Spygirl by Amy Gray Page B

of the above was just
so
obvious, “Nawt the ring.”
    “Listen, I like to cut through the bull,” Goldie said defiantly, “and I think I know what this guy is doing. I think they might be reporters, and they might be undercover to do an exposé about the wedding business, for, say,
Vanity Fair
I want to know if they're going to write about
me
!” I imagined a subterranean war room of journalists and infiltrators meeting around a strategy board at the center of which was a cutout of Goldie's head, and around her an elaborate system of arrows, snapshots, stratagems, and frilly fabric swathes. Graydon Carter would sit at the head of the table in camouflage, this season's black, and imposing Lagerfeld-style sunglasses, barking, “Find her secrets out at any cost!” No, I didn't think there was a cloak-and-dagger story in the works. George looked intent, his blue eyes converged, his upper lip protruded earnestly in what seemed to be a sign that he had checked all sarcasm at the door. Itried to look serious, too, even though Goldie's
Vanity Fair
fantasy made me want to giggle. But I didn't crack a smile.
    George asked lots of questions, and I wrote down things I thought might be relevant on the pad I'd brought with me. What did this guy do for a living? Goldie wasn't sure—he had a startup, or maybe it was an older company that he'd taken over—and then some foundation that he was starting for his future wife. Or maybe the foundation
was
the startup, but he also implied that he had the security of a vast family fortune. He mentioned the Willkommen family, the founder and owners of a small but profitable Austrian airline called Rheintalflug Air. They had assembled a net worth of more than $400 million doing it. Goldie thought he had also mentioned something about a family marinara-sauce business, which “raised some red flayags” in her mind. “It was very Gawdfawther.”
    George took a very cautious position, saying, “Listen, I'll tell you right now that I think this guy's a crook, but until we have evidence, you should be doing nothing and saying nothing to him. Just don't accept any checks from him.”
    “Oh,” Goldie said, “Well, I guess that's another thing.” The groom said they were in such a rush to book the whirlwind wedding, he'd asked her to start booking vendors immediately. But the check he'd written her for the $100,000 to cover the just-getting-started charges had bounced and she'd written checks to the vendors that were supposed to draw on this check, including a $10,000 deposit at the Waldorf and another $6,500 for the Carolina Herrera dress. The guy had apologized for the bounced check, saying it was a miscommunication with his bank. Supposedly he was wiring her the money now, although nothing had come through yet.
    George and I left the meeting with about fifteen pages of notes and a Xerox of the guy's card, which read:
    Garry Wilbur
    Entrepreneur/Philanthropist
    917-555-9899
    It reminded me of a card I'd gotten from a guy who followed me all the way from the Borough Hall station in Brooklyn to my gym. He followed me for two blocks, calling, “Excuuuse me, miss!” before he said he couldn't help but notice my “beautiful spirit” and “nice booty.” Saying he wanted to “portray me in paint,” he handed me his card, which read: “Tyrell G. Artist, Portraits, Dancing, Business Consultant.” After spending the next forty minutes hiding in the ladies’ changing room of the New York Sports Club, I ran home.
The Arm-Wrestling Champion of the World
    Back at the office I put Wilbur's card in the file and booted up my computer. I wanted to impress the hell out of my bosses with this case. I would eat and breathe it until I had cracked Wilbur open like a nut.
    I looked up. Linus was diving across my desk. He came to rest in a classical pose and flashed me a crooked smile. “Let me ask you something.”
    “Okay.”
    His eyes flickered behind trifocal lenses. “Do you think you could