"God," Richard whispered, looking at Rune.
Rune sank back into the cushions, put her hands over her eyes, sobbing. "No, no ... I don't give a shit about you or Emily or anybody. I won't testify. I'll tell them it wasn't Emily or you. Mr. Kelly's dead! Spinello's dead! Just leave us alone."
Stephanie said patiently, "Maybe I'll consider that. You have to understand, Rune. I like you. I really do. You're ... charming. And I was really touched you were going to give me some of that ridiculous money. That almost choked me up. But you have to tell me. This's just business."
"All right ... I didn't tell anybody anything about you."
"I don't believe you."
"It's true! All I did was write about you in my diary. I mentioned you and Emily." She sat back, hand in her lap, small, defeated. "I thought you were my friend. I described you and wrote how nice you were to help me buy some clothes."
If this choked her up too, Stephanie's expression didn't show it.
"Where is it?" the woman asked. "The diary. Let me have it and I'll let you go. Both of you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Rune debated then walked to her suitcase, rummaged through it. "I can't find it." She looked up, frowning. "I thought I packed it." She opened her leopard-skin bag, looked through that too. "I don't know. I ... oh, there it is. On the bookcase. The second shelf."
Stephanie eased over to the bookcase. Touched a notebook. "This one?"
"No, the one next to it. On its side."
Stephanie pulled the book off the shelf and flipped it open. "Where do you mention--"
An explosion. The first bullet broke a huge chunk out of the blue-sky wall and sent fragments of cinder block raining through the room.
The second shattered a panel of glass in the ceiling.
The third tore apart a dozen books, which pitched through the air like shot birds.
The fourth caught Stephanie squarely in the chest as she was turning, shocked, mouth open, toward Rune.
There may even have been a fifth shot. And a sixth. Rune wasn't sure. She had no idea how many times she pulled the trigger of the gun--the one that Rune had pulled from the accordion folder she'd thrown away earlier--tossed into the trash can beside her bed.
All Rune saw was the smoke and dust and paper flecks and clouds and blue sky of concrete and broken glass flying through the loft around Stephanie--beautiful, pale Stephanie, who spiraled to the floor.
And all Rune heard was a huge ringing roar from the gun. Which, after a few seconds, as Richard scrambled from the floor and started toward her, was replaced by an animal's mad screaming she didn't even know was coming from her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Head bowed at the altar, Rune was motionless.
Kneeling. She'd thought she could remember all the words. But they wouldn't come to her and all she could do was repeat over and over again, in a mumbling whisper, "We yield thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from those great and apparent dangers wherewith we were compassed."
After a moment she stood and walked slowly up the aisle toward the back of the sanctuary.
Still whispering, she said to the man wearing black minister's robes, "This is a totally radical church, Reverend."
"Thank you, Miss Kelly."
At the door, she turned and curtsied awkwardly toward the altar. The minister of St. Xavier's glanced at her curiously. Maybe curtsying--which Rune had just seen a character do in some old Mafia movie--was only for Catholics. But so what? she decided. Stephanie was right about one thing: short of devil worship and animal sacrifices, ministers and priests probably aren't all that sensitive about technicalities.
They left the sanctuary.
"Your grandfather didn't mention any children when he stayed with us in our residence. He said his only relative was his sister but she'd died a few years ago."
"Really?" she asked.
"But then," the minister continued, "he didn't talk much about himself. He was a bit mysterious in some ways."
Mysterious...
"Yep," she said after a moment. "That was Grandfather. We used to say that about him. 'Wasn't Grandfather quiet.' All of us would say it."
"All of you? I thought you said there were just two of you. You and your sister."
"Oh, well, I mean all the kids in the neighborhood. He was like a grandfather to them too."
Watch it, Rune told herself. It's a minister you're lying to. And a minister with a good memory.
She followed the man through the rectory building. Filled with dark wood, wrought iron. The small yellow lights added a lot of churchy atmosphere to the place, though maybe they used small-wattage bulbs just to save money. It was very ... well, religious here. Rune tried to remember a good movie she'd seen about religion and couldn't think of one. They tended not to have happy endings.
They walked into a large dormitory, newer than the church, though the architecture was the same--stained glass, arches, flowery carvings. She looked around. It was some kind of residence hall for senior citizens. Rune glanced into a room as they passed. Two beds, yellow walls, mismatched dressers. Lots of pictures on the walls. Homier than you'd think. There were two elderly men inside the room. As she paused, looking in, one of the men stood up and said, "'I am a very foolish fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less, and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.'"
"I'll say you're not in perfect mind," his friend chided. "You've got it all wrong."
"Oh, you think you can do better?"
"Listen to this."
His voice faded as Rune and the minister continued down the corridor.
"How long was Grandfather here?" Rune asked.
"Only four, five weeks. He needed a place to stay until he found an apartment. A friend sent him here."
"Raoul Elliott?" Rune's heart thudded harder.
"Yes. You know Mr. Elliott?"
"We've met once."
So, Elliott had been confused. He hadn't sent Mr. Kelly to the Florence Hotel but here--to the church. Maybe Mr. Kelly was staying in the Florence when he visited the screenwriter and the poor man's mind just confused them.
"Wonderful man," the priest continued. "Oh, he's been very generous to us here at the church. And not only materially ... He served on our board too. Until he got sick. A shame what's happened to him, isn't it? That Alzheimer's." The minister shook his head then continued. "But we have so few rooms, Robert didn't want to monopolize one--he wanted to make it available for somebody less fortunate. So he moved into the Hotel Florence for a while. He left the suitcase here, said he'd pick it up when he moved into a safer place. He was worried about break-ins. He said the bag was too important to risk getting stolen."
Rune nodded nonchalantly. Thinking: One million dollars.
She followed him to a storage room. The minister unlocked the door with keys on a janitor's self-winding coil. Rune asked, "Did Grandfather spend much time in the church itself?"
The minister disappeared into the storage room. Rune heard the sound of boxes sliding along the floor. He called, "No. Not much."
"How about the grounds? The cemetery? Did he spend much time there?"
"The cemetery? I don't know. He might have."
Rune was thinking of the scene in Manhattan Is My Beat where the cop, his life ruined, was lying in his prison cell, dreaming about reclaiming his stolen million dollars, buried in a cemetery. She remembered the close-up of the actor's eyes as he wakened and realized that it had just been a dream--the blackness of the dirt he'd been digging up with his fingers becoming the shadows of the bars across his hands as he woke.
The minister emerged with a suitcase. He set it on the floor. "Here you go."
Rune asked. "You want me to sign a receipt or anything?"
"I don't think that'll be necessary, no."
Rune picked it up. It was as heavy as an old leather suitcase containing a million dollars ought to be. She listed against the weight. The min
ister smiled and took the case from her. He lifted it easily and motioned her toward the side door. She walked ahead of him.
He said, "Your grandfather told me to be careful with this. He said it had his whole life in it."
Rune glanced at the suitcase. Her palms were moist. "Funny what people consider their whole life, isn't it?"
"I feel sorry for people who can carry their homes around with them. That's one of the reasons the church has this residence home. You really feel God at work here."
They walked to his small office. He bent over the cluttered desk and sorted through a thick stack of envelopes. He said. "I wished Robert had stayed longer. I liked him a lot. But then, he was independent. He wanted to live on his own."
Rune decided that she was going to give the church some money. Fifty thousand, she decided. Then, on a whim, upped the ante to a hundred Gs.
He handed her a thick envelope addressed to "Mr. Bobby Kelly."
"Oh, I forgot to mention ... this came for him care of the church a day or so ago. Before I got around to forwarding it, I heard that he'd been killed."
Rune stuffed it under her arm.
Outside, he set the suitcase on the sidewalk for her. "Again, my sympathies to your family. If there's anything I can do for you, please call me."
"Thank you, Reverend," she said. Thinking: You just earned yourself two hundred thousand.
Little Red Hen...
Rune picked up the suitcase, walked to the car.
Richard eyed the bag curiously. She handed it to him, then patted the hood of his Dodge. He lifted the bag and rested it on the car. They were on a quiet side street but heavy traffic swept past at the corner. Superstitiously they both refused to look at the scuffed leather bag. They gazed at the single-story shops--a rug dealer, a hardware store, a pizza place, a deli. The trees. The traffic. The sky.
Neither touched the suitcase, neither said anything.
Like knights who think they've found the Grail and aren't sure they want to.
Because it would mean the end of their quest.
The end of the story. Time to close the book, to go to bed and wake up for work the next morning.
Richard broke the silence. "I didn't even think there'd be a suitcase."
Rune stared at the patterns of the stains on the leather. The elastic bands from a dozen old airline claim checks looped through the handles. "I had some moments myself," she admitted. She touched the latches. Then stepped back. "I can't do it."
Richard took over. "It's probably locked." He pressed the buttons. They clicked open.
"Wheel ... of ... Fortune," Rune said.
Richard lifted the lid.
Magazines.
The Holy Grail was magazines and newspapers.
All from the 1940s. Time, Newsweek, Collier's. Rune grabbed several, shuffled through them. No bills fluttered out.
"A million ain't going to be hidden inside of Time," Richard pointed out.
"His whole life?" Rune whispered. "Mr. Kelly told the minister his whole life was in here." She dug to the bottom. "Maybe he put the money into shares of Standard Oil or something. Maybe there's a stock certificate."
But, no, all the suitcase contained was newspapers and magazines.
When she'd gone over every inch of it, pulled up the cloth lining, felt along the moldy seams, her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "Why?" she mused. "What'd he keep these for?"
Richard was flipping through several of them. He was frowning. "Weird. They're all from about the same time. June 1947."
The laughter startled her, it was so abrupt. She looked at Richard, who was shaking his head.
"What?"
He couldn't stop laughing.
"What is it?"
Finally he caught his breath. His eyes were squinting as he read a thumbed-down page. "Oh, Rune ... Oh, no ..."
She grabbed the magazine. An article was circled in blue ink. She read the paragraph Richard pointed at.
Excellent in his role is young Robert Kelly, hailing from the Midwest, who had no intention of acting in films until director Hal Reinhart spotted him in a crowd and offered him a part. Playing Dana Mitchell's younger brother, who tries unsuccessfully to talk the tormented cop into turning in the ill-gotten loot, Kelly displays striking talent for a man whose only experience onstage has been a handful of USO shows during the War. Moviegoers will be watching this young man carefully to see if he will be the next member of the great Hollywood dream: the unknown catapulted to stardom.
They looked through the rest of the magazines. In each one, Manhattan Is My Beat was reviewed and, in each, Robert Kelly was mentioned at least several times. Most gave him kind reviews and forecast a long career for him.
Rune, too, laughed. She closed the suitcase and leaned against the car. "So that's what he meant by his whole life. He told me the movie was the high point of his life. He must never have gotten any other parts."
Stuffed in one of the magazines was a copy of a letter written to Mr. Kelly from the Screen Actors Guild. It was dated five years before.
She read it out loud. "'Dear Mr. Kelly: Thank you for your letter of last month. As a contract player, you would indeed be entitled to residual payments for your performance in the film Manhattan Is My Beat. However, we understand from the studio, which is the current owner of the copyright to the film, that there are no plans for its release on videotape at this time. If and when the film is released, you will be entitled to your residuals as per the contract.'"
Rune put the letter back. "When he told me he was going to be rich--when his ship came in--that's what he meant. It had nothing to do with the bank robbery money."
"Poor guy," Richard said. "He'd probably be getting a check for a couple hundred bucks." He looked up and pointed behind her. "Look."
The sign on the dormitory read ST. XAVIER'S HOME FOR ACTORS AND ACTRESSES. "That's what he was doing here. It had nothing to do with the money. Kelly just needed a place to stay."
Richard pitched the suitcase into the backseat. "What do you want to do with them?"
She shrugged. "I'll give them to Amanda. I think they'd mean something to her. I'll make a copy of the best review for me. Put it up on my wall."
They climbed into the car. Richard said, "It would have corrupted you, you know."
"What?"
"The money. Just like the cop in Manhattan Is My Beat. You know the expression, 'Power tends to corrupt, absolute power corrupts absolutely'?"
Of course I've never heard of it, she thought. But told him, "Oh, sure. Wasn't that another one of Stallone's?"
He looked at her blankly for a moment then said, "Well, translated to capitalistic terms, the same truth holds. The absoluteness of that much money would have affected your core values."
Mr. Weird was back--though this time in Gap camouflage.
Rune thought about it for a minute. "No way. Aladdin didn't get corrupted."
"The guy with the lamp? You trying to make a rational argument by citing a fairy tale?"
She said, "Yeah, I am."
"Well, what about Aladdin?"
"He wished for wealth and a beautiful princess to be his bride, and the genie gave him all that. But people don't know the end of the story. Eventually he became the sultan's heir and finally got to be sultan himself."
"And it was Watergate. He got turned into a camel."
"Nope. He was a popular and fair leader. Oh, and radically rich."
"So fairy tales may not always have happy endings," he said like a professor, "but sometimes they do."
"Just like life."
Richard seemed to be trying to think about arguing but couldn't come up with anything. He shrugged. "Just like life," he conceded.
As they drove through the streets of Brooklyn, Rune slouched in the seat, put her feet on the dash. "So that's why he rented the film so often. It was his big moment of glory."
"That's pretty bizarre," Richard said.
"I don't think so," she told him. "A lot of peop
le don't even have a big moment. And if they do, it probably doesn't get put out on video. I'll tell you--if I got a part in a movie, I'd dupe a freeze-frame of me and put it up on my wall."
He punched her playfully on the arm.
"What?"
"Well, you saw the film, what, ten times? Didn't you see his name on the credits?"
"He had just a bit part. He wasn't in the above-the-title credits."
"The what?"
"That's what they call the opening credits. And the copy we watched was the bootleg. I didn't bother to copy the cast credits at the end when I made it."
"Speaking of names, are you ever going to tell me your real name?"
"Ludmilla."
"You're kidding."
Rune didn't say anything.
"You are kidding," he said warily.
"I'm just trying to think up a good name for somebody who'd do window displays in SoHo. I think Yvonne would be good. What do you think?"
"It's as good as anything."
She looked at the bulky envelope the minister had given her. The return address was the Bon Aire Nursing Home in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey.
"What's that?"
"Something Mr. Elliott sent to Mr. Kelly at the church."
She opened the envelope. Inside was a letter taped to another thick envelope, on which was printed in old, uneven type: Manhattan Is My Beat, Draft Script, 5/6/46.
"Oh, look. A souvenir!"
Rune read the letter out loud. "'Dear Mr. Kelly. You don't remember me, I'm sure. I'm the nurse on the floor where Mr. Raoul Elliott's room is. He asked me to write to you and asked if you could forward the package I'm enclosing here to the young girl who came to visit him the other day. He was a little confused as to who she was--maybe she is your daughter or probably your granddaughter--but if you could forward it, we'd be most appreciative.
"'Mr. Elliot has mentioned several times how nice it was for her to come visit and talk about movies, and I can tell you her visit had a very good effect on him. He put the flower she brought him by his bedside and a couple times he even remembered who gave it to him, which is pretty good for him. Yesterday he got this from his storage locker and asked me to send it to her. Thank her for making him happy. All best wishes, Joan Gilford, R.N.'"
Richard, driving through commercial Brooklyn, said, "What a great old guy. That was sweet."
Rune said," I think I'm going to cry."
She tore open the envelope.
Richard stopped for a red light. "You know, maybe you can sell it. I heard that an original draft of somebody's play--Noel Coward, I think--went for four or five thousand at Sotheby's. What do you think this one'd be worth?"