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“You have quite an imagination.”
    “I’ve been told that before.” Rune jumped back on deck. “Coffee? Something to eat?”
    “Just coffee.”
    They sat in the pilot house. Rune was putting peanut butter on her toast while Shelly sipped black coffee. The woman may have been a celebrity in the flesh trade but today she looked just like a Connecticut housewife. Jeans, boots, white blouse and a thin, light blue sweater, the arms tied around her neck.
    “Find the place okay?” Rune asked.
    “Wasn’t hard. I would’ve called first but you didn’t give me a number.”
    “I don’t have a phone. When I tried to get one the New York Bell guys drove up, laughed and left.”
    A moment passed and Shelly said, “I’ve been thinking about the film. Even after you agreed to the final cut approval I didn’t want to do it. But something happened that changed my mind.”
    “The bombing?”
    “No,” Shelly said. “What happened was I had a bad fight with one of the guys I work for. I don’t want to go into the details but it brought a lot of things into focus. I realized how sick I was of the business. I’ve been in it too long. It’s time to leave. If I can get some legitimate publicity, if people can see that I’m not a bimbo, maybe it’ll help me get legitimate jobs.”
    “I’ll do a good job. I really will.”
    “I had a feeling about you.” The pale blue laser beams of her eyes fired out. “I think you’re just the person who could tell my story. When can we start?”
    Rune said, “How’s now? I’ve got the day off.”
    She shook her head. “I’ve got some things to do now but why don’t you meet me this afternoon, around, let’s say, five? We can do a couple hours of work. Then tonight there’s a party this publisher’s giving. Most of the companies publishing skin magazines are also into adult films and video. There’ll be a lot of people from the business there. Maybe you could talk to them.”
    “Excellent! Where do you want to do the filming?”
    She looked around the room. “How’s here? I feel very comfortable here.”
    “It’s going to be a great interview.”
    Shelly smiled. “I may even be honest.”

     
    After Shelly’d left, Rune was at the window. She caught another glint of red from the roof of the pier across the spit of slick water.
    And she remembered the color.
    The same as the jacket or windbreaker of the person she’d seen—or thought she’d seen—in Times Square, following her.
    She went into her bedroom and dressed.
    Five minutes later the red was still there. And five minutes after that she was on her way toward the pier, running low, crouched like a soldier. Around her neck was a big chrome whistle, the kind football referees use. She figured she could get 120 decibels easy and scare the hell out of anybody looking to give her trouble.
    Which was fine for skittish attackers. For the others Rune had something else. A small, round canister. It contained 113 grams of CS-38 military tear gas. She felt its comfortable weight against her leg.
    She hurried along the highway. The river water gave off its rotten-ripe smell, riding on the humidity that the clouds—now covering the sky—had brought. The day became still. Several church bells chimed. It was exactly noon.
    Rune twisted through the gap in the chain link and walked slowly up to the pier. It rose three stories above her and the facade was weathered down to the bare wood in many places. She could make out part of the name of the shipping line across the top, in a dark blue paint that she associated with old-fashioned trains.
America
was one word. And she saw, or thought she did, a faint blue star.
    The twelve-foot wooden doors looked imposing but were off their track and Rune easily slipped through a seam into the darkness.
    It was ratty and spooky inside. At one time these piers had been the places from which the great liners had sailed to Europe. Then they’d been used for cargo ships until Brooklyn and