clinked my glass against hers. “They tell me He moves in a mysterious way, and I am inclined to agree. You are wearing a most stunning top. It goes very well with the sapphires, which in turn are stunning with your eyes.”

  Dixie leaned in again, a hand on my knee. Her perfume was ambrosia. “So how often do you go on missions like this, Morty? For ‘God.’”

  I let the fire play on my eyes as I looked to the ceiling, one eyebrow cocked, the wisdom of the ages clearly mine. “Are we not all on God’s mission? In one way or the other?”

  She moved closer, her eyes moist and looking up at me.

  “And the ring?”

  “It bears the double-barred crucifix, the cross of Caravaca. It was cast from a golden Hapsburg trinket of some sort that encased a part of the true cross.”

  “You mean Jesus Christ’s cross, that cross?’

  “Of course. The conquistador Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra wore this ring, and he believed himself invincible as long as he wore it. Then there was an unfortunate occurrence. While in battle defending a monastery in Peru, the ring and finger were cut from the conquistador’s hand, which separated him from his good luck charm and allowed his enemies to vanquish his soul back to heaven. The finger with the ring still on it was returned to his wife in La Paz. It was the conquistador’s family fortune that helped establish an orphanage. This orphanage is still there in La Paz, though I believe it has been rebuilt many times. Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra was himself an orphan raised by the church. Thus these relics, the finger with the Caravaca ring, were stored in the altar at Nuestra Señora de Cortez. The finger remains, but the ring went missing under mysterious circumstances many years ago. The ring was recently identified as being one and the same as on Robert Tyson Grant’s finger.”