Manhattan Is My Beat (21 page)

“What do you mean?”

Rune was thinking. “I saw this movie on Dillinger. You know John Dillinger?”

“Not personally.”

“Ha. He robbed banks. Which is, like, a federal offense—so it wasn’t the
city
cops who were after him. It was the G-men.”

“G-men?”

“Federal agents. You know,
government
men. Like the FBI. Like U.S. Marshals.”

“Oh, wait, you’re not thinking he’s investigating that bank robbery you were telling me about. The one fifty years ago?”

Rune shrugged. “He didn’t say anything but it’s kind of a coincidence, don’t you think? He seemed real interested when I said something to him about it.”

Stephanie turned back to
Variety
. “Little far-fetched.”

But what’s far-fetched in the whole scheme of things—as Richard might have asked.

Rune found the Brooklyn Yellow Pages. She opened it to Churches. Seemed funny you could find escort services, Roto-Rooter companies, and churches in the same directory.

She flipped through the pages. Man, there were a lot of pages.

She started to make calls.

A half hour later Stephanie asked Rune, “You think I’ll get the part?”

“What part?” Rune asked absently, phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder. She was on hold. (It also seemed weird to call a church and be put on hold.)

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m auditioning next week. It’s only a commercial. But still … They pay great. I’ve
got
to get it. It’s totally important.”

Rune stiffened suddenly as the minister came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Reverend, Father, sir … I’m trying to find some information about my grandfather? Robert Kelly? About seventy. Do you know if he spent any time at your parish?”

“Robert Kelly? No, miss, I sure don’t.”

“Okay, Father. Thank you. Oh, and have a nice day.” She set the receiver in the cradle, pushed aside the Yellow Pages, and asked Stephanie, “Do you say that to priests?”

“What?”

“‘Have a nice day?’ I mean, shouldn’t you say something more meaningful? More spiritual?”

“Say whatever you want.” Stephanie put
Variety
away, began reshelving cassettes in the stacks. She said, “If I don’t get the job I’ll just die. It’s a whole commercial. Thirty seconds. I’d play a young wife with PMS and I can’t enjoy my anniversary dinner until I take some pills.”

“What pills?”

“I don’t know. ‘Cramp-Away.’ “

“What?”

“Well, something
like
that. Then I take them and my husband and I waltz off happily. I get to wear a long white dress. That’s so disgusting when they do that, wear white in menstrual commercials. I’m also worried ‘cause I
can’t waltz. Dancing isn’t exactly my strong suit. And I can’t—just between you and me—I can’t sing too good either. It’s a real pain in the ass getting jobs when you can’t sing and dance.”

“You’ve got a great body and great hair.”

And you’re tall, Goddammit.

Flipping through more pages, ignoring the synagogues and mosques. “Amanda’s calling too…. I feel sorry for her. Poor woman. Imagine—her friend’s killed
and
they’re kicking her out of the country.”

“By the way, I don’t think they’re all parishes,” Stephanie said.

“You think I was pissing them off by calling them parishes?” Rune was frowning.

“I think they get pissed when you worship Satan and cast spells. I don’t think they care what you call their churches. I’m just telling you for your own, you know, edification.”

Rune picked up the phone and then put it down again. She glanced at the door as a thin young woman, dark-complected, entered. The woman had a proper pageboy cut and was wearing a navy-blue suit, carrying a heavy, law- or accounting-firm briefcase in one hand. Rune swiftly sized her up, whispered to Stephanie, “A dollar says it’s Richard Gere.”

Stephanie waited until the woman moved to the comedy section and pulled
The Sting
off the shelf before reaching into her pocket and slipping four quarters onto the countertop. Rune put a dollar bill next to them. Stephanie murmured, “Think you’re getting to be hot shit, huh? You can spot ‘em?”

“I can spot ‘em,” Rune said.

The woman wandered around the aisles, not sensing Rune and Stephanie watching her while they pretended to work. She came up to the counter and set the

Newman-Redford movie on the rubber change mat beside the cash register. “I’ll take that.” She handed Rune her membership card. Stephanie, smiling, reached for the money. The woman hesitated and then said, “Oh, maybe I’ll get another one too.” Stepping away to the drama section.

She set
Power
next to
The Sting
. Richard Gere’s bedroom eyes gazed out from the cover. Stephanie pushed the two dollars toward Rune and rang up the rental. The woman snagged the cassettes and left the store.

“How’d you know?” Stephanie asked Rune.

“Look.” She typed in the woman’s membership number into the computer and called up a history of all the movies she’d rented.

“That’s cheating.”

“Don’t bet if you don’t know the odds.”

“I don’t know, Rune,” Stephanie said. “You think Mr. Kelly was into hidden treasure or something, but look, here’s this woman rents Richard Gere films ten times in six months. That’s just as weird as Kelly.”

Rune shook her head. “Naw, you know why she does that? She’s having an affair with him. You know the way it is now, sex is dangerous. You have to take matters into your own hands. So to speak. Makes sense to me.”

“Funny, you seem like more of a risk-taker—tracking down hidden treasure and murderers. But you won’t go to bed with a guy.”

“I’ll sleep with somebody. I just want to make sure it’s the right somebody.”

“‘Right’?” Stephanie snorted. “You
do
like your impossible quests, don’t you.”

Rune slipped the bootleg
Manhattan Is My Beat
into the VCR. A few minutes later she mused, “Wasn’t she beautiful?” On the screen Ruby Dahl, with the bobbed blond hair, was walking hand in hand with Dana Mitchell,
playing her fiancé, Roy, the cop. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed in the background. It was before the robbery. Roy had been called in by his captain and told what a good job he was doing. But the young patrolman was worrying because he was broke. He had to support his sick mother. He didn’t know when he and Ruby’d be able to get married. Maybe he’d leave the force—go to work for a steel company.

“
But you’re so good at what you do, Roy, darling. I would think they’d want you to be commissioner. Why, if I were in charge that’s what I’d make you
.“

Handsome Dana Mitchell walked beside her solemnly. He told her she was a swell gal. He told her what a lucky stiff he was. The camera backed away from them and the two people became insignificant dots in a shadowy black-and-white city.

Rune glanced down at the countertop. “Ohmygod!”

“What?” Stephanie asked, alarmed.

“It’s a phone message.”

“So?”

“Where’s Frankie? Dammit. I’m going to kick his butt….”

“What?”

“He took the message but he just left it here under these receipts.” She held it up. “Look, look! It’s from Richard. I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. He dropped me off on the West Side.” Rune grimaced. “Kissed me on the cheek good-bye.”

“Ouch. A cheek-kiss only?”

“Yeah. And after he’d seen me topless.”

Stephanie shook her head. “That’s not good.”

“Tell me about it.”

The message read:

“Yes! I thought he’d given up on me after we went to the nursing home on Sunday.”

“Nursing home? Rune, you gotta pick more romantic places for dates.”

“Oh, I’m going to! I’ve got this totally excellent junkyard I go to—”

“No, no, no.”

“It’s really neat.” She fluffed her hair out again. “What should I wear? I have this polka-dot tank top I just got at Second-Hand Rose. And this tiger-skin skirt that’s about eight inches wide … What?”

“Tiger skin?”

“Oh, like, it’s not
real
…. If you’re into rain forests and stuff like that. I mean, it was made in New Jersey—”

“Rune, the problem isn’t endangered species.”

“Well, what
is
the problem?”

Stephanie was examining her closely. “Are those glow-in-the-dark earrings?”

“I got them last Halloween,” she said defensively, touching the skulls. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“You like fairy stories, right?”

“Sure.”

“You remember Cinderella?”

“Oh, it’s the
best
. Did you know in the real story, the Brothers Grimm story, the mother cut the ugly sisters’ heels off with a knife so their feet would fit into the—”

“Rune.” Stephanie said it patiently.

“What?”

“Let’s think about the Disney version for a minute.”

Rune looked at her cautiously. “Okay.”

“You remember it?”

“Yeah.”

Stephanie walked around Rune slowly, examining her. “You understand what I’m getting at?”

“Oh … a makeover?”

Stephanie smiled. “Don’t take it personal. But I think you need a fairy godmother.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rune wanted slinky.

Stephanie reluctantly indulged her but the expedition to stores that specialized in svelte was a failure. Rune spent a half hour in tiny, hot changing rooms trying on long black dresses and playing with her hair, trying to look like Audrey Hepburn, trying to look slinky. But then the word
frumpy
crept into her mind and, even though she could strip and look at her flat stomach and thin legs and pretty face, once she thought
frump
, that killed it. No long dresses today.

“You win,” she muttered to Stephanie.

“Thank you” was the abrupt reply. “Now let’s get to work.”

They walked south, out of the Village.

“Richard likes long and slinky,” Rune explained.

“Of course he does,” Stephanie replied. “He’s a man. He probably likes red and black bustiers and garters too.” But she went on to explain patiently that a woman
should never buy clothes for a man. She should buy clothes for herself, which will in turn make the man respect and desire her more.

“You think?”

“I
know
.”

“Radical,” Rune said.

Stephanie rolled her eyes and said, “We’ll go for European.”

“Richard’s very French-looking. I’d like to get him to change his name.”

“To what?”

“It
was
François. Now I’m leaning toward Jean-Paul.”

“What does he think about that?”

“Haven’t told him. I’m going to wait a few weeks.”

“Wise.”

SoHo, the former warehouse and manufacturing district adjoining Greenwich Village, was just becoming chic. The area used to be a bastion of artists-in-residence— working painters and sculptors, who were the only people who could legally live in the neighborhood under the city zoning code. But while the city granted permits only to certified artists, it did nothing about controlling the cost of the huge lofts, and as the galleries and wine bars and boutiques moved into the commercial buildings, the residential prices skyrocketed into the hundreds of thousands…. It was funny how many lawyers and bankers suddenly found they had talent to paint and sculpt.

They passed one clothing store, painted stark white inside. Rune stopped abruptly and gazed at a black silk blouse.

“Love it.”

“So do I,” Stephanie agreed.

“Can we get it?”

“No.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with it?”

“See that tag? That’s not the order number. That’s the price.”

“Four hundred and fifty dollars!”

“Come on, follow me. I know a little Spanish place up the street.”

They turned off West Broadway onto Spring and walked into a store that Rune loved immediately because a large white bird sitting on a perch by the door said, “Hello, sucker,” to them when they entered.

Rune looked around. She said, “I’m game. But it’s not funky. It’s not New Wave.”