Manhattan Is My Beat

But after twenty minutes, when they were out of the tunnel, Richard seemed to relax. He put his hand on her leg. More sparks. How the hell does that happen? she wondered.

  Rune looked around as they headed for the Turnpike. "Gross." The intersections were filled with stoplight poles and wires and mesh fences and gas stations. She looked for her favorite service station logo--Pegasus--and didn't see one. That's what they needed, a winged horse to fly them over this mess.

  "How did you get off work?" Richard asked her.

  It was Sunday and she'd told him that she'd been scheduled to work.

  "Eddie covered for me. I called him last night. That's a first for me--doing something responsible."

  He laughed. But there wasn't a lot of humor in his voice.

  Richard removed his hand and gripped the wheel. He turned southwest. The fields--flat, like huge brown lawns--were on either side of the highway. Beyond were marshes and factories and tall metal scaffolding and towers. Lots filled with trailers from semi trucks, all stacked up and stretching for hundreds of yards.

  "It's like a battlefield," Rune said. "Like those things--what do you suppose they are, refineries or something?--are spaceships from Alpha Centauri."

  Richard looked in the rearview mirror. He didn't say anything. He accelerated and passed a chunky garbage truck. Rune pulled an imaginary air horn and the driver gave her two blasts on his real one.

  "Tell me about yourself," she said. "I don't know all the details."

  He shrugged. "Not much to tell."

  Ugh. Did he have to be such a man?

  She tried a cheerful "Tell me anyway!"

  "Okay." He grew slightly animated; the hipster from the other night had partially returned. "He was born in Scarsdale, the son of pleasant suburban parents, and raised to become a doctor, lawyer, or other member of the elite destined to grind down the working class. He had an uneventful boyhood, distinguished by chess club, Latin club, and a complete inability to do any kind of sport. Rock and roll saved his ass, though, and he grew to maturity in the Mudd Club and Studio 54."

  "Cool! I loved them!"

  "Then, for some unknown reason, Fordham decided to give him a degree in philosophy after four years of driving the good fathers there to distraction with his contrarian ways. After that he took the opportunity to see the world."

  Rune said, "So you did go to Paris. I've always wanted to see it. Rick and Ilsa ... Casablanca. And that hunchback guy in the big church. I felt so sorry for him. I--"

  "Didn't exactly get to France," Richard admitted. Then slipped back into his third-person narrative. "What he did was get as far as England and found out that working your way around the world was a lot different from vacationing around the world. Being a punch press operator in London--if you can get to be a punch press operator at all--isn't any better than being one in Trenton, New Jersey. So, the young adventurer came back to New York to be a chic unemployed philosopher, going to clubs, playing with getting his M.A. and Ph.D., going to clubs, picking up blondes without names and brunettes with pseudonyms, going to clubs, working day jobs, getting tired of clubs, waiting to reach a moment of intersubjectivity with a woman. Working away."

  "On his novel."

  "Right. On his novel."

  So far he seemed to be pretty much on her wavelength--despite the car and the moods. She was into fairy stories and he was into philosophy. Which seemed different but, when she thought about it, Rune decided they were both really the same--two fields that could stimulate your mind and that were totally useless in the real world.

  Somebody like Richard--maybe him, maybe not-- but somebody like him was the only sort of person she could be truly in love with, Rune believed.

  "I know what's the matter," she said.

  "Why do you think something's the matter?"

  "I just do."

  "Well," he said, "what? Tell me."

  "Remember that story I told you?"

  "Which one? You've told me a lot of stories."

  "About Diarmuid? I feel like we're a fairy king and queen who've left the Side--you know, the magic land." She turned around. Gasped. "Oh, you've got to look at it! Turn around, Richard, look!"

  "I'm driving."

  "Don't worry--I'll describe it. There're a hundred towers and battlements and they're all made out of silver. The sun is falling on the spires. Glowing and stealing all that energy from the sun--how much energy do you think the sun has? Well, it's all going right into the Magic Kingdom through the tops of the battlements ..." She had a sudden feeling of dread, as if she'd caught his mood. A premonition or something. After a moment she said, "I don't know, I don't think I should be doing this. I shouldn't've crossed the moat, shouldn't've left the Side. I feel funny. I almost feel like we shouldn't be doing this."

  "Leaving the Side," he repeated absently. "Maybe that's it." And looked in the rearview mirror again.

  He might have meant it, might have been sarcastic. She couldn't tell.

  Rune turned around, hooked her seat belt again. Then they swept around a long curve in the expressway and the country arrived. Hills, forests, fields. A panoramic view west. She was about to point out a large cloud, shaped like a perfect white chalice, a towering Holy Grail, but Rune decided she'd better keep quiet. The car accelerated and they drove the rest of the way to Berkeley Heights, New Jersey, in silence.

  "He hasn't had a visitor for a month," the nurse was saying to Rune.

  They stood on a grassy hill beside the administration building of the nursing home. Richard was in the cafeteria. He'd brought a book with him.

  "That's too bad. I know it's good for the guests," the nurse continued. "People coming to see them."

  "How is he?"

  "Some days he's almost normal, some days he's not so good. Today, he's in fair shape."

  "Who was the visitor last month?" Rune asked.

  She said, "An Irish name, I think. An older gentleman."

  "Kelly, maybe?"

  "Could have been. Yes, I think so."

  Rune's heart beat a bit faster.

  Had he come to ask about a million dollars? she wondered.

  Rune held up a rose in a clear cellophane tube. "I brought this. Is it okay if I give it to him?"

  "He'll probably forget you gave it to him right away. But, yes, of course you can. I'll go get him. You wait here."

  "They don't come to see me much. Last time was, let me see, let me see, let me see ... No, they don't come. We have this party on Sundays, I think it is. And what they do is, it's real nice, what they do is put, when the weather's nice, put a tablecloth on the picnic benches, and we eat eggs and olives and Ritz crackers." He asked Rune, "It's almost fall now, isn't it?"

  The nurse said, in a voice aimed at a three-year-old, "You know it's spring, Mr. Elliott."

  Rune looked at the old man's face and arms. It seemed like he'd lost weight recently and the gray flesh hung on his arms and neck like thick cloth. She handed him the flower. He looked at it curiously, then set it on his lap. He asked, "You're ..."

  "Rune."

  He smiled in a way that was so sincere it almost hurt. He said, "I know. Of course I know your name." To the nurse: "Where's Bips? Where'd that dog get to?"

  Rune started to look around but the nurse shook her head and Rune understood that Bips had been in puppy heaven for years.

  "He's just playing, Mr. Elliott," the nurse said. "He'll be back soon. He's safe, don't you worry." They were on a small rise of grass underneath a huge oak tree. The nurse set the brakes on his wheelchair and walked away, saying, "I'll be back in ten minutes."

  Rune nodded.

  Raoul Elliott reached up and took her hand. His was soft and very dry. He squeezed it once, then again. Then released it like a boy testing the waters with a girl at a dance. He said, "Bips. You couldn't believe what they do to him, these boys and girls. They poke at him with sticks if he gets too close to the fence. You'd think they'd be brought up better than that. What day is it?"

  "Sunday," Rune ans
wered.

  "I know that. I mean the date."

  "June fifteenth."

  "I know that." Elliott nodded. He fixed a gaze on an elderly couple strolling down the path.

  The grounds were trimmed and clean. Couples, elderly and mostly of the same sex, walked slowly up the paved paths. There were no stairs, curbs, steps, low plants; nothing to trip up old feet.

  "I saw one of your movies, Mr. Elliott."

  Flies buzzed in, then shot away on the warm breeze. Big thick white clouds sent their sharp-edged shadows across the grass. Elliott said, "My movies."

  "I thought it was wonderful. Manhattan Is My Beat."

  His eyes crinkled with recognition. "I worked on that with ... Ah, this memory of mine. Sometimes I think I'm going loony. There were a couple of the boys.... Who were they? We'd have a ball. I ever tell you about Randy? No? Well, Randy was my age. A year or two older maybe. We were all from New York. Some'd been newspapermen, some were writing for the Atlantic or editing for Scribner's or Conde Nast. But we were all from New York. Oh, it was a different town in those days, a very different town. The studio liked that, they liked men from New York. Like Frank O'Hara. We were friends, Frank and I. We used to go to this bar near Rockefeller Center. It was called ... Well, there were a lot we went to. In Hollywood too. We'd hang out in Hollywood."

  "You worked on a newspaper?"

  "Sure I did."

  "Which one?"

  There was a pause and his eyes darted. "Well, there were the usual ones, you know. It's all changed."

  "Mr. Elliott, do you remember writing Manhattan Is My Beat?"

  "Sure I do. That was a few years ago. Charlie gave it a good review. Frank said he liked it. He was a good boy. Henry too. They were all good boys. We said we didn't like reviews. We said, what we said was reviewers were so low, you shouldn't even ignore them." He laughed at that. Then his face grew somber. "But we did care, oh, yes, ma'am. But your father can tell you that. Where is he, is he around here?" The old head with its wave of dry hair swiveled.

  "My father?"

  "Isn't Bobby Kelly your father?"

  Rune saw no point in breaking the news about Mr. Kelly's death to the old man. She said, "No. He's a friend."

  "Well, where is he? He was just here."

  "He stepped away for a few minutes."

  "Where's Bips?"

  "He's off playing."

  "I worry about the traffic with him. He gets too excited when there's cars about. And these boys. They poke sticks at him. Girls too." He was aware of the flower again and touched it. "Did I thank you for this?"

  She said, "You bet you did." Rune sat down on the grass beside the wheelchair, cross-legged. "Mr. Elliott, did you do your own research for the movie? For Manhattan Is My Beat?"

  "Research? We had people do our research. The studio paid for it. Pretty girls. Pretty like you."

  "And they researched the story that the movie was based on? The cop who stole the money from Union Bank?"

  "They aren't there anymore, I'll bet you. They went on to Time-Life a lot of them. Or Newsweek. The studio paid better but it was a wild sort of life some of them didn't want. Is Hal doing okay now? And how's Dana? Handsome man he was."

  "Fine, they're both fine. Did you find out anything about the cop who stole the money? The cop in real life, I mean?"

  "Sure I did."

  "What?"

  Elliott was looking at his wrist, where his watch probably should have been. "I've lost it again. Do you know when we'll be leaving? It'll be good to get home again. Between you and I, I mean, between you and me, I don't like to travel. I can't say anything to them though. You understand. Do you know when we're leaving?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Elliott. I sure don't ... So what did you find out about the cop who stole the money?"

  "Cop?"

  "In Manhattan Is My Beat?"

  "I wrote the story. I tried to write a good story. There's nothing like that, you know. Isn't that the best thing in the world? A good story."

  "It was a wonderful story, Mr. Elliott." She got up on her knees. "I especially liked the part where Roy hid the money. He was digging like a madman, remember? In the movie it was hidden in a cemetery. In real life did you ever have any idea where the cop who stole the money hid it?"

  "The money?" He looked at her for a second with eyes that seemed to click with understanding. "All that money."

  And Rune felt a low jolt in her stomach, a kick. She whispered, "What about the money?"

  His eyes glazed over again and he said, "What they do here--they'll do it when the weather's nice--they put paper on the tables, like tablecloths and we have picnics here. They put nuts in little paper cups. They're pink and look like tiny upside-down ballet dresses. I don't know where the tables are. I hope they do that again soon.... Where's Bips?"

  Rune sank back down on her haunches. She smiled. "He's playing, Mr. Elliott, I'll look out for him." They sat in silence for a moment and she asked, "What did Robert Kelly want when he came to visit you a month ago?"

  His head nodded toward her and his eyes had a sudden lucidity that startled her.

  "Who, Bobby? Why, he was asking me questions about that damn movie." The old face broke into a smile. "Just like you've been doing all afternoon."

  Rune, leaning forward, studying his face, the lines and gnarls. "What exactly did you talk about, you and Bobby Kelly?"

  "Your father, Bobby? Oh, the usual. I worked on Manhattan with some of the boys."

  "I know you did. What did Bobby ask you about it?"

  "Stuff."

  "Stuff?" she asked cheerfully.

  Elliott frowned. "Somebody else did too. Somebody else was asking me things."

  Her heart pounded a little faster. "When was that, Mr. Elliott? Do you remember?"

  "Last month. No, no, just the other day. Wait, I remember--it was today, little while ago." He focused on her. "It was a girl. Boyish. Looked a lot like you. Wait, maybe it was you."

  He squinted.

  Rune felt that he was on the verge of something. She didn't say anything for a moment. Like the times she and her father would go fishing in rural Ohio, playing the heavy catfish with the frail Sears rods. You could lose them in a wink if you weren't careful.

  "Bobby Kelly," she tried again. "When he came to visit, what did he ask you about the movie?"

  The eyes dropped and the lids pressed together. "The usual, you know. Are you his daughter?"

  "Just a friend."

  "Where is he now?"

  "He's busy, he couldn't make it. He wanted me to say hello to you and tell you that he had a great time talking to you last month. You talked, he told me you talked all about ... what was it again?"

  "That place."

  "What place?"

  "That place in New York. The place I sent him. He'd been looking for it for a long time is what he told me."

  Rune's heart thudded hard. She turned her head and looked directly into his milky eyes.

  "He was happy when I sent him there. You should have seen his face when I told him about it. Oh, he was real happy. Where's Bips?"

  "Just playing, Mr. Elliott. I'm looking after him. Where did you send Bobby Kelly?"

  "He was real anxious to find it and I told him right off, I'm sure I did."

  "Do you remember now?"

  "Oh, one of those places ... there are lots of them, you know."

  Rune was leaning forward. Please try to remember, she thought. Please, pleasepleaseplease... Didn't say anything.

  Silence. The old man shook his head. He sensed the importance of her questions and there was frustration in his eyes. "I can't remember. I'm sorry." He rubbed his fingers together. "Sometimes I think I'm going loony. Just loony. I'm feeling pretty tired. I could use a nap."

  "That's okay, Mr. Elliott." She tasted her disappointment. But she smiled and patted his arm, then moved away quickly when she felt how thin it was. Thought of her father. "Hey, don't worry about it."

  Rune stood up, wal
ked behind him and took the white plastic handles of the chair. Undid the brakes. She started to wheel the chair toward the sidewalk. Elliott said suddenly, "The Hotel Florence. Five fourteen West Forty-fourth. At Tenth Avenue."

  Rune froze. She dropped into a crouch next to him, her hand on the frail bone of his arm. "That's where you sent him?"

  "I ... I think so. It just came to me."

  "That's wonderful, Mr. Elliott. Thank you so much." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He touched the spot and seemed to blush.

  Richard appeared and stepped up toward them, starting to speak. Rune held up her hand to him. He stopped.

  Raoul Elliott said, "I want to take a nap now. Where's Bips?"

  "He's playing, Mr. Elliott. He'll be here soon."

  Elliott looked around. "Miss, can I tell you something?"

  "Sure."

  "I lied."

  Rune hesitated. Then said, "Go ahead. Tell me."

  "Bips's a little shit. I've been trying to give him away for years. You know somebody who wants a dog?"

  Rune laughed. "I sure don't. Sorry."

  Elliott looked at the flower, curious again, started to pull off the cellophane wrapping; it defeated him and he set it back on his lap. Rune took the flower from him and opened it up. He held it lightly in his hands. He said, "You'll come back sometime, won't you? We have this party when it's spring. We can talk about movies. I'd like that."

  Rune said, "I'd love to."

  "You'll say hi to your father for me."

  "Sure, I will."

  The nurse was approaching. The old man's head sagged against the side of the wheelchair. He breathed slowly. His eyes were not quite completely closed but he was asleep. He started to snore very softly.

  Rune looked at him, thinking again how much he resembled her father toward the end of his life. Cancer or AIDS or old age ... death's packaging is all so similar.

  The nurse nodded to her and took the chair, wheeled it down the path. The flower fell to the sidewalk. The nurse picked it up and set it on his lap again.

  A dense shadow of a cloud that Rune thought looked just like a dragon rearing up on its sturdy hind legs passed over them. She turned to Richard. "Let's get out of here. Let's get back to the Side."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Florence Hotel, near the Hudson River, was in Hell's Kitchen, west of Midtown.

  Rune knew her New York history. At one point this had been one of the most dangerous areas in the city, the home of the Gophers and the Hudson Dusters, murderous gangs that made the Mafia look tame. Most of the dangerous elements had been urban-renewed away when the tunnel to New Jersey was built. But the dregs of some Irish and Latino gangs remained. It was, in short, not a neighborhood to be hanging out in alone at night.