Manhattan Is My Beat

really was one fucking incredible view. He looked back. “When there’s a leak you can tell by looking at the meter. That makes sense, don’tcha think?”
    “Were you looking through Rune’s stuff?”
    “Naw, I was looking for the meter.”
    Sandra said, “Well, it’s not up here. So why don’t you leave?”
    “Why don’t you say please?”
    The blond jock did it just like Redford or Steve McQueen or Stallone would’ve. He stepped in front of Sandra. Crossed his arms in his Polo shirt and said, “The lady wants you to leave.”
    Professional or not? The meter man debated.
That
side gave in, the way it usually did. He said, “If she’s a lady why’s she fucking an asshole like you?”
    The blond smiled, shaking his head, stepping forward. Tensing the muscles that came from the magic of Nautilus machines. “You’re outa here.”
    It turned out not to be that much fun and the Meter Man decided it hadn’t been worth the unprofessional part. Oh, mixing it up with a guy who knew what he was doing … that would’ve been one thing. Going a few rounds. Really getting a chance to trade knuckles. But this fucking yuppie … Christ.
    They did a little scuffling, a little push-pull. Saying that stuff you said in street fights “Why, you motherfucker …” That sort of thing.
    Then the Meter Man got bored and decided he couldn’t risk being there any longer, and who knew who this pair had called. He broke free and got Blondie once in the solar plexus, then once in the jaw.
    Zap, that was it. Two silent punches. The guy went to his knees. More nauseated than hurt, which is what gut punches do. Probably the first fight the guy had been in ever.
    Shit, he’s going to—
    The guy puked all over the floor.
    “Jesus, Andy,” Sandra said. “That’s gross.”
    Meter Man helped Andy to his feet. Eased him down on the bed.
    Okay, enough fun, he thought. Time to get professional again. He said to Sandra, “Here’s the deal—I’m from a collection agency. Your friend owes a couple thousand on her credit card and she’s been dodging us for a year. We’re tired of it.”
    “That sounds like Rune, sure. Look, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t heard—”
    He held up his hand. “You fucking tell anybody you saw me here, I’ll do the same thing to you.” He nodded at the young man, who lay on his back, moaning, his arm over his eyes.
    Sandra shook her head. “I won’t say anything.”
    As he walked out, Sandra said, “You fight good.” She let the dress slip, revealing her breasts again. The Meter Man tugged the dress back up, smiled, said, “Tell your boyfriend he should always keep his left up. He’s a defense kinda guy.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
    “Ms. Rune?”
    She turned, paused, as she was walking through the door of Washington Square Video.
    Rune, however, wasn’t looking at the man who’d stopped her. It was the badge and the ID card in the battered wallet that got her attention. He was a U.S. marshal.
    Neat, she thought before she decided she ought to be nervous.
    “My name’s Dixon.”
    He looked just like what a casting director would pick for a federal agent. Tall and craggy. He had a faint Queens accent. She thought about Detective Virgil Manelli and how he’d worn a suit. This guy was wearing jeans and sneakers, a black baseball jacket: bridge-and-tunnel clothes—meaning: from the outer boroughs. He wouldn’t get into Area, her favorite after-hours club, wearing this kind of outfit. Trimmed brown hair. He looked like a contractor.
    “It’s just Rune. Not Ms.”
    He put the badge away and she caught a glimpse of a huge gun on his hip.
    Awesome … That’s a Schwarzenegger gun, she thought. Man, that would shoot through trucks.
    Then remembered she should be nervous again.
    He squinted, then gave a faint smile. “You don’t remember me.”
    She shook her head. Let the door swing shut.
    “I saw you the other day—in the apartment on Tenth Street. I was part of the homicide team.”
    “In Mr. Kelly’s apartment?”
    “Right.”
    She nodded. Thinking back to that terrible morning. But she didn’t remember anything except Manelli’s close-together eyes.
    The shot-out TV.
    Mr. Kelly’s face.
    The blood on his chest.
    Dixon looked at a notebook, put it back in his pocket. He asked, “Have you been in touch with a Susan Edelman recently?”
    “Susan … Oh, the other witness.” The yuppie with the designer jogging outfit. “I called her yesterday, the day before. She