electronic hissing noise, then accessed the subsequent telephone message. It was Virgil for a second time.
“So, Ricky, I’d hate to see you have to repeat the outcome of the first game, but if that’s what it’s going to take, well, the choice is yours. What is the ‘new game’ you speak of, and what are the rules? I’ll be reading my
Ricky hung up the telephone and said out loud, “It’s already happened.”
Foxes and hounds, he thought. Think like the fox. Need to leave a trail so you know where they are, but stay just far enough ahead so to avoid capture and detection. And then, he thought, lead them directly into the briar patch.
In the morning, Ricky took the subway uptown to the first of the hotels where he’d checked in, but not stayed. He returned the room key to a disinterested clerk reading a pornographic magazine called
“Hey,” Ricky said, getting the barest bit of attention response from the clerk. “Hey, there’s a chance a man might come looking for me with a package.”
The clerk nodded, but still not particularly focused, preferring, obviously, the cavorting creatures of the magazine.
“Package means something,” Ricky persisted.
“Sure,” said the clerk. A reply only the barest step beyond ignoring everything Ricky was saying.
Ricky smiled. He couldn’t have defined a conversation better suited for what he intended. He glanced around, determining that they were alone in the drab and threadbare lobby, then he reached into his jacket pocket, and keeping his hands below the counter front, removed his semi-automatic pistol and chambered a round, making a distinctive sound.
The clerk abruptly looked up, his eyes widening slightly.
Ricky grinned nastily in his direction. “You know that sound, don’t you, asshole?”
The clerk left his hands out in front of him, flat on the table. “Perhaps I have your attention, now?” Ricky asked.
“I’m listening,” the man replied.
Ricky thought he seemed practiced at the art of being robbed or threatened.
“So, let me try again,” Ricky said. “A man with a package. For me. He comes asking, you’re gonna give him this number. Take hold of that pencil and write this down: 212-555-2798. That’s where he can reach me. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Make him give you a fifty,” Ricky said. “Maybe a hundred. It’s worth it.”
The man looked sullen, but nodded. “What if I ain’t here?” he asked. “Suppose the night guy is here?”
“You want the hundred, you be here,” Ricky answered. He paused, then added, “Now, here’s the tricky part. Anyone else comes asking. I mean anyone, right. Anyone who doesn’t have a package-well, you make sure to tell that person that you don’t know where I went, or who I am or anything. Not one word. No help at all. Got it?”
“Man with the package only. Right. What’s in the package?”
“You don’t want to know. And you sure as hell don’t really expect me to tell you.”
This answer seemed to speak volumes.
“Suppose I don’t see no package. How ’m I supposed to know it’s the right guy?”
Ricky nodded. “You got a point, buddy,” he said. “Tell you what. You ask him how he knows Mr. Lazarus, and he’ll reply something like, ‘Everyone knows that Lazarus rose on the third day.’ Then you can give out the number, like I said. You do this right, probably more than a hundred in it.”
“The third day. Lazarus rose. Sounds like some kind of Bible stuff.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“Good,” Ricky said, returning the weapon to his pocket, after lowering the hammer down to rest with a clicking noise as distinctive as the chambering sound which lifted it. “I’m glad we had this little conversation. I feel much better about my stay here, now.” Ricky smiled at the clerk and pointed at the pornographic magazine. “Don’t let me keep you from advancing your education any longer,” he said, as he turned to leave.
There was, of course, no man with any package looking for Ricky. Someone different would arrive at the hotel soon, he thought. And, in all likelihood, the clerk would give all the relevant information to the person who came looking for him, especially when presented with the polar suggestions created by cash or bodily harm, which Ricky was certain Mr. R. or Merlin or Virgil, or whoever was sent, would employ in relatively short order. And then after the clerk had relayed the replies that Ricky had planted, Rumplestiltskin would have something to think about. A package that doesn’t exist. Containing some information that was equally nonexistent. Delivered to a person who never was. Ricky liked that. Give him something to worry about that was utter fiction.
He headed across town to check in at the next of his hotels.
In decor, this hotel was much the same as the first, which reassured him. An inattentive and desultory clerk seated behind a large, scarred, wooden desk. A room that was singularly simple, depressing, and threadbare. He had passed two women, short skirts, glossy makeup, spiked heels and black net stockings, unmistakable in their profession, hanging in the hallway, who had eyed him with financial eagerness as he cruised past. He had shaken his head in their direction when one of them had offered an inviting glance his way. He heard one of them remark, “Cop…” and then they left, which surprised him. He thought he was doing a good job of at least visually accommodating the world he’d descended into. But perhaps, Ricky thought to himself, it is harder to shed where one has been in his life than he thought. You wear who you are both inwardly and outwardly.
He plopped down on the bed, feeling the springs sag beneath him. The walls were thin, and he could hear the results of one of the women’s coworkers’ success filtering through the plasterboard, a series of moans and bangs, as the bed was used to advantage. Had he not been so directed, he would have been singularly depressed by the sounds and smells-a faint odor of urine seeping through the air passages. But the milieu was precisely what Ricky wanted. He needed Rumplestiltskin to think that Ricky had somehow become familiar with the netherworld, just as Mr. R. was.
There was a telephone beside the bed, and Ricky pulled it toward him.
The first call he made was to the broker who had handled his modest investment accounts when he was still alive. He reached the man’s secretary.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ricky said. “My name is Diogenes…” He spelled the Greek out for the woman slowly, said, “Write that down,” then continued, “and I represent Mister Frederick Lazarus, who is the executor of the estate of the late Doctor Frederick Starks. Please be advised that the substantial irregularities concerning his financial situation prior to his unfortunate death are now under our investigation.”
“I believe our security people looked into that situation…”
“Not to our satisfaction. I wanted you to know we would be sending someone around to inspect those records and eventually find those missing funds so that they may be distributed to their rightful owners. People are very upset with the way this was handled, I might add.”
“I see, but who…” The secretary was momentarily flustered, put off by the clipped, authoritarian tones that Ricky employed.
“Diogenes is the name. Please keep that in mind. I’ll be in touch in the next day or so. Please inform your employer to collect all relevant records of all transactions, especially the wire and electronic
