Ringer (20 page)

“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.

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.