Manhattan Is My Beat

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