Manhattan Is My Beat

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.”
    He took a breath, let it out. “No, it’s not.”
    “Which one is his?” she asked stridently. “How far down is it?” She gestured at the stack