Elliott looked around. "Miss, can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
"I lied."
Rune hesitated. Then said, "Go ahead. Tell me."
"Bips's a little shit. I've been trying to give him away for years. You know somebody who wants a dog?"
Rune laughed. "I sure don't. Sorry."
Elliott looked at the flower, curious again, started to pull off the cellophane wrapping; it defeated him and he set it back on his lap. Rune took the flower from him and opened it up. He held it lightly in his hands. He said, "You'll come back sometime, won't you? We have this party when it's spring. We can talk about movies. I'd like that."
Rune said, "I'd love to."
"You'll say hi to your father for me."
"Sure, I will."
The nurse was approaching. The old man's head sagged against the side of the wheelchair. He breathed slowly. His eyes were not quite completely closed but he was asleep. He started to snore very softly.
Rune looked at him, thinking again how much he resembled her father toward the end of his life. Cancer or AIDS or old age ... death's packaging is all so similar.
The nurse nodded to her and took the chair, wheeled it down the path. The flower fell to the sidewalk. The nurse picked it up and set it on his lap again.
A dense shadow of a cloud that Rune thought looked just like a dragon rearing up on its sturdy hind legs passed over them. She turned to Richard. "Let's get out of here. Let's get back to the Side."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Florence Hotel, near the Hudson River, was in Hell's Kitchen, west of Midtown.
Rune knew her New York history. At one point this had been one of the most dangerous areas in the city, the home of the Gophers and the Hudson Dusters, murderous gangs that made the Mafia look tame. Most of the dangerous elements had been urban-renewed away when the tunnel to New Jersey was built. But the dregs of some Irish and Latino gangs remained. It was, in short, not a neighborhood to be hanging out in alone at night.
Thanks tons, Richard, she thought.
He'd left her there after dropping her off in front of the Florence, a four-story flophouse with a scarred and peeling facade. She'd started to ask him again what the matter was but then some kind of radar kicked in and she decided it would be a bad move.
"Can't really hang around," he'd told her. "You'll be okay?"
"I'll be fine. Wonder Woman. That's me."
"Gotta meet some people tonight. Otherwise, I'd stay."
She hadn't asked who. Been dying to. But hadn't.
"No, that's fine. You go on."
"You sure?"
"Go on."
Some people...
She watched his car drive away. He gave her a formal wave. She hesitated only a moment before she stepped carefully around the bum who slept in front of the beer-can-filled flower box under the narrow front window. She pushed open the lobby door and stepped inside. The smells were of damp wallpaper, disinfectant, some vague, unpleasant animal scents. The sort of place that made you want to hold your breath.
The clerk looked up at her from behind a Plexiglas security barrier that distorted his features. A thin man, hair slicked back, wearing a dress shirt and rust-colored corduroy pants. The shirt had dark stains, the pants, light.
"Yeah?" he called.