Another half hour of disappointment followed. I would hear a car coming, I’d look and hope, only to be once again disappointed that a Mercedes or Porsche or Bentley was not Grant’s limo. There were a few nice-looking women, though, who gave me the once-over. They looked like those flashy housewives you hear about who cheat on their rich husbands with the exterminator. A landscaper with a reptilian tan actually stopped to ask if I needed help.
Leaning against my green bomber, I began playing a game where I tried using my peripheral vision to see what kind of car came next, to see what I could actually make out in my side vision. If you concentrate, you can make out the color and size pretty well.
When the limo did come, I did a double take so strong I practically got whiplash. By God, the RTGRANT1 limo was finally rolling down the slope toward me. I pushed off of the green Toyota shit wagon, squared my stance at the side of the road, and waved an arm overhead. I watched my reflection waving in the darkened windows of the limo as it slid past. The limo brake lights slid around the corner just like all the Mercedes and Porsches and Bentleys did.
Hands on my hips, I believe I uttered an unconscionable curse about sex with a family member. I was seriously pissed. There I was all the way in France and that bastard Grant drives right by me, probably giving me the finger as he did so, the gold Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra ring glinting in the air-conditioned sun-flecked recesses of his limousine.
A whirring from down the road was followed by the limo as it backed slowly uphill and around the bend toward where I was standing. My ill humor melted away.
OK, enough fun and games, let’s get this over with.
As I watched the limo back slowly toward me, my eye latched onto some motion in the hedgerow on the opposite side of the road. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first. Just as with my peripheral vision, I had to concentrate to make sense of the shapes I was seeing. Like the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, the image of what moved beyond the hedgerow was broken into pieces by the leaves and branches of the bushes. My eye put one piece with another, trying to find a pattern.
The limo whirred toward me, exhaust puffing.
An eye. I saw an eye—and like with a jigsaw, once you have an important piece like an eye, you can quickly attach to it. It was the man with the weasel eyebrows, in a white suit, from the white town car that drove by, and he was crouching behind the hedgerow. My first thought was that he was some kind of pervert, one of those people who gets their jollies by spying on strangers and little girls’ birthday parties. That idea was discarded and replaced with the notion that this weasel man was there for a reason. That perhaps he had been sent by Dixie or Grant. That this was a setup of some kind. It would better explain why they wanted me in a remote location. Instead of giving up the ring, they meant to kill me and keep the ring. Why else would Weasel Man wear such a ridiculous costume if not to disguise his identity? My gut wound into a knot, and my first impulse was to jump in the green heap and drive as fast away from that spot as possible. Or leap to the far side of my car and use it to protect me from a fusillade of bullets. No wonder they wanted me on the wall side; there was no escape.
I spun toward the rear of the Toyota just as the limo stopped between me and Weasel Man. The limo’s far rear door opened.
Weasel Man struggled through the thick hedgerow, a stocking stretched over his head and black gloves on his hands. He was clearly clambering for the open limo door.
He was not after me but Robert Tyson Grant in the limo.
I paused, unsure of what I should do, or whether Grant would see Weasel Man’s attack.
The open door and dark glass obscured the passenger’s view.
Purity emerged, looking my way over the rear deck of the limo.
“Morty? WTF are you doing here?”
I just pointed at Weasel Man, unable to answer fast enough.
Weasel Man launched himself at the open door.
* * *
Screenwriting: Yes You Can! page 221 recommends the use of the cutaway to build dramatic tension, so we will cut from Tony leaping at the limo to Robert Tyson Grant biting a fingernail as he strides from his glass tower on Sixth Avenue.
His spunky assistant Kathy was trotting in his wake, her arms cradling a dozen contracts.
“Mr. Grant, we really need to sign these agreements today. You can do it on your limo ride to wherever it is that you’re going.”
“I’m just stepping out for lunch, Kathy, I’ll be right back.”
“Remember, you have a four o’clock with the Vietnamese.”
“Mm hmm.”
They passed the plaza fountain, and Helena darted from her seat and grabbed Grant’s arm.
Grant wheeled, a fist in the air, ready to defend himself.
“Robert, I have come to warn you!” Her eyes were as wild as those of any garden variety glue huffer. “Grave danger!”
“Mr. Grant, shall I get security?” Kathy began backing away with the precious contracts.
“Helena?” Grant stared at the fortune-teller with dismay. “What? How did you find me here?”
“This is your building, is it not?” A coy twinkle sparked her eye.
“Yes, well…”
“Should I not know this is your building?”
“No, nothing like that, it’s just—”
“Take this!” Helena shoved what appeared to be a miniature, mummified hand into his face. It would fit in the palm of your hand, and was brown and shiny with carefully cut black nails.
“Yah!” Grant recoiled. “What is that?”
Kathy yelped, scuttling back toward the building entrance. “Security!”
“It is the hand of a race of Australian pygmies, now extinct, but they had powers.” Actually, it was a dried raccoon paw that was supposed to look like a monkey paw, the kind from the ghost stories. You think I’m kidding? Check it out on eBay. They look like small human hands.
Grant looked apologetically at some nearby Asians with a tourist map. They eyed him and Helena curiously.
“Helena, why are you giving me the—”
“Grave danger! Do you hear? This is a talisman, and it is called a calludaroo. It is my last one—but you need it.” She held it out, and it dangled from a leather thong. “Within twenty-four hours there will be an attempt on your life. This will protect you from harm! Wear it around your neck.”
The Asians aimed their cell phone cameras at the palmist, the tycoon, and the talisman.
“Kill me?” Grant lowered his voice. “Who? Who would kill me?”
Helena snatched his forearm and gripped it with both hands. “I cannot see … but he wears a white suit.”
Ashen, Grant stammered, “The Mexican?”
Helena sank to her knees on the sidewalk. “I cannot see any more. I have had my vision. But please”—she grabbed his pant leg, sobbing—“I beg of you, wear the talisman for one day, just one day, and see if what I say is not true!”
“I’ll wear it. I’ll wear the claderoon.”
“Calludaroo.”
“Sorry, calludaroo.”
“It is my last one and is very precious, worth your life.”
“Well, I’ll take good care of it.”
Helena looked up coyly. “And what is your life worth?”
“Now I’d have to look into that—”
“I guarantee it will work and that your life will be saved by this talisman. Just promise me recompense.”
“I’ll consult with—”
“A hundred thousand for your life?”
“There are many factors involved in any negotiation—”
She stood suddenly, wiping a tear from her eyes. “I have a vision, and I rush here to help you, to save your life, and give to you my last calludaroo, perhaps the last calludaroo in the world. Why do I do this? To help, that is all. That is my passion … and my life’s burden. Whether that means anything to you or not, whether that has any value to you who owns billions and a giant building, let that be up to your conscience
. I know in here”—she tapped her chest—“that you are a worthy and honorable man.”
Two uniformed security guards who looked like they’d just woken from a nap marched toward Grant, Kathy in their wake making two strides for each of theirs. One of them called out as they approached.
“Mr. Grant, can we assist you, sir?”
“No, that’s all right. I know this woman.”
Arrival of the fuzz clearly coaxed Helena to wrap up her pitch.
“Wear the calludaroo for one full day! You know where to find me … I must rest. Taxi!”
A yellow cab screeched to a halt, she dove in, and it zoomed off.
Slack-jawed, the Asians stood next to Grant, as did the two security guards and Kathy, all watching Helena’s cab disappear up Sixth Avenue.
* * *
Cut back to East Hampton.
Tony the Weasel Man sprang from the bushes at Purity. “Por favor, señor!”
Her back was to him.
A branch caught his pant cuff. His leg jerked tight, and so did the rest of him before he fell flat onto the road.
Purity heard Tony fall, but could not see around the door.
For Robert Tyson Grant, I would not leap to action. For a cute blonde? This is Morty Martinez you’re talking to.
I vaulted across the road and reached Tony just as he was getting to his feet. He saw Purity peering wide-eyed around the car door at him. His eyebrow rippled with confusion because she was not Robert Tyson Grant as he’d hoped she would be. Then he saw me dashing around the back end of the limo.
He was bigger than I was, mostly in the midsection. Just the same, my plan would have been to kick him in the nuts. What did you expect: Fisticuffs? Judo? Where I come from in East Brooklyn you fought to win, period.
Tony had no reason to fight me; he just wanted to scare Robert Tyson Grant, not this little blond girl. Besides, he had just inhaled his mustache up into his sinuses, which by the looks of it seemed quite painful. A kick in the nuts truly would have been an assault to injury.
Tony pivoted and dove headlong back through the hedge, rolled once, and began running across the golf course.
I kicked the hedge and yelled after him, “You will pay dearly for this!” I had no reason to chase the scoundrel, much less ruin my suit by diving through the hedge. I turned to the limo.
Purity was still behind the back door to the limo, eyes wide.
An Asian chauffeur stood next to the open driver’s door. “What happened?”
“A strange man attempted to ambush your vehicle.” I straightened my jacket. “I have chased him off.”
The chauffeur looked me over. “Who are you?”
“He’s a friend of mine, Earl,” Purity said. “He’s OK.”
“Wait a minute.” Earl pointed at me. “You’re the guy from the papers. The one who caught Purity when she fell in court?”
“One and the same.” I bowed. “My name is Morty Martinez.”
A Mercedes rolled down the road behind the limo and honked.
Purity cocked her head at my green car. “That your ride?”
“It is not, but I drove it here.”
“Follow us to the house. I owe you a cocktail, but NFN I want to know what you were doing here, and who that dude was that ran off across the country club.”
The Mercedes honked again.
“As a matter of policy, I never refuse a drink from a beautiful lady.”
* * *
Dixie was still in the yellow polka dots, a black coffee before her. Robert was in a three-piece worsted suit, a tea before him. They sat in the booth where I first met him, at the end.
“It itches.” Robert twisted his neck. “The damn calludaroo itches. It is caught in my chest hair. Can’t I put it in my pocket?”
“No. She said you must wear it around your neck. So you wear it around your neck, silly goose.”
“You think this is for real? I mean, come on, a pygmy hand? A talisman? This is the twentieth century.”
“Twenty-first century. Sweet cakes, the fortune-teller was right about the Mexican, about the anger, about all those things. How can she not be right about this?”
“She said a lot of stuff. She even said I should be afraid of you.”
“The important thing is that she was right about most of what she said, and knew things she could not possibly have known. How did she find you, and know who you are?”
“Maybe she recognized me from the papers or magazines.”
“So her grand scheme is to shake you down by making you wear a pygmy hand around your neck?”
“You saw it.” Grant scratched at his chest. “Have you ever seen a pygmy that small?”
“Darling, I have never met a pygmy, but maybe this was a dwarf pygmy, or a child.”
“Do pygmies have dwarfism? And if so, what kind of God allows such irony? We should have a charity for dwarf pygmies. The African charities are hot now.”
Dixie shot him a stern look and wagged a finger. “Don’t you dare blaspheme, Robert, not now of all times. We need Him on our side.”
“Hmph.” Grant sipped some tea, his foot tapping audibly under the table. “I’d rather we met at my place. I could take this thing off there, and we could be screwing instead of sitting in this lousy dive.”
“We need the alibi, punkin’. We need to be in public doing something perfectly ordinary when it happens. Besides, I hear the grilled cheese is good here.”
“I hope the Mexican didn’t make a mess, that there’s not a lot of blood. I hope Earl the chauffeur is OK.”
“Well, darling, what with Purity isn’t messy?” Dixie sipped her coffee, looking at the ceiling, her thoughts drifting briefly to the previous evening. “That said, our Mexican doesn’t seem the messy type.”
“You’re sure he went?”
“The green car is gone from where I parked it. The hotel clerk said he checked out.”
“That car can’t be traced?”
“Officially, that car has been demolished, so the VIN number won’t register with any database. I got it from the Grant Foundation donation lot. Nobody else was there.”
“What about being seen with the Mexican?”
“I only met him in parks, in public places, and I’ve only been talking to him on this disposable cell phone. You only met him once here, the first time. Let me see the fake ring again?”
Grant checked his surroundings before pulling the ring from his vest pocket. Dixie took the ring and his hand and compared the rings. “It’s damn good. Those Jewish people are amazing.”
In a close-up, we see the original ring and the copy. The genuine item is a darker gold color.
“They’re good business people.” Grant puffed his chest and winked. “So when this is over, what do you say we go to Cabo and take the motor yacht out for a few weeks? We’d be grieving.”
“Boo-bear, the press needs to see us grieve.”
“Oh, they will. I was thinking that we should set up a separate charity: Purity Cares. A fund to rehabilitate injured dogs and cats.”
“Brilliant! Yes, fixing broken puppies! I can see the promo now—I’ll call that ad man Scott Conti and start him pulling the stock footage right away. We’ll want that by the funeral. I’ll put my assistant on this, figure out whose relatives to hire. Have you seen that video on the Web, the one where the dog has no front legs and has to walk on his hind legs, like a human?”
“I can’t say as how—”
“We’ll find his agent. He’d be the perfect spokesdog. Or maybe we can find a cat on wheels? What a tearjerker, simply perfect, Robbie! There’s a reason you’re a captain of industry.”
“Sometimes the substance of a matter is all in appearances.” He grasped her hand. “I like it when you call me Robbie. You think it’s done, that I’m free of my curse, that we can move on?”
Dixie’s cell phone rang (the tune it played was “Dixie”), and she scrambled through her purse to find it. “Hello?”
It was me on th
e line, so let’s make a split screen. Put me near to the camera, aglow in the afternoon sun and standing on the upper deck of Grant’s beach mansion. In my hand is a glass of red wine that I am clearly enjoying. At some distance and out of earshot is Purity in a bikini on a lounger behind me, soaking up the sun. She, too, is on the phone. Behind all that is the beach and ocean.
“Dixie?”
“No names! How’d it go?”
“Fine.”
Dixie gave Grant the thumbs-up across the table and winked. Robert bit his lip and thumbed her back.
“Where is she now?”
“Right over there, on the lounger.”
“On the lounger? Where are you?”
“At the East Hampton mansion.”
Dixie switched ears. “I don’t understand. You intercepted her on the road?”
“Of course.”
“Then why are you at the mansion?”
“I was invited. Just the same, the little green car’s water pump appears to have expired, and now I must stay here until tomorrow.”
“Explain what happened when you intercepted the limo. I’m a little confused.”
“Querida, I think we are both a little confused. To be honest, I am sometimes mystified by how the rich operate. I thought I was to have the ring today. Instead I have Purity. I know you said she would be delivered to me, but that confuses me as well. While she is quite pretty, she is a child—what am I to do with a child? I have my God to think of, I must restore the defiled relic of my ancestor and the integrity of Nuestra Señora de Cortez’s inner sanctum.”
“We have the ring and will give it to you when the job is complete, that’s the deal.”
Robert leaned across the table. “Did he do it or not?”
“I’m not sure,” she whispered, brow knit.
“Job? Perhaps it is me. At heart, I am a simple Brooklyn boy upon whom fortune has seen fit to shine the warming rays of a life as La Paz gentry.”
Dixie and Grant unconsciously slid their coffee cups to the edge of the table to a Mexican who sidled up to their table, presumably the busboy.
Ringer Page 16