He went inside, walking through the corridors, between courtrooms, fitting into the ebb and flow of people, noting elevator systems and emergency stairwells. It occurred to him that he could find the judge assigned to Arneson v. Fortier and probably discover who Merlin was merely by providing a description to the judge’s secretary. But, he understood, that simple act would likely turn suspicious in quick order. Someone might remember later, after he’d achieved what he wanted.

Ricky-thinking all along like Frederick Lazarus-wanted what he had in mind to do to be utterly anonymous.

He saw one thing that he thought would help: There were many distinct types wandering through the courthouse building. The three-piece suits were clearly the attorneys with business within the walls. Then there were some less well heeled, but still presentable types. Ricky put these into a category that included the police, jurors, plaintiffs, accused, and courtroom personnel. All the folks that seemed to more or less have a reason for being there, and an understanding about what role they were to play. Then there was a third, fringe category, that intrigued Ricky: the buzzards. His wife had once described them to him, long before she was diagnosed, and long before her life had become nothing more than appointments and medications and pain and helplessness. They were the old pensioners and hangers-on, who found watching courtrooms and lawyers to be entertaining. They functioned a little like bird-watchers in the forest, moving from case to case, searching out dramatic testimony, intriguing conflict, perhaps staking out seats in courtrooms where high-profile, publicity-laden cases were taking place. In appearance, they were modest, sometimes only a cut above the folks who lived on the streets. They were a step away from a VA hospital or a retirement home, and wore polyester no matter how hot it was outdoors. An easy group, Ricky thought, to infiltrate for a few moments.

He left the courthouse with his plan already forming in his head. He took a cab first to Times Square, where he entered one of the many novelty stores where one can buy a fake edition of the New York Times with one’s name in a headline. There he had the man with the printing machine make up a half-dozen phony business cards. Then he flagged another cab which bore him to a glass and steel office building on the East Side. There was a guard at the entranceway, who made him sign in, which he did with a flourish, signing Frederick Lazarus, and listing his occupation on the sheet as Producer. The guard issued him a small plastic clip-on badge with the number six on it, which designated the floor he was traveling to. The man didn’t even glance at the sign-in sheet after Ricky handed it back to him. Security, Ricky thought, operates on perceptions. He looked the part and handled himself with a brusque confidence that defied being questioned by a man at the door. It was a small performance, he believed, but one that Virgil would likely appreciate.

An attractive receptionist greeted him when he entered the office of The Jones Agency.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“I spoke with someone earlier,” Ricky lied. “About a commercial shoot we’ve got coming up. We’re looking for some fresh faces and checking out some of the new talent available. I was going to have a look through your portfolio…”

The receptionist looked slightly askance. “Do you remember who you spoke with?”

“No, sorry. It was my assistant who made the call,” Ricky said. The receptionist nodded. “But perhaps I could just flip through some headshots, and then you could steer me?”

The young woman smiled. “No problem,” she said. She reached beneath the desk and came up with a large leather binder. “These are the current clients,” she said. “If you see anyone, then I can direct you to the agent who handles their bookings.” She gestured toward a leather couch, in the corner of the room. Ricky took the portfolio over and started flipping through it.

Virgil was the seventh photo in the book.

“Hello,” Ricky said under his voice, as he flipped the page and saw that her real name, address, phone number, and agent’s name were listed on the back along with a list of off-Broadway theater performances and advertising credits. He wrote all this down on a pad of paper. Then he did precisely the same for two other actresses. He took the portfolio back to the receptionist, checking his wristwatch as he did so.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m late for another appointment. There are a couple of people who seem to have the right look, but we’re going to need to have a face-to-face before committing to anything.”

“Of course,” the young woman said.

Ricky continued to appear harried and hurried. “Look, I’m in a terrible bind here, with time. Perhaps you could call these three and set up meetings for me? Let’s see, this one at lunch tomorrow at noon at Vincent’s over on East 82nd. Then the other two, say at two and four in the afternoon, same place? I would appreciate it. We’re a little under the gun, here, if you know what I mean…”

The receptionist looked discomfited. “Usually the agents have to set up every meeting,” she said reluctantly, “mister…”

“I understand,” he said. “But I’m only in town until tomorrow, then back to Los Angeles. Sorry to be so rushed on all this…”

“I’ll see what I can do… but your name?”

“It’s Ulysses,” Ricky said. “Mister Richard Ulysses. And I can be reached at this number…”

He pulled out one of the fake business cards. They were emblazoned with the title: penelope’s shroud productions. Acting as if this was the most natural thing in the world, he took a pen from the desk and crossed out a phony California exchange, and wrote in his last remaining cell number. He made certain that he obscured the fake number. He also doubted whether any of the agents had a classical education.

“See what you can do,” he said. “If there’s some problem, call me at that number. Come on, bigger breaks have occurred on less. Remember Lana Turner in the drugstore? Anyway, I have to run. More pictures to see, if you know what I mean. Lots of actresses out there. Hate to see someone miss a chance because they passed up a free meal.”

And with that, Ricky turned and exited. He wasn’t sure whether his breezy, devil-may-care approach would work.

But he thought it might.

Before Ricky left for the courthouse the following morning, he confirmed with Virgil’s agent the luncheon appointment, as well as the subsequent meetings with the two other actress-models that Ricky had no intention of attending. The man had asked a few questions about the commercials Ricky the producer was intending to shoot, and Ricky had answered breezily, lying elaborately about product placement in the Far East and Eastern Europe, and the new markets opening up in these areas, therefore the need for new faces to be established by the advertising industry. Ricky thought that he’d become adept at saying much that amounted to nothing, which he realized was one of the most effective sorts of lies one could tell. Any skepticism that the agent might have held dissipated rapidly in the fabric of Ricky’s fictions. After all, the meeting might amount to something, for which he’d get ten percent, or it might amount to nothing, which left him no worse than he was already. Ricky knew that if Virgil had been a more established star, he might have had a problem. But she wasn’t yet, which had helped her when it came time for her to help ruin his life, and he played on the necessity of her ambition easily and guiltlessly.

In his rented room, he reluctantly left behind his handgun. He knew he couldn’t risk setting off a metal detector at the courthouse, but he had grown accustomed to the reassurance that the pistol gave him, although he still did not know whether he would be able to use it for its true purpose-a moment he believed was quickly closing in on him. Before leaving, though, he stared at himself in the mirror in the bathroom. He had dressed nicely, in blazer and tie, dress shirt and slacks. Well enough to slide easily into the crowds that would be sweeping in and out of the courthouse corridors, which, in an odd way, was the same kind of protection that the handgun offered, although less final in its actions. He knew what he had in mind to do, and he understood it was all a balancing act.