Ringer Read Online Free PDF Page B

them. To the realm of the unexpected.
    Grant took Dixie to a French bistro on Waverly for dinner, and then to an Italian place on MacDougal for cappuccino and pastry. He was in gray slacks and a pullover crew with a sweater around his shoulders; she was in a festive print tiered halter dress. They were walking the streets afterward, enjoying the warm spring night and sights, when on Spring Street they passed a shop with a neon sign: READER.
    “Let’s get our palms read, Robbie!” Dixie yanked on his arm excitedly.
    Robert smiled but rolled his eyes. “Come on, Dix. They’re phony as a three-dollar bill, these gypsies.”
    “Poo.” She pouted playfully. “Where’s your sense of adventure? It’ll take our minds off of Purity. We were supposed to blow off some steam and relax tonight.”
    “Darling, it’s a carnival act. You do not believe somebody who sits in a shop window can tell you the future, do you? If they really could tell the future, don’t you think they would work their magic on Wall Street?”
    “I try to be open-minded, and so should you, you old fuddy-duddy. Relax for a change.”
    “Fuddy-duddy?” He pulled her close for a kiss, but she pushed him away.
    “That’s what I said: fuddy-duddy. Robert Tyson Grant, you are stuck in your ways.”
    “Just because I do not want to pay someone money to tell us lies—”
    “ Oh ho. So it’s the money you’re worried about?” She dodged another of his attempts to kiss her.
    “Come on, let’s walk up to Washington Square.”
    She laughed and moved to the door of the shop. “So Robert Tyson Grant, the tycoon, is a cheap fuddy-duddy.”
    “If you say so. Come on, let’s go … oh, great, here she is.”
    There was a disapproving woman with dark circles under her eyes standing at the window, shaking her head at Dixie, saying something that they could not hear. The palmist was dressed in a plain olive dress, her graying hair pulled back into a bun.
    She crooked a finger, beckoning them to enter her lair.
    “Oh, come on, Robbie! Do something fun for a change.” Dixie pulled him into the palmist’s storefront.
    “Welcome.” The palmist smiled weakly and motioned behind a curtain. “Please, come in, there is much to tell you, and little time. There is danger.”
    “Danger! What danger?” Dixie looked alarmed but snuck a wink at Grant.
    “Please, sit.” The palmist steadied herself on the wall, hand over her eyes. “I must feel for a better picture of what has unfolded, and what will be.”
    Grant rolled his eyes. “Dix, come on, let’s go!”
    The palmist grabbed his hand. “My name is Helena, and I know why that ring is so important to you.” He stared down into Helena’s pale eyes nesting under dark eyebrows: How on earth did she know about the ring?
    She did not, of course, know anything more than that the ring was the only piece of jewelry he wore, and that men only wear rings that mean something to them. It was clearly not a class ring from his college, and the design did not look new, so it must be old. When she clasped his hand she took the opportunity to inspect the ring as closely as possible. Now by the look on Grant’s face she knew the ring was very important to him indeed. This is what gypsies call a “hit”—they examine their client’s clothes, habits, face, jewelry, age, marital status. Then they make educated guesses and ask questions in the form of statements, trying to pin down something important about a subject’s life. They often do not find that something right away. The better ones do. Helena was better. This was why she had a shop on Spring Street and not on Flatbush Avenue.
    As soon as her subjects said to themselves How could she possibly know that? they were hooked. Magicians are not magic: They succeed because people, down deep, want to be fooled, even skeptics. I am not sure why this is so. Perhaps it explains hypnotism, and maybe gambling. You know what they say: There is an idiot born every