Ringer

by Wiprud, Brian M

  Tony: “What about the thousand up front?”

  Helena: “What thousand up front? There never was any. You just made that up. Can I now explain how this is going to go?”

  Abbie: “Please.”

  “So Robert Tyson Grant is the mark. He believes that a gold ring on his finger is cursed. All we gotta do is convince him to give us the ring to end the curse.”

  Tony smiled. “Cool. How much we getting for the ring?”

  “You seen the price of gold these days?” Abbie waved a tabloid that was in her lap. On the cover was the picture of me holding Purity. “That ring is three ounces, anyway.”

  “We’ll also get a fee on top of that. We have to make it look like the ring is destroyed. So we’ll need Oscar at the magic shop to get us one of them wax ones we can make go up in flames. And Gina, we need Gina. She’s an actress, she can do the ring switch.”

  “I called her machine.” Abbie set the paper on the table.

  “I heard she’s in Toronto doing stunt work.” Helena shook her head. “Such a pretty girl, I can’t figure out why she isn’t a movie star.”

  “They call her last minute sometimes to come to L.A. to fill in. They called her in to stunt-double Angelina Jolie.”

  “I thought she stunt-doubled for Catherine Zeta-Jones?”

  “Her, too. But the work is spotty, she can’t make a living. I know she’ll help us out, she needs the money.”

  Tony pointed at Abbie’s newspaper. “That’s the guy.”

  Abbie: “Who is what guy?”

  Tony stabbed the paper. “That’s the guy I seen at the broad’s place. He’s the guy with the champagne bucket.”

  Helena leaned in. “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  Abbie put the paper on the table, and leaned in to look at my photo. “You think maybe this is the Mexican that Grant is so worried about?”

  “Let’s review.” Helena leaned back, folding her arms. “A Mexican comes to town and makes time with Robert Tyson Grant’s girlfriend and his daughter. Does that sound like trouble?”

  The other two nodded.

  Helena cocked her head, squinting. “We need to know more about this fella. I mean, why does he come all the way from Bolivia—”

  “Mexico,” Abbie added.

  “—Mexico to bother Grant for a ring and then move in on his girl and his daughter?”

  “Cartels, maybe?” Abbie shrugged.

  Helena shrugged back. “What do drug cartels want with a ring?”

  “If the Mexican is a criminal, which he must be if he’s extorting Grant somehow, then it follows he’s with one of the cartels, am I right?” Abbie looked pleased with her logic. “Are there any criminals in Mexico that aren’t attached to a cartel?”

  “Perhaps, but how is he extorting Grant? He wants the ring, but in exchange for what?”

  Tony all this time was deep in thought, or looking for one. “Maybe … he didn’t just come but they sent for him.”

  Abbie and Helena: “What?”

  “You know, they asked him to come here, to bring some drugs or something, and then he said for that he wants the ring instead of cash.”

  Abbie and Helena: “Why?”

  Tony’s brain was struggling. “Maybe … maybe they don’t know why, either. It doesn’t make sense, I know, but maybe that’s the point. They’re confused. We’re confused. Maybe the situation is confused. Somehow.”

  Abbie and Helena: “You’re confused.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Helena took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we strike while the metal’s hot, while I have my hooks in them. It is enough that we know the Mexican is a curse on them, and that we sell them a talisman to make it go away, and palm the ring when we go to destroy it in front of them, using Gina, if she calls. The important part of the con is proving that the talisman works. That’s where Tony comes in. He needs to be a hit man. You try to kill—”

  “Hold it.” Tony sat forward. “I’m a hit man now? That’s dangerous.”

  “I’m going to give Grant the talisman, as temporary protection, telling him if it doesn’t work, he doesn’t owe me anything, but that if it does work, he needs to pay me, and to dispel the curse we need to destroy the ring.”

  “I could get in trouble,” Tony whined. “What if the cops somehow get involved?”

  Helena rolled her eyes. “You think you’re getting ten percent for nothing? I don’t think Abbie could pretend to be a hit man, do you? And Gina, she doesn’t look like a hit man, does she?”

  Tony continued to whine. “Why does there have to be a hit man at all?”

  “He has to believe the talisman is working. What better way for him to think the talisman is working than for him to think it kept him from getting killed? ’Course, you have to look Mexican. We want him to think that guy in the white suit has put a hit out on him. Then we get the Mexican out of the picture. He wants the ring, we have to get it before he does.”

  “How am I supposed to ‘look’ Mexican?”

  “Go to Oscar’s Magic Shop, he’ll fix you up. Pick up a gold wax ring while you’re at it.”

  Abbie had a hand to her chin. “Tony gonna have a gun?”

  “No guns!” Tony blurted. “No knives.”

  “Of course not,” Helena said with a wave of her hand. “Just gloves so he’ll look like a strangler. There’s no crime against wearing gloves. He pulls a stocking over his face and has black gloves on. That looks like a strangler.”

  Tony folded his arms. “How am I supposed to look Mexican under a stocking?”

  “Speak Spanish.” Abbie patted his arm.

  “But I don’t speak Spanish!”

  His aunts replied in unison: “Sure you do. You’re a New Yorker.”

  “Say Por favor, señor when you go to kill him. Look, this couldn’t be easier. I catch him when he leaves work, tell him he’s in great danger, give him the talisman. Then we follow him around until we see an opening. Tony makes his move, Gina runs interference, sells Grant on the idea that the talisman worked. He should come running to me soon after. If not, we’ll play it by ear from there.”

  “I gotta be a Mexican strangler?” Tony sank back into the depths of thought, pouting. “I dunno. Sounds like a problem in your gut after you eat too much nachos.”

  “When do we do this, Lena?” Abbie asked.

  “When else? Tonight.” Helena stood, jerking a thumb toward the beaded curtain that led to the pantry. “Anybody want a sammie? I got fresh olive loaf.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  AN HOUR LATER I HAD sent Purity on her way and was entering my hotel lobby.

  “Mr. Martinez?” A slightly plump but bountifully attractive midthirties brunette at the desk hailed me. “I took some messages for you.”

  “For me? Are you sure? And more than one?”

  “Three. She says you should call her immediately upon your return, that it is urgent.”

  I stepped up to the desk, and she handed me the messages. Her spicy perfume washed over me when she ran a hand through her hair.

  All three messages said the same thing: Call me—D, followed by a phone number I did not recognize. The calls were logged about half an hour apart.

  “Your wife?” The brunette eyed me.

  “Business associate.” A gentle smile played upon my lips, and I held up my ring finger. “Like yourself, I am not a spouse.”

  She unconsciously thumbed her empty ring finger. “We hope you’re enjoying your stay in New York.”

  “I will be brutally honest…” I read her name tag. “I will be brutally honest, Consuela. When you travel for business, you often find yourself dining alone, which is not as much fun as dining with someone and having lively and charming discussions.”

  “I am surprised, Mr. Martinez. I would think you would have no problem finding dinner partners.” Consuela ran a hand through her hair again.

  Ah, I must have been do
ing the Lord’s work for Him to smile on me this way.

  “Is it against hotel policy for the staff to take pity on guests and dine with them?”

  She seemed slightly uncomfortable with my forwardness, even though she had clearly invited it. “Are you asking me to dinner, Mr. Martinez?”

  “But of course—you are quite charming and obviously companionable. Why would I choose to eat alone rather than with you? And please, call me Morty.”

  “Well, I really can’t, I’m working tonight and…”

  I waved the messages. “I fear I cannot dine with you tonight, either. Business calls. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  The phone rang, and she smiled coyly at me. “Try me tomorrow.” She tossed her hair as she turned to answer the phone. I went on my way to my room. A fascinating woman.

  In my room, I flopped on the bed and put the phone on my chest. As you might imagine, I was a little tired from the champagne, and a nap seemed the next logical course of action. Truly, a champagne nap is one of life’s great luxuries, second only to a foot massage before a champagne nap.

  Yet my duty to God trumped the nap. I assumed the messages were from Dixie because Consuela suggested she took them and the caller was female.

  “Morty?”

  “Good afternoon, querida!”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I was at lunch, of course. A most delightful day in New York. It would have been nice to have had lunch at the bistro with you.”

  “We have to move.” Her tone was flat and urgent. “We can set things right this afternoon, but you have to drive to Long Island. Are you ready?”

  This seemed to me a happy turn of events. I would acquire the ring and have my mission accomplished. God was clearly pleased with my progress, and more sensual rewards were likely at hand.

  “I am always ready.”

  “There is an old green Toyota parked at a meter in front of your hotel, probably just about run out of time, so you’d better hurry before it gets towed. The keys are in a hide-a-key under the back right bumper. Directions are in the glove compartment.”

  “Yes, but if I may, why must we do this on Long Island? Why not right here in Manhattan?”

  “It can be done in an isolated place, as shown on the map. No witnesses. Except the driver. Don’t hurt him.”

  I knit my brow. “Hurt him? I am assuming he can remove the ring himself.”

  “The ring?”

  “Yes, I assume Grant will remove the ring himself rather than me removing it and possibly hurting him.”

  “Yes, of course, you’ll get the ring.”

  I sighed. “Querida, this all seems quite complicated. If you just brought the ring to me at my hotel, we could then perhaps have a little dinner and—”

  “Morty, let’s get this done, but it has to be the way we want it done.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Leave now. Bring your luggage and check out of the hotel; you may want to stay out there tonight. The limo should be there at about three, but you need to be in place to intercept it. I don’t have to explain what to do next, do I? How it should look?”

  “God’s work is no easy thing, is it?”

  “If it were easy, it would pay less. When you are done, drive the car to the wrecking yard on the directions, and take the nearby subway back to Manhattan. There is a MetroCard in with your directions. You leaving now?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Call this number when it is done to let me know how it went?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  She hung up.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, puzzling. I knew that the wealthy had complex lives. They had private jets, employees, and banks overseas. I had not known that they embraced complexity as a commodity unto itself. Yet I could see a twisted logic to the complexity as well as the secrecy. What to me was a simple matter of pulling a ring off a finger and handing it to me might to them have the potential for unwanted publicity and scandal. Robert Tyson Grant was in possession of a stolen holy relic. It made sense they did not want the press to know this.

  I splashed water on my face, packed, left the room, and made myself a cup of coffee in the lobby.

  I went to the desk.

  “Regrettably, Consuela, I have been called away and must check out.”

  Her lips formed a mock pout. “Perhaps next time?”

  “I shall return to this hotel next time I am in town, and we will tango until dawn.”

  She giggled at my lie and took my room card.

  The green Toyota was quite old and faded, but it started, catalytic converter rattling. I drove the ugly green car away from the curb and headed for the Midtown Tunnel.

  The camera swings from my retreating car to Tony in his town car. He is wearing a white suit, his hair black and slicked back.

  A thin mustache was glued to his upper lip, and a small goatee glued to his lower lip. He swung his limo out from next to a hydrant and followed my car, a cell phone to his ear.

  “That’s what I’m telling you. I followed her here from a charity junk lot. She left the car. Now the guy in the white suit came out of a hotel on Second Avenue and is driving the car uptown. Yes, I’m following. Yes, I have the stocking and the gloves. Yes, I went to see Oscar. I look like an idiot.”

  I suggest a split screen so that we see Helena sitting on a low wall surrounding the fountain outside the Grant Industries building on Sixth Avenue, a cell phone at her ear.

  “Tony, you look like a Mexican, that’s all you have to be concerned with.”

  “What about coming to pick up Abbie so we can do the con with Grant?”

  “Change of plans. Follow him. This Mexican is up to something with Grant’s woman, and we need to know what it is. It may mean more money, a lot more money. If the Mexican stops soon, call me, but he must be going far if he’s using a car. You and Gina can do your thing tomorrow morning when Grant comes to work.”

  “You heard from Gina yet?”

  “She got back from L.A. today. We’re waiting to hear from her.”

  “So what about you?”

  “I’ll give Grant the talisman as soon as I catch him leaving the building today, which, God willing, won’t be five o’clock, because I gotta be here all afternoon because you never know when rich people will knock off.”

  “Looks like the Mexican is going to the Midtown Tunnel. Want me to follow him to Queens?”

  “What did I say? Yes, follow him wherever he goes, and call me with updates.”

  “If I see Grant, maybe I should jump him like we planned.”

  “No! You need Gina to be there to shill, remember?”

  “What about the Mexican?”

  “What about him?”

  “He could shill.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He would see what I do and tell Grant—”

  “Tony, you don’t grift without a shill who will really sell it. Gina will sell it.”

  “I’m just saying. If I can get this done sooner, the better. I’m not comfortable waiting.”

  “Wait for Gina. You’ll do it tomorrow. Call me when something happens.”

  “Uhn huhn.”

  They both snapped their phones shut and shook their heads with dismay.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  I DON’T THINK ANYBODY REALLY likes Long Island except Long Islanders. If the Northeast were Europe, Long Island would be France. Of course, I have not been to France, but you see what I’m saying. The hundred-mile peninsula is heavily populated by people who wished you had not come, probably because the roads are too narrow for their suburban sprawl, much less visitors like you clogging up the mall parking lot. The western isthmus of the peninsula is attached to New York City, and thus all traffic between the mainland and Long Island must pass through even more congested roads. This is not to say Long Island itself does not have major roads and highways. It does. For whatever reason, though, there just never seem to be enough roads to accommodate the beach
traffic and the commuters. The sense is that there never could be enough roads. A bridge to Connecticut across Long Island Sound has been proposed now and again to relieve congestion and allow traffic out of the peninsula. Long Islanders are mostly against this proposal because from their perspective a bridge to the mainland would allow more traffic into the peninsula.

  I left the East Side of Manhattan by way of the Midtown Tunnel, which took me to the other side of the East River and dumped me unceremoniously on the Long Island Expressway. This highway is notorious for epic traffic jams, but I was ahead of rush hour and jostled fender to fender with other motorists hurtling out to ever smaller winding roads.

  Which is precisely where I found myself—on a snakelike road, hedgerows on one side, a large stone wall on the other, with large leafy trees forming a canopy overhead. Behind the hedgerow was a golf course, behind the stone wall a forested estate of some kind. Sunlight filtered through the canopy. Farther down the road, the tang and whoosh of the ocean beckoned, around the bend, unseen.

  The instructions from the glove box told me to park in a small turnout by the wall. At about three o’clock a limo with the license plate RTGRANT1 would come down the road toward the beach, and then I “would know what to do.”

  I had not forgotten the reasoning for this rendezvous, but just the same, I felt like an idiot. I had allowed myself to be pushed around and made to drive out to Long Island when Robert Tyson Grant could very well have just come down out of his glass tower and handed me the ring. I was in France for no reason. I should have held my ground. My consolation was that I would soon possess the ring, and I could then pursue more pleasant diversions until flying home to La Paz. Would Father Gomez leap with joy at the sight of the ring? Would he kiss my hand, a tear in his eye, and simply say “Bless you”? If his reaction to having someone drop off a hundred grand in cash was any indication, he would probably drop the restored relic in a top desk drawer and point to the door. I was not performing this holy mission for him, but for Him, and my heart was full with that knowledge alone.

  I heard a car winding down the road. A white town car appeared, and I could see stickers indicating that this was a car service. It slowed as it passed, and the driver shot me a reluctant glance. He had a unibrow that sat low on his forehead like a sleeping weasel. A thin mustache, slicked hair, and a white suit jacket made him look like a down-on-his-luck coffee plantationer. I watched the town car’s brake lights vanish slowly around the corner.