“He's a wonderful dog. That's not the point.”

He looked at his Rolex. “They're waiting for me.”

“Let me do it, Larry. I'll give you a producing credit.”

“Bloody generous of you. And what do you know about documentaries?”

She forced her small mouth into a smile that impersonated admiration. “I've been watching you for almost a year.”

“Balls. All you got is balls. You got no film technique.”

“Two outa three,” Rune said.

“Look, luv, not to make myself into a flamin' genius but I got fifty, sixty resumes sitting in me desk right now. And most of them're dying for the privilege of getting me fuckin' laundry.”

“I'll pay for the film myself.”

“All right. Forget the laundry. I got a roomful of people need caffeine.” He put a crumpled five in her hand. “Please get some coffee.”

“Can I use a camera after work?”

Another glance at the watch. “Fuck. All right. But no camera. The Betacam.”

“Aw, Larry, video?”

“Video's the wave of the future, luv. You buy your own friggin' tape. And I'm checking the Arris and the Bolexes every night. If one's missing, even for a half hour, you're fired. And you do the work on your own time. That's the best you're getting.”

She smiled sweetly. “Would you like some biscuits with your tea, mate?”

As she turned to leave Larry called, “Hey, luv, one thing... This bombing, whatever 'appened, the news'll do the story up right.”

Rune nodded, seeing that intensity she recognized in his eyes when he was on a set shooting or kicking around ideas with Bob or the cinematographer. She paid attention. He continued. “Use the bombing like a 'ook.”

“A hook?”

“You want to make a good documentary, do a film that's about the bombing but not about the bombing.”

“It sounds like Zen.”

“Fucking Zen, right.” He twisted his mouth. “And three sugars for me tea. Last time you bleedin' forgot.”

Rune was paying for the tea and coffee when she remembered Stu. She was surprised she hadn't thought about him before this. And so she paid the deli guy two bucks of her own money, which is the way she looked at Larry's change, to have somebody deliver the cartons to L&R.

Then she stepped outside and trudged toward the subway.

A low-rider, a fifteen-year-old beige sedan, churned past her. The horn sang and from the shadows of the front seat came a cryptic solicitation, lost in the ship's diesel bubbling of the engine. The car accelerated away.