“I don’t owe you any money.”

“Fine. Then we’ll just deduct it from your salary.” The kid closed his receipt book and smirked, saluting sarcastically. “Have a nice day, sir.”

Coy stood in place as the boy moved on to his next door neighbors, the Steinbergs. It was impolite, but instead of closing the door and going back to his breakfast, Coy stepped onto the porch to watch.

When the boy reached the Steinbergs’ stoop, he kicked their front door as hard as he could several times. There was no waiting for a response; Frank Steinberg opened the door and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

The Steinbergs’ house and his own were not right next to each other—there was half a yard and a driveway between them—but Coy could clearly see what was going on, and the morning was quiet enough that he had no trouble hearing.

The boy stared at Frank belligerently. “You owe me twenty bucks, bitch.”

“What the—?”

“I deliver your newspaper. You owe me twenty bucks.”

“I don’t even get the newspaper!”

“You do now.”

Frank slammed the door on him.

The kid went crazy, kicking on the door and pounding it with his fists, but Frank did not open it again. Coy smiled. The boy turned to him, clearly aware that he’d been watching. “Don’t worry,” the boy said. “We’ll get him.” And moved on to the next house.

Coy’s smile faded. He went back inside.

His cereal in the bowl was soggy, but he finished it anyway, along with his cold cup of coffee. We’ll deduct it from your salary? Where had the little urchin gotten a line like that? Obviously, he’d been coached, instructed to use that threat if someone refused to pay, which indicated to Coy that this extortion tour had been sanctioned. By the paper? He found that hard to believe, but he looked up the phone number for the newspaper and called it.

“The First People’s Montgomery Gazette,” answered a pleasant-voiced woman.

The First People’s…?

“What did you say?” He wasn’t sure that he’d heard correctly.

The woman laughed lightly. “I know it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

“Did The First People’s Bank—”

“Yes, they did, Mr. Stinson.”

He frowned. How did she know who he was? He hadn’t given his name. Even if she was looking at Caller ID, it would only show his number.

“We understand that you did not pay your paperboy the amount owed.”

“That’s why I’m calling. Because I don’t owe anything. I don’t subscribe to the Gazette.”

“Everyone subscribes to the Gazette,” she told him. “When The First People’s Bank took over, they provided everyone in town with a subscription.”

“A free subscription?”