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 answered.
"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?"