John Katzenbach - The Analyst

“No, business in Manhattan,” Ricky repeated deliberately. “I’m going to put my business address in the city down on the rental agreement.” Ricky wrote the name and telephone number of the first of the hotels where he’d made a reservation for Frederick Lazarus.

The clerk eyed Ricky’s jeans and sport shirt. “Sure. Business. Whatever.”

“And if I have to extend my stay…”

“There’s a number on the rental agreement. Just call. We’ll charge your credit card for extra, but we need to have a record, otherwise after forty-eight hours, we call the cops and report the car stolen.”

“Don’t want that.”

“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.

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.