Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue's Gambit
by Tux Toledo
Page 7
Daylight
dissolved into the bay like dark ink. The Rolls cut silently
through the Friday evening traffic and James brought it to a dignified
halt in front of Richard Rigger's house. It was a modest
six-bedroom affair in Cow Hollow. Pretty ritzy place by
anyone's standards. James opened my door and we stepped into
Rigger's party.
Cow Hollow parties aren't much different from Nob Hill
parties. A bit more nouveau riche, perhaps, and therefore a
bit more pretentious. The Claude Montana set instead of the
Yves St. Laurent crowd. I threw caution to the wind and wore
Italian: a nice solid gray Brioni suit with a striped shirt
and striped tie. I know, stripes on stripes isn't advisable
but the shirt and tie colors were complimentary enough to make the look
perfect. Trust me.
I followed James into Rigger's library. It was a
high-ceilinged room containing more people than books. We
mingled with the people although I would have preferred the books.
"Careless storage," I said, pulling a cigar from a leather pencil
holder conspicuously placed on a Louis-the-something antique
desk. I sniffed the cigar and gave it to James.
"Cuban," he said after sniffing it.
I nodded. I was about to place one in my vest pocket when Ted
and Nancy found us and introduced us to our host and new shooting
partner.
"Winston, I'd like you to meet Richard Rigger," he said.
Rigger was a barrel of a man with a cigar stuck in his face and three
strands of hair stretched across the top of his head. Not
sporting material if you ask me. Yes, looks can be deceiving,
but, I mean, a man who wears a sport coat and pants of contrasting
shades of dark blue? Really! Nothing good can come
of a man like that.
"Winston is the other member of our sporting clays team," Ted said to
Rigger.
"Yes, I've heard of you," Rigger said. "Any friend of Ted's
is a friend of mine."
"Thank you," I said.
"Yes, meeting Ted was a mutually fortuitous event," Rigger continued.
"I understand you financed the purchase of Ted's newest ship?" I asked.
"Yes, that's how we met. We both have business interests
south of the border, so it was a natural partnership." His
flabby hand patted Ted on the shoulder.
"So you have banking business in Latin America?" I asked.
"Yes. I have clients there, wealthy clients, of course, who
invest their money through me. I can offer them much better
investment opportunities here than they can find at home.
Those countries are so unenlightened when it comes to
finance. I help my clients find more productive outlets for
their assets."
"I see," I said.
"And of course they're grateful for my services and reward me
appropriately. That allows me to indulge in my hobbies."
"Like shooting?" I asked.
"Yes, like shooting." He closed one eye and aimed an
imaginary gun at an imaginary target.
"Bang," he said. Then he laughed.
"He's no shooter," James whispered to me.
And James was right. A real skeet shooter keeps both eyes
open. If you don't believe me ask Holland & Holland's
shooting school outside of London.
"Speaking of shooting, when are those clay pigeons arriving?" he asked
Ted.
"Early Saturday morning," Ted said. "The day of the
tournament."
"That's cutting it close," Rigger said. "I'd better pick them
up."
"There's no need for that, Richard," Ted said. "Don't go out
of your way. If you pick them up you'll also have to deliver
them to the shooting club. I'm sure it would be an
inconvenience. You'd have to get up very early."
"That's no problem," Rigger said. "Those are special clay
pigeons. I want to make sure nothing happens to them."
"I see your point," Ted said. "But my men can handle it."
"Will you be there personally?" Rigger asked.
"No, but..."
"We can't take chances then, can we?" Rigger said.
"No, I suppose not," Ted agreed.
"I don't think the clay pigeons will fly away on their own," I joked.
Rigger stared at me in a way that almost made me believe they would.
"Those are valuable clay pigeons," he said sternly. "I don't
want to see anything happen to them."
"Yes," Ted said, rising to Rigger's self-importance. "That
would be bad. The shooting club is counting on those birds."
"Then it's all settled," Rigger said. "I'll pick them up and
deliver them to the club. They are arriving on the Azul
Pacific, aren't they?"
"Yes," Ted said.
"Good. What time does the ship arrive?"
"Five-thirty."
"I'll be waiting for it," Rigger said. "We can't take any
chances with those birds."
"If you insist," Ted said.
"I do," Rigger smiled. "It was nice meeting you, Winston," he
said, shaking my hand. He then melted back into his party.
"He's awfully worried about those clay pigeons, isn't he?" I asked Ted.
"Yes," Ted said. "But they are good birds."
"But they aren't gold, are they?"
He looked at me the way a French waiter looks at an American
diner. "Of course not," he said.
Nancy frowned at him.
"Oh, Ted, they're just a bunch of clay disks."
Ted ignored her.
"I'm ready to go home," Nancy said.
"So soon," Ted replied.
"Yes."
"If you say so. I'll see you next Saturday," Ted said to me.
They turned to leave. Nancy leaned over to whisper in my
ear. "Did you find the little bird?" she asked.
I nodded. She smiled. They walked away.
© 2008 David Biagini