Ringer

by Wiprud, Brian M

  The judge pushed aside the documents before her, crossed her arms on the bench, and leaned forward. “This has to stop. I agree, Purity is a troubled girl who should be a competent woman by now. The exact nature and cause of her recidivism I’ll leave to the doctors, though I reserve judgment on their opinions and assurances, as the court has heard them before. Purity? Tell me, when will this all stop?”

  Purity’s lawyers froze, only their eyes turning toward their client.

  Purity cleared her throat and in a very small voice said, “Now.”

  “Why should the people of the State of New York believe what you just said?”

  Her lawyers inhaled.

  The small voice said, “My medications are better now, and I’m not drinking.”

  The prosecutor stood. “Your Honor, the people of New York State can only hope that Purity gets the help she needs so that their tax dollars can go toward policing crimes and preventing terrorism. However, it is a matter of public record that Purity Grant was arrested only last week in a DUI and car chase in Suffolk County. Clearly—”

  Purity’s lawyer objected, and Judge Gehman asked all the lawyers to come back into her chambers.

  A low murmur settled in among the spectators.

  Purity slumped in her chair. Seeing her this way sapped any desire I may have had for taking advantage of her wanton behavior. When you boiled the soup down, these were the bones at the bottom of the pot: a girl emotionally scarred by the loss of her mother and resentment of her stepfather who was on a trajectory for ever more trouble and strife. Sad. It made me want to comfort her. I wondered if the right man might make it all right somehow. Not me, of course. Then again, her scars might run too deep for even the most ardent love to heal.

  Skip elbowed me gently. “So what do you think?”

  “I feel sorry for her.”

  “With all that money?”

  “My friend, there is an old Spanish saying: Love makes better armor than gold.”

  “She’s a looker to boot. Purity could have any guy she wants.”

  “Beauty is more curse than commodity.”

  “Where did you say you were from?”

  “East Brooklyn.”

  Skip’s blond eyebrows shot up. “No shit?”

  “Well, I have made my fortune, and now live outside the country.”

  “Spain?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Cagey, Morty, very cagey. You’re here on business?”

  “Of course.”

  “Staying in Times Square?”

  “While I am a man of means, I do not choose to squander my fortune on hotels where I will only sleep. I’m staying in a charming hotel on the East Side.”

  To the side of the courtroom, three sketch artists were busy scratching away at their pads, eyes flicking up intently at Purity to capture the celebrity in her moment of humility.

  The door behind the bench opened, and the lawyers and judge spilled back into the courtroom. There was a lot of throat clearing all around, and then the audience slipped into silence.

  Judge Gehman tapped her gavel. “Will the defendant please rise.”

  Purity stood and looked the judge in the eyes.

  “Purity, I see all these doctor reports, and while I’m not a doctor, it is pretty easy to see that all the medications and rehab haven’t and won’t treat what’s really bothering you to make you act out this way. If it were in my power I would remand you to the custody of loving, attentive, and engaged parents back when you were fifteen. Inasmuch as the court does not have a time machine, the alternatives available to me are prison, rehab, probation, fines, and community service. The only ones with a chance of working seem to be the first and the last. Which do you think would work best?”

  Purity straightened up, her dull eyes now shining. “Prison.”

  The room gasped. The defense lawyers tensed, and you could see they wanted to jump up and say something but that they could not.

  The judge smiled, shaking her head. “The court sentences you to three hundred hours community service, a fine of fifty thousand dollars to defray the cost of all the police and courts necessary to babysit you, and a week of in-patient rehab for good luck. Court adjourned.”

  Outside the courtroom, I handed the reporter his press pass. “Many thanks, Skip, that was interesting. You have enough for a story?”

  “You kidding? She asked to go to jail, and the judge refused. That’s big. The courts keep pampering her, even though she knows she deserves to be locked up.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Skip chuckled, scratching his scalp. “Since when did anything I believe have anything to do with anything?”

  “I think it was Abraham Lincoln who said, ‘I only know what I read in the papers.’”

  “Outrage and fear. The best news stories are about one or the other. For example, ‘Lincoln Burial Costs Taxpayers One Million Dollars.’ Or ‘Is There a John Wilkes Booth After Your Kids?’”

  A wave of pin-striped lawyers parted the crowd outside of the courtroom, Purity once again in their wake. She had drifted back two steps, and some of the spectators like that woman with the lipstick furtively reached out to try to touch her.

  “See?” Skip pointed with his chin. “The scumtators come here to try to touch fame, to get some sort of spark of divine light in their dark lives.”

  I cocked an eye at Skip. “Divine light in their dark lives. You should put that in your article.”

  “That’s writing, not journalism.”

  “Why don’t the spectators take pictures of the celebrities?”

  “Cameras aren’t allowed in the building, but sometimes they take photos on the sly. Sometimes we buy them.”

  I noted that Purity’s step seemed uneven as her legal pack lurched toward where Skip and I were standing. Like a school of fish, they suddenly wheeled together, toward the elevator. Only one little blond fish slipped out of the school, stumbled, and fell.

  Into my arms.

  I could feel her rib cage with one hand, and her upper arm with the other, and I felt the divine light leave her body as she went completely limp. Funny what occurs to a man at moments like that: I thought to myself that she probably weighed about the same as Dixie.

  The crowd and lawyers gasped, and at least one person loosed a whinny of surprise.

  Purity buckled at the waist, so it was necessary for me to kneel to cushion her fall. I lowered her to the floor, and the hallway grew dark with the crush of gawkers. Somewhere around me were shouts, commands, jostling. I felt alone at the bottom of the pit of commotion, Purity in my arms. At that moment, she did not look like a rich troubled sexpot. Did such a person have the tiniest of freckles on her nose like the spots on a tiger lily? Did her unconscious lips part like the petals of a blooming rosebud? Did the gentle curl of her ear have a layer of small blond hair like the fuzz on a petunia? A fragrance arose from her hair, one born of sun and sand and sea. I brushed the hair from her face.

  A pinstripe suit on one side and a court officer on the other pinched in and squeezed me away from Purity, taking her into their arms. As I stood, there was a hand on my arm pulling me back. It was Skip.

  “I knew it paid to be a nice guy to my man Morty. Nice catch, bro. Now you have to tell me who you are, for the story.”

  I was still in the moment with the gentle flower Purity.

  I was not falling in love, so make sure that this scene doesn’t get all fuzzy and warm with yellow light. Every once in a while, a man rises above his baser nature and feels genuine tenderness. Were Purity’s sea green eyes batting furtively at me over a martini glass, her legs recrossing, I would of course feel differently. But the girl I held was just a child, a tragic one. The tenderness I felt filled my heart with something like what my holy quest for the ring did, the feeling that this was not something trivial, but a wrong to be set right. I felt protective of her; I felt that the senseless self-destruction of this innocent must end, and that if it didn’t,
mankind would lose a part of itself for allowing it to happen. At the same time, I knew this was not my mission, that this was something I could not accomplish because I did not have access or a personal relationship. Tragedy was on my tongue like a strong mint.

  I looked at Skip and sighed. He had his pen poised.

  “I am merely like a guardian angel who just happened to be passing by and made the catch, that is all.”

  There was more commotion as more court security arrived and began pushing the crowd back, and in the process, me away from Skip. The stairwell was open, and the crowd was being guided into it, down the stairs.

  So I went.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  SOMEWHERE ON A LONELY STRETCH of South Carolina interstate there towers a mighty Mexican named Pedro. Approximately a hundred feet tall and lit with neon, he wears a sombrero, poncho, mustache, and toothy smile beaming out from his brown face. In his arms there is a festive sign that reads: SOUTH OF THE BORDER. Pedro straddles a roadway next to a restaurant.

  Pedro is the patron saint of the mother of all tourist traps. Gracing the highway’s edge for hundreds of miles in either direction, billboards trumpet fireworks, a two-hundred-foot-high sombrero-topped space needle, an RV park, a motel, a spa, a wedding chapel, a porn shop, chili, steak, fried chicken, a kiddie park, and diesel fuel. South of the Border’s festive if fading buildings straddle I-95 and sprawl over a dozen acres cleared of scrub pine in a shallow valley.

  When you first see this vacationland oasis, you can hardly believe it is actually there before your eyes. When you drive away and are again in the pine barrens, you are not sure you didn’t dream it somehow.

  Panning down from the giant Pedro and an overcast sky, our camera finds the yellow-eyed El Cabezador, sleepily surveying his surroundings. A small red backpack dangled from his hand. In the other was a Waffle House place mat. On the place mat was a map of Waffle House franchises dotting the East Coast. This had become Paco’s map to help guide him to New York.

  Tractor-trailers gurgle and whine off-camera.

  Paco headed for a souvenir shop. Inside, he made his way past the mildly humorous bumper stickers, jerky, pecan logs, baby cactuses, saltwater taffy, ashtrays, pinecone art, sombreros, and Mylar balloons to the racks of sport shirts, windbreakers, and sweatpants.

  He emerged from the souvenir shop wearing a black sport shirt and a yellow South of the Border windbreaker. His beaten and scarred black boots peeked from below new black sweatpants with white racing stripes. To look at him, you might have guessed he was from Bayonne. In his hand was a clump of clothing, the smelly stuff he’d had on upon arrival. That found a home in a trash can, with a thunk.

  Little red backpack over his shoulder, Paco headed for the restaurant, though not for the front. He headed for the back, where he found what he was looking for. Fellow Mexicans, two dishwashers, illegals, on a break.

  They spoke in Spanish, so here are the subtitles:

  “Good morning, brothers. What’s going on?”

  “Not much.”

  “I’m passing through here, heading to New York, where I have work with my cousins, doing construction.”

  “Day labor?”

  “Better than my previous job.”

  “Each job is both better and worse than the one before. We wish you luck, friend, but hope you are not looking for a handout. We cannot afford to risk our terrible jobs.”

  Paco laughed at the weak joke. “No, my friends, I am not looking for a handout. I have a little money to keep me going. Just wanted to speak with countrymen about the best way for me to continue north. Cheaply, of course.”

  “Nobody around here would pick up a Mexican hitchhiker.”

  “I am Honduran.”

  “Yes, you look like one. A Honduran from Mexico. Your last job was not what you thought it would be, either?”

  “I was thinking about whether any of you travel north after work. Just another step closer to New York, you see? I can contribute to help pay for petrol.”

  The dishwashers exchanged a glance. “You might be able to get a ride with us to Culpville. There you might get a bus. But you would have to ask John.”

  “Who is John?”

  “He runs our bunkhouse, provides transportation.”

  “I will ask John. Where is he?”

  “He arrives after our shift, at eleven, and takes us all back to the bunkhouse for a meal and then sleep.”

  “Good. I will be back here to ask John.”

  “Don’t come here. We meet in front of Pedro, at eleven.”

  “Many thanks. I will see you then.”

  Paco wandered off to look for a bathroom. His reaction to this place was similar to his reaction to most things American: bewilderment and resignation. Could he ever understand gringos and their excesses? He wondered if South of the Border was what Americans thought Mexico was like. He had to admit that the touristy parts of Juárez were at least a little like this, once. Even so, Paco had never seen anybody but a mariachi wear a sombrero, and yet there was this grinning statue of a peon at every turn.

  Even a grinning Pedro in a bathrobe and slippers. The statue was standing in front of a public restroom that had showers.

  Paco bathed, and was back at the road-straddling Pedro at close to eleven.

  There was an aging white Econoline van there, and some of his countrymen were slouching outside. Including the dishwashers.

  “What’s going on, friends?”

  “We spoke to John. Here he comes now.”

  Paco turned. Bald and buck-toothed, John was a large gringo who limped across the lot from the restaurant, a foam container of coffee in his hand.

  When he drew near, the dishwashers gestured to Paco and stepped back. John’s puffy red face looked down at Paco and grunted. His smile was large, but the teeth were small, and there seemed to be far too many of them. “You want work?” His Spanish was coarse, but understandable.

  We’re back to subtitles:

  “No, Señor John. I am on my way to New York. My countrymen here said I might be able to get a ride with you to the nearest town where I can find a bus.”

  “A bus?” John laughed, but without humor.

  “I can pay for the petrol it costs to get me there. I am not a hitchhiker.”

  “Why don’t you want to work here? Hm?”

  “I have work elsewhere.”

  John patted Paco on the shoulder. “Good for you. Sure, we’ll give you a ride. Get in, boys. All of you.”

  The van was packed with illegals as John pushed the wheezing Econoline to highway speeds and onto I-95. Paco thought the van was very solemn for a bunch of Mexicans, who were usually talkative. They exited in North Carolina, and John brought the van down a dirt road through the pines and into a large clearing. In the center of the clearing on a rise was a cinder-block bunkhouse flanked by fading red tobacco barns. These in turn were flanked by a few large trees and rusty threshers. Overgrown fields, colorless under the overcast, stretched away in all directions.

  Paco felt eyes on him, those of his countrymen, as the van stopped next to a pile of construction debris and wood at the cinder-block bunkhouse. He looked into the rearview mirror at John. “Is town far from this place? I can walk.”

  John flashed those little teeth at Paco in the mirror. “You might as well come in and have some chow with the rest of them. You have traveled far and must be hungry.” He shoved open his door and came around the side to open the van so the illegals could exit.

  One by one the illegals climbed down from the van, but none would meet Paco’s eyes.

  Last from the van was Paco, and as soon as his feet landed on the dusty red dirt of the driveway, John clamped a hand on the back of his neck.

  “You’ll work here or you’ll go to prison, pussy.” The little teeth seemed more plentiful than ever.

  The grip on Paco’s neck was intense; his vision swam and darkened. John kicked the back of his knees and pushed him to the dirt.

>   Paco rolled onto his back, facing the big gringo. His little red backpack had fallen by the van, the nine-millimeter automatic out of reach.

  One end of a length of bristled rope was in John’s fist. The other end of the rope had a knot in it.

  “You’ll work here, sleep here, eat here.”

  The rope whistled through the air, and the knot caught Paco in the ribs, delivering a bolt of pain.

  Then again in the thigh, then in his shoulder as Paco rolled and tried to scramble away from John’s whip. The big man lurched after him, red dust rising and stinging Paco’s eyes, the other illegals clustered by the debris pile, watching in fear.

  “And if you don’t do as I say, you’ll die here, pussy!”

  The knot delivered another bolt of pain to Paco’s ribs just as he rolled. The knot lodged momentarily between his side and the ground.

  John cursed and yanked the rope clear, but Paco caught the rope above the knot and tried in vain to pull the bully down.

  The fat man held fast, jerking Paco toward him and thrusting a foot at his head. The boot missed its mark. John staggered forward.

  Paco let go of the rope and leaped to his feet behind his attacker, hatchet in hand.

  John turned in time to see the hatchet, and in time to lean away from the rusty blade an inch before his bulging eyes. His weight pivoted on his limping leg, and the fat man could not move away quickly enough to avoid Paco’s kick. It caught him in the knee, on the side, and the big man fell with a groan to the red earth.

  Paco lunged into the cloud of dust, onto John’s side, and the big man shrieked and bucked. To Paco it sounded like the shriek of a whore. He slashed backhanded at the fat man’s neck with the hatchet, chopping off much of his chin instead of the jugular, so he angled the blade in on the forward thrust and drove the hatchet under John’s ear and up to the hilt behind the jaw. He felt the blade crack through the nasal cavity and give, like hacking a pumpkin.

  Paco rolled off John and onto his side next to the van. Next to his little red backpack.

  In the cloud of red dust before him, John staggered to his feet. There did not seem any way to open the backpack quickly enough, so Paco felt for the pistol’s grip and trigger guard.