Free Ringer by Brian M Wiprud Page B

So the story is likely true. Inasmuch as it did not happen to me—that’s just lipstick.
    Anyway, my tale had the desired result—Vim’s sympathetic hands all over me—and we walked on back to her place hand in hand.
    It seemed at that moment like the seven hundred dollars was worth it.
    She lived in a large apartment building near the river.
    “I’ll go up and get Ralphie.” She kissed my cheek and vanished into the building. I hoped this little dog would not hump my leg as I was humping Vim later. That once happened, and it was very disconcerting, let me tell you.
    With Vim’s dog it would have been very disconcerting indeed.
    Vim emerged.
    In tow, behind Ralphie.
    A Great Dane.
    I will let the filmmakers imagine exactly how to portray my dismay, not only with the size of this animal, but with the size of this animal’s excrement. Watching Vim wrestle Ralphie’s loafs into a bag and then heave them in the trash can was less than appealing. As was the loss of Vim’s sweet shampoo fragrance, replaced by the stench of dog poo. Slobber cascaded from this beast’s maw, and the monster’s yellow eyes looked at me like I was its next meal.
    “I’d invite you up, only Ralphie needs to know you better. He’s pretty protective of me.”
    “Yes, I can imagine that he would be.” My smile was growing weary. “Could he be otherwise of someone so charming?”
    “Call me?” She handed me her card.
    “Of course, querida. Perhaps tomorrow? I am not sure how much longer I am in town.”
    She kissed me on the lips. “Tomorrow.”
    Ralphie’s stomach gurgled, a four-foot strand of drool connecting him to the sidewalk.

CHAPTER
    SIXTEEN
    I FELT PERHAPS CALLING DIXIE slightly before nine the next morning was too early, but she picked up on the first ring and immediately asked to meet for breakfast. She even insisted on coming downtown to meet me in a booth at the Lyric Diner on Third Avenue. Our coffee was set next to us, and the rotund waiter trundled back to the kitchen.
    Dixie was in a V-strap halter-top dress, one in a white and black tropical print. Quite ravishing.
    “Morty, I’m afraid we need a little more information.”
    “I am as always humbled to be of assistance in any way that I can.” Her breasts were glorious. They were packed into the halter top.
    “Why the ring?” she asked.
    I smiled the beneficent smile of anyone who is doing God’s work. “As I explained, the Caravaca ring must be reunited with the finger of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra.”
    Dixie tucked a curl of dark hair behind her ear and leaned in. “I still don’t understand, though, Morty. Why do you want the ring instead of money?”
    I blinked, not understanding her meaning at first, then realizing that as a secular person, she may not have understood how the Lord does business. I tried to put it in terms she would understand.
    “Dixie, I agree, this is certainly no ordinary business transaction, and yet, if you think of it that way, it may help. Who am I but my boss’s emissary dispatched to perform a task? From where we sit it may look simple, but there are wheels turning up there. I have to assume that my boss knows what He’s doing when He instructs me on the terms of the deal. Isn’t the important thing at the end of the day that things are set right? We are not concerned with how Grant came across this ring, but it does not belong to him. My boss only wants the ring returned. After all, for Grant this is only a modest gold ring. Am I mistaken, or could Robert Tyson Grant afford to purchase just about any ring he wanted?”
    Our breakfasts arrived. Mine: grilled American cheese. Dixie’s: grapefruit.
    “Morty, I completely agree. Whatever the reason, I think Grant should give you guys the ring. Frankly, the less we know about how you and your boss work, the better. But I have a problem.” She reached out and put her tender, warm hand on mine. “Robert doesn’t want to give up the ring.”
    I thumbed her forefinger,