“Who would?” replied the clerk.
“There’s just one other thing,” Ricky said, slowly, choosing his words with some caution.
“What’s that?” the clerk answered.
“I left a message with my friend to rent a car here, as well. You know—good rates, good, solid vehicles, no hassle like with the big rental companies . . .”
“Sure,” said the kid, as if he was surprised anyone would waste their time having any opinions whatsoever about rental vehicles.
“But I’m not totally sure he got the message right . . .”
“Who?”
“My friend. He does a lot of business traveling, like I do, so he’s always on the lookout for a good deal.”
“So?”
“So,” said Ricky carefully, “if he should happen to come in here in the next couple of days, checking to see whether this is the place where I rented my car, you be sure to steer him right, and give him a good deal, okay?”
The clerk nodded. “If I’m on duty . . .”
“You’re here during the day, right?”
The clerk nodded again, making a motion that seemed to indicate being stuck behind a counter during the first warm days of summer was something akin to being in prison, which, Ricky thought, it probably was.
“So, chances are, you’re going to be the guy he’ll see.”
“Chances are.”
“So, if he asks about me, you just tell him I took off on business. In New York City. He’ll know my schedule.”
The clerk shrugged. “No problem, if he asks. Otherwise . . .”
“Sure. Just if someone comes in asking, you’ll know it’s my friend.”
“Does he have a name?” the clerk asked.
Ricky smiled. “Sure. R. S. Skin. Easy to remember. Mr. R. Skin.”
On the drive down Route 95 toward New York City, Ricky stopped at three separate shopping malls, all located right off the highway. One was just below Boston, the other two in Connecticut near Bridgeport and New Haven. At each of the malls, he wandered idly down the central corridors amid the rows of clothing stores and chocolate cookie outlets until he found a location selling cellular telephones. By the time he’d finished shopping, Ricky had acquired five different cell phones, all in the name of Frederick Lazarus, all promising hundreds of free minutes and cheap long distance rates. The phones were with four different companies, and although each salesman filling out the year-long purchase and use agreement asked Ricky whether he had any other cell accounts, none bothered to double-check after he told them he didn’t. Ricky took all the extras on each phone, with caller ID and call waiting and as many services as he could collect, which made the salesmen eager to complete the orders.
He also stopped at a strip mall, where, after a little searching, he was able to find a large office warehouse outlet. There he purchased himself a relatively cheap laptop computer and the necessary hardware to accompany it. He also bought a bag to place it in.
It was early evening, when he arrived at the first of the hotels. He left his rental car at an outdoor lot over by the Hudson River, in the West ’50s, then took a subway to the hotel, located in Chinatown. He checked in with a desk clerk named Ralph who had suffered from runaway acne as a child, and wore the pockmarked scars on his cheeks, giving him a sunken, nasty appearance. Ralph had little to say, other than to look mildly surprised when the credit card in Frederick Lazarus’s name actually worked. The word reservation also surprised him. Ricky thought it wasn’t the sort of place that got many reservations. A prostitute working the room down the hall from Ricky smiled at him, suggesting and inviting in the same glance, but he shook his head and opened up the door to his room. It was as desultory a spot as Ricky guessed it would be. It was also the type of place where the mere fact that Ricky walked in with no bags, and then walked out again, fifteen minutes later, wouldn’t gather much attention.
He took another subway over to the last of the hotels on his list, where he had his efficiency apartment rented. Here, he became Richard Lively, although he was quiet and monosyllabic with the man behind that desk. He drew as little attention to himself as possible, as he headed up to the room.
He went out once that night to a deli for some sandwich makings and a couple of sodas. The rest of the night he spent in quiet, planning, except for a single sortie out at midnight.
A passing shower had left the street glistening. Yellow streetlamps threw arcs of wan light across the black macadam. There was a little heat in the nighttime air, a thickness that spoke of the summer to come. He stared down the sidewalk, and thought that he’d never really been aware how many shadows there were at midnight in Manhattan. Then he guessed that he was one, as well.
He crossed town, walking blocks rapidly, until he found an isolated pay telephone. It was time, he thought, to check his messages.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A siren creased the nighttime air perhaps a block away from the pay phone where Ricky stood. He couldn’t tell whether it was the police or an ambulance. Fire trucks, he knew, had a deeper, blaring sound, unmistakable in raucous energy. But police and ambulances sounded much the same. For a moment, he thought that there were few noises on the earth that spelled out the promise of trouble quite as much as siren sounds. Something unsettling and fierce, as if compromise and hope were being reduced by the harshness of the sound. He waited until the racket faded into the darkness, and the Manhattan standard quiet returned: just the steady noise of cars and buses working their way on the streets and the occasional rumble below the surface of a subway careening through the subterranean tunnels that crisscrossed the city.
He dialed the number at the Village Voice and accessed the replies to his personal ad at box 1313. There were nearly three dozen.
The majority were come-ons and promises of sexual adventure. Most of the respondents mentioned Ricky’s “. . . special fun and games” from his ad, which seemed to speak, as he suspected it would, in a particular direction. A number of people had concocted rhyming couplets to accompany his own, but, again, these promised sex and energy. He could hear unbridled eagerness in their voices.
The thirtieth, as he’d expected, was far different. The voice was cold, almost flat, filled with menace. It also had a metallic, tinny sound to it, making it seem nearly mechanical. Ricky guessed that the speaker was using an electronic masking device. But there was no concealing the psychological thrust of the reply.
Ricky’s clever, Ricky’s smart . . .
But here’s a rhyme he should take to heart:
He thinks he’s safe, he wants to play,
But where he hid, is where he should stay.
He escaped once, impressive, no doubt.
But this success, he shouldn’t flout.
A second chance, another game,
Will likely just end up the same.
Only this time the debt owed me,
Will be paid in full, this I guarantee.
Ricky listened to the response three times, until it was well printed on his memory. There was something additional about the sound of the voice that unsettled him, as if the words spoken weren’t enough, even the tones were filled with hatred. But, beyond that, it seemed to him that there was something recognizable in the voice, almost familiar, that seeped past the hollowness of the masking device. This thought pierced him, especially when he realized that this was the first time that he’d actually heard Rumplestiltskin speak. Every other bit of contact had been a step removed, on paper, or repeated by Merlin or Virgil. Hearing the man’s voice created nightmarish visions within him, and Ricky shuddered slightly. He told himself not to underestimate the depth of the challenge he’d created for himself.
He played the other message responses in the mailbox, knowing that there would eventually be another, far more familiar voice. He was not surprised to hear her speak. Immediately following the silence that accompanied the brief poem, Ricky heard Virgil’s voice on the recording. He listened carefully for the nuances that mi
ght tell him something.
“Ricky, Ricky, Ricky, how nice to hear from you. How truly special. And genuinely surprising, too, I might add . . .”
“Sure,” Ricky mumbled to himself. “I’ll bet it was.” He continued to listen, as the young woman went on. The tones she employed were the same as before, tough one instant, cajoling, teasing, then harsh and uncompromising. Virgil, Ricky thought, played this game just as hard as did her employer. Her danger lay in the chameleon colors she adopted; one minute trying to be helpful, the next, angry and direct. If Rumplestiltskin was singleness of purpose, cold and focused, Virgil was mercurial. And Merlin, whom he’d yet to hear from, was like an accountant, passionless, with all the iron danger that implied.
“. . . How you escaped, well, that certainly has some people in important circles reviewing their approach to things, I must say. A head to toe reexamination of what was thought to be the case. Shows just how elusive the truth can be, doesn’t it, Ricky? I warned them, you know. I really did. I told them, ‘Ricky’s a very clever sort. Intuitive and fast-thinking . . . ‘ but they didn’t want to believe me. They thought you would be as stupid and careless as all the others. And now look where it has landed us. Why, you are the very alpha and omega of loose ends, Ricky. The pièce de résistance. Very dangerous for all connected, I would suspect . . .”
She sighed, deeply, as if her own words told her something. Then she continued:
“Well, personally, I can’t imagine why you want to go another round or two with Mr. R. I would have thought watching your deeply beloved summer home go up in flames—that was a genuinely nice touch, Ricky, a really smooth and wonderfully smart move. Burning up all that happiness along with all those memories, I mean, what other message could there have been for us? From a psychoanalyst, no less. Didn’t see that one coming, not in the slightest—but, I would have guessed that experience alone would have taught you that Mr. R. is a very difficult man to best in any contest, especially contests that he designs himself. You should have stayed where you were, Ricky, under whatever rock you found to hide yourself. Or perhaps you should run now. Run and hide forever. Start digging a hole someplace distant and far away and cold and dark and then keep on digging. Because my suspicion is that Mr. R. will need better proof of victory this time around. Very conclusive proof . . . He’s a very thorough individual. Or so I’m told . . .”
Virgil’s voice disappeared, as if she’d hung up her telephone abruptly. He listened to an electronic hissing noise, then accessed the subsequent telephone message. It was Virgil for a second time.
“So, Ricky, I’d hate to see you have to repeat the outcome of the first game, but if that’s what it’s going to take, well, the choice is yours. What is the ‘new game’ you speak of, and what are the rules? I’ll be reading my Village Voice with greater care now. And my employer is—well, eager doesn’t exactly seem like the right word, Ricky. Champing at the bit, like some racehorse, perhaps. So, Ricky, we await the opening move.”
Ricky hung up the telephone and said out loud, “It’s already happened.”
Foxes and hounds, he thought. Think like the fox. Need to leave a trail so you know where they are, but stay just far enough ahead so to avoid capture and detection. And then, he thought, lead them directly into the briar patch.
In the morning, Ricky took the subway uptown to the first of the hotels where he’d checked in, but not stayed. He returned the room key to a disinterested clerk reading a pornographic magazine called Large Ladies of Love behind the counter. The man had an undeniable seediness to him, with ill-fitting clothes, a pockmarked face, and a lip marred by a scar. Ricky thought that you couldn’t have found a better choice for the room clerk at that particular hotel in central casting. The man took the key with hardly a word, more or less engrossed by the bulk displayed in vibrant and explicit color on the pages in front of him.
“Hey,” Ricky said, getting the barest bit of attention response from the clerk. “Hey, there’s a chance a man might come looking for me with a package.”
The clerk nodded, but still not particularly focused, preferring, obviously, the cavorting creatures of the magazine.
“Package means something,” Ricky persisted.
“Sure,” said the clerk. A reply only the barest step beyond ignoring everything Ricky was saying.
Ricky smiled. He couldn’t have defined a conversation better suited for what he intended. He glanced around, determining that they were alone in the drab and threadbare lobby, then he reached into his jacket pocket, and keeping his hands below the counter front, removed his semi-automatic pistol and chambered a round, making a distinctive sound.
The clerk abruptly looked up, his eyes widening slightly.
Ricky grinned nastily in his direction. “You know that sound, don’t you, asshole?”
The clerk left his hands out in front of him, flat on the table. “Perhaps I have your attention, now?” Ricky asked.
“I’m listening,” the man replied.
Ricky thought he seemed practiced at the art of being robbed or threatened.
“So, let me try again,” Ricky said. “A man with a package. For me. He comes asking, you’re gonna give him this number. Take hold of that pencil and write this down: 212-555-2798. That’s where he can reach me. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Make him give you a fifty,” Ricky said. “Maybe a hundred. It’s worth it.”
The man looked sullen, but nodded. “What if I ain’t here?” he asked. “Suppose the night guy is here?”
“You want the hundred, you be here,” Ricky answered. He paused, then added, “Now, here’s the tricky part. Anyone else comes asking. I mean anyone, right. Anyone who doesn’t have a package—well, you make sure to tell that person that you don’t know where I went, or who I am or anything. Not one word. No help at all. Got it?”
“Man with the package only. Right. What’s in the package?”
“You don’t want to know. And you sure as hell don’t really expect me to tell you.”
This answer seemed to speak volumes.
“Suppose I don’t see no package. How ’m I supposed to know it’s the right guy?”
Ricky nodded. “You got a point, buddy,” he said. “Tell you what. You ask him how he knows Mr. Lazarus, and he’ll reply something like, ‘Everyone knows that Lazarus rose on the third day.’ Then you can give out the number, like I said. You do this right, probably more than a hundred in it.”
“The third day. Lazarus rose. Sounds like some kind of Bible stuff.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“Good,” Ricky said, returning the weapon to his pocket, after lowering the hammer down to rest with a clicking noise as distinctive as the chambering sound which lifted it. “I’m glad we had this little conversation. I feel much better about my stay here, now.” Ricky smiled at the clerk and pointed at the pornographic magazine. “Don’t let me keep you from advancing your education any longer,” he said, as he turned to leave.
There was, of course, no man with any package looking for Ricky. Someone different would arrive at the hotel soon, he thought. And, in all likelihood, the clerk would give all the relevant information to the person who came looking for him, especially when presented with the polar suggestions created by cash or bodily harm, which Ricky was certain Mr. R. or Merlin or Virgil, or whoever was sent, would employ in relatively short order. And then after the clerk had relayed the replies that Ricky had planted, Rumplestiltskin would have something to think about. A package that doesn’t exist. Containing some information that was equally nonexistent. Delivered to a person who never was. Ricky liked that. Give him something to worry about that was utter fiction.
He headed across town to check in at the next of his hotels.
In decor, this hotel was much the same as the first, which reassured him. An inattentive and desultory clerk seated behind a large, scarred, wooden desk. A room that was singularly simple, depressing, and threadbare
. He had passed two women, short skirts, glossy makeup, spiked heels and black net stockings, unmistakable in their profession, hanging in the hallway, who had eyed him with financial eagerness as he cruised past. He had shaken his head in their direction when one of them had offered an inviting glance his way. He heard one of them remark, “Cop . . .” and then they left, which surprised him. He thought he was doing a good job of at least visually accommodating the world he’d descended into. But perhaps, Ricky thought to himself, it is harder to shed where one has been in his life than he thought. You wear who you are both inwardly and outwardly.
He plopped down on the bed, feeling the springs sag beneath him. The walls were thin, and he could hear the results of one of the women’s coworkers’ success filtering through the plasterboard, a series of moans and bangs, as the bed was used to advantage. Had he not been so directed, he would have been singularly depressed by the sounds and smells—a faint odor of urine seeping through the air passages. But the milieu was precisely what Ricky wanted. He needed Rumplestiltskin to think that Ricky had somehow become familiar with the netherworld, just as Mr. R. was.
There was a telephone beside the bed, and Ricky pulled it toward him.
The first call he made was to the broker who had handled his modest investment accounts when he was still alive. He reached the man’s secretary.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ricky said. “My name is Diogenes . . .” He spelled the Greek out for the woman slowly, said, “Write that down,” then continued, “and I represent Mister Frederick Lazarus, who is the executor of the estate of the late Doctor Frederick Starks. Please be advised that the substantial irregularities concerning his financial situation prior to his unfortunate death are now under our investigation.”
“I believe our security people looked into that situation . . .”
“Not to our satisfaction. I wanted you to know we would be sending someone around to inspect those records and eventually find those missing funds so that they may be distributed to their rightful owners. People are very upset with the way this was handled, I might add.”
The Analyst Page 41
