Manhattan Is My Beat

minutes later the train lurched and they stopped again. The doors rumbled open. Waking him up. As his eyes opened he was staring directly into Rune’s. She shuddered and sat back but couldn’t look away. He glanced out the window, stood up quickly. “Shit, missed my stop. Missed my stop.” He walked out of the car.
    And because she kept staring at him shuffling along the platform as the train pulled out, Rune saw the man who’d been following her.
    As her gaze eased to the right she glanced into the car behind her. And saw the young man, compact, Italian-looking.
    She blinked, not sure why she remembered him, and then recalled that she’d seen somebody who looked a lot like him someplace else. The loft? No, in the East Village, near Mr. Kelly’s apartment …
    Outside Mr. Kelly’s apartment the day she’d broken in. Yes, that was it! And it was the same guy who’d ducked into the deli when she’d been on the street in front of Washington Square Video.
    Pretty Boy, wearing the utility jacket. Sitting on the doorstep, smoking and reading the
Post
.
    Or was it?
    It
looked
like him. But she wasn’t sure. No Con Ed jackets today.
    The man wasn’t looking her way, didn’t even seem to know she was there. Reading a book or magazine, engrossed in it.
    No, it couldn’t be him.
    Paranoid, that’s what she was. Seeing the man with the yellow eyes, seeing Death, had made her paranoid.
    It was just life in a city of madmen, dirty screeching subways, fifteen hundred homicides a year, a thousand police detectives with close-together eyes. U.S. marshals who like to flirt.
    Paranoia. What else could it be?
    Hell, she thought, get real: it could be because of a million dollars.
    It could be because of a murder.
    That’s
what else it could be.
    The lights went out again as the train clattered through another switch. She leapt up, heart pounding, ready to run, sure that Pretty Boy’d come pushing through the door and strangle her.
    But when the lights came back on the man was gone, was probably standing in a cluster of people by the door, about to get off at the next stop.
    See, just paranoia.
    She sat down and breathed deeply to calm herself. When the crowd got off he wasn’t in the car any longer.
    Two stops later, at Bay Ridge, Rune slipped out of the car, looking around. No sign of any Pretty-Boy meter readers. She pushed through the turnstile, climbed to the sidewalk.
    Glancing up and down the street, trying to orient herself.
    And saw him. Walking out of the other subway exit a half-block away. Looking around—trying to find
her
. Jesus …
    He
had
been following her.
    She looked away, trying to stay calm. Don’t let him know you spotted him. He pushed roughly through crowds of exiting passengers and passersby, aiming in her direction.
    Trying to look nonchalant, strolling along the street, pretending to gaze at what was displayed in store windows but actually hoping to see the reflection of an approaching taxi. Pretty Boy was getting closer. He must’ve shoved somebody out of the way: she heard a macho exchange of “fuck you, no, fuck
you
.” Any minute he’d start sprinting toward her. Any minute he’d pull out the gun and shoot her dead with those Teflon bullets.
    Then, reflected in a drugstore window, she saw a bright yellow cab cruising down the street. Rune spun around, leapt in front of a pregnant woman, and flung the door open before the driver even had a chance to stop.
    In a thick Middle-Eastern accent the driver cried, “What the hell you doing?”
    “Drive!”
    The cabbie was shaking his head. “No, uh-uh, no….” He pointed to the off-duty lights on the top of the yellow Chevy.
    “Yes,” she shouted. “Drive, drive, drive!”
    Rune saw that Pretty Boy’d stopped, surprised, not sure what to do. He stood, cigarette in his hand, then began taking cautious steps forward toward them, maybe worried that the scene at the cab would attract some cops.
    Then he must have decided it didn’t matter. He started to run toward her.
    Rune begged the driver, “Please! Only a few blocks!” She gave him an address on Fort Hamilton Parkway.
    “No, no, uh-uh.”
    “Twenty dollars.”
    “Twenty? No, uh-uh.”
    She looked behind her. Pretty Boy was only a few doors away, hand inside his jacket.
    “Thirty? Please, please, please?”
    He debated. “Well, okay, thirty.”
    “Drive, drive, drive!” shouted Rune.
    “Why you in a hurry?” the driver asked.
    “Forty fucking dollars.