The Analyst

was he aware how long he stared at the clutter of pages before he noticed the small streak of bright red just ducking out from underneath the pile. And then, after taking notice of this abnormality-after all, in the past the Times was not called the Gray Lady for nothing-that he connected it to himself. He fixed on this small streak, and finally said to himself: There is no flagrant red ink in the Times. Mostly sturdy black and white delivered in seven-column, two-section format, as regular as clockwork. Even their color photographs of the president or models displaying the latest Parisian fashions seemed to automatically take on the drab and dull tinge of the paper’s past.

Ricky picked himself up out of his chair and crossed the room, bending over the mess of newspaper. He reached for the splash of color and pulled it toward him.

It was page B-16. This was the obituary page.

But written in dramatic, glowing fluorescent red ink across the pictures, stories, and death notices was the following:

You’re on the right track,

as you travel back.

Twenty certainly covers the base.

And my mother is the right case.

But her name will be hard to find,

unless I give you a clue in kind.

So I will tell you this, you would have

known her as a miss.

And in the days that came after,

you would never have heard her laughter.

You promised much, but delivered none.

That’s why revenge is left to her son.

Father left, mother dead:

that is why I want your head.

This is where I end this rhyme,

Because I note you have little time.

Beneath the poem was a large red R and beneath that, this time in black ink, the man had drawn a rectangle around an obituary, with a large arrow pointing at the dead man’s face and story, and the words: You will fit perfectly right here.

He stared at the poem and the message it contained for a moment that stretched into minutes and finally close to an hour, digesting each word the way a gourmand might a fine Parisian meal except that Ricky found this taste to be bitter and salty. It was well into the morning, another day x-ed away, when he noted the obvious: Rumplestiltskin had gained access to his paper in the moments between arrival outside his brownstone and delivery at his door. His fingers flew to the telephone, and within minutes he’d obtained the number for the delivery service. The phone rang twice, before being answered by an automated selection recording:

“New subscribers, please press one. Complaints about delivery or if you did not receive your paper, please press two. Account information, please press three.”

None of these options seemed to him to be precisely on target, but he suspected a complaint might actually draw a human response, so he tried two. This created a ringing, followed by a woman’s voice:

“What address, please?” she said without introduction.

Ricky hesitated and then gave the address of his home.

“We show all deliveries made to that location,” she said.

“Yes,” Ricky said, “I received a paper, but I want to know who delivered it…”

“What is the problem, sir? You don’t need a second delivery?”

“No…”

“This line is for people who didn’t get their paper delivered…”

“I understand,” he said, starting to become exasperated. “But there was a problem with the delivery…”

“They were not on time?”

“No. Yes, they were on time…”

“Did the delivery service make too much noise?”

“No.”

“This line is for people with complaints about their delivery.”

“Yes. You said that. Or, not exactly that, and I understand…”

“What is your problem, sir?”

Ricky paused, trying to find a common language to deal with the young woman on the line. “My paper was defaced,” he said abruptly.

“Do you mean it was ripped or wet or unreadable?”

“I mean that someone tampered with it.”

“Sometimes papers come off the press with errors in pagination or folding, was this that sort of mix-up?”

“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.