CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"You can use L &R's camera. It's got a telephoto built in."
Stu, the cook-editor-food stylist from Belvedere Post-Production, said, "Why exactly do you want to film this guy?"
"I'm going to get a confession. I'm going to trick him."
"Isn't it illegal to film people if they don't know about it?"
"No. Not if they're in a public place. That's what public dominion means."
"Public domain. And that's something different. The copyright law."
"Oh." Rune was frowning. "Well, I don't know. But I'm sure it's okay and I'm doing it."
"What kind of camera is it?"
"Betacam. Have you-?"
"I know how to use one. Ampex deck?"
"Right," Rune said. "You'll be up on the balcony at Lincoln Center, shooting down. That's all you have to do. Just tape me talking to this guy."
"You still haven't told me why. What kind of confession?"
"I'll have a tape recorder," she said quickly. "You don't even have to worry about audio."
"I'm not going to do it, you don't tell me what you're up to."
"Trust me, Stu."
"I hate that phrase."
"Don't you like adventures?"
"No. I like cooking, I like eating. I'd like money if I had any. But one thing I definitely don't like is adventures."
"I'll give you a credit on my film."
"Great. Just be sure to put my prison number after my name."
"It's not illegal. That's not the problem."
"So there is a problem… What is it, getting beat up? Or killed? Will you dedicate the film to my memory?"
"You aren't going to get killed."
"You didn't say anything about not being beat up."
"You won't get beat up."
"It sounded to me," Stu said, "that there was a tacitprobably attached to that last sentence. Was there?"
"Look, youdefinitely won't get beat up. I promise. Feel better?"
"No… Lincoln Center? Why there?"
Rune slung the battery pack over her shoulder. "So that if you do get beat up there'll be plenty of witnesses."
Rune had flashed an ID to the security guard of Avery Fischer Hall. His eyes went wide for a moment, then he let her into the quiet hall.
"We're doing some surveillance," she told him.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered and returned to his station. "You need any more help you give me a call."
"What's that?" Stu asked. "That you just showed him?"
"An identification card."
"Iknow that. What kind?"
"Sort of FBI."
He said, "What? How did you get that?"
"I kind of made it. On L &R's word processor. Then I had it laminated."
"Wait-why did you tell me? I don't want to know things like that. Forget I asked."
They continued up the stairs. On the walls were dozens of posters of operas and plays that had been performed at Lincoln Center. Rune pointed at one. "Wild. Look." It was for Offenbach'sOrpheus in the Underworld.
Stu glanced at it. "I prefer easy listening. What's the significance?"
Rune was quiet for a moment; she felt like crying. "That's Eurydice. That woman. She reminds me of someone I used to know."
They climbed the top floor and stepped out on the roof. Rune set up the camera.
"Now, don't pan. I'm worried about strobing. Don't get fancy. Keep the camera on me and the guy I'm going to be talking to. I want a two-shot most of the time but you can zoom in on his face if I give you the signal. I'll scratch my head. How's that? To zoom you just-"
"I've used a Betacam before."
"Good. You got an hour's worth of tape, two hours of batteries. And this'll probably be over in fifteen minutes."
"About the length of time of an execution. Any final words?"
Rune smiled nervously. "My first starring role." "Break a leg," Stu said.
She'd thought that maybe he wouldn't show. And she'd thought that even if he did show, he'd sit way off to the side, where he could pull out a gun with a silencer on it and shoot her in the heart and get away and it would be half an hour before anybody noticed her, thinking that she'd just fallen asleep in the hot sun. She'd seen that in an old film-aPeter Lorre film, she thought.
But Michael Schmidt was obliging. He sat in the center of the outdoor restaurant around the huge fountain in the middle of Lincoln Center.
He was scanning the crowd nervously and when he saw Rune he glued his eyes on her. Recognition preceded fury by a millisecond. She paused, slipped her hand into her jacket and started the tape recorder. He noticed the gesture and leaned back, probably thinking she had a gun. He was clearly afraid. Rune continued to the table.
"You!" he whispered. "You're the one in the theater."
Rune sat down. "You lied to me. You didn't tell me you offered Shelly the part, then broke the deal."
"So? Why should I tell you anything? You interrupted me in the middle of a very important meeting. My mind doesn't work like other people's. I don't have little mundane facts at my beck and call."
"I know all about the fight you had with her."
"I fight with a lot of people. I'm a perfectionist… What do you want? Money?" His eyes scanned the crowds once again. He was still nervous as a deer.
"Just answer-," she began.
"How much? Just tell me. Please."
"Why did you have to kill her?" Rune asked viciously.
Schmidt leaned forward. "Why do you think I killed her?"
"Because she tried to blackmail you into giving her the part."
Schmidt muttered angrily, "And you're going to do what? Go to the police with that story?"
There was something about the sweep of his skittish eyes that warned her. Twice now he'd glanced at an adjoining table. Rune followed his eyes and saw that two men were sitting in front of plates of fancy sandwiches that neither had touched.
Jesus, they were hit men!
Schmidt'd hired hit men. Maybe the skinnier of them was the man in the red windbreaker. They didn't give a shit about being in public or not; they were going to rub her out right here. Or follow her and kill her in an alley. Blasting away at her as if she were Marlon Brando in TheGodfather.
Schmidt swung his eyes, forced them back to her face. The two men shifted slightly.
"Now, tell me how much you want."
Oh, hell. No more games, time to leave.
Rune stood up.
Schmidt glanced at her pocket, the tape recorder. His eyes were wide.
The heads of the two hit men swiveled toward her.
Then: Schmidt pushing back, sliding to the ground, yelling, "Get her, get her!"
The diners gasped and pushed back from their tables. Some ducked to the pavement.
The hit men stood quickly, the metal chairs bouncing to the stone ground. She saw guns in their hands.
Screams, people diving to the pavement, drinks falling, salads spinning. Lettuce and tomatoes and croissants flew to the ground.
Rune sprinted to Columbus Avenue and ran north. She glanced behind her. The hit men were closing in. They were in great shape.
You two assholes are surrounded by witnesses! What the hell are you doing?
Her chest was screaming, her feet stung. Rune lowered her head and ran full out.
At Seventy-second Street she looked behind her and couldn't see them any longer. She stopped running and pressed against a chain-link fence around a vacant lot, trying to fill her lungs, her fingers curled tight in the mesh.
A bus pulled into the stop. She stepped toward it.
And the hit men, waiting behind a truck, ran toward her.
She screamed and rolled to the ground, then crawled under a gap in the chain link. She staggered to her feet and sped toward the building across the lot. A school.
A vacant school.
She ran to the door.
Locked.
She turned. They were coming at her again, trotting, now looking nonchalant, trying to be inconspicuous. The guns in their hands at their sides.
Nowhere to go except down a long alley. There'd have to be an exit to the street. A door, a window, something.
Rune ran to the end of it. It was a dead end. But there was a rickety door. She threw herself against it. The wood was much more solid than it seemed. She bounced off the thick oak and fell to the ground.