John Katzenbach - The Analyst

“No,” Ricky said, sliding away from his defensive tones. “What I mean to say is that someone wrote offensive language on my paper.”

The woman paused. “That’s a new one,” she said slowly. Her response almost turned her into a real person, rather than the typical disembodied voice. “I’ve never heard of that. What sort of offensive language?”

Ricky decided to be oblique. He spoke quickly and aggressively. “Are you Jewish, miss? Do you know what it would be like to get a paper that someone drew a swastika on? Or are you Puerto Rican? How would you feel if someone wrote ‘Go back to San Juan! ’? Are you African American? You know the word that triggers hate, don’t you?”

The clerk paused, as if trying to keep up. “Someone put a swastika on your paper?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Ricky answered. “That’s why I need to speak to the people in charge of the delivery.”

“I think you better speak with my supervisor.”

“Sure,” Ricky said. “But first I want the name and then the phone number of the person in charge of deliveries to my building.”

The woman hesitated again, and Ricky could hear her shuffling through some papers, and then there was a series of computer keys clicking in the background. When she came back on the line, she read off the name of a route supervisor, a driver, their phone numbers and their addresses. “I’d like you to speak with my supervisor,” she said, after giving the information.

“Have him call me,” Ricky replied before hanging up the phone. Within seconds he had called the number she had provided. Another woman answered.

“Superior news delivery.”

“Mr. Ortiz, please,” he asked politely.

“Ortiz is out by the loading dock. What’s this about?”

“A delivery problem.”

“Did you call the dispatch…?”

“Yes. That’s how I got this number. And his name.”

“What sort of problem?”

“How about I discuss that with Mr. Ortiz.”

The woman hesitated. “Maybe he’s gone home,” she said.

“Why don’t you take a look,” Ricky said coldly, “and that way we can all avoid some unnecessary unpleasantness.”

“What sort of unpleasantness?” the woman asked, still protective.

Ricky bluffed. “The alternative would be me showing up with a policeman or two and perhaps my attorney in tow.” He spoke, adopting the most patrician “I’m a rich white male and I own the world” tone.

The woman paused, then said, “You hold. I’ll get Ortiz.”

A few seconds later a Hispanic-accented man picked up the phone. “This is Ortiz. Wha’s this about?”

Ricky didn’t hesitate. “At approximately five-thirty this morning you delivered a copy of the Times outside my door, just as you do most every weekday and Saturday morning. The only difference was that today someone needed to place a message inside that newspaper. That’s what I’m calling about.”

“No, this I don’t know about…”

“Mr. Ortiz, you haven’t broken any laws here, and it is not you that I am interested in. But if you do not cooperate with me, I will make a significant stink over this. In other words, you do not have a problem yet, but I will make one for you, unless I start hearing a few more helpful responses.”

The deliveryman paused, digesting Ricky’s threat.

“I didn’t know there was a problem,” he said. “The dude said there wouldn’t be no problem.”

“I think he lied. Tell me,” Ricky said quietly.

“I pull up the street, we got deliveries in six buildings that block, me and Carlos, my nephew, that’s our route. There’s a big ol’ black limo parked outside, middle of the street, motor running, jus’ waiting for us. Man gets right out, soon as he sees the truck, asks who’s going into your building. I asks ‘Why?’ and he tells me none of my business, then gives a little smile, says it’s no big deal, just wants to make a little birthday surprise for an old friend. Wants to write something in the paper for him.”

“Go on.”

“Tells me which apartment. Which door. Then takes out the paper and a pen and writes right on the page. Puts the paper down flat on the hood of the limo, but I can’t see what he’s writing…”

“Was there anyone else there?”

Ortiz paused, considering. “Well, got to be a driver behind the wheel. That’s one, for sure. Windows of the limo all blacked out, but maybe there’s somebody else there, too. Man looked back in, like he was checking with someone was he doing it right, then finished up. Hands me back the paper. Gives me a twenty…”

“How much?”

Ortiz hesitated. “Maybe it was a hundred…”

“And what then?”

“I did like the man says. Toss that paper right outside the right door real special.”

“Was he waiting for you outside when you finished up?”

“No. Man, limo, all gone.”

“Can you describe the man you dealt with?”

“White guy, wearing a dark suit, maybe blue. Tie. Real nice clothes, got hisself plenty of cash. Peeled that hundred off a roll like it was a quarter you gonna drop in some homeless guy’s cup.”

“And what did he look like?”

“He had those tinted glasses, not too tall, hair that’s pretty funny, like it was sitting on his head screwy…”

“Like a wig?”

“Yeah. That’s right. Coulda been a wig. And a little beard, too. Maybe that’s a fake, too. Not a big guy. Definitely had a few too many meals, though. Maybe thirty years old…”

Ortiz hesitated.

“What?”

“I remember seeing the streetlights reflecting off those shoes. They was real polished. Real expensive. Those loafers with the little tassels on the front. What you call those?”

“I don’t know. Think you could recognize him again?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Probably not. Real dark on the street. Streetlights, that’s all. And maybe I was lookin’ at that hundred a little closer than I was at him.”

This made sense to Ricky. He tried a different tack.

“Did you by any chance get a plate number on the limo?”

The delivery driver paused, before replying.

“No, man, didn’t think of it. Shit. That woulda been smart, right?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. But he knew this was not necessary, because he’d already met the man who had been in the street that morning waiting for the delivery truck after Ricky had placed the ad in the newspaper. Ricky was certain that it was the lawyer who’d called himself Merlin.

Midmorning, he received a telephone call from the vice president of the First Cape Bank, the same man who was holding his remaining cash in a cashier’s check for Ricky. The bank executive sounded nervously upset on the telephone. As he spoke, Ricky tried to place the man’s face, but was unable, although he was sure that he’d met him before.

“Doctor Starks? This is Michael Thompson at the bank. We spoke the other day…”

“Yes,” Ricky replied. “You’re holding some funds for me…”

“I am. They are locked in my desk drawer. That’s not why I’m calling. We had some unusual action on your account. An event, one might say.”

“What sort of unusual action?” Ricky asked. The man seemed to mentally fidget for a second or two before answering.

“Well, I don’t like to speculate, but it seems there was an unauthorized effort to access your account.”

“What sort of unauthorized effort?”

Again the man seemed hesitant. “Well, as you know, just in recent years we’ve gone over to electronic banking, like everybody else. But because we’re a smaller institution and more localized, well, you know we like to consider ourselves old-fashioned in a lot of ways…”

Ricky recognized this for the bank’s advertising slogan. He also knew that the bank trustees would eagerly embrace any takeover effort by one of the megabanks, were a profitable enough offer one day to walk through their door. “Yes,” he said. “That’s always been one of your strongest selling points…”