Manhattan Is My Beat (Rune 1)

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. Drive!"

"Forty?" The driver floored the accelerator and the car spun awa

y, leaving a cloud of blue-white tire smoke between the Chevy and Pretty Boy.

Rune sat huddled down in the vinyl, stained rear seat. "Goddammit," she whispered bitterly as her heart slowed. She wiped sweat from her palms.

Who was he? Symington's accomplice? Probably. She'd bet he was the one who'd killed Mr. Kelly. The triggerman--as the cops in Manhattan Is My Beat had called the thug who'd machine-gunned down Roy in front of the hotel on Fifth Avenue.

And, from the look in his dark eyes, she could tell he intended to kill her too.

Time for the police? she wondered. Call Manelli. Call Phillip Dixon ... It made sense. It was the only thing that made sense at this point.

But then there was the matter of the million dollars ... She thought of Amanda. Thought of her own perilous career. Thought of how she'd like to pull up in front of Richard and Karen in a stretch limo.

And decided: No police. Not yet.

A few minutes later the cab stopped in front of a light-green-and-brick two-story row house.

The driver said, "That's forty dollars. And don't worry about no tip."

She stood on the sidewalk, hidden behind some anemic evergreens, looking at the row house that was, according to his lawyer's Rolodex, Victor Symington's current residence. A pink flamingo stood on one wire leg on the front lawn. A brown Christmas wreath lay next to a croquet mallet beside the stairs. An iron jockey with black features painted Caucasian held a ring for hitching a horse.

"Let's do it," she muttered to herself. Not much time. Pretty Boy would be looking for a pay phone just then to call Symington and tell him that he couldn't stop her and that she was on her way there. It wouldn't be long before Pretty Boy himself'd show up.

She thought she could handle Symington by himself. But with his strong-arm partner, probably a hothead, there'd be trouble.

She rang the doorbell. She had her story ready and it was a good one, she thought. Rune would tell him that she knew what he and Pretty Boy had done and that she'd given a letter to her lawyer, explaining everything and mentioning their names. If anything happened to her, she'd tell him, the letter would be sent to the police.

Only one flaw. Symington wasn't home. Goddammit. She hadn't counted on that.

She banged on the door with her fist.

No answer. She turned the knob. It was bolted shut.

Glancing up and down the street. No Pretty Boy yet. She clumped down the gray-painted stairs and walked around to the back door. She passed a quorum of the Seven Dwarfs, in plaster, planted along the side of the building, then found the gate in a cheap mesh fence around the backyard.

At the back door Rune pressed her face against the glass, hands shrouding out the light. It was dark inside. She couldn't see much of anything.