CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
EVEN AS THE SUN’S ROSY orb glowed low over a seedy Virginia motel, it warmed the cold glass and steel of midtown Manhattan, the denizens stirring in the brightening murk of their bedrooms.
Some, like Robert Tyson Grant, awoke alone and troubled, and went immediately for a swim in the penthouse pool.
Others, like me, briefly awoke entwined and spent with Grant’s girlfriend, with no thoughts of swimming pools.
Still others awoke entwined and spent, but with thoughts of swimming pools and East Hampton mansions.
One might well have surmised that Purity found herself that morning in the bed of a bartender, or of a punk rocker, or of a rave club Romeo or worse still.
The audience will be somewhat surprised when the camera pans from where Purity is curled up with a pillow to a vacant spot in the bed next to her. The apartment is modest but clean, the walls checkered with black-and-white photos of Manhattan. The bathroom door is open and provides the only light in the room. Who do we see emerge freshly showered with a towel around his waist?
Skip Baker, the reporter.
As I think Lincoln once said, publicity makes strange bedfellows.
Skip sauntered to the bed and sat in the vacant spot. Grabbing Purity’s hip, he gave it a shake. “Up!”
She rolled over, the blond pigtails draped across green eyes shriveled by slumber. “Give me one good reason?”
“I can give you more reasons than that, babe, but I’ll start with: I have to get to work.”
“Work on what?”
“The continuing adventures of Purity Grant, of course.”
Purity hugged a pillow and rubbed her nose in it. “What happens in this installment?”
“I have to track down your Prince Charming.”
“And that’s certainly not you.”
“Certainly not. The guy in the white suit who caught you.”
“Who was he?”
“If I knew, I might not have to kick you out of here so soon. Besides, I thought we had a deal. No questions.”
“No probing questions. That was an incidental question.”
“Why’d you pick him to faint on?”
“Would you have caught me?”
“Good point.”
“Ass.”
“If I find this guy, you want me to tell you where to find him?”
“Why would I want to find a strange man in a white suit, even if he did keep me from bashing my skull on the courthouse’s marble floor?”
“Makes a nice story, that’s why.”
“Is that really all I am to you? A comic strip character?”
Skip patted her hip. “Not only.”
“You suck, Skip, you know that?”
He smiled and cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’ll bet you I’m one of the few people who treats you like a person and not a celebrity or a belt notch. Don’t knock it. I may be the only friend you have.”
Purity rolled to her back, hands over her face. “Yeah, that would be about the size of it.”
“I don’t lecture you, I don’t tell you what to do, and yet I’m always here when you want me. So I suck? Jeez, Purity, I wish I had someone like that.”
“You’re just after Purity stories.”
“And you, babe, are after stories, too, aren’t you?”
Purity took her hands away from her face and glared at him. “We also said no headshrinking, remember?”
“That’s merely an incidental statement of fact. Let’s get you in the shower. That’ll wake you up.”
“Wake up for what? So they can ship me back to East Hampton? Then to rehab? I don’t need rehab. That’s just where they send anybody who doesn’t play by the rules.”
“Do I need to point out that you are legally an adult? Only the courts can imprison you, Purity. Well, one other person, but we said no headshrinking.” Skip rolled to her side of the bed, took her hand, and lifted her to her feet, the sheets sliding off of her rumpled but fantastically lithe young body. “Let’s go.”
“Any time you want to take the gloves off, I’m ready, Baker. I might just tunnel under the wire yet. I have a meeting today with some people.”
“People?”
“People.”
“People who want to pay you money to do something so that you won’t have to rely on the trust fund Robert Tyson Grant’s holding out on you?”
“Watch TN2.com, maybe you’ll find out before the Daily Post does.” Purity stumbled toward the bathroom, her little butt swaying behind those slim tanned hips, the pigtails licking her shoulders.
I bite my hand just thinking of it. It is not for me to speak for other men, but for me, women are at their most endearing in the morning, complete with sheet wrinkles on their behinds, mascara-smeared eyes, tangled hair, and breasts posed as God intended. I suppose that is partially because when I witness this it means there has been a night of adventure, but more so because you now see the woman and her body at ease. While this body may have been spectacular and enchanting beyond all distraction the night before in fancy panties and bra, carefully scented, and the eyes painted to allure, there is a deeper appreciation of the female form to be had when it is fresh from between the sheets and natural. I suppose it is like the beauty of a sunrise compared to the glitter of Times Square. Women have a different scent in the morning, too. This fragrance is at once gently yeasty and salty, like fresh-baked baguettes, especially behind the ears and along the nape of the neck and all the way down the back to that depression at the base of the spine where the aroma is slightly nutty, the spot on which the behind seems to pivot as they walk. Were I a poet, I could write volumes on that spot.
Excuse the digression. I would apologize, except that when it comes to women, it is clear that I have the soul of a tormented artist who devours with his mind.
Purity swayed to the bathroom door and grasped the door frame. She cocked a leg and looked back at Skip from under her hair. “So are you going to write a happy ending for me?” Her eye and tone were at once mocking and challenging.
Skip walked over to the bathroom door and kissed her on the head. “I write the stories. You make the stories. It’s as simple as that.”
“Is it?” Purity latched onto his towel at the waist and pulled him into the bathroom.
Skip closed the door behind them, the wedge of light collapsing and leaving us in the dark.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
IT WAS A NIGHT OF passions for the players of my small tragedy, beginning with the sublime and following through to the tawdry. Everybody except Grant got laid.
So let us come full circle.
Like Purity, I awoke to find my bedmate missing, so maybe the camera finds me in exactly the same position in the bed as she was, and moves the same way across the bed toward the bathroom. Ah, but when the camera pans to the bathroom door, it is open but dark.
I arose, with a sheet wrapped around me. Despite my body being worthy of display, I certainly cannot imagine we are showing anything more than a mere glimpse of my buttocks. This seems to be the convention in film, though perhaps you can explain to me at the premiere why this is so. Ah, of course, I won’t be at the premiere, I will be dead—you would think I could not forget this regrettable state of affairs, yet I am immersed in telling this story as fast as I can and as completely as possible, with as few digressions as possible because I can little afford the time. I personally am not a connoisseur of the penis. Mine is just there attached to my front, magnificent and wily as he should be. Those belonging to other men are like some beast worm from Pluto that if you did not know what it was you would smash it with a broom and burn it in the leaf pile. Yet I am sure this is different for women, and perhaps the penis as a general form is as pleasing to them as the female delights are to me. So I am not sure why a good-looking penis like mine or perhaps Jimmy Smits’s is not worthy for a screen debut.
Where was I? Ah. So with the sheet wrapped around me I left the be
droom and went hunting for Dixie—and I mean hunting. When you bed someone with a body like hers, you must make the most of the access you have to it. The glasses and bottles and undergarments and pants and shirts that had been strewn about the couch were missing.
There was, however, a note on the bar.
Morty—I will make arrangements for you to have access to Purity and to set things right ASAP with the ring. Will contact you at your hotel. Close the door behind you. XOD
PS: Cheers to the health of the chickens.
Alas, it was not the first time that I had arisen to find that a woman was, shall we say, somewhat doubtful of her choices the previous evening. Such is the nature of passion that reason finds itself shamefaced, yes? Yet this was a novel turn of events. Dixie, who had been jealous of Purity, was now relinquishing me to her? Perhaps Dixie was gaining some satisfaction knowing that she had me first? I marveled at the multifaceted gem that is a woman. Yet as I said, I no longer viewed Purity as the object of passion. While I was touched by this selfless gesture by Dixie, I had no intention of accepting it.
I found my clothing neatly hung in the bathroom. Dressed, I strode from the lobby, full of heart for having won the desire and passions of such a delicious woman as Dixie, emboldened with the knowledge that a new day might bring further delights. At the very least, a further delight in the form of a grilled cheese sandwich.
Speaking of grilled cheese sandwiches, Dixie was meeting with Robert at the Red Flame Diner, in the same back booth in which I had introduced myself to the Grab-A-Lot mogul.
Perhaps as a segue we could have a close-up of a grilled cheese sandwich on one table and pan over to a close-up of a grapefruit and black coffee being set on the Formica in front of Dixie, and whole wheat toast and tomato juice being set in front of Grant. Between the two breakfasts, Grant slaps down a tabloid. On its front page is a picture of me in my white suit holding Purity Grant in my arms. The headline read: GUARDIAN ANGEL?
We don’t have to stay in a close-up of their breakfast. It is probably best that the camera pull back, and perhaps watch the conversation through the window of the diner, extras posing as pedestrians passing briefly between us and our characters. If you used real pedestrians they might linger and block our view.
Dixie was in yellow slacks and yellow and black polka-dot halter top. Grant was in a blue serge suit with an open-collar white shirt.
“Well, our Mexican surely can’t kill her now, can he?” Grant stabbed his hand at the tabloid picture.
“Shh!”
Grant’s voice lowered to a whisper. “He’s worthless. He’s less than worthless. He’s protecting her! What kind of hit man protects his victim?”
“Yesterday when I met him, before my night at the gym, he told me it’s all part of a plan of some kind. He’s a fairly mysterious character, this Morty, and wouldn’t say why he did that or how he knew about the ring or any of that. He’s a cool cucumber for sure, because he said he considered killing her right then and there. Can you imagine? I mean, if she’d hit her head, or he made it look like she had…”
“He said that?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Robert, keep your voice down, please. As I said, he’s a fairly mysterious character.”
“He said he was thinking of killing her there but didn’t? Is this some sort of leverage for the ring?”
“Well, pookie, I think you need to try to weigh your priorities.”
“I have weighed my priorities and my options.” Grant folded his arms. “He can have the ring.”
She gasped. “Bobbie, I think that’s a very mature decision.”
Grant chuckled, waving a finger. “I haven’t built Grant Industries into the giant that it is today by letting people push me around. Robert Tyson Grant settles deals on his terms.” He leaned back with a jaunty cock of his head. “I’ll give him the ring, the ring that looks just like the one on my finger. I dropped in at a jeweler on Forty-seventh Street, they photographed the ring and sized it, and they’ll have a copy for me by one o’clock.”
“They can do it that fast?”
“For Robert Tyson Grant they will.”
“Oh, sweetums, that is brilliant! Woo hoo! Well, that solves that problem.” They clinked coffee mugs. “To old friends, new friends, and health of the chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“Oh, that’s just a toast I heard on TV or something, I thought it was funny.”
“You look quite ravishing this morning, Dix.” He was positively leering at her. Like a tomcat, he sensed his puss was in heat, only he had no idea it was as a result of me.
“Thank you, sweet Bobbie.” Her smile was forced, and masked the shimmer of guilt she felt for having cuckolded him. “Look, we need to get this show on the road. I was awake early this morning, and I think I figured out the perfect opportunity for Morty to target Purity. On her way home today to East Hampton. The limo can be ambushed and he can pretend to kidnap her or something. These Mexicans do a lot of kidnapping. Anyway, I can suggest it, but it’s up to our hit man how he does it. I think we have the right to say when he does it. She hasn’t left yet, has she?”
“Of course not.” Grant’s mood darkened, his eyes hooded. “She drugged the escort, Greta, and slipped out last night, but this morning she called my assistant, Kathy, and said she was doing some shopping and would head back to the hotel in the afternoon. I was going to have her flown by chopper from the West Side heliport out to the estate to make sure she didn’t give us the slip again. My stomach hurts just knowing she’s loose out there in the city. Anything could happen. I need Grant Industries stocks stable now. What with Trade Winds coming down the pike, I need our bond rating rock solid—and I certainly don’t need her interfering with, well, you know. I missed you last night.”
“I missed you, too, babykins. Try to relax. It will all be over soon, and then we can fuck like bunnies all night long.”
“Let’s go back to your place right now!”
“First things first, punkin’. I have to make sure I don’t drop the ball, and I can’t be straddling you like a bronco while at the same time making sure the Mexican arrives at the right place at the right time.”
Grant pouted. “Make sure he isn’t seen by the security cameras at the house.”
“I thought it would be a problem for Morty to make his move on the grounds of the estate. It would look suspicious if your security system somehow went on the blink. No, I think we should send her back by limo. He could ambush the car on the local roads on the way down to the beach.”
He gripped his forehead. “Just make sure the Mexican doesn’t kill or seriously hurt the driver. No reason anybody else should suffer for her sins.”
“You poor darling.” Dixie patted Robert’s cheek. “I’ll get Morty on board, you let me know when she’s on the road.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling him by his first name, Dix. It sounds so, well, familiar.”
Dixie looked at him sidelong. “Robert Tyson Grant. You’re not jealous, are you?”
“I don’t like you meeting alone with a hit man. It’s dangerous.”
“I can handle myself, Robert.”
“Yes, but he’s a hit man, he has guns and things, and you’re very, very attractive, he could get it into his head to force you to…”
“You sweet man.” If only he knew. Her feeble conscience was assuaged by the notion that she had straddled my loins for Grant’s sake. “He comes near me and—bam—a shot right to the testes.”
“Really?”
She winked at Grant and stood. “I am a force to be reckoned with, or hadn’t you noticed?”
As always, Grant watched her behind intently as she walked away, though he noted that it wasn’t swaying the way it normally did.
That long trip to the gym last night must have left her sore.
We see Dixie leave the diner from outside and follow her yellow polka dot halter top as she crosses the street and
walks past a swarthy, dark-haired man with heavy eyelids and dark circles under his eyes. He leans against a building, watches her pass, and speaks into his cell phone.
“Helena? It’s Tony. Where you been?”
Let’s do a split screen so we see the palmist making a bologna sandwich in her pantry on the right side, and see her nephew the car service driver on the left.
“Tony, I was up late with Abbie watching TV. I’m just up making breakfast. You get there early like I said?”
“Uhn huhn.”
“You see her?”
“Uhn huhn.”
“She leave with the fella you saw last night, the fella with the champagne bucket?”
“Nuh uhn.”
“How late did you stay last night?” She spread Miracle Whip on the white bread.
“Ten. I hadda get home to Ginny.”
“OK, so Mr. Champagne left sometime late last night, figures. So where did she go this morning?”
“Met a guy in a diner.”
“What diner?”
“Red Flame, off Sixth.”
“What’s the fella look like?” Helena tore open a package of bologna and began slapping slices onto the bread.
“Older, sixty maybe, gray hair on the sides, nice blue suit, maybe six feet.”
“Figures. So where’s she going now?”
“Way down the block.”
“Follow!”
“I gotta make money, Helena, you know that. I gotta get some driving done.” We see Tony start to walk quickly in the direction he saw Dixie go, craning his neck. “I got the baby at home.”
“This will make money.”
“I don’t know that.”
She spread Miracle Whip on the top slice for her sandwich. “I’m your aunt.”
“I know that.”
“When I say you’ll make money, you’ll make money.”
“How long am I supposed to follow this broad?”
“All day.”
“All day?” Tony comes to the end of a block and looks in all directions, but does not see Dixie’s yellow polka dots.
“You want me to call your cousin Gina?”
“Gina?”
“Yes, Gina. She’s not doing much these days, not acting in any movies right now, she could use the money.”
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