Ringer (27 page)

“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 suddenly 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 cuckolded 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.

Anyway, let’s break the freeze frame of Gina and me and continue, but perhaps fast-forward a little through some of the more explicit sex talk, to the point where we see me roll out of her arms and return with the ring and the humidor, and the camera rolls to one side as Gina gathers the sheets around herself and sits up, her hair an unruly cascade.

I sat on the edge of the bed and put the humidor on the night table. The finger in one hand, the ring in the other, I paused and shot a look back at Gina.

“If the ring explodes this time, we can all just go home, how does that sound?”

With a broad grin she bowed her head. “I guess I had that coming.”

I slid the ring on the finger.

It stopped at the first knuckle.

I pushed.

The finger creaked.

The ring would go no farther.

“This is most curious.”

“Maybe Hernando’s finger swelled from the ocean air?”

“The finger is in the ocean air in La Paz. Besides, it is kept in this smelly box. Yet the ring of my ancestor no longer fits on his finger, where it has been for five hundred years.”

Gina sat forward. “Let me see.”

I gave her the finger and the ring. She, too, found the ring no longer fit, and handed me back the finger. Scowling at the ring, she put it in her palm to gauge its weight.

“Morty, bring the bedside lamp.”

Lifting the lamp off the table and jiggling the cord free, I held the lamp close to where she held the ring and switched it on. Gina turned the ring this way and that to the light.

She bit her lip. “Wouldn’t they have used twenty-four-carat gold back in the conquistador age?”