sweat. His thumb hesitantly lifted the latch on the gold box and squeaked open the reliquary.
There in the golden light of the chapel of Nuestra Señora de Cortez, the boy beheld the stinky brown finger of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra with the golden Hapsburg ring of Caravaca nestled in the humidor.
“Destino ganado!” Pasqual whispered.
Subtitle: “Earn destiny.”
In the distance, there was a creak, a clang, and then footsteps.
Pasqual’s eyes went wide.
“Someone’s coming!” Bobbie squeaked, his face white as a sacramental cassock. “Hurry!”
Pasqual tossed the box back into the cabinet, folded the sepulchral cabinet doors closed, and scuttled back to his blond friend.
Footsteps approached, growing louder.
The boys darted out the door through which they had come.
On the opposite side of the chapel, a similar door opened. An old, stooped friar entered, closed the door behind him, and with obvious pain knelt to pray at the altar steps.
Thunder boomed.
A wind blew through the chapel, the candles flickering.
The unlocked doors to the sepulchral cabinet creaked slowly open.
The friar raised his gaze from his clasped hands to the sepulchral cabinet, eyes widening.
The golden reliquary humidor slid from its shelf, hit the carpet, and bounced down the altar ledge. At the marble floor, it popped open.
The shriveled brown finger of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra skittered across the marble and rolled to a stop in front of the friar.
Without the Hapsburg Caravaca ring.
So how’s that for screenwriting? I believe the screenwriting manual has assisted me in providing cinematic drama to my story. To be brutally honest, if I weren’t dying soon, I would head to Hollywood, lock, stock, and barrel. Now get a load of this transition; I seriously doubt Sergio Leone could have done it better.
The amazed eyes of the friar, alight with chapel candles and flickering lightning, become the eyes of Robert Tyson Grant by the light of the cheap Chinese lantern in Mr. Lee’s on Mott Street, the flicker of lightning in the carp tank behind him.
“Robbie, are you all right?”
Grant’s eyes focus on Dixie. “I won’t give the Mexican my ring.”
Her mouth moved, but she had no words.
“Dix, find out how much he wants, but he cannot have the ring.”
Her blue eyes were fixed on his, and they narrowed. “So now it’s my turn. Why?”
“Because the ring is mine. I earned it .”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
THE FORTUNE-TELLER HELENA WAS GLUED to Let’s See if You Can Dance on TV when there was a rap at her door. She had been so engrossed by her program, so titillated with the anticipation of Joey and Marissa’s pending tango routine, that she had forgotten to pull the shades on the shop windows. Normally she closed early for Let’s See if You Can Dance. She pushed a button on an ancient VCR, and it began to record her show.
Parting the beaded curtain into the foyer, she beheld Robert Tyson Grant and his golf umbrella at the shop door, rain pounding the sidewalk around him.
Helena flashed a wise smile and went to unlock the door.
“I was expecting you,” she said as he passed by her into the room. She sniffed. “But you stayed longer than you wanted to at the Chinese restaurant.”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “How can you know such things?”
She could know such things because the aroma of a Chinese restaurant is unmistakable, and it was on his clothing. Helena answered with a sad smile and gestured toward her parlor. “Please.”
Grant rested his umbrella against the wall and followed her through the beaded curtain. “Someone has come for the ring, Helena. I must know more about him.”
Ah, yes, this was the rich man with the ring and the Kewpie doll girlfriend.
She sat at the table, palms down on the red tablecloth. “I warned of danger. It is here. Sit.”
He sat.
“Give me your hands.”
He gave her his hands.
She clasped them between hers, eyes closed.
“Someone has come for the
There in the golden light of the chapel of Nuestra Señora de Cortez, the boy beheld the stinky brown finger of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra with the golden Hapsburg ring of Caravaca nestled in the humidor.
“Destino ganado!” Pasqual whispered.
Subtitle: “Earn destiny.”
In the distance, there was a creak, a clang, and then footsteps.
Pasqual’s eyes went wide.
“Someone’s coming!” Bobbie squeaked, his face white as a sacramental cassock. “Hurry!”
Pasqual tossed the box back into the cabinet, folded the sepulchral cabinet doors closed, and scuttled back to his blond friend.
Footsteps approached, growing louder.
The boys darted out the door through which they had come.
On the opposite side of the chapel, a similar door opened. An old, stooped friar entered, closed the door behind him, and with obvious pain knelt to pray at the altar steps.
Thunder boomed.
A wind blew through the chapel, the candles flickering.
The unlocked doors to the sepulchral cabinet creaked slowly open.
The friar raised his gaze from his clasped hands to the sepulchral cabinet, eyes widening.
The golden reliquary humidor slid from its shelf, hit the carpet, and bounced down the altar ledge. At the marble floor, it popped open.
The shriveled brown finger of Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra skittered across the marble and rolled to a stop in front of the friar.
Without the Hapsburg Caravaca ring.
So how’s that for screenwriting? I believe the screenwriting manual has assisted me in providing cinematic drama to my story. To be brutally honest, if I weren’t dying soon, I would head to Hollywood, lock, stock, and barrel. Now get a load of this transition; I seriously doubt Sergio Leone could have done it better.
The amazed eyes of the friar, alight with chapel candles and flickering lightning, become the eyes of Robert Tyson Grant by the light of the cheap Chinese lantern in Mr. Lee’s on Mott Street, the flicker of lightning in the carp tank behind him.
“Robbie, are you all right?”
Grant’s eyes focus on Dixie. “I won’t give the Mexican my ring.”
Her mouth moved, but she had no words.
“Dix, find out how much he wants, but he cannot have the ring.”
Her blue eyes were fixed on his, and they narrowed. “So now it’s my turn. Why?”
“Because the ring is mine. I earned it .”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
THE FORTUNE-TELLER HELENA WAS GLUED to Let’s See if You Can Dance on TV when there was a rap at her door. She had been so engrossed by her program, so titillated with the anticipation of Joey and Marissa’s pending tango routine, that she had forgotten to pull the shades on the shop windows. Normally she closed early for Let’s See if You Can Dance. She pushed a button on an ancient VCR, and it began to record her show.
Parting the beaded curtain into the foyer, she beheld Robert Tyson Grant and his golf umbrella at the shop door, rain pounding the sidewalk around him.
Helena flashed a wise smile and went to unlock the door.
“I was expecting you,” she said as he passed by her into the room. She sniffed. “But you stayed longer than you wanted to at the Chinese restaurant.”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “How can you know such things?”
She could know such things because the aroma of a Chinese restaurant is unmistakable, and it was on his clothing. Helena answered with a sad smile and gestured toward her parlor. “Please.”
Grant rested his umbrella against the wall and followed her through the beaded curtain. “Someone has come for the ring, Helena. I must know more about him.”
Ah, yes, this was the rich man with the ring and the Kewpie doll girlfriend.
She sat at the table, palms down on the red tablecloth. “I warned of danger. It is here. Sit.”
He sat.
“Give me your hands.”
He gave her his hands.
She clasped them between hers, eyes closed.
“Someone has come for the
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