Ringer

by Wiprud, Brian M

  “So the ring is magic?”

  “So they tell me.”

  Dixie swilled some wine, her eyes on the fire. “One thing I don’t understand, Morty.” Her hand was on mine. “When we needed help and sent for you, how did your people know it was Grant seeking help, with Purity, I mean? They must have known it was Grant to have asked for the ring.”

  I sipped my wine thoughtfully. “I am not sure I understand, querida.”

  “I sent for you.”

  “Really?” I placed my hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “How charming.”

  “So how did you know about the ring if I sent for you anonymously?”

  My brow was knit. She sent for me? She contacted Father Gomez? “We knew about the ring because it was in a picture on the cover of Forbes magazine. The one with Grant in yachting togs. So if it was you who sent for me to make things right and recover the ring…”

  “I sent for you to make things right, but not about the ring.”

  To be brutally honest, at that moment, I was on the cusp of asking exactly what she meant. However, I was also becoming weary of the confusing conversation interfering with the sex. She was sitting very close, and I could see directly down her top to where the bra bridged the gap between her breasts. It was time for our meeting to turn more intimate, not less. A kiss on the lips was too forward and abrupt at that juncture, but not far off, either. So I smiled, brushed her ringlets aside, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Instead of continuing the interrogation, I became mysterious. Pay attention, oafs. Being mysterious, holding back, is important; it creates bricks of anticipation. If they know everything, it leaves nothing to find out. Remember all that stuff I said about desire.

  “Dixie, as you said before, perhaps it is better there are some things you don’t know. At least not yet.”

  As if a divine light had parted the clouds, I had a eureka moment. Of course. Dixie saw me with Purity in my arms. This divine creature’s inquiries all stemmed from a mild state of jealousy. No woman likes to set her sights on a man—however tentatively—and then see him in the company of another woman, especially a younger woman. I decided to stack my bricks deftly.

  “You know, Dixie, when Purity fell into my arms, I felt how delicate life is, how easily it can be here one moment and then gone the next. To be brutally honest, I had been thinking about you all morning, since breakfast. At court, my mind was both places, you and what was going on around me. Then, in the moment Purity tripped, my left hand grabbed her here.” I put a hand on Dixie’s rib cage, below the breast. “My other hand held her here, on the upper arm. As she fell before me, and I eased her down to the floor, I noted that she has delicate little freckles on her nose. She seemed at peace, almost like she was dead.”

  Sometimes I think I am a genius when it comes to women, even if my reasoning is not entirely accurate. Dixie was getting turned on, but not through jealousy. It was established earlier in the film that she liked to be bad, in a sexual way. She was used to being on the giving end of being naughty, and led Grant around by his man parts. This type of woman likes to be the one in control during sex. There are times, however, when they encounter a man who dominates them, someone who is bad like themselves, verging on dangerous. Here she was drinking wine with what she thought was a hired killer, one so deft he was making public appearances with his victim, and then describing in detail how he saved her while at the same time thinking about killing her. It was the comment about the freckles that got her, though the hand on the rib cage probably helped.

  Dixie’s lips were on mine, and our tongues met.

  As I sit here in my cell, it is quite pleasing to reflect on this salacious event.

  Oafs: Pay attention. When you are seated on a couch with a woman, and you kiss, it is important to have her in the corner of the couch so she has no avenue of easy retreat. Some will retreat because they think they should, others because they genuinely did not want the kiss. The former will remain seated, the latter will stand. Forget about the latter.

  Dixie seemed to catch herself, and began to move back, but I could feel her breathing heavily, excited, and she did not stand up.

  I should really sell this next maneuver for more than the price of a movie deal.

  With your left hand on her right flank, spin her away from the sofa corner, pivot, and lay her down. You may have to use your knee to help nudge her legs up. You spin with her, and continue the kiss, transforming it into a full-on embrace. Be careful. If you perform this swoop too abruptly you may smash your teeth into hers, which can ruin the evening and result in expensive visits to the orthodontist. The swoop must be done assertively yet gracefully, as if you were whirling her on a dance floor. The Martinez Swoop sweeps them off their feet.

  At this point the camera should swing in on the gas fire, away from the passions on display on the sofa.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  WE SWITCH FROM THE GLOW of the fire to the blue glow of a computer screen, one that sparks Purity’s green eyes.

  At the very moment I was enacting the Martinez Swoop, Purity was in her room at the Mandarin Hotel dressed in a plush bathrobe. She was watching the news video of herself fainting into my arms. Spilled on the bed next to her was a folder featuring details of various rehab centers the lawyers said she was to choose from. On a tray on the floor was a half-eaten room-service hamburger.

  Released from the hospital midafternoon, she’d been escorted by a fearsome female nurse named Greta to the expensive Columbus Circle suite. This was temporary, an overnight. She was to be shipped back to East Hampton in the morning. Greta sat outside her door, more guard than nurse.

  You may ask: How could she be imprisoned in this way at her age?

  She had imprisoned herself. Purity had no money of her own, only that which her stepfather meted out to her from a trust fund. Her career as her stepfather’s nemesis did not come with a salary. She had nowhere to stay except where he let her have an account, and that tended to be out in East Hampton. Grant felt keeping her out there limited the amount of embarrassment she could cause, so he had an open account she could use at local stores and of course at the local lounge, where she could drink herself silly. This did not mean that Purity could not effect the occasional escape.

  The hotel room windows at the Mandarin did not open, and even if they did, Purity’s suite was thirty or more flights up. It killed her that there was a bar on the top floor of the hotel and she couldn’t get at it. So she’d logged on and reviewed the latest thorn she’d stuck into her stepfather’s side.

  The news reports from the morning’s events had evolved beyond what I had been told, and even what Robert Tyson Grant had seen. The news report flashing in front of Purity’s eyes went something like this:

  Lady Godiva or Sleeping Beauty? You decide. Earlier today after her sentencing for stealing a horse and riding topless through Central Park, bad-girl Purity Grant fainted into the arms of a Prince Charming outside the courtroom. Who is this guardian angel, this dashing protector? Just a spectator? Rumor has it he’s either a friend of the family or Purity’s latest fling. Nobody seems to know for now. Stay tuned as there are sure to be further episodes.

  Purity stared at me in the video on her screen, wondering if she knew me somehow, from somewhere. She watched the video in slow motion, and liked the way the stranger hovered over her and brushed the hair gently from her face. He looked like a nice guy, even if he was wearing a white suit. She didn’t meet many nice guys. Most people who met her were interested in only three things: money, fame, and sex. She wasn’t fixated on me or anything, just curious about me, not sure whether I was someone she actually wanted to know or someone she could use to outrage her stepfather. Perhaps both. Assuming the tabloids discovered who I was and she could reach out to me. Idle speculation.

  Her cell vibrated, and she whispered into it.

  “Hey … not yet, hopefully soon … I’ll call you. Where?… OK, I’ll meet you there.”

 
She flicked off the call and looked at the door to her posh cell.

  On the way to the hotel, she had asked Greta if they could stop at a pharmacy so that she could pick up some things for overnight. Originally, she was supposed to go back to East Hampton, but the hospital detour pushed that trip off to the next day. Which of course had been Purity’s plan all along. The faint was an act, and when she saw me standing there, she more or less tossed herself into my arms and hoped I’d catch her.

  The nurse glumly supervised the pharmacy expedition: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, face wash, Tums, extra lip gloss, and eye drops. Of course, a nice hotel like the Mandarin has many of these things for its guests, but Greta wasn’t familiar with these niceties. Purity didn’t actually need any of these items, just the Nytol gel caps she shoplifted.

  Logging off of her laptop and snapping it shut, Purity crept to the door to her room.

  “Greta? Greta?”

  She knocked on the door to her room. No response, so she gently turned the knob and cracked the door open. Greta was slumped in the easy chair next to the door like a deflated Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, snoring loudly.

  Shedding her bathrobe, Purity was already dressed in the skirt she wore to court and a sleeveless blouse. She quickly put up her hair in pigtails, slipped on some thigh-high moccasin boots, and unbuttoned her blouse to show the black bikini top she wore instead of a bra. Greta’s purse contained eighty dollars. That was all that was necessary for cabs and such, if even that, because where Purity would go men would pick up the tab for everything. She slid the cash into her own purse, which only contained makeup, cell phone, and lip gloss. Gently backing out of the hotel suite, the wayward Purity exited into Manhattan’s open arms.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  A CLOSE-UP OF THE GLOWING bus destination sign RICHMOND pulls back to reveal a roaring silver Greyhound motor coach. It sweeps like a flashing diesel sword into a passenger bay next to a station, whines, and then gasps to a stop. You can add the sound effect of a slashing sword if you think that would help sell the menace of the bus’s arrival.

  The doors jolted open, revealing our cat-eyed killer, Paco, who is in the act of kissing his Santa Muerte medallion. He hops to the macadam, the medallion dropping back into his shirt.

  Chin up, the man who came to kill Purity Grant strode with renewed confidence as he moved toward the depot. Paco served his mistress Santa Muerte that morning, and he felt particularly virtuous and rejuvenated about having killed and beheaded John.

  Yes, the beheading was a little unnecessary, but he was El Cabezador, and he felt that he should take pride in his craft and use bloody goggling noggins to sign all his killings. He had decided that leaving a head would be his own personal way of showing respect to his beloved protector Santa Muerte. Certainly the she-devil was there protecting him during his battle with the charging bull John. There was no such thing as luck, only that which his God allowed. It was clear to Paco that it was Santa Muerte who inspired the other illegals to pick up clubs and pound John into a pulpy red meat pancake. Santa Muerte was giving Paco a sign, one of encouragement.

  Once John was dispatched, the illegals felt it best that they all scatter, and the sooner the better. After burying John’s body in a shallow grave under the pile of construction debris, Paco drove them all in John’s van to the Greyhound bus station in Culpville. In a locker there, Paco placed a plastic Cinnabon bag containing John’s head, which was wrapped in the yellow South of the Border windbreaker. No sense in cutting off a head if you do not leave the trophy where people will discover it and fear the killer. The other illegals all bought tickets taking them west, seemingly as far as they could go from where John met his just end, and close to border crossings where they might be able to slip back to Mexico should the police come looking for them.

  Paco, of course, was still heading north to New York, with his Waffle House paper place mat showing the franchise locations across the eastern seaboard. At a Goodwill store near the Culpville bus station, he bought a cheap fringed leather jacket, black and lightweight. There was an inside pocket, and this was the perfect place to put his pistol.

  It was late by the time Paco reached Richmond, and he needed sleep. He was fairly certain that finding a cheap room on his own might be a problem. He knew Hispanics were not entirely welcome everywhere in the United States. As in Memphis, he was easily able to find familiar surroundings near the bus station in which to operate.

  A few blocks away he turned down a street that was lined with low brick commercial buildings catering to plumbers, masons, and janitorial supplies stores. The sidewalk in front of these buildings and loading platforms was sprinkled with women, and the curb in front of the women was dotted with the brake lights of the ladies’ customers.

  Striding down the block, Paco surveyed the prostitutes. Some asked if he was looking for a date; others turned their backs, not wanting to turn a trick with a Hispanic. He smiled at them all, but was looking for a south-of-the-border girl, and sure enough he found one. Cue the subtitles:

  “Dear one, how are you tonight?”

  “Looking for girlfriend?”

  “I am looking not only for a girlfriend, I am looking for a chica, and it would seem I have found one. What is your name?”

  “Firecracker. And yours?”

  “Bob. So, Firecracker, what is the cost of a movie these days?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Is that for the date or the movie?”

  “Room is extra, darling.” She came closer and batted her eyelashes. He could smell her coconut perfume, and by her proportions—tits in a tube top and hips in a tight skirt—he was certain he’d picked one that was not a man in disguise. She was a little on the heavy side, muffin-topping over the miniskirt, but there were no evident sores around her mouth or track marks on her arms. Also, her long black hair seemed thick and healthy, which was a generally accepted way that his Juárez compatriots would select a healthy hooker. The ones with STDs tended to have brittle-looking hair.

  “Dear one, I am not in the mood to bargain, but shall we say eighty for the whole thing? I will be sleeping in until morning, so you can, too, if you want. It is late, and customers here are thinning.”

  “I hate to ask this of a compatriot, but I need to make sure you can afford a movie.”

  Paco pulled a wad of twenties from his pocket, just part of what he’d stolen from John’s wallet.

  She turned away, looking at the passing cars, and it seemed as if she were going to ignore him. Her hand reached out to his, and she led him down the block, past the other girls, who said things like “Chica, I’ll see you for breakfast” and “Firecracker’s fuse is lit.”

  They went down an alley and emerged on another, busier street with gas stations and fast-food restaurants. A few doors down was a sign: SOUTHERN BELLE MOTOR LODGE. It was bilevel, blue, with doors facing out toward the parking lot, the office at the end near the driveway entrance. There were rooms on both sides of the motel, front and back, those on the first floor with parking spaces in front of them, the second floor fronted by a continuous porch from which the rooms were accessed.

  There was a corridor off the parking lot into the motel, and past the ice machine were steps up to the second level. Firecracker led Paco to the back and all the way to the end. She unlocked the door with a key on a bungee around her wrist and shoved the door open.

  The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and sanitizer, but the bed was made. Except for beverage rings on the sparse furniture, the place looked clean. It was certainly the nicest place Paco had had to bunk since he left Juárez.

  He handed Firecracker the eighty dollars. She pulled off her tube top, wrapped the money and her key in the spandex garment, and wedged it behind the TV. Cupping her breasts, she pointed the large brown nipples at Paco like they were weapons.

  Subtitles, please:

  “You want me from the front or the back, Bob?”

  Paco pulled off his
black fringed jacket and draped it over the TV.

  “I want you on the bed.”

  Not exactly as good as what I had going in Dixie’s apartment, was it? Well, each man has to live within his means, yes? Just the same, Firecracker’s tits should help cement our R rating and keep male audience members alert.

  Let us cut to the outside of the motel room. From the porch we see the room window, and we see the interior light beyond the curtain go out. We fade from night to first light, the faintest of sunrise glowing pink in the darkened window of Paco’s motel room.

  The early morning calm was shattered by a scream. A skinny black woman with long blond hair stumbled and fell in front of Paco’s door. A bald, hairy white man in white briefs rushed up to the prostitute, whipping her with a belt. The girl screamed for mercy.

  The motel door swung open, and Paco stepped forward, dressed in just his track pants. He looked down at the victim, then at her tormentor.

  The bald, hairy white man stopped thrashing the girl long enough to look Paco in the eye, and then resumed his punishment.

  Paco shoved the tormentor, flipping the bald, hairy white man over the railing and down to the parking lot where he landed off-screen with a crunch.

  Paco stepped calmly back into his motel room and closed the door.

  Whimpering, the skinny black girl picked up her long blond wig and scurried out of frame.

  Paco opened the door again, and he was dressed and in the act of donning his leather jacket. He walked down the porch to the exit, the sound of approaching sirens in the distance.