Ringer (23 page)

“This is all a little fantastic. There’s no denying, though, that you saved my bacon back there. I think I owe you something for that.”

“It was my duty as a driver. I cannot accept a reward. You should pay handsomely for the use of the calludaroo—that is what saved you.”

Grant leaned forward and inhaled her sweet scent. “You think the calludaroo would mind if I took you to dinner? It would offend me if you didn’t accept some small gesture like that. If for no other reason than having you explain more to me about yourself and the superstitions. It’s a real education.”

Amazing, is it not? We certainly see it in the papers all the time. The hubris of powerful men to have too many women seems boundless, if not sadly predictable. Grant had Dixie—a stunning sex toy if ever there was one—and yet he thought he should have this one, too.

Gina favored him with her sapphire eyes under her mane of hair. “I’m flattered, sir, that you would even consider being at the same table with me.”

“Nonsense,” Grant chortled. “How can I get in touch with you?” He pulled out his phone, and she recited her number.

“Gina, I’ll be out in East Hampton for a little bit but will call when I get back, how’s that sound?”

“Again, sir—”

“My name is Robert. My friends call me Bobbie.”

“OK, Robbie.” Her eyelashes fluttered, and so did his heart.

The limo swung into the heliport drop-off, the sunset reflecting orange on Manhattan’s skyline above. Dixie was standing at the curb in a lavender pleated bustier and matching jungle print pants, lavender luggage at her side. She raised her large sunglasses and peered into the limo at the driver as Grant climbed out. Wind from an idling chopper lashed his jacket and hair.

“Pretty driver,” Dixie shouted over the whine and roar of the helicopter engine. She kissed Grant on the cheek.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, well, have I got a story. You won’t believe it.”

“What?”

He turned Dixie away from the limo. She shot a glance back at the driver before he hustled her toward the heliport. “A Mexican hit man just tried to kill me.”

“No!”

*   *   *

Cut briefly to Gina, with Grant and Dixie in her rearview mirror, a cell phone to her ear.

“Tony? I’ll pick you up—where are you? No time for food, we’ll grab something along the way. No way we’re beating the helicopter out there, but we have to make tracks if we want to make sure to catch Purity and the Mexican at that bar later.”

*   *   *

Dixie gasped. “What happened?”

“The driver kicked his ass.”

“Her?”

“You bet!”

Dixie gasped. “Then it all came true, just as Helena said!”

“Worse. There are now three Mexican hit men on our hands, not two.”

“Ours is around the side where we can slip him into the chopper pretty much unseen. I think he’s nervous about flying. He’s praying to a little statue that hangs around his neck.”

They paused before going into the heliport, and Grant looked to the sky, as if to God. “Great. We finally get the real hit man and he’s both phobic and religious.”

“The little statue is a grim reaper about this big.”

“Then let’s all pray to our talismans that we get this over and done with. Soon.”

A flight controller in a headset stuck his head out the door. “Sorry, Mr. Grant, but the mechanic has to check the rotor, so there’s a delay.”

“How long?” Dixie groaned.

“We’re working on it. Maybe an hour or two. Sorry, but your safety comes first.”

He disappeared back into the heliport.

Grant shrugged. “Maybe not as soon as we wanted.”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

THE CAMERA JUMP-CUTS FROM THE
heliport to a close-up of a tiki torch flame at night. Panning left, the camera sees Purity and me drinking wine on loungers on the East Hampton mansion’s upper deck. Purity is in a robe; I am in my tan suit. Between us is a table with two small plates and crumpled napkins. The ocean crashing on the beach roars off-camera.

“That was a most excellent meal, Purity, and the wine, while not carbonated, is quite nice. I thank you for your hospitality.”

“No worries, Morty. The staff may be at a wedding tonight, but I’m not a bad chef. I’ve had a lot of time imprisoned out here at the mansion, time I sometimes spend cooking. It’s about the only thing to do around here other than try to drink down the wine cellar.”

“I will say again that I hope I am not imposing by staying the night. The little green car was not mine, and I must say, at a hundred and ninety-seven thousand miles, I am surprised it was not at the junkyard already.”

“You think Robert Tyson Grant’s billions are imposed on by you messing up some sheets and eating some of his squab? NFN, you make Dullsville more tolerable and are a fun guessing game.”

“NFN?”

“Not for nothing. Morty, you have to give me a hint about your mission for the Church and why you were on that road.”

“Can we not continue our conversation about murder? I wanted to add that while killing a despicable person may in the end make the killer the instrument of God’s will, I am not sure the killer’s soul would not have to pay penance in purgatory. The Church really should have rule books on such things, or perhaps a card for one’s wallet with the highlights so one knows the exact cost of sin.”

“Or a menu. Anyway, we agree that murder in certain contexts is not wrong.” Purity held up a hand and ticked off her list on her fingers. “War is one.”

“To include a government sniper killing a major terrorist, right?”

“Right.”

“Number two: police shooting a dangerous criminal on the run.”

“Three: capital punishment for mass murderers.”

“Four: a doctor allowing the very old and/or terminally ill to perish and not prolong the life of those who are suffering.”

“Five: Do you know Robert Tyson Grant?”

“I would not say I know him.”

“You’ve
met
him, though, haven’t you? Lying is a sin, Morty. Don’t lie.”

“Sex out of marriage and lying are not sins.”

“Aren’t those in the Ten Commandments?”

“I am happy to report that neither one is in the Ten Commandments. I committed all ten to memory when I was a child in parochial school. Bearing false witness is only a certain kind of lie, and adultery is only a certain kind of sex out of marriage. I can also tell you the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.”

“Awesome. So can you at least tell me whether you’ve met him or not?”

I sighed. “Yes, I met him once.”

“Recently?”

“Recently.”

“So were you on that road to see someone about my father or something? Were you trying to hit him up for charity for your parish?”

“Wine will not loosen my tongue, Purity.”

“Hold it…” Purity sat forward. “Shit.”

I, too, sat forward. “Is there an emergency?”

“Listen!”

Over the sound of the ocean there was a tapping noise echoing across the dunes and sea grass.

“Is that a motorcycle?”

Her eyes met mine. “FYI, that’s a helicopter. A Bell 430 to be exact.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m kind of a helicopter freak. That’s Robbie’s chopper, headed this way. This is pretty late for them, but it’s Robbie’s copter.”

I set my wine down. “Are you sure?”

She set her wine down. “Positive.”

“You did not know he was coming?”

“The staff here is on orders not to tell me anything except whether my Vespa is gassed up when the car is wrecked like it is now.”

“Well, is there anything we must do for his arrival?”

Purity leaped from her lounger. Cell phone to her ear, she reached under her robe and slid down her bikini bottom, which she kicked to one side as she dashed through the gauzy curtains and indoors.

“Downstairs in two minutes, Morty! Stat!”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

SO IT WAS THAT I
went with Purity Grant in a car service to El Rolo and found myself at the door standing in front of Wilmer. He was in a light brown three-piece suit that must have taken three tailors and a squad of NASA engineers to construct. You could hear his muscles bunch as his giant head loomed down and planted a kiss atop Purity’s blond head.

“Nice Pradas,” the giant rumbled, but his shiny black eyes were on me. “Whosis?”

“Morty, this is Wilmer.”

I smiled and put out my hand, but all Wilmer did was put out his palm, which was roughly the size of a serving platter. I at once realized that shaking this hand was impossible, like shaking the hand of a colossus, and a fist bump could have been fatal. I recognized the open palm gesture from East Brooklyn as a low five (as opposed to a high five) and reflexively swung my hand through the air, slapping Wilmer’s palm loudly. Let’s remember, I’d had a couple glasses of wine already. And I knew instinctively that there was less to fear from someone twice my size than from someone half my size. Wilmer had nothing to prove.

The colossus’s eyes widened just enough that some of the white showed. “Where you from, Morty?”

“East 179th.”

“East 163rd, myself. Where’d you go to school?”

“Holy Redeemer.”

“I mean high school.”

“East Brooklyn High.”

“Me, too. Been back to the neighborhood recently?”

“Not for over a year.”

“My ma still lives on the avenue, second story.”

“I used to go to Oscar’s on the boulevard.”

“The feeler place?” Oscar’s was a bar where house cleaners went. “You hear that Pete the Prick died?”

I had been at the house on Vanderhoosen Drive moments before Pete met his unfortunate end at the hands of Danny Kessel and an ice pick, but there was no sense telling Wilmer this and prolonging our entrance to El Rolo.

“That is a shame.”

“Not really. He was a prick.”

“I was merely being polite, because I of course hated Pete as much as anybody, and the Balkan Boys as well.”

“They got a serious beating at a chica bar in Queens. Don’t see them around anymore. Can’t say I’m sorry about that, either.”

“All good news for East Brooklyn.”

Wilmer pivoted the door open with his heel. “Come on in, Morty. Glad to see Purity hanging with quality people.”

“Nice suit.” I gave him a thumbs-up as I passed into El Rolo behind Purity, who was eyeing me over her shoulder.

“You and Wilmer from the ‘old neighborhood’? LMAO.”

“Brooklyn is everywhere you look.” I smiled. “
If
you look.”

Of course, I was quite pleased with the scenery. El Rolo’s interior was a dark sanctum furnished most notably with comely, expensive women. The brown lounges and tan sofas were an afterthought. In the corner was a curvy bar, behind which stood a petite Latino man in a tuxedo shirt and long sideburns. His eyes searched me carefully, and by the curl of his lip I did not guess that he liked what he saw. For purity, though, the corners of his mouth curled.

“The usual?”

“Thanks, Tito.”

“And for the … gentleman?”

“I do not suppose you have cold duck?”

Tito’s lip trembled. “
Très amusant
.”

“A glass of house red, then.”

Purity curled her arm around mine. “So you want me to get you laid by a model, Morty?”

I laughed. “It is always best that these things happen of their own accord.” Then I spotted a lovely brunette creature in the corner, and she was looking my way. A bored lout with a bottle of beer sat at her side.

“Shall we sit this way?” Purity had been heading one way, but I wheeled her in the direction of the brunette in the little black cocktail dress. As we approached she sat taller, her cleavage welcoming beacons in the gloom. The closer I got, the better I could see how magnificent a creature this was, perfectly formed, her lustrous hair cascading down her shoulders. The lout looked about ready to fall asleep, a Band-Aid across his cheek and a substantial unibrow across his forehead.

Cut away to this brunette whispering to the lout.

“Tony, that’s definitely her.”

“Who?”

“Purity Grant. Coming this way. Now remember what Helena told us?”

“I think so.”

“Think so?”

“Gina, I was up all last night with the baby and then got chased … that’s him.”

“Who?”

“The Mexican, the guy who chased me. He’s with her.”

“Doesn’t look too dangerous. Not with a gun, anyway.”

I interrupted them, gesturing to the sofa adjoining theirs. “Forgive my intrusion. Would you and your husband mind if we sat here?”

The brunette put out her left hand, the one without a wedding ring. “I’m Gina, and this is my cousin Anthony.”

I took her hand and pecked a courtly kiss to her knuckles. The scent of her hand was heavenly. Yes, you may think it is corny, but I have found a woman adores having her hand greeted with a kiss. I offered my hand to Anthony, and he tried to look awake.

“They call me Tony.” He yawned and shook my hand.

“Your cousin Gina is quite ravishing, and as such I am sure you have been interrupted continually, so we will not disturb you any further.”

Gina ignored my compliment and peered around me at Purity. “You’re Purity Grant, am I right?”

I had tried to avoid introducing Purity, to spare her any unwanted attention.

Purity’s focus had been across the room, no doubt where some of her acquaintances were gathered. She seemed to focus on Gina for the first time and grinned. “That’s right.”

“You’re even prettier in person, I swear to God.”

Tito arrived with a tray, and we took our drinks, Purity’s in a martini glass.

“Not bad yourself. Morty? I have to go say hello to some friends.” Purity made haste to the other side of the room.

“Until she returns, please, sit with us.” Gina’s hand waved at the adjoining sofa.

“Delighted, Gina.” I sat. “So do you have a place here in East Hampton?”

“Just visiting. I actually thought I might run into Robert Tyson Grant, Purity’s father. I drove for him today.”

“Drove for him?”

“Yes, I’m a chauffeur, a limo driver.”

“Your charm must delight your clients.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Morty, I think Mr. Grant was more delighted with my Shui Ping.”