Ringer

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Ringer Page 21

by Wiprud, Brian M


  Dixie smiled and extended her hands to either side, to Robert and myself.

  “I think we should pray,” she chirped.

  * * *

  Cut away to a close-up of the Visine bottle. It is upside down over an open decanter of amber Scotch, blue pool light playing on the wall in the background. Purity’s fingers squeeze the entire contents into the Scotch, the surface of the Scotch foaming lightly. We hear Purity yawn in the background.

  * * *

  Cut to Tony peeking over the backseat of the limo, a phone to his ear.

  “I think she did it. Yeah, the ring exploded and everything, they were all standing around watching. She must have the ring. Hm? Praying. That’s what I said. Yeah, they’re all standing around where the ring burned up holding hands in a circle, their heads down. I think they’re praying.”

  * * *

  Cut to Paco, his face sandwiched by clothing and dimly lit through slats in the closet door. In a POV or “point of view” shot, we see what he sees: Purity’s bed and room.

  Paco mumbled to himself in Spanish, so insert subtitles:

  “Oh, Santa Muerte, I call upon you so that through your image, you may free me from failure in my mission. Do not abandon me from your protection, and I ask your blessing upon your devotee Paco, and that I am blessed with wealth for accomplishing what has been denied me. I go without fear, but if they direct that I should die and you do not protect me from failure, come and take me. So be it.”

  He lifted his Santa Muerte amulet to his lips and kissed it.

  * * *

  “Amen,” Dixie said, raising her head.

  Now that’s a cutaway and a half, don’t you think?

  Dixie sidled up to Gina, turning her toward the limo. “You have been an absolute lifesaver, Gina, do you know that? You saved Bobbie’s life and then you come all the way out here to act on your vision and end the curse. How can we repay you for all your troubles? Are you OK to drive all the way back to the city? Perhaps you can take Morty with you?”

  “Nonsense.” Robert stepped forward. “It’s late, everybody should stay the night. If she drove back now they wouldn’t be home until three in the morning. That’s not safe. Please, Gina, Morty, stay the night, we have plenty of room. In fact, come on in and have a drink. I for one could go for a Scotch.”

  Remember those laser beams in Dixie’s eyes? Now we see them, and they are boring right through Grant.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sure these people have better things to do than—”

  “Hey, I could go for a drink!” I smiled and turned to Gina. “Let us both stay and then drive together back to Manhattan in daylight. It has been far too long a day, yes? I am sure you would not refuse the hospitality of the man who is so indebted to you.”

  I could see Gina hesitate and avert her eyes. “You’re very kind, but I have this aunt who needs me.”

  “Who is with her now?” I asked.

  “Well, my other aunt, but…”

  I persisted. “This other aunt—is she the kind to abandon the other aunt?”

  What was I up to? Yes, I did not want to miss the opportunity—however remote—for some sort of hanky-panky, preferably with Gina, though Dixie remained a possibility. Still, my motive to stay the night was more than that. I may be an idiot at times, like with allowing myself to be taken for a ride by Purity, but I am from East Brooklyn, after all. Street smarts count.

  Gina still hesitated, but without much hope: “Well…”

  “I insist!” Grant put his arm around Gina on one side and me on the other, guiding us toward the house. “Dixie? Perhaps you could go upstairs and check on Purity. I’m guessing she was probably pretty drunk, am I right?”

  The look of dismay on Dixie’s face melted to reveal a sly smile.

  “Yes, of course, Bobbie, I’ll go right up and make sure she’s OK.”

  * * *

  Cut to Paco’s POV of Purity coming through the balcony doors, hurriedly stripping off her clothes. She headed for the closet and the deadly headhunter Paco.

  Footsteps on the stair made Purity stop and pivot back toward the bed, where she kicked her clothes under the bed and dashed off-screen to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  Paco sees the bedroom door open. Dixie cautiously put her head around the corner and peered at the bed.

  “Purity?” She stepped into the room, a smile spreading on her face as she surveyed the bed, then locked eyes on the open balcony doors.

  Slowly, almost reverently, Dixie stepped toward the balcony. From outside and below the balcony, we see her approach, looking over the edge, expecting to see Purity’s crumpled body on the patio. Behind her, we see Paco. He said, “Psst!”

  Dixie looked like she’d been electrocuted—but Paco slapped a hand on her mouth before she could scream.

  “Girl no sleep.” Paco jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom. “No drunk.”

  From the bathroom, there was the sound of the shower coming on.

  * * *

  In the living room, from behind the fancy polished bar, Grant had fixed Gina and me up with glasses of wine. And for himself?

  He had just poured Dixie and himself a big fat Scotch from the poisoned decanter. Yes, eyedrops are a deadly poison. The prostitutes in Tijuana sometimes use it on their undesirable clients to avoid actually having to have sex with them.

  It was at that juncture that I patted my jacket pocket and found an empty bottle of Visine. I thought this curious, but shrugged it off and tossed the small plastic bottle with my thumb and forefinger prints into a waste can next to the bar. Purity’s trail of evidence pointing to me was impeccable, yes?

  Grant raised his glass. “Well, here’s to being rid of the curse. Hazzah!”

  Dixie appeared in the doorway, trying not to look frazzled. “Thank goodness, darling.”

  “Dixie? Is, uh, is Purity sleeping?” Grant’s glass hand went half mast.

  “She’s fine.” Dixie patted her hair, her voice quavering ever so slightly. “She’s in the shower, of all things, poor dear.”

  The glass slipped from Grant’s hand, shattering both Dixie’s drink and the decanter on the bar.

  * * *

  Cut to Purity, conked out in the corner of the white tile shower.

  Cut to Paco, sacked out among sacks of grass seed in the murky gardener’s shed.

  Cut to Tony, laid out on the leather in the back of the limo.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ONCE THE BROKEN GLASSWARE WAS swept up and tossed, Grant and Dixie excused themselves to bed after an exhausting day. We were directed to the guest cabanas by the pool for our lodging.

  Had they had that glass of Scotch, the entire story would have ended differently, and I would of course not be awaiting my execution. A long prison term in a New York State penitentiary, perhaps. The Visine bottle with my fingerprints on it in the wastebasket and the recording on Purity’s phone may have done the trick.

  Grant’s cheating the Reaper had the advantage of leaving me alone with Gina. Unfortunately, she wasn’t touching her wine. I will be brutally honest: Like most men, beyond the initial flirt to compel a woman to join me for a drink or dinner, I have almost no game unless a woman is half-snookered. It is a mystery to me how Mormons and the Amish seduce their women. One of those nature shows on public television should study this.

  Yet as I suggested, this East Brooklyn kid knew there was more going on here than met the eye. This was my opportunity to explore exactly what this something was.

  Gina was quick to set her untouched goblet of wine on the bar. “Well, I should turn in. Good night.”

  “I’ll turn in, too.” I poured her glass into mine.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Do you like spiders?”

  I would like to see the statistics on this, but I would bet you that only one in a hundred women do not find clumsy, nearsighted little spiders terrifying. These sad creatures are minding their own business when sudde
nly they are demolished into a paste by a shoe a thousand times their size. I think spiders would be flattered to know how much fear they instill in humans, who are perhaps a million times bigger than them, while at the same time more than a little mortified at how indifferent we are to destroying a fellow life form.

  “Spiders?” Gina’s pupils went wide.

  “Pool cabanas are usually home to a few, especially in the bathroom.” I took a gulp of my wine. “I will come and destroy however many there are if you would like.”

  Her eyes shot back toward the mansion’s front door and the limo. It was obvious she was thinking of changing her mind about staying.

  I guided her by the elbow to the sliding glass doors. “Besides, we need to talk about that ring.”

  “Not big spiders, right?”

  “I would not expect any of the ten-pound variety like we have in La Paz, no.” I flashed her a smile as I opened the door of the first cabana and flicked on the lights. It was like a quality motel room—just a bedroom, writing desk, and bathroom. “I would like to know why you have stolen the ring, Gina.”

  Lies are in the eyes, as they say. This is why men will not look a woman in the eyes when discussing serious relationship matters. If you never look a woman in the eyes during one of these excruciating interviews, it merely looks like a mannerism. Men know that if you do actually look women in the eyes when they ask ridiculous questions like “How much do you love me?” or “How often do you watch porno?” they will be able to tell from your eyes that you are not telling the entire truth. Or worse still, they will interpret apprehension as an indication of untruthfulness. I have found women, on the other hand, convinced that the reverse tactic is to their advantage. Specifically, I believe women think that if they always look a man straight in the eye when lying or telling the truth, we will not easily tell the difference. To their credit, this is largely true because most men are not detail-oriented. Have you ever seen a man try to fold a fitted sheet? I rest my case.

  “The ring exploded, you saw it.” Gina suppressed a blink, her eyes locked on mine, arms folded across her chest. Alas, Gina was not as good a liar as she was an actress.

  I laughed softly and patted her warm brown shoulder. “I am from East Brooklyn, Gina. As we say on the boulevard, five-pound salami, four-pound bag.”

  I turned and entered the bathroom.

  Sure enough, I found and vanquished a tiny helpless spider sleeping next to the bathroom sink. I came back into the main room with the tissue in hand. “They do the exploding ring trick on the boardwalk at Coney Island.”

  Gina was rigid in the doorway, arms crossed tightly, yet still delectable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  It was not easy outing this devastatingly beautiful girl’s subterfuge—had she burst into tears, I probably would have recanted my accusations. I kept looking at that nostril of hers, the one that looked slightly larger than the other.

  “I think you do, and would bet you that the ring would magically reappear if you dropped your panties. I would imagine that perhaps you put it in your cleavage except that without a bra that would be a less secure place to have hidden the relic.”

  “I think you should leave.” They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. They should also say heaven knows no disappointment like a woman caught in a lie.

  “Very well, I will go wake the Grants and tell them of your deception. While I do so, you can go wake your cousin or whoever he really is, the one in the limo, and start your escape. However, if you ask me, this would be an unfortunate choice on your part. People like Grant can really get the police and district attorney motivated. You will not likely get as far as the expressway.”

  Her face was flushed red, which looked unusual on such a stunning woman, mostly because it made her look mortal.

  She stepped farther into the room and gently kicked the door closed.

  Her eyes were still on mine, cheeks flushed. With her thumbs she hiked her dress up and jerked her panties to her knees.

  The ring bounced to the carpet.

  She stood legs apart, panties down, head slightly cocked, her eyes twinkling lightly.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE CAMERA PROVIDES US WITH an overhead shot of Grant and Dixie in a bed with far too many fancy pillows, the way rich people like them. He is in navy pajamas; she is in a pink nightgown. Both stare blankly at the ceiling, wide awake.

  Dixie shakes her head slowly. “OK, I see why you asked them to stay, more witnesses of where we were when Purity fell off the balcony. I get that. What I don’t get is that the ring exploded. Gracious, I mean, who is this girl? Why is she suddenly running off to the bushes with you?”

  “I told you, nothing happened.”

  “Then why was your shirt torn open?”

  “I told you, she wanted to see if I was wearing the whatchamacallit, the talisman.”

  “And you took it off? After what happened?”

  “I told you, it itches. You try wearing it for a while.”

  “So now we have to cancel the Gulfstream jet to Baja and come up with another plan.”

  “At least the ring part of it is solved. I really don’t care if the ring actually exploded or not so long as I have the original.”

  “We certainly can’t take Paco and Purity on the jet down to Baja, can we?”

  “I’m looking forward to putting the ring back on my finger. I feel naked.”

  “Although if we did take them both down to Baja, it might be easier to kill her there. The police investigations would certainly be a cinch, and there are snakes and things down there.”

  “Gee, Dix, then why not just invite Morty and Gina while you’re at it?”

  Dixie and Grant looked at each other.

  “Bobbie, that’s brilliant.”

  “It is?”

  “We get Morty back to Mexico lickety-split, for one, and we should probably give him ten thousand or so for the parish, just to smooth things out.”

  “Or instead of making Purity’s death look like an accident, make it look like Morty did it.”

  Dixie knit her brow and looked back to the camera in the ceiling. “I don’t know about that.”

  “What, you like him?”

  “No, of course not, he’s nouveau riche. Just the same, I think that makes a frame-up complicated. Accidents happen all the time and are harder to disprove.”

  “You may have had a jealous moment about me this evening, but I have to admit I didn’t like you meeting all the time with that greaser. I didn’t like the way he was so close behind you when you opened the door this evening.”

  “You’re sweet.” Dixie kissed him on the cheek before resuming her study of the ceiling. “I definitely think we should deliver Morty back to Mexico, and Paco, too. If Paco is here in New York when he does the dirty deed, he has to get all the way back to Mexico to completely vanish back into the shark tank. I think we’d rather have him back there as soon as possible, and how much sooner could that be if he committed the crime in Baja?”

  “We’d have to get him past customs in Mexico.”

  Dixie smirked. “Was there ever a Mexican customs agent that could not be persuaded to do a tycoon a favor? I don’t see any problems.”

  “True.”

  Dixie clasped her hands, her excitement over this new plan growing. “I think drowning.”

  “Drowning?”

  “Same plan pretty much as before. She gets drunk and does pills, the way everybody knows she does. Then she falls off the yacht, or takes the yacht out by herself, and Paco pushes her in. Shoot, I don’t have it all worked out, but think of how easy and natural it is for drunk rock stars and celebrities like Purity to drown, happens every day. It doesn’t leave a stain, either.”

  “No, we tried the accident, too uncertain. We use Morty as the fall guy. I don’t like him. He’s made a pest of himself.” A crafty squint wrinkled his face—he despised me because he knew somewhere deep down that I had cuckol
ded him and was in the way of him bedding Gina. “The papers would love it. He goes from savior to sicko stalker.”

  “You’re the boss.” Dixie sighed, uncertainly. “I’ll see what I can figure out.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY

  THE CAMERA PROVIDES US WITH an overhead shot of Gina and me mostly naked in the simple cabana bed. I am staring blankly at the ceiling, wide awake. Gina is curled around me like a question mark, looking sleepy.

  “Morty, that was wonderful. It sounds like a line from a movie, but I mean it, nobody’s made love to me like that before.”

  Yes, she did actually say this, I am not puffing myself up.

  “Ah, yes, well, you are an astounding lover, too.”

  In truth, making love to Gina was good, not astounding. In the clinches, her best attribute was her remarkably alluring aroma, that of summer and sunshine and that fresh-baked-bread-type smell. Yet she had unfortunately given foundation to a theory of mine. The prettier and the younger the woman, the less good she is as a lover. How could this be? You would think that a stunning creature such as this had been with a number of men and refined her game, even at the tender age of the early thirties. Yes, but what kind of men? These are men who have bedded her for her looks almost exclusively, for the sex, not for passion or genuine chemistry. So while I will not argue with Gina’s assertion regarding my skill, I wish to add that I don’t think I was up against very stiff competition, if you’ll excuse the pun. Her past lovers clearly did not train her well in the arts of give and take and the basic mechanics. Perhaps my expectations were unreasonably high, as well they might be with a beauty such as hers. To be brutally honest, I would wager the finger of my ancestor that the plump desk clerk back at the hotel would have been a more compelling and frolicking lover.

  Never worship a woman, my friends, especially a stunner: She will not respect you for it. Did you see? The moment I stopped letting her twist me around her finger—such as at El Rolo—but instead used the nostril and dominated her by confronting her with the exploding ring gimmick, she found me immensely attractive. She did not hop in the sack purely to get out of a jam about the ring. It is like what I said earlier in the film about not letting a woman know you care too much. Perhaps it is also true for the women—never throw yourself at a man. You know, I think this is probably true. It is better to play hard to get and not be gotten than to play for keeps and only get kept.

 

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