Rune sat for an hour. Once, some vague resolve coalesced in her and she stood up. But it vanished swiftly and she sat down again, closed her eyes, and let the hot sun fall on her face.
Who were they? Emily? Pretty Boy?
Where was the money?
She fell asleep again-until a Frisbee skimmed her head and startled her awake. She looked around, in panic, struggling to remember where she was, how she'd gotten there. She asked a woman the time. Noon. It seemed that a dozen people were staring at her suspiciously. She stood and walked quickly through the grass, north through the white, stone arch, a miniature Arc de Triomphe.
They were old films, both of them.
One was She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, the John Wayne cavalry flick. It was playing now. Rune didn't notice what the other one was. Maybe The Searcher or Red River. Yellow Ribbon was showing when she sat down. The seats in the old theater on Twelfth Street were stiff-thin padding under crushed fabric upholstery. There were only fifteen or so people in the revival house, which didn't surprise her-the only time this place had ever been crowded was on Saturday night and when they were showing selections from the New York Erotic Film Festival.
Watching the screen.
She knew the old John Ford-directed western cold. She'd seen it six times. But today, it seemed to her to be just a series of disjointed images. Salty old Victor McLaglen, the distinguished graying Wayne, the intensified hues of the forty-year-old Technicolor film, the shoulder-punching innocent humor of the blue-bloused horse soldiers…
But today the movie made no sense to her. It was disconnected images of men and women walking around on a huge rectangle of white screen, fifty feet in front of her. They spoke funny words, they wore odd clothing, they played into staged climaxes. It was all choreographed and it was all fake.
Her anger built. Anger at the two dimensions of the film. The falsity, the illusion. She felt betrayed. Not only by Emily Symington or whoever she was, not only by what had happened in Brooklyn, but by something else. Something more fundamental about how she lived her life, about how the things she believed in had turned on her.
She stood and left the theater. Outside, she bought a pair of thick-rimmed dark glasses from a street vendor and put them on. She turned the corner and walked down University Place to Washington Square Video.
Tony fired her, of course.
His words weren't cute or sarcastic or obnoxious like she'd thought he'd be. He just glanced up and said, "You missed two shifts and you didn't call. You're fired. This time for real."
But she didn't pay him much attention. She was staring at the newspaper on the counter, lying in front of Tony.
The headline: Mafia Witness Hit.
Which didn't get her attention as quickly as the photo did: a grainy flashlit shot of Victor Symington's town house in Brooklyn, the six surviving dwarfs, the shattered window. Rune grabbed the paper.
"Hey," Tony snapped. "I'm reading that." One look at her eyes, though, and he stopped protesting.
A convicted syndicate money launderer who had been a key witness in a series of Racketeering Influenced Corrupt Organizations (RICO) trials of midwest crime leaders earlier this year was shot to death yesterday in a gangland-style hit in Brooklyn.
Vincent Spinello, 70, was killed by gunshots to the chest. A witness, who asked not to be identified, reported that a young woman with short hair fled from the scene and is a primary suspect in the case.
Another witness in the same series of cases, Arnold Gittleman, was murdered, along with two U.S. marshals, in a St. Louis hotel last month.
The paper crumpled in her hands. Me! she thought. That's me, the young woman with short hair.
She used me! Emily. The bitch used me. She knew all along where Symington was and got me out there to make it look like I killed him.
And, hell, my fingerprints're all over the place!
Primary suspect…
Tony snatched the newspaper away from her. "You can pick up your check on Monday."
"Please, Tony," she said. "I need money now. Can't I get cash?"
"No fucking way."
"I've got to get out of town."
"Monday," he said. Returned to his paper.
"Look, I've got a check for fifteen hundred bucks. Give me a thousand and I'll sign it over to you."
"Yeah, like you've got a check that's going to clear. I'm sure."
"Tony! It's payable to cash. From a law firm."
"Out."
Frankie Greek stuck his head out of the storeroom and said, "Hey, Rune, like, you got a couple calls. This cop, Manelli. And that U.S. marshal guy. Dixon. Oh, and Stephanie too."
Tony barked, "But don't call 'em from here. Use the pay phone outside."
Stephanie! Rune thought. If they'd been following me, they've seen me with her.
Oh, Jesus Mary, she's in danger too.
She ran back to the counter and swept the phone off the cradle. Tony started to say something but then seemed to decide that it wasn't worth fighting the battle; after all, he'd won the war. He turned on his worn heel and retreated to the other counter, carrying the newspaper.
Stephanie's groggy voice finally answered.
"Rune! Where've you been? You missed work last night. Tony's really pissed-"
"Steph, listen to me." Her voice was raw. "They murdered that man I was trying to find, Symington, they're trying to make it look like I did it."
"What?"
"And they tried to kill me!"
"Who?"
"I don't know. They work for the Mafia or something. I think they might've seen you too."
"Rune, are you making this up? Is this one of your fantasies?"
"No! I'm serious."
Several customers glanced at her. She felt a shiver of fear. She cupped her hand over the receiver and lowered her voice. "Look on the front page of the Post. The story's there."
"You have to call the police."
"I can't. My fingerprints're all over the house where Symington got killed. I'm a suspect."
"Jesus, Rune. What a mess."
"I'm going back to Ohio."
"When? Now?"
"As soon as I can get some money. Tony won't pay me."
"Prick," Stephanie spat out. "I can lend you some."
"I can give you a check for fifteen hundred."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah, it's payable to cash. You can have it. But, listen, you have to come with me!"
"Come with you?" Stephanie asked. "Where?"
"To Ohio."
"No way. I've got an audition next week."
"Stephanie…"
"I'll get you a couple of hundred. I'll stop at the bank. Where'll you be?"
"How 'bout Union Square Park? The subway entrance, southeast side."
"Okay. Good. A half hour."
"Is it safe?" Stephanie asked cautiously.
"Pretty safe."
A pause. "I don't want to get beat up or anything. I bruise real easy. And I can't be bruised for my audition."
As she stepped into the street, Rune heard the man's voice right beside her.
"You're a hard person to find."
Panicked, Rune spun around.
Richard was leaning on a parking meter. The yuppie in him had been exorcized; Mr. Downtown was back. He wore boots, black jeans, and a black T-shirt. He also wore a gold hoop in his ear. She noticed that it was a clip-on. He looked tired.
"You have," he continued, "as FDR said, a passion for anonymity. I called you at the store a couple of times. I was worried about you."