Ringer (22 page)

“Yes, but I told you to wait for Gina, so she could shill!”

“To tell you the truth, I wanted to get it over with. I don’t like dressing up and attacking people. I could get arrested. I got a wife and a kid.”

Abbie slumped on the bench. “I think we need a new plan.”

Helena growled at the heavens. “We cannot.
This
plan is in motion. Grant must be convinced the talisman works and saves his life. We cannot switch plans in the middle.”

“So then Tony just goes and tries to kill Grant now, in front of his building, and I shill. We follow the plan like this didn’t happen.”

“Bah!” Helena spat. “Grant will now be expecting it. He will know that there was an attack on his daughter.”

“Here comes Gina.” Abbie jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Tony sat straighter.

Helena stopped pacing and turned to observe her niece’s approach.

OK, I think for this shot we need the gauzy, milky, slow-motion view of Gina’s approach, because surely this woman was a goddess. A goddess? You think I am kidding, but I am not. Of course she had long, lustrous brown hair, ice blue eyes, elegant ears, sumptuous lips, noble cheekbones, perfect teeth, killer tits, narrow waist, swaying hips, curvaceous legs, and dainty feet. However, her qualities were even in the minute details. Even her slim arched eyebrows were natural and required no plucking. She was hairless everywhere but where there was supposed to be hair. Her olive skin had a natural glow that required no maintenance, with a gentle muscle tone that was born to her and not manufactured in a gym. She could eat anything she wanted and not gain an ounce. Deodorant was a stranger to her, and her breath was always sweet and fragrant as a pear. Gina was female perfection, right out of the box. If she did not have to cut and shape her nails, her mortality would surely be in question.

As Gina approached, glowing archway behind her, men stopped in their tracks and stared at the goddess in blue jeans and tank top, their expressions pained with the knowledge that this sort of perfection could never be theirs, or possibly that anybody could possibly be worthy of this woman’s charms.

The women in Gina’s wake stopped and stared also, their expressions pained with the knowledge that the sort of standard set by women like Gina placed the bar unfairly high for them, and that only a pint of ice cream could erase the memory of this living totem of feminine quintessence.

One would think that Gina’s life was as perfect as her packaging, yes? Not so. Her entire teen and adult life, men had stammered and fumbled around her, tongue-tied and fawning. Those brave enough to make a play for her sometimes succumbed to their passions and needed to be physically repelled. Which was why Gina was a student of Shui Ping, a martial art. Women immediately despised her for obvious reasons. As a result, she often had a hard time being understood when she spoke. She had wanted to capitalize on her looks and become a model. She was considered too “fat” to be a model because she had discernible hips and breasts. She wanted to become an actress, but despite continued auditions and a few screen credits in martial arts films, she was generally deemed “overkinetic” for speaking roles on-camera and a “distraction” onstage. In almost any workplace you can imagine her very presence was disruptive. Alas, she was relegated to stunt double work in martial arts films.

It is ironic that women this beautiful are truly cursed, not blessed, yes?

“Hi, Aunt Abbie, Aunt Helena.” Gina’s jewel-like eyes shot a look at her cousin, whose mouth was hanging open. “How you doing, Tony?”

He didn’t say anything.

“So good to see you, child.” Helena smiled like a crocodile and reached out to Gina. “Please sit a moment. We have a problem I think you can help us with.”

Gina swiveled, and her exquisite bottom settled onto the unworthy wood of the park bench next to her lumpy, pale Aunt Abbie. Side by side you would not have known they were the same sex, much less the same variety of animal.

“Is it illegal?”

“Only if you think about it that way.”

Gina’s shoulders rolled, and she brushed her mane of silken brown hair from her face. “Do tell?”

“A billionaire has a curse, and it centers around a valuable ring. You must get the ring from him, switch it out with a fake, and make him think it has been destroyed. We want the ring, mainly to convince him that the curse is as I have described it, but it seems to have a value unto itself.”

“We using one of those exploding rings from Oscar’s Magic Shop?”

“Sharp girl.”

“Complications?”

“There’s a Mexican.”

“Do tell?”

“There is a Mexican who has come to town, and he is after the ring. We are not sure who he is or why he is after it. Part of our plan is to sideline this intruder through suspicion, by making our billionaire think this Mexican may have sent another Mexican to intimidate him. Tony is posing as a Mexican hit man. No gun, just gloves, a strangler.”

“A Mexican strangler? Sounds like a vine.” Gina recrossed her legs. “I like the part about no guns. Does this Mexican have guns? Is he dangerous?”

“It doesn’t look like it. He would have pulled one earlier when Tony showed himself. We’re not sure exactly how the Mexican fits in or what he wants, but you may encounter him and have to derail him or sucker him into the curse scenario.”

“What’s my cut?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“A thousand.”

Abbie sat forward. “That’s not coming out of my thirty-five percent.”

Helena crouched in front of Abbie and Gina like a football coach trying to explain a complicated play. “Here’s the deal. Abbie can have the thirty-five percent, but like Tony, Gina’s end comes out of both of ours. Fair?”

“Then the thousand should come out of Tony’s end,” Abbie harrumphed.

Tony seemed to wake up. “Hey, I’m only
getting
a thousand!”

“We still need Tony. Now we need a shill, but a beautiful one. If you and Abbie cannot come to terms I will ask my niece Petulia.”

Abbie and Gina spoke as one. “Petulia?”

Tony just snorted.

“She cleans up nice and could be the shill. A push-up bra, perfume, a wig, shoes.” Helena stood, arms akimbo. “So what’s it going to be, eh?”

“I don’t like it.” Abbie slapped her hands on her knees. “But I’ll do it. Gina, you’ll have to wait for your cut, though. We don’t have it. None of us do until we get it from the mark.”

“The mark being male, of course?”

Helena nodded. “A rich man.”

Gina’s luscious pink lips curved into a catty smile. “We’ll get it.”

Helena turned to Tony. “Put on the white suit, and call your friends to find out who does Grant’s limo service. Also we need a chauffeur’s uniform for Gina. A tight uniform! Abbie? Brief her.”

Tony began fiddling with his cell phone.

“Here.” Abbie handed Gina a piece of lined notepaper. “That’s the mark’s address. His name is Grant. You’re his limo driver. You go pick Grant up, and Tony will attack him as he gets into the limo. You save Grant—but he’s wearing the calludaroo, so make him think that saved him. Then you two drive out to the Hamptons and go to a bar called El Rolo. That’s where his daughter hangs out. Her name is Purity. Tony tells us—”

“Hold the phone.” Gina held up a hand. “We’re scamming Purity Grant?”

Helen patted her shoulder. “Not Purity, but her father. Tony was just out in the Hamptons and saw Purity go off with a Mexican, one who wants the ring Grant is wearing. The one we want. Purity goes to this bar every night, and we think she will go with this Mexican. You must convince the Mexican that the ring is cursed, too, so that he will no longer want it.”

“So I’m saving Grant and then driving all the way out to the Hamptons to run interference with a Mexican, all so I can pull a switch with Grant?”

Helena nodded.

So did Gina. “I see. All this for a lousy thousand bucks? I just got off a plane.”

Tony snapped his phone shut. “Got the limo, but we gotta hurry. Grant is expecting the car within the hour.”

“Go!” Helena shooed with her hands. “We can discuss anything you like later, on your drive out there.”

Gina stood reluctantly. “Aunt Abbie, is this going to work?”

Abbie and Helena exchanged a cautious glance, then spoke in unison.

“It’s worth a shot.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO

THE CAMERA PANS DOWN ROBERT
Tyson Grant’s East Side town house to the front door just as the master of the house is exiting, a bag and briefcase over his shoulder, a limo idling at the curb. Grant has his phone to one ear.

“Hey, Dix. Kathy sent a car for you. See you at the heliport in fifteen? Great.”

Grant thumbed the call dead, tucked the phone into his inside pocket, and hustled toward the limo. The limo trunk popped open. He dropped his bags in the trunk and slammed the lid shut. When he did he saw Tony next to the limo.

In a white suit.

With a thin mustache.

With a stocking pulled over his head and wearing black gloves, hands raised.

Grant’s jaw just had a chance to drop when the white-suited menace was thrown past Grant onto the hood of a parked car. In his wake was Gina in a snug female chauffeur’s outfit and cap.

“Aiee-hah!” Gina shrieked, throwing herself at Tony and punching a fist into his gut.

“Ooof!” Tony jackknifed forward.

Gina whooshed a backhanded chop to his neck, then kicked him so that he rolled off the car hood onto the sidewalk.

“Stand back, sir!” Gina called over her shoulder to Grant. “Aiee-hah!” She leaped onto the sidewalk and stood over the White-Suited Menace, fists of fury at the ready.

Grant fumbled for his phone.

“Run!”
Gina whispered to Tony.

“That hurt, Gina!”
he whimpered.

“Run, you idiot! If you don’t I’ll kick the ever-living crap out of you!”

Tony rolled to his side, got to his feet, and lumbered away down the sidewalk.

Gina held her spot but looked back at Grant. “Are you in a hurry?”

Grant poked furiously at his phone. “Damn these things, they do a million things, but when you just want to make a call…”

Gina broke from her pose and stepped from the sidewalk. She placed her hand over his phone. “Forget it. By the time the cops get here he’ll be long gone, and it will take hours to explain and fill in paperwork. I am your driver. My name is Gina.”

“Who?” Grant stammered, pointing where Tony had vanished around the corner. “Who was that? He was trying to, he was…”

“Excuse me.” Gina took off her cap, and her gorgeous hair cascaded down around her shoulders like brown satin. She fluffed it. “I hope you don’t mind. I broke a sweat.”

Grant focused on her, his alarm from the attack eroding. “Well, of course, you don’t have to keep your hair up, I mean, hell, that was amazing, you beat up that big guy.”

Gina dipped her head in a slight, courtly bow, one sapphire eye looking up at him from under the dark locks. “A good chauffeur looks out for her passengers. If the Mexican had killed you, I would have been derelict.”

“Mexican?” Grant blinked rapidly.

“Are you all right?” Gina put a hand to his face, and another on his chest, pressing the calludaroo.

“Ow!” The raccoon paw dug into his breast.

Gina jumped back. “You are injured?”

“No, it’s just…” He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out the talisman.

“Calludaroo!”
she gasped, pointing.

Grant was being pulled—expertly, as we see—in three directions at once, his eyes flitting from where the Mexican Menace had gone to Gina’s charms to the calludaroo and the realization that Helena’s prophecy had come true. Just the same, it was evident by Grant’s gaze that all but Gina were unwanted distractions.

“You actually know what this is?” Grant held out the talisman.

She unbuttoned her jacket, revealing a form-fitting red top. “Please, sir, get into the car. We must leave here. There may be more danger and the power of the calludaroo may be fleeting.”

She hustled him into the back of the limo, climbed into the driver’s seat, and zoomed the limo down the block. “The heliport?”

“Yes.” Grant breathed deeply, Gina’s scent intoxicating him. “Driver, what is your name?”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

“Gina.”

“Are you new?”

“Yes.”

“Where did a pretty girl like you learn to fight like that?”

“I’m also an actress. I’ve done some stunt double work in martial arts movies.”

“Man, you sure took on that Mexican. What made you say he was Mexican, anyway?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“Actually, I’ve never … well, I’ve only met one Mexican who looked anything like that.”

“I lived in L.A. for a while and was a cocktail hostess. You see things. He was dressed the way the cartels dress. The ones from Baja.”

“Really? In white suits?”

“And thin mustaches.” Their eyes met again in the mirror. “Yes, really. That was a Mexican hit man, and he meant to kill you. These Baja hit men kill with their bare hands.”

“Well, if that’s the case you saved my life.”

“No.”

“No?”

“The calludaroo saved your life, sir. That is a very powerful talisman.”

“How do you know that?”

“Perhaps where you come from, sir, people are not as superstitious as mine. My family, my grandmother, my aunts and uncles, they all believe in the power contained in objects, and the calludaroo is the most powerful.”

“I respect what you’re saying, Gina, but—”

“Then why are you wearing the calludaroo if you don’t believe?”

“Well, my … this friend of mine thought I should wear it, ridiculous…”

“You knew someone was going to try to kill you then?”

“I saw a palmist, and she seemed to know an awful lot about my life and situation, so it seemed maybe there was something to the psychic predictions. The more I thought about these predictions, the more I thought maybe it was just coincidence.”

“Do tell? Did coincidence assign me to this detail at the last minute over another driver? A driver who could save you from the attacker? How many coincidences can you stack one atop the other before they collapse like cards and reveal the truth?”