The immortal star
23rd July, 7:30 pm, Abbeville
‘Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie…’
A silent chant snaked its way across the lips of the thousands of people that had gathered at the square, a mixture of fond remembrance and melancholy. A somber procession took place in the midst of the crowd. A coffin, made entirely of ivory, was being carried into a funeral car. Through the open top, one saw the serene face of Ronald Pitt. He had been one of the greatest soul singers of the country, a legend in the truest sense of the word. His soft voice, easy demeanor, and winning smile assured that he had an army of female followers for the last twenty five years. True, that for the last ten years, he had been plagued by financial troubles and his songs were no longer winning hearts, topping charts like they used to. To top that, Ronald just couldn’t live without his caviar, his chartered jets and the parties, his spa visits and fancy clothes, eventually working up a debt running into millions. But it always seemed success was just a song, a stunt away, so no one said anything. After all he was only forty five now, his life wasn’t over. Now it seemed like Ronald had pulled his final stunt; the proverbial troubled star.
A collective wail erupted through the crowd as their eyes fell upon him. It’s funny how public affection swings your way when the weight of death is placed in the balance. Thousands of eyes fell upon his sensuous lips, strong determined chin, his roman nose, the sloping forehead. But cruel death had deprived the people of a glance at his most beautiful feature; his blue, bottomless eyes that had always seemed to sparkle with the light of a thousand stars. As he lay in the coffin, a slight smile playing at his inanimate lips, paparazzi from a dozen different sources haggled like vultures for a good shot, forgetting all their mannerisms. Helicopters hovered noisily over the otherwise quiet town. Ronald had no family to speak of, so there was no crying wife, no bewildered children to run behind the casket. The chants and sobs of the crowd, the constant chattering of the media and the din of the helicopters made for a deafening sound and one wondered whether his soul would get any modicum of peace this way.
Helen Rives from the ‘Stars’ lives’ show spoke into her camera: ‘…today morning we witnessed the death of Ronald Pitt, one of the greatest artists of our country. The symptoms show that he died of a brain stroke, although he had no record of any related problems. But the nation, and indeed the world mourn the death of one of its most eternal entertainers. Ronald Pitt, or ‘Ronnie’ as he was known to his fans, was a true pioneer of the soul genre, a prodigy. Despite the problems that he ran into during the last decade, there is no denying his legendary status. Rumors of his bankruptcy are still afloat, and we know for a fact that he owed his creditors a sum to the tune of seven million dollars. But the swelling crowd present here is as good a testimonial as any to his popularity. He has left behind a checkered, but colorful legacy. We will never forget you, Ronald Pitt.’
The next day the newspaper headlines had screamed the news of his death. Online blog forums were chock-a-bloc as people all over the world expressed their condolences. Some people had made ugly allegations about him after his death. Everybody had a different opinion. Music channels ran his greatest hits for days; some of his biggest albums were re-released. His fan site got a record number of hits. Flowers were placed on a makeshift mausoleum outside his house. People bought his records and listened once again to songs they had long chosen to forget. The overwhelming and unprecedented wave of sympathy, tempered with the odd flash of hatred was quiet surreal. Just as planned.
23rd July, 7:47 pm, on the way to the airport
Unseen behind the tinted windows of the car, a curious exchange was taking place. Other than the casket and the two guards that had carried it in, the two most trusted people in Ronald’s employ, his PA and his doctor, were seated in its cavernous interiors. Beside the coffin lay a large black suitcase that look heavy and full of something. The coffin was opened and everyone looked on silently for a minute as the doctor worked over Ronnie’s body. Then a man who was in the shadows spoke up, breathing long and coughing before doing so:
‘All right, time for the second dosage. And please make the transfer quick, the airport isn’t far off.’
Thirty-five year old Violet Diora, Ronald Pitt’s PA, quickly nodded her head. She was slim with brunette hair and a sharp brain to match her attractive beauty.
‘Okay. Body will be transferred to the suitcase, with the decoy in the casket. By the way, have you noticed? Car and helicopter crews are following us all the way to the airport. This whole episode is going to be filmed on camera. How will you pull it off?’
The man smiled thinly, razor sharp. It was cold, and it scared the hell out of Violet.
‘Well its Ronald Pitt we’re talking about here. No one gets too close to the corpse; the bodyguards should make sure of that. And remember we’re changing planes to throw the media off track; the switch will go unnoticed under all the mayhem. The suitcase is all important. Once this coffin has been covered up, so will our deeds.’
He then turned to Doug Jones, Ronald’s doctor and friend of ten years; the hardest ten years of his life. The doctor was checking the injection in his hand and the clear solution in it, nodding satisfactorily:
‘Dosage prepared, ready to inject.’ The man nodded at Doug, then turned to the others.
‘Now begins the hardest and trickiest part of our operation. But I trust you all remember your roles well.’ He discussed the finer aspects of the plan with them and then fell silent, and watched as the doctor injected the syringe’s contents into Ronald Pitt’s right forearm, closing his eyes in contentment once the job was done.
Ronald’s immobile body was now hauled into the black suitcase, and the synthetic body double that had been concealed in it was taken out. Violet held up the double as she studied it closely. It was a very good likeness; the same soft features, sloping forehead, and smooth hair, even dressed the same as Ronald was. It had cost them a mini-fortune to procure it, but it was vital to their plan. She placed it neatly inside the coffin; doing her best to imitate the position the world had last seen Ronald in. As for the body, it was made to fit into the capacious suitcase, whose sides had been drilled with tiny holes. By the time everything had been arranged in order, they had reached the airport, and the people in the car braced themselves for another jostle with the frenzied media. Stopping, the group quickly hauled out the casket and the suitcase, anxious to not let anyone get too close. Taking a few steps, Doug turned back to look into the car, to now find it completely empty. He slowly nodded, and walked on. The group had barely moved fifty feet before the media pounced upon them. Violet dragged the heavy suitcase behind her as she forged a path amidst the throng. When they finally reached airport security, the people over there were unsure of what to do. Violet was relieved; this was as far as the paparazzi would get. They, for their part, were still snapping away for all they were worth.
‘Ma’am…’
‘Oh for god’s sake, the whole world probably knows by now that Ronald’s dead. Is this really necessary? We’re being put through enough already, as you can see’, she snapped, pointing to the crowd.
‘Yes of course Ma’am…’ the man stuttered, and let the group pass without a further word.
One hurdle had been crossed. They were in. She then set upon the task of getting to Ronald’s chartered plane that had been called for today. Quickly, nervously, the group made their way to the plane that had been scheduled to go to Barbados. At the last moment, much to the pilots’ protests, Violet changed the flight plan and told them to go to La Paz, Bolivia.
At La Paz, in the dead of night, they changed planes at the airstrip. This one was going to Cape Town, South Africa. However the suitcase was traveling on another plane, which was indeed going to Barbados. It was to be delivered at a specific address.
Very soon, news leaked on the channels that Ronald and his entourage had changed routes at the last moment, and their current location was unknown. No one knew what had happened to his body.
24th July, 3:13 pm, Cape Town
Taking advantage of the situation, Violet and group had had a ‘burial’ at a quaint local cemetery. The padre was advised not to ask too many questions and finish the closed-casket ceremony quickly. Hours later, a statement was released:
‘Ronald Pitt has been buried in the Khayelitsha Cemetery in Cape Town. His associates say it was his wish to be laid to rest here, the birthplace of his mother. The media had to be thrown off track simply so that he could have a quiet, uneventful burial, as was his wish. We thank all his well-wishers and hope all of us can pull ourselves out of this together.’
Step two complete. Nothing had fallen out of order. Yet.
26th July, 10:00 am, Los Angeles
Three days after Ronald’s death Mr. Smith, his lawyer, an honest man, followed procedure and unsealed the envelope that held the will. He read it, and its contents puzzled him to no end. He had known him for a good deal of his life and yet the will- the third condition especially- made no sense to him. It went thus:
“I, Ronald James Pitt, S/o James Homer Pitt, residing at #67, Church Street, Abbeville, California, aged about 45 years, Catholic by religion, music artist by occupation; do make this my last will and testament, revoking all previous wills and codicils.
I wish for all the revenues from my subsequent records and CD sales and royalties from website visits to be first utilized to pay off the debts that my creditors have so graciously allowed to delay payment for. The remainder of the sum, if any, should be bequeathed thus:
Ten percent of the amount should be donated to the St. Marks’s foundation for Cancer, headquartered at #17, Oak tree Road, New Jersey.
Another ten percent to be distributed among my long faithful associates, people who have stood by me through good and bad. Their names are in a list that lies enclosed with this will.
The remaining eighty percent should be in the name of Mr. Montaph Ebnig, a man to whom I owe my life. He is a private man, but one of great character, and thoroughly deserving my gratitude. His account number has also been provided in this very same envelope.
I have made this will out of my free will and when I am in sound health and in good understanding and in witness thereof I have put my signature hereunder
Signed,
Ronald Pitt.”
It was short and simple; no wasted words. Smith felt sorry for Ronald and his wishful thinking. But he could not understand who this Montaph Ebnig was. He had only heard Ronald mention the name a few times in the recent past. He had also seen some of his photographs with Ronald. But his face had always been obscured or covered; just not liable for scrutiny. So Smith had really no idea who the man was. However, he felt a pang or empathy for the Ebnig. Looking at the state of Ronald’s affairs, Ebnig had really been given a raw deal. Or so he thought.
But over the next month and a half, Smith had watched with growing confusion and amazement the transformation that had taken place. The public’s sympathetic response to Ronald’s death had resulted in unprecedented sales of his re-released records and CDs, and an astounding number of hits on his hitherto nondescript website. The sales and advertisement revenue from these had been, well substantial, to say the least. Despite paying off all the creditors and charities, Smith was left with quite a sum, and being one of the people on the list of associates, the ten percent cut guaranteed him a hefty hundred thousand dollars. However, Smith was astounded at the amount of money Mr. Ebnig had run into; more than ten million dollars. As instructed, after six weeks, he had deposited the money in favor of the account number given in the will.
However, he could not help but wonder if this Ebnig chap had anticipated all this, and whether he had somehow ‘persuaded’ Ronald and gotten his name in the will.
Back today in Cape Town, Violet was anxiously waiting for a call. A call that signaled the plan’s transition into its final phase; that said it was time to cover up the tracks of her betrayal.
26th July, 7:04 pm, Cape Town
About the same time as Smith had been tearing open the will, Violet had received a call from an extension in the Caribbean. It was a voice she knew well by now, a voice she feared and yet adored; the voice of the man she loved. It was still weak and shallow, coughing every now and then:
‘It’s me. All is well and I have been able to arrive without arousing suspicion. I presume the will shall be opened today.’
‘But how do you know this is going to work? The Pitt coffers are empty as of now.’
‘Have faith darling. The public always loves their stars more once they’re dead. The money will come. Now that the burial’s been taken care of, you know what to do. Once that’s over, make your way over here; our new life waits.’
She smiled as she put the phone down. Steeling herself for the task ahead, she entered the hotel room that Doug and the two guards were sharing. The duo was seated on a sofa, checking and reassembling their weapons. She spoke up:
‘The boss called. We are to board the 10.30 flight to Monaco tonight. So get ready, we leave in an hour.’ It was a well-practiced lie. The three men got on with their work and within an hour they were on their way. Half an hour later, at the terminal entrance, they got off and hauled their luggage, Violet just carrying a compact briefcase. She bent down to adjust the strap on her heels, when the three men around her were riddled with bullets, shot from somewhere high up. Looking up, she screamed, horrified, attracting the attention of the passersby. ‘Oh my god! Oh my god!’ Soon she was surrounded by people looking at the three bodies lying on the pavement. Retreating slowly through the crowd, she got out of it, quickly wiped her fake tears and calmly made her way to the departure terminal.
‘Do you have a ticket for a Mrs. Viola Ebnig for Bridgetown? Yes, thank you.’ Violet showed her the fake passport she had acquired, and was handed the ticket.
Within the hour she boarded the plane, all the while nervously expecting the police to burst through and foil her escape. She breathed a sigh of relief when the plane finally took off. She was on her way to a rich, full life with her significant other, courtesy Ronald Pitt.
26th July, 10:00 pm, Bridgetown
Four hours later, she was out in Barbados, in Montaph’s arms. They made their way to a taxi, and she asked him:
‘You look so different. But then that’s to be expected. Well, I’m here and the loose ends have been taken care of. Your plan seems to have worked; what do we do now?’
‘We lie low and wait. And then we rejoice.’
Four weeks later, they made their way to the bank where Montaph had his account. On inquiry, they found that a recent deposit of eight million dollars had been made by Mr. Smith.
It had worked. The plan was complete, but the money had not yet ceased to flow. Ronald Pitt had served his purpose, and now he could really die.
24th September, 8:23 am, somewhere in the Caribbean
An island in the Caribbean known as ‘The Hand’-for obvious reasons- had been bought by a Mr. Montaph Ebnig. No one had ever seen him before, or heard of him; but he had paid the five million dollars for the small island in one upfront payment, so they didn’t pay too much attention.
A week later, Montaph was found lying on one of the beaches on his island, humming a few bars from one of Ronald’s more popular numbers. Looking at the attractive figure dressed in a swimsuit walking towards him from the water. Violet snuggled beside him, and kissed him. She then looked at him closely. The same familiar features that she had seen for so many years, that the whole world had come to love and adore.
‘We finally got what we wanted Ronald…’ she giggled.
Ronald thought back to four months ago, when in desperation, he had come up with an ingenious plan. He had watched with curious amazement how the people had reacted to the death of a jazz legend then. The poor man had made more money in death than he had made in his life. So he decided to stage his own death, thus minting the public sympathy to get back the luxury he was so used to. So as planned, on 22nd July, he took a dosage of a mixture of Oxygen Antagonists, which put the body in stasis for limited periods of time. By remaining in stasis, his negligible heart and brain functions allowed him to be in confined spaces with a limited supply of oxygen. For all practical purposes, he showed all the symptoms of death and his doctor friend Doug, who was privy to his plans, obliged to proclaim his death to the media, and the world. In the funeral car, he had been revived and after going over the plan with the others, once again injected himself with the Antagonists, and was put into the suitcase, perforated so he could breathe. In Barbados, a man he had hired under his pseudonym collected the suitcase, opened it and revived him. He rapidly changed his appearance as much as he could and kept a low profile, all the while waiting for Violet. His part of the plan was complete.
Back in Cape Town, Violet had buried the false Ronald Pitt with his coffin before anyone could have gotten a closer glimpse at it. And at the airport, again a mercenary that ‘Montaph’ had contracted had shot their three associates; the three people who could have leaked their secret to the world if they wished. Violet bending down to adjust her strap was his signal to shoot, and he was instructed not to harm a hair on her body. Her fake passport got her here, and while the police was busy looking for Violet Diora, Mrs. Ebnig had already come to Barbados. For the next five weeks, they’d watched as the name of Ronald Pitt had garnered them a fortune of sympathy. The airport shootout was a hot case, but there just weren’t any leads, and in a while it ended up in neverland, aka the ‘Pending’ section. Excluding his debts and the charitable donations which would keep him in the public’s good books, he was still left with a whopping ten million dollars! He thought of how all the events had finally led to this moment.
He took his time answering. ‘You bet we did. Mr. Ebnig has been a good friend to us’ he laughed.
‘But why did you name yourself that?’
He drew the name ‘Montaph Ebnig’ in the sand, and looked at her. ‘Watch this.’
He rearranged some of the letters and wrote two new words below it. Violet looked at it, wide-eyed with shock and admiration. They read:
‘Phantom Being’.
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