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
