Manhattan Is My Beat

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?”
    The light changed and the car pulled forward. Rune didn’t answer right away but after a moment said, “So far it’s up to two hundred and thirty thousand.”
    “What?” he asked, smiling uncertainly.
    “And counting.”
    Richard glanced over at Rune then skidded the car to a stop.
    In Rune’s lap were bundles of money. Stacks of wrapped bills. They were larger than modern Federal Reserve notes. The ink was darker, the seals on the front were in midnight-blue ink. The paper wrappers around the stacks were stenciled with
$10,000
in a scripty old-time typeface. Also printed on them was
Union Bank of New York
.
    “Thirty-three, thirty-four … Let’s see. Thirty-eight. Times ten thousand is three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Is that right? I’m
so
bad with math.”
    “Christ,” Richard whispered.
    Cars honked behind them. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, then pulled to the curb, parked in front of a Carvel ice cream store.
    “I don’t understand … what …?”
    Rune didn’t answer. She ran her hand over the money, replaying the great scene in
Manhattan Is My Beat
where Dana Mitchell is inside the bank and opens the suitcase of money—the camera cutting between his face and the stacks of bills, which had been lit to glow like a hoard of jewels.
    “Raoul Elliott,” she answered. “When he was researching the film he must have found where the loot was hidden. Maybe it
was
buried there….” She nodded back toward the church. “So he donated a bunch back to the church and they built the home for actors. The minister said he’d been very generous to them. Raoul kept the rest and retired.”
    Two tough-looking kids in T-shirts and jeans walked by and glanced in the car. Richard looked at them then reached over Rune, locked the door, rolled up the windows.
    “Hey,” she protested, “what’re you doing? It’s hot out.”
    “You’re in the middle of Brooklyn with four hundred thousand dollars in your lap and you’re just going to sit there?”
    “No, as a matter of fact”—she nodded toward the Carvel