Ringer (12 page)

“Helena, why is the ring so important? Why won’t he give it up?”

Ah ha,
Helena thought—
finally, a clue.
Then she remembered something from the previous night. With her knees she started to vibrate the table.

“I see now!” the palmist gasped.

“What is it you see?” the girlfriend gasped.

“The man from Bolivia,” the palmist hissed.

“Bolivia?”

“La Paz!”

“Mexico.”

“Yes, of course, I see the man from Mexico!” the palmist whispered.

“Do you know … do you know why he is here?” the gazillionaire’s girlfriend whispered, afraid the palmist might know the man from Mexico was a hit man.

The music stopped.

The orb went black.

Helena jumped to her feet and pointed a trembling finger at Dixie.

“THIS MAN, HE HAS COME FOR THE RING!”

This time it was Dixie who nearly fainted. She gulped. “Should I give him the ring?”

“At your own peril if you do—
and if you don’t
!” Helena collapsed into her chair, fanning herself with the hem of her skirt. Well, that answer covered her bases, anyway.

“What do I do?”

The palmist tipped her face forward into her hands. “I have seen all that can be seen for now. I must rest.”

“But I must know.”

Helena lifted her face. “I can only do so much at once. Follow your heart. Cash or charge?”

Dixie fished out four twenties from her purse. “Is it eighty?”

Helena took the twenties. “Want me to call you a car service?”

“I can catch a cab.”

“Don’t be silly.” Helena pulled a cell phone from her skirt pocket and speed-dialed. “My nephew Tony works at a car service around the corner.”

Occasionally Tony also worked for Helena when she needed more information.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

CUT TO A SHOT LOOKING
up at Grant International’s Sixth Avenue headquarters, a shining glass hive of commerce on Manhattan’s skyline. Floors thirty through forty were occupied with Grant Industries worker bees, and the business of making the honey was kept humming by spiral staircases linking each floor to the next. The king bee had not wanted the workers to be waiting around for elevators and degrading productivity. The directory for the floors included many divisions in support of the discount importer’s retail operations, such as administration, accounting, research, promotions, and distribution. Robert had kept the company insulated and independent by maintaining various departments in-house that many other large companies would have shopped out, like advertising and auditing. Robert’s guiding principle in business was to maintain a strong but simple centralized corporate identity. Translated, that meant “Don’t pay other folks overhead and profit for what we can do in-house.” Their customers and their success relied on clarity of message: value and variety. A recent media blitz by the marketing department relied solely on billboards and ten-second commercials in prime time that were black letters on white: Value. Variety. Grab-A-Lot. No contests or cross-promotions or product placements or scratch-offs or blimps or stadiums or celebrities.

A new department called Initiatives had recently launched Grant Industry’s own discount products. Buy-It Electronics contracted with an off-brand manufacturer of third-tier CD, DVD, iPhone, and iPod devices, in an attempt to absorb that company’s manufacturing and distribution. The other was a discount gourmet food concern and an obvious attempt to steal market share from Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. Within each Grab-A-Lot store Grant Industries had begun installing a store-within-a-store called Trade Winds, which sold everything from deluxe sugar cubes to exotic and supposedly healthy snack chips to frozen meals.

I read all this in the exposés on the plane, and lots more, of course. That was Robert Tyson Grant’s company in a nutshell. I’m sure in the movie the audience could be shown various images of the company at work with the sound of typewriters and telephones in the background, snippets of conversation, interviews, business reports, what have you. Yes, I know nobody uses typewriters anymore, but I think they still use that sound effect in movies to make us think people are very busy at work, don’t they? Of course, like with the penguins at the cocktail party, you could intercut images of bees with Grant’s workers running to and fro with documents and charts, the hive in action. Yet the buzzing sounds may become annoying to a theater audience when mixed with the clacking of typewriters. That is up to you; I am just telling you what happened so you can make the movie in the best way. The point I am making is that the audience needs to understand Robert was actually a captain of industry and not just a millionaire with a conniving girlfriend with great tits, with a troublesome daughter also with great tits, and with the ring of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra on his finger. All of which were becoming a distraction in his day-to-day at Grant Industries. Which was why on this given day, while the hive was buzzing and typewriters clacking, or what have you, our king bee was alone in his office, standing before a window with a commanding view of midtown Manhattan.

The sky had grown cloudy, another late-day storm brewing, New Jersey dark and foreboding in the distance.

How?

Grant was mystified, to be sure, because he could not figure out how an assassin picked at random had any connection to his own past, much less the ring. Was the Hapsburg/Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra ring somehow common knowledge in Mexico? Surely this ring was an obscure relic, and only a few would know of it, much less know its power. Grant held up his hand, admiring the simplicity, weight, and color of the gold ring bearing the double cross of Caravaca.

One part of him wanted to give up the ring. Were he to do so, he might find that his success was his own invention. He might find that his admittance to Princeton was not a fluke or mistake. Was investing in Chinese imports a shrewd business move or a roll of the dice? Was his unusual business model the product of his genius or the by-product of destiny? Would it be Robert Tyson Grant’s armada of stores that sank the fleet of Walmart and Costco and Trader Joe’s? Or would kismet rot their hulls before his advancing navy arrived? Was he a brilliant businessman and magnate who would be mentioned for eons to come in the same breath as Kroc and Gates? Or as a footnote?

Yet there was another part of Robert Tyson Grant—the fearful little boy.

There was hardly a day that passed when he did not recall those days in the orphanage, the stormy night in the chapel with Pasqual, the days when the orphans had to comb their hair and stand in line for inspection by prospective parents. It is one thing to not be picked for kickball teams at recess, then quite another to have your prayers rewarded by stinging hopelessness as couple after couple walked down the line of boys and picked someone else to be their son. A dark spot formed on Robert Tyson Grant’s soul, a depraved yearning to finally be chosen. Which was why one afternoon Bobbie stole back to the dormitory and forced open Pasqual’s footlocker with a butter knife. Hidden inside, he found a small clay donkey, one that Pasqual had made in art class. Grant smashed it on the edge of the locker—from inside glowed the gold ring of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra, the cross of Caravaca flickering in the late-day sun.

Earn Destiny.

Did it matter how the destiny was earned?

Could Pasqual still be alive? Grant had tracked him down for years—a Brooklyn truck mechanic—and was assured that he had been killed by loan sharks. Who else would know he had the ring or what it was?

What if his current success—like finding parents to take him from the orphanage—did rely on the ring? Then his business model would result in bankruptcy. Buy-It Electronics would become an object of the
Wall Street Journal
’s derision and founder on the rocks of hubris. Trade Winds would be broadsided by a fusillade of foreign trade sanctions. Overleveraged and insolvent, the once strong and invincible Grant Industries armada would be sunk by the same hand of fate that floated it, the ships of BJ’s and Sam’s Club sailing triumphantly to port.

Where the mighty Grant’s Industries once sailed, only the flotsam of lawsuits and the jetsam of ridicule would remain, the miserable orphan Robert Tyson Grant adrift in a lifeboat of failure with a paddle of regret.

Earn Destiny.

Did it matter how the destiny was earned?

Grant seriously had to wonder: Was Purity a curse, one that came with the success the ring had brought? There were other business magnates who suffered bratty daughters that did not seem as afflicted. Yet for Grant, Purity’s evil was relentless, like he’d somehow earned this curse, as the palmist had suggested. Was this the price he had to pay for stealing the ring? For using it to build the Grab-A-Lot empire?

Relentless.
Now there was this court scene Purity had pulled off, and it was all over the paper and the news. If he could just rid himself of her, of this curse …

Of course.
How obvious. If he were to rid himself of the ring, he would rid himself of the curse that came with it, because Purity would be killed in exchange for the ring. Even if the result of relinquishing the ring was forfeiture of his continued success, was it worth such success at the price of Purity’s persistent hatred and media humiliation? Perhaps it was possible to circumvent failure if he ceased to seek success. What if he were to relinquish the ring to the Mexican, and Purity were to be disposed of? Could he sell Grant Industries to the Chinese and retire with his money? He could wrap up his life in the States, and then he and Dixie could move down to his retreat in Cabo San Lucas. Would a hurricane then come and wash his life away? He didn’t feel it should work that way.

Grant took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had to take command of this situation. Dixie was a help, but he was not without his own resources and clever ways, especially when dealing with tricky business deals or situations. He felt like he was allowing himself to be frozen like a possum in the headlights because he could not understand their motives. How Asians did business and their priorities were still sometimes mysterious, yet he had always managed to deal with them, hadn’t he? Robert decided it was essential to look at this like a business deal.

They want the ring in return for killing Purity. I want to give them money for this service. Is there a middle alternative? Making the deal is about finding alternatives.

There was a gentle rap at the door.

“Come!”

His pixie-like assistant Kathy stuck her head in. “I e-mailed you a link. Can I get you anything else?”

Grant nodded glumly. “Not at this time, thank you.” The assistant vanished.

He sat at his giant desk, in his giant chair, and wiggled a computer mouse around until the video clip loaded. He did not shy away from Purity’s debacles. He needed to know how bad it was, if only to confirm that the curse needed to be over, that hiring the Mexican was the right thing to do.

Chin in hand, he watched a TV reporter cheerily relate his stepdaughter’s latest embarrassment.

“Purity Grant is
back
in the news, and back in court. You may recall her Lady Godiva stunt in which she
stole
a horse and rode bareback and bare-chested in Central Park. A
guilty
plea had been entered by her legal team
,
and now it was time to
pay the piper
. A sentencing was held this morning in downtown Manhattan. When Judge Carolyn Gehman asked Purity—yes, she did show up!—what her punishment should be, the wealthy heiress chose
prison
over community service! The judge
declined
Purity’s choice, instead fining her
fifty
thousand dollars for all the trouble she caused the police and court system, three hundred hours community service,
and
rehab. But that wasn’t the end of the excitement. On the way out of the courtroom, Purity Grant
fainted
.”

They showed a film clip, taken with a phone.

“
She was carried from the building to an ambulance, and was transported to Beth Israel Medical Center, where she apparently is recovering from what sources are telling us is a
hangover.”

Grant blinked hard and played the clip again.

He stood, leaned in, and played the clip again. This time he froze the film clip to a single image.

“Good Lord! Kathy!”

The pixie reappeared. “I have the lawyers on the phone.”

“Forget the lawyers. Get me Ms. Faltreau at the Grant Foundation.”

“Dixie?”

“Yes!”

The image on his screen was of Purity, fainted into the arms of his hit man.

Me
.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

WHAT MAKES A MAN IRRESISTIBLE
to a woman?

It is not found in a bottle of aftershave; let us get that part straight right away.

It is not a chiseled physique, expensive clothes, or a flashy sports car—even though those may attract a woman’s attention initially. Like a peacock flashing his immense and colorful tail, these do not ensure eggs in the nest.

What makes a man irresistible to a woman is
being
irresistible. You think I am playing games, but a man simply has to believe he is irresistible—if
he
does not believe it,
she
will not believe it. Now, I am not suggesting that a man swagger up to a woman and inflict a smoochie-faced embrace on her. I am asking the men out there to think! When a woman knows she is irresistible to a man, does she throw herself at him? Except with rare exceptions, the answer is no. Why? Because in order to be irresistible, you must create desire in the object of your passions. Desire is a tower built from the bricks of anticipation, and the bricks of anticipation are fired from the clay of waiting.

Think again: If a desirable woman
does
throw herself at men, what happens? The men very often recoil, because any woman who is truly desirable knows she has a commodity for which she must find the best buyer for her charms. Or they take her and toss her aside. People do not give away what is valuable. While she may seem an attractive package, men will know that what is given away freely is cheap, and perhaps burdened with a mental disorder or worse.