The Analyst (52 page)

“But there are other semesters to come, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“And the boyfriend, why did he say he left you?”

“He said he didn’t like being tied down right now…”

“And this reply made you, what? Depressed?”

“Yes. It was like a slap in the face. I felt like he’d just been using me, you know, for sex, and then with summer coming, well, he figured I wasn’t worth it anymore. It was just like I was some sort of candy bar. Taste me and throw me away…”

“That’s well put,” Ricky said. “An insult, then. A blow to your sense of who you are.”

Again the young woman paused. “I guess, but I hadn’t really seen it that way.”

“So,” Ricky continued, still speaking in a solid, soft voice, “really instead of being depressed and thinking that there’s something wrong with you, you should be angry with the son of a bitch, because clearly the problem is with him. And the problem is selfishness, right?”

He could hear the young woman nodding in agreement. This was the most typical of telephone calls, he thought. She called in a state of boyfriend- and school-related despair, but really wasn’t anywhere close to that state, when examined a little more closely.

“I think that’s a fair statement,” she said. “The bastard.”

“So, maybe you’re better off without him. It’s not like there aren’t other fish in that sea,” Ricky said.

“I thought I loved him,” the young woman said.

“And so it hurts a bit, doesn’t it? But the hurt isn’t because you actually have had your heart broken. It’s more because you feel that you engaged in a lie. And now you’ve had your sense of trust staggered.”

“You make sense,” she said. Ricky could sense the tears drying up on the other end of the line. After a minute, she added, “You must get a lot of calls like this one. It all seemed so important and so awful a minute or two ago. I was crying and sobbing and now…”

“There’s still the grades. What will happen when you get home?”

“They’ll be pissed. My dad will say, ‘I’m not spending my hard-earned dollars on a bunch of C’s…’ ”

The young lady did a passable harrumph and deepened her voice, capturing her father pretty effectively. Ricky laughed, and she joined him.

“He’ll get over it,” he said. “Just be honest. Tell him about your stresses, and about the boyfriend, and that you’ll try to do better. He’ll come around.”

“You’re right.”

“So,” Ricky said, “here’s the prescription for this evening. Get a good night’s sleep. Put the books away. Get up in the morning and go buy yourself one of those really sweet frothy coffees, one with all the calories in it. Take the coffee outside to one of the quads, sit on a bench, sip the drink slowly and admire the weather. And, if you happen to see the boy in question, well, ignore him. And if he wants to talk, walk away. Find a new bench. Think a little bit about what the summer holds. There’s always some hope that things will get better. You just have to find it.”

“All right,” she said. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“If you’re still feeling stressed, like to the point where you don’t think you can handle things, then you should make an appointment with a counselor at health services. They’ll help you through problems.”

“You know a lot about depression,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Ricky replied, “I do. Usually it is transitory. Sometimes it isn’t. The first is an ordinary condition of life. The second is a true and terrible disease. You sound like you’ve just got the first.”

“I feel better,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get a sweet roll with that cup of coffee. Calories be damned.”

“That’s the attitude,” Ricky said. He was about to hang up, but stopped. “Hey,” he said, “help me out with something…”

The young woman sounded a bit surprised, but replied, “Huh? What? You need help?”

“This is the crisis hot line,” Ricky said, allowing humor to seep into his voice. “What makes you think that the folks on this end don’t have their own crises?”

The young woman paused, as if digesting the obviousness of this statement. “Okay,” she said, “how can I help?”

“When you were little,” Ricky said, “what games did you play?”

“Games? Like board games, you know, Chutes and Ladders, Candyland…”

“No. Outdoor, playground-type games.”

“Like Ring Around the Rosie or Freeze Tag?”

“Yes. But what if you wanted to play a game with other kids, a game where one person has to hunt the other, while at the same time being hunted, what would that be?”

“Not exactly hide-and-seek, right? Sounds a little bit nastier.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

The young woman hesitated, then started thinking more or less out loud, “Well, there was Red Rover, Red Rover, but that had more of a physical challenge. There were scavenger hunts, but that was a pursuit of objects. Tag and Mother May I and Simon Says…”

“No. I’m looking for something a little more challenging…”

“The best I can think of is Foxes and Hounds,” she said abruptly. “That was the hardest to win.”

“How did you play it?” Ricky asked.

“In the summer, out in the countryside. There were two teams, Foxes and Hounds, obviously. The foxes took off, fifteen-minute head start. They carried paper bags filled with ripped-up newspaper. Every ten yards, they had to put a handful down. The hounds followed the trail. The key thing was to leave false trails, double back, put the hounds into the swamp, whatever. The foxes won if they made it back to the starting point after a designated time, like two or three hours later. The hounds won if they caught up with the foxes. If they spotted the foxes across a field, they could act like dogs, and take off after them. And the foxes had to hide. So, sometimes the foxes made certain that they knew where the hounds were, you know, spying on them…”

“That’s the game I’m looking for,” Ricky said quietly. “Which side usually won?”

“That was the beauty of it,” the young woman said. “It depended on the ingenuity of the foxes and the determination of the hounds. So either side could win at any given time.”

“Thank you,” Ricky said. His mind was churning with ideas.

“Good luck,” the young woman said, as she hung up the phone.

Ricky thought that was precisely what he was going to need: some good luck.

He began making arrangements the following morning. He paid his rent for the following month, but told his landladies that he was likely to be out of town on some family business. He had put a plant in his room, and he made certain they agreed to water it regularly. It was, he thought, the simplest way of playing on the psychology of the women; no man who wants his plant watered was likely to run out on them. He spoke to his supervisor at the janitorial staff at the university, and received permission to take some accumulated overtime and sick days. His boss was equally understanding, and aided by the end of the semester slowdown, willing to cut him loose without jeopardizing his job.

At the local bank where Frederick Lazarus had his account, Ricky made a wire transfer to an account he opened electronically at a Manhattan bank.

He also made a series of hotel reservations around the city, for successive days. These were at less than desirable hotels, the sorts of places that didn’t show up on anyone’s tourist guide to New York City. He guaranteed each reservation with Frederick Lazarus’s credit cards, except for the last hotel he selected. The final two of the hotels he’d selected were located on West 22nd Street, more or less directly across from each other. At one, he simply reserved a two-night stay for Frederick Lazarus. The other had the advantage of offering efficiency apartments by the week. He reserved a two-week block. But for this second hotel, he used Richard Lively’s Visa card.

He closed Frederick Lazarus’s Mailboxes Etc. mail drop, leaving a forwarding address of the second-to-last hotel.

The final thing he did was pack his weapon and extra ammunition and several changes of clothing into a bag, and return to Rent-A-Wreck. As before, he rented a modest, dated car. But on this occasion, he was careful to leave more of a trail.

“That has unlimited mileage, right?” he asked the clerk. “Because I need to drive to New York City, and I don’t want to get stuck with some ten cent per mile charge…”

The clerk was a college-aged kid, obviously starting up a summer job, and already, with only a few days in the office, bored out of his head. “Right. Unlimited mileage. As far as we’re concerned, you can drive to California and back.”

“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.