Manhattan Is My Beat (27 page)

He pulled a pad toward him. “Where should I send the check?”

“Here.” Rune held her hand forward, palm out.

Another smile. Irritated, less neutral this time. She was supposed to be stupid and intimidated. But here she was, staring back into his eyes, looking, more or less, adult. Finally he rose. “I’ll just be a minute. Payable to cash, I assume?”

“That’ll work.”

He walked silently out of the office, buttoning his jacket as he left. He was gone longer than Rune thought he’d be—thinking he’d just tell his secretary to cut a check—but no, he was gone for a full five minutes.

Which was more than enough time for Rune to lean forward and flip through Stein’s Rolodex and find Victor Symington’s card. The address had been crossed out several times and a new one written in.

In Brooklyn. The address was in Brooklyn. She recited it several times softly out loud. Closed her eyes. She tested herself and found she’d memorized it. She flipped the Rolodex back to where it had been.

Rune fell back into her slouch in the chair and looked at the lawyer’s wall, wondering if there were some special kinds of frames you were supposed to use for diplomas. Mr. Go-to-School-and-Lead-a-Productive-Life Richard didn’t have
any
goddamn diplomas on
his
ugly beige suburban walls.

Phillip Dixon, the U.S. marshal, hadn’t even gone to college, she bet. He seemed perfectly happy. But before she could play her game of making up an elaborate life for him, starting with his partner being tragically gunned and dying in his amrs, Lawyer Stein returned.

He had an envelope and a sheet of paper. Handed her both. She scanned the document quickly but it was full of
whereases
and words like
indemnity
and
waiver
. She gave up after the first paragraph.

“That’s a receipt for the money. You agree that if you don’t keep your bargain we can sue you for all this money back plus costs and attorney’s fees, and …”

Rune was staring at the check.

“… punitive damages.”

What
ever
.

Rune signed the paper, put the check in her bag.

“So Mr. Symington doesn’t exist, right?”

“Mr. who?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“So how was the date?” Stephanie asked.

“With Richard?” Rune responded.

“Who else?” the redhead replied.

Rune considered the question for a moment. Then asked. “You ever see
Rodan
?”

They were at the counter of Washington Square Video.

“You mean his sculpture?”

Who?
This was like Stallone’s poetry. “No, I mean the flying dinosaur that destroyed Tokyo. Or maybe New York. Or someplace. A movie from the fifties.”

“Missed that.”

“Anyway,
that
was my date. A disaster. Not even a Spielberg disaster movie. A B-movie disaster.”

She told Stephanie about Karen.

“Shit. That’s bad. Other-woman stuff. Hard to get around them.”

Them’s the breaks
…

Rune said, “Here.” She reached into her purse and handed Steph the orange earrings.

“No,” the woman protested. “You keep them.”

“Nope. I’m off high fashion. Listen, do me a favor, please?”

“What?”

“I’ve got to go to Brooklyn. Can you work for me?”

“I guess. But won’t Tony be pissed?”

“Just tell him … I don’t know. I had to go someplace. To visit Frankie’s sister in the hospital.”

“She’s home. With the baby.”

“Well, I went to see her at home.”

“Tony’d call and check.”

Rune nodded. “You’re right. Just make up something. I don’t care.”

“What’re you gonna do in Brooklyn?”

“The money. I’ve got a lead to the money.”

“Not that stolen bank money?”

“Yep. And don’t forget the story of the Little Red Hen.”

Stephanie smiled. “I’m not quitting my day job just yet.”

“Probably a good idea.” Rune slung her leopard-skin purse over her shoulder and headed out the door. “But keep the faith. I’m getting close.”

Ten minutes later she was en route to Brooklyn. In search of Victor Symington.

On the subway, the riders were silent, subdued. One woman whispered to herself. A young couple had their precious new TV on the seat next to them, bundled in thick string, a receipt from a Crazy Eddie store taped to the box. A Latino man stood leaning forward, staring absently at the MTA map; he didn’t seem to care much where he was headed. Almost everyone in the car, bathed
in green fluorescence, was slumped and sullen as the car lurched into the last station in Manhattan before the descent beneath the East River.

Uneasy again.

Leaving the Side, leaving
her
territory.

Just before the doors eased shut, a man walked stiffly onto the train. He was white but had a dark yellowish tan. She couldn’t guess his age. The car wasn’t full but he sat directly across from Rune. He was wearing dusty clothes. Coming home from a construction job or hard day labor, tired, spent. He was very thin and she wondered if he was sick. He fell asleep immediately and Rune couldn’t help but stare at him. His head bobbed and swayed, eyes closed, his head rolled. Keeping his blind focus on Rune.

She thought: He’s Death.

She felt it deep inside her. With a chill. Death, Hades, a Horseman of the Apocalypse. The dark angel who’d fluttered into her father’s hospital room to take him away. The spirit who wrapped his ghostly arms around Mr. Kelly and held him helpless in the musty armchair while someone fired those terrible bullets into his chest.

The lights flickered as the train switched tracks and then slowed as it rolled into one station. Then they were on their way again. Five minutes later the train lurched and they stopped again. The doors rumbled open. Waking him up. As his eyes opened he was staring directly into Rune’s. She shuddered and sat back but couldn’t look away. He glanced out the window, stood up quickly. “Shit, missed my stop. Missed my stop.” He walked out of the car.

And because she kept staring at him shuffling along the platform as the train pulled out, Rune saw the man who’d been following her.

As her gaze eased to the right she glanced into the car
behind her. And saw the young man, compact, Italian-looking.

She blinked, not sure why she remembered him, and then recalled that she’d seen somebody who looked a lot like him someplace else. The loft? No, in the East Village, near Mr. Kelly’s apartment …

Outside Mr. Kelly’s apartment the day she’d broken in. Yes, that was it! And it was the same guy who’d ducked into the deli when she’d been on the street in front of Washington Square Video.

Pretty Boy, wearing the utility jacket. Sitting on the doorstep, smoking and reading the
Post
.

Or was it?

It
looked
like him. But she wasn’t sure. No Con Ed jackets today.

The man wasn’t looking her way, didn’t even seem to know she was there. Reading a book or magazine, engrossed in it.

No, it couldn’t be him.

Paranoid, that’s what she was. Seeing the man with the yellow eyes, seeing Death, had made her paranoid.

It was just life in a city of madmen, dirty screeching subways, fifteen hundred homicides a year, a thousand police detectives with close-together eyes. U.S. marshals who like to flirt.

Paranoia. What else could it be?

Hell, she thought, get real: it could be because of a million dollars.

It could be because of a murder.

That’s
what else it could be.

The lights went out again as the train clattered through another switch. She leapt up, heart pounding, ready to run, sure that Pretty Boy’d come pushing through the door and strangle her.

But when the lights came back on the man was gone,
was probably standing in a cluster of people by the door, about to get off at the next stop.

See, just paranoia.

She sat down and breathed deeply to calm herself. When the crowd got off he wasn’t in the car any longer.

Two stops later, at Bay Ridge, Rune slipped out of the car, looking around. No sign of any Pretty-Boy meter readers. She pushed through the turnstile, climbed to the sidewalk.

Glancing up and down the street, trying to orient herself.

And saw him. Walking out of the other subway exit a half-block away. Looking around—trying to find
her
. Jesus …

He
had
been following her.

She looked away, trying to stay calm. Don’t let him know you spotted him. He pushed roughly through crowds of exiting passengers and passersby, aiming in her direction.

Trying to look nonchalant, strolling along the street, pretending to gaze at what was displayed in store windows but actually hoping to see the reflection of an approaching taxi. Pretty Boy was getting closer. He must’ve shoved somebody out of the way: she heard a macho exchange of “fuck you, no, fuck
you
.” Any minute he’d start sprinting toward her. Any minute he’d pull out the gun and shoot her dead with those Teflon bullets.

Then, reflected in a drugstore window, she saw a bright yellow cab cruising down the street. Rune spun around, leapt in front of a pregnant woman, and flung the door open before the driver even had a chance to stop.

In a thick Middle-Eastern accent the driver cried, “What the hell you doing?”

“Drive!”

The cabbie was shaking his head. “No, uh-uh,
no….” He pointed to the off-duty lights on the top of the yellow Chevy.

“Yes,” she shouted. “Drive, drive, drive!”

Rune saw that Pretty Boy’d stopped, surprised, not sure what to do. He stood, cigarette in his hand, then began taking cautious steps forward toward them, maybe worried that the scene at the cab would attract some cops.

Then he must have decided it didn’t matter. He started to run toward her.

Rune begged the driver, “Please! Only a few blocks!” She gave him an address on Fort Hamilton Parkway.

“No, no, uh-uh.”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Twenty? No, uh-uh.”

She looked behind her. Pretty Boy was only a few doors away, hand inside his jacket.

“Thirty? Please, please, please?”

He debated. “Well, okay, thirty.”

“Drive, drive, drive!” shouted Rune.

“Why you in a hurry?” the driver asked.

“Forty fucking dollars. Drive!”

“Forty?” The driver floored the accelerator and the car spun away, leaving a cloud of blue-white tire smoke between the Chevy and Pretty Boy.

Rune sat huddled down in the vinyl, stained rear seat. “Goddammit,” she whispered bitterly as her heart slowed. She wiped sweat from her palms.

Who was he? Symington’s accomplice? Probably. She’d bet he was the one who’d killed Mr. Kelly. The triggerman—as the cops in
Manhattan Is My Beat
had called the thug who’d machine-gunned down Roy in front of the hotel on Fifth Avenue.

And, from the look in his dark eyes, she could tell he intended to kill
her
too.

Time for the police? she wondered. Call Manelli. Call
Phillip Dixon … It made sense. It was the
only
thing that made sense at this point.

But then there was the matter of the million dollars … She thought of Amanda. Thought of her own perilous career. Thought of how she’d like to pull up in front of Richard and Karen in a stretch limo.