Manhattan Is My Beat

the Pacific, a job in the garment district, a totally cool retirement party he still talked about ten years later. In the past few years he’d met a group of retirees in the East Village, getting to know them over the months at the A&P or Social Security or one of the shabby drugstores or coffee shops on Avenues A or B. Gradually—he’d have been shy about it—he would’ve suggested getting together for a game of bridge or a trip to Atlantic City to play the slots or saved their money to hear a rehearsal at the Met.
    These were scenes she could picture perfectly. Scenes from movies she’d seen a dozen times.
    Only none of it was true.
    All she could tell this cop was that Kelly, Robert, deposit: cash, wore suits and ties even in retirement. He liked to laugh. He was polite. He had the courage to eat in restaurants by himself on holidays.
    And he was a lot like her.
    Rune said to the cop, “Nothing. I don’t really know a thing.”
    The detective handed her one of his cards. “And you really didn’t see anything?”
    “No.”
    He accepted this. “All right. You think of something, call me. Sometimes that happens. A day or two goes by and people remember things.”
    When he’d turned away and started up the stairs she said, “Hey.”
    He paused, looked back.
    “You get the asshole that did this, that would be a real good thing, you know?”
    “That’s why I do what I do.” He continued up the stairs.
    The Crime Scene cop passed him and walked outside, carrying his metal suitcase. Rune glanced at him, started to walk away, then turned back. He looked at her, then away as he continued to his station wagon.
    She called to him, “Oh, one thing. For your information, Mr. Kelly didn’t rent dirty movies. For some reason—don’t ask me why—he liked movies about cops.”

     
    How big a problem was it?
    Haarte considered this, walking quickly toward the subway.
    The day was plenty cool—nothing like a muggy spring day around the Mississippi River when they’d gotten Gittleman—but he was sweating like crazy. He’d ditched the exterminator coveralls—they were toss-aways, standard procedure after a job—but he was still hot.
    He reflected on what’d happened. Part of it was bad luck but he was also at fault. For one thing, he’d decided against hiring local backup because the vic wasn’t being minded by the marshals or anybody else. So there was just Zane and him for both surveillance and shooting. Which had worked fine for the St. Louis hit. But here he should’ve known that some innocents might show up. New York was a big fucking city. More people, more bystanders.
    Then, he decided, he’d sent Zane down the alley too early. He just wasn’t thinking. So they hadn’t had any warning about whoever that girl was who showed up and rang the buzzer, which happened just as Haarte was about to shoot. The vic had risen from his chair and seen Haarte. Haarte had shot him. The old guy had fallen on the remote control and the sound on the TV had gone way up. So Haarte had shot the TV set out too. Which made another loud noise and filled the apartment with a gassy, smoky smell.
    Then the girl called on the intercom again. She sounded concerned. And a moment later there was a call from
another
woman.
    Grand Central Station, Jesus …
    He knew they were suspicious and that they’d be coming upstairs to check on the vic at any minute.
    So Haarte decided to split up. He’d told Zane to get back to Haarte’s apartment. He’d go by surface transportation. It wasn’t a moment too soon. As he climbed out the fire escape window on the east side of the building he’d heard the scream. Then Zane took off and Haarte jumped into the alley and disappeared.
    When they’d talked ten minutes later Zane, to his dismay, told him there were witnesses. Two women. One of them had been hit by the Pontiac but the other jumped out of the way in time.
    “ID you?” Haarte asked.
    “Couldn’t tell. I already changed the tags but I think we oughta get the fuck out of town for a while.”
    Haarte considered this. The broker in St. Louis wouldn’t pay without some confirmation of the vic’s death. And Haarte hadn’t had time to take a Polaroid. He also didn’t want to leave the witnesses alive.
    “No,” he’d told Zane. “We stay. Listen, we need that backup now. Find out who’s in town.”
    “What kind of backup?” Zane asked.
    “Somebody who can shoot.”

     
    “Hi, there.”
    Rune, leaning on the fence in