Manhattan Is My Beat (8 page)

The blonde said to the Woodpecker, “Play the movie, the one you picked out.”

Rune and Richard sat back on the pillows, watched the blonde take the cassette from the Woodpecker and open the plastic container. Rune whispered to him, “Are you two like an entity or something?” Nodding at the blonde. Then she thought about it. “Or are you
three
an entity?”

Richard’s paisley eyes followed the blonde as she crouched and turned on the VCR and television. He said, “I don’t know the redhead. But the other one—I met her
last year at the Sorbonne, I was writing a thesis on semiotic interpretations of textile designs.”

Is this a joke?

“I was sitting outdoors on the Boulevard St. Germain, and saw her get out of a limousine. I was filled with an intense sense of pre-ordination.”

“Like Calvinism,” Rune said, remembering something she’d heard her mother, a good Presbyterian, say once. His head turned to her. Frowning, falling out of character, suddenly analytical. He said, “Oh, predestination? Well, that isn’t really …” He nodded, as he considered something. Then smiled. “Oh, you mean, sort of damned if you do, damned if you don’t…. That’s pretty good. That’s perceptive.”

“I get off a good one once in a while.” What the hell is going on? she wondered. Didn’t matter, she supposed. He
seemed
impressed. Appearances count. Though she realized she still didn’t have a clue about his relationship with the sullen blonde.

Rune was about to say something cool and giddy about
Casablanca
—about Rick and Ilsa in Paris—when Richard leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

Whoa …

Rune backed off, eyeing the blonde, wondering if she was going to get into a catfight here. But the woman didn’t notice—or didn’t care. She was stepping back, handing the joint to the Woodpecker, who was adjusting the TV.

Is this crazy? Letting three strangers into my loft.

Sure, it is.

Then, on impulse, she kissed Richard back. Didn’t back away until she felt the pressure of his hand on her breast. Then she sat back. “Let’s just take it a little easy, okay? I’ve only known you for a half hour.”

“But time is relative.”

She kissed his cheek, an innocent peck. Destined
never to be a tall, sultry lover, Rune had flirtatious down cold.

“I’m feeling deprived,” he pouted.

She started to give him another
Oh, please
glance but he meant the joint the Woodpecker was holding. “Hey, darling, to each according to his need.” The woman inhaled long and gave it to him. He took a drag then passed it to Rune.

He said, “What we’ll do is assume a Tantra yoga position.”

Rune said, “Tantra yoga?”

“Isn’t that the sex one?” the Woodpecker asked.

Rune gave Richard an exasperated grimace.

He said, “People think sex is the thing with Tantra yoga. Wrong. It’s breathing. It teaches you how to breathe the right way.”

Rune said, “I
know
how to breathe. I’m good at it. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

“Shall we assume the position?”

She was about to hit him with a pillow, when he slipped into an awkward sitting position, three feet away from her, and started to breathe deeply. “Fully clothed,” he said. “I meant to add that.”

Rune said, “You look like you hurt yourself in a bad fall.”

The TV screen flickered, the copyright notice came on.

“Sit next to me,” he said. She hesitated. Then did. Their knees touched. She felt a spark of electricity but didn’t move any closer.

“What do we do now?”

“Breathe deep and watch the show.”

“Yeah,” Rune called to the Woodpecker, “what’s the movie you picked?”

The credits for
Lesbos Lovers
came on the screen. The blonde pulled the Woodpecker groggily toward her and
covered her mouth with her own. Their arms wound around each other and their fingers began undoing buttons.

Rune whispered to Richard, “Oh, you meant
that
show?”

Richard shrugged. “Either one.”

In the morning, when Rune woke up, Richard was making coffee on her hot plate.

She asked, “Where’re your friends?” She was looking intently for something under the cushions. She surfaced with her Colgate and toothbrush.

He looked around. “Dunno.”

“You find the john?”

“Downstairs. I liked the plastic dinosaurs. You did the decorating yourself, I assume.”

Rune was examining him. Now he seemed out of place, wearing the black outfit—night clothes—in the bright, open-air loft.

He said, “What’s your real name? It’s not really Rune, is it?”

“Everybody asks me about my name.”

“What do you tell them?” he asked. “The truth?”

“But what’s the truth?” Rune smiled at him ambiguously.

Richard laughed. “But the fact you’ve got a fake name is very interesting. Philosophically, I mean. You know what Walker Percy says about naming? He doesn’t mean like first names or family names but humans giving names to things. He says that naming is different from everything else in the universe. A wholly unique act. Think about that.”

She did, for a moment, then said, “A year ago, I worked in a diner over on Ninth Avenue. I was Doris
then. I think I only took the job to get the name tag they gave us. It said, ‘Chelsea Diner. Hi! I’m Doris.’ “

He nodded uncertainly. “Doris.”

She said, “So, what do you do, Richard?”

“Stuff.”

“Oh. I see,” she said dubiously.

“Okay. I’m working on a novel.” She knew he was a writer or artist. “What’s it about?”

“I don’t really talk about it much. I’m at a tricky part right now.”

This was even better. A mystery man writing a mysterious novel. In the throes of creative angst.

“I write,” she said.

“You do?”

“A diary.” Rune pulled a thick, water- and ink-stained booklet off the shelf. A picture of a knight—cut from a magazine—was pasted on the cover. “My mother’s kept a diary every day of her life. I’ve only been doing it for a few years. But I write down everything that’s major in my life.” She nodded at a dozen other booklets on the shelf.

“Everything?” he asked.

“Nearly.”

“You going to write anything about me?” Richard asked. He was looking at the notebooks as if he wanted a peek.

“Maybe,” Rune said, combing her hair out with her fingers.

He said, “And you … You want to be an actress, right?”

“Guess again. You’re thinking of what’s-her-name: Woody Woodpecker.”

“Who?”

“Your friend last night. With the orange hair. The one who ran off with your girlfriend?”

“Whoa, not my girlfriend. She’s not even close to bi. I made a pass at her once—”

“You?” Rune asked sarcastically.

“I met her last week at a party. We give good image.”

“You—?”

He explained. “We look good together, being chic and making entrances. That’s it. Not a meaningful relationship. I don’t even know her name.”

“Hard to introduce her to your parents in that case.”

“That’s not in the offing.” He carried the coffee to her, set it on the floor next to the futon.

“What about the Sorbonne?” Rune asked.

“
Pas de Sorbonne
.”

“I thought so.”

“But I’ve been to France.”

“Jean-Pierre” would be a good name for him too. Or “François.” Yeah, he definitely looked like a “François.”

“Richard” had to go.

Rune glanced out the window, dug under a futon, and found some sunglasses. She put them on.

“Feeling like a celebrity?” Richard asked, nodding at the fake Ray-Bans.

Suddenly the sun came over the building to the east and the entire room filled with intense raw sunlight.

“Ouch,” he said, blinded.

“I maybe’ll get curtains. But I can’t afford them and my roommate won’t help pay.”

“You’re not paying rent, why have a roommate?”

“Well, she pays
me
something. Anyway, having a roommate’s like trial by fire. It toughens you is what it does.”

“You don’t seem tough to me.”

“That’s part of being tough—not
looking
tough. Anyway, I’ll have to be out in a few months. The owner sold the building and I’m only staying here ‘cause I told the contractor that I’m the mistress of the old owner and he
dumped me so they’re letting me stay until they start renovating this floor. So you going to ask me out on a date?”

“A date? I haven’t heard that word for a long time. It sounds, I don’t know, like Swahili. I’m not used to it.”

True, she supposed. Really chic people don’t ask other chic people out on dates. They just
go
places together. Still, there was a certain commitment involved in the concept. So she said, “Date, date, date. There.
Now
you’re used to it. So you can ask me out.”

“We just spent the night together—”

“On separate futons,” she pointed out.

“—and you want a date?”

“I want a date.”

“How about dinner?” he asked.

“That’s good.”

“Okay. I asked you on a date. We’ll go out. You happy?”

“It’s not a date yet. You have to tell me when. And I mean exactly. Not a month, not a week.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Oh,
that?
Are you kidding? Are men genetically programmed to say those three little words? Gimme a break.”

He looked around helplessly. “I don’t have my Day-timer here.”

He’d
call
her and he had a Daytimer. This was scary. Richard was rapidly losing his appeal.

“Never mind,” she said cheerfully.

“Okay, how about tomorrow?” he asked. “I know I’m not doing anything tomorrow.”

Not too eager now—watch it. “I guess.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“You can come here. I’ll cook.”

“I thought you didn’t cook.”

She said, “I don’t cook
well
. But I do cook. We’ll save
the Four Seasons for a special occasion.” She looked at her wrist. She wore two watches. They’d both stopped working. “What time do you have?”

“Eight.”

“Shit, I have to go,” Rune said, slipping off her T-shirt.

She could sense Richard watching her thin body, eyes sweeping up and down. She turned to him, wearing only her Bugs Bunny panties. “So, what are you staring at?” Put her hands on her hips.

And got him to blush.

Yes! Score one for me.

“Glad you don’t shop at Frederick’s of Hollywood,” he said.

A good recovery. This boy had potential.

As she dressed, Richard asked, “What’s the hurry? I didn’t think your store opened until noon.”

“Oh, I’m not going to work,” she said. “I’m going to the police.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Miss Rune,” Detective Manelli said, “we
are
investigating the case.”

She looked at his organized desk. Here—not standing in front of a corpse—he seemed like an insurance agent. The close-together eyes weren’t so noticeable; they moved quickly, surveying her, and she decided he might be smarter than she’d thought. His first name was Virgil. She looked at the nameplate twice to make sure she’d read it right.

She nodded at the file open on his desk, the one he’d been reading. “But that’s not his case. Mr. Kelly’s, I mean.”