“Sure. Don't worry.”

She started the camera. “Just tell me what you remember.”

“Okay, I was doing an audit at a publishing company on Forty-seventh. I'm an accountant and financial advisor. And, what happened was I had a couple hours off and I walked to Eighth Avenue to this deli I'd seen. They had great-looking fruit cups — they seemed nice and fresh, you know, lots of watermelon — and there was this theater right in front of me and I thought, Hell, why not?” He took a sip of the beer. “So I walked in.”

“What was your impression?”

“Filthy, first of all. It smelled like, you know, urine and disinfectant. And there were these tough-looking guys. They were... well, black mostly, and they looked me over like I was, I don't know, dessert. So I hurried down to a seat. There were about ten people in the whole place is all and some of them were asleep. I sat down. The picture was awful. It wasn't a movie at all but this videotape. You could hardly see anything it was so fuzzy. After a while I decided to leave. I stood up. There was a big flash and this incredible roar and the next thing I know I'm in the hospital and I can't hear.”

“How long were you in the theater?”

“Total? Maybe a half hour.”

“Did you get much of a look at the other people in there?”

“Sure. I was looking around. You know, to make sure I didn't get mugged. There were some folks there. Some dockworker sorts. And transvestites — you know, prostitutes.” He looked away from both Rune and the camera.

Rune nodded sympathetically and it crossed her mind that Warren Hathaway might know more about transvestite prostitutes than he wanted to admit.

“Did you maybe see somebody in a red windbreaker?”

Hathaway thought for a moment. “Well, there was somebody in a red jacket, I think. And a hat.”

“With a wide brim?”

“Yeah. It looked funny. He moved kind of slow. I got the impression he was older.”

Older? Rune wondered. She asked, “He was leaving the theater?”

“Maybe. I couldn't swear to it.”

“Any idea how old?”

“Sorry. Couldn't say.”

“Could you describe him at all?”

Hathaway shook his head. “Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. What're you exactly, a newspaper reporter?”

“I'm doing a film about that girl who was killed in the second bombing. Shelly Lowe.”

A motorboat went past and they both watched it.

Hathaway asked, “But she wasn't in a movie theater, was she?”

“No, it was in a studio that made adult films.”

“It's terrible what people do to make a point, isn't it? That they feel lives are less important than politics or a statement...”

His voice faded and Hathaway smiled, then said, “I get too serious. My mother tells me all the time I get too serious. I should loosen up. Imagine your mother telling you that.”

“Mine sure doesn't.”