Daylight fading completely now, Brolan's next stop was a Perkins', where he had the hamburger planter, complete with french fries and lots of relish. Heart attack food. As he sat in a back booth watching couples of all ages come and go, he started thinking again of Kathleen. Strange, the people you sometimes fell in love with. People who seemed to mean you harm. Maybe that was the appeal. The risk. Yes. Risk. Suddenly, there in the glow of the soft lights, he felt a terrible need to see her, talk to her.
After leaving a good-sized tip (he'd once worked as a busboy at a summer resort; he knew how many people, surprisingly, didn't leave tips at all), he went up front to the pay phones.
She surprised him by answering on the second ring. It was barely six o'clock. That she was home this early on a workday probably meant that she was planning to go out that night.
As soon as she recognized his voice, a certain tension began to play in hers. "Hi," she said.
"Don't get excited. I didn't call up to hassle you. I just wanted to say hello."
"That's nice of you."
"How're things going?" He realized how foolish and pathetic he sounded. So uncharacteristically pleasant and dutiful.
"Oh, kind of hectic actually. I'm afraid I'm in a little hurry."
"Oh."
"A professional women's meeting tonight."
Right, he thought. You like women so much and hang around them so often. He shook his head, depressed about her lies. He wondered if he knew the person she was seeing that night. Miserable as he was, he hoped it wasn't somebody from his agency. It would be like being a cuckold. "Yes, I know how much you like those professional women's meetings."
She obviously chose to ignore his sarcasm. "Maybe we could go out and have a nice dinner next week."
"I'd like that."
"Good. So would I. I just hope it can be pleasant."
"Pleasant" meant friendly, and friendly meant doing everything on her terms. "Of course," he said.
"Well, see you in the morning."
"See you," he said.
Behind him a teenage boy with zits and braces was waiting impatiently his turn at the phone. Maybe the kid had women problems of his own. Maybe there was a tenth-grade version of Kathleen, stony heartbreaker. He smiled at the kid: "Just let me look up a name here, and I'll get out of your way."
The kid nodded appreciatively.
Brolan looked up the name Charles Lane. Or rather, names, plural. There were six Charles Lanes in the Minneapolis-St. Paul directory. He wrote them down in his notebook and then turned the space over to the kid.
Predictably Richard Cummings's silver XKE was still in the parking lot when Brolan rolled in there forty-five minutes later. Cummings rarely left work before nine at night.
Ten years before, Cummings had taken on investors in his business, and this building was the result, a four-storey glass-and-steel curiosity that was all angles, pointing like a rocket ship to the sky. It was the sort of freak that only an architect-and people who pretended to know something about architecture-could love. There was no warmth, no romance, just pretence.
That night, however, its parking lot lights like the baleful eyes of an eldritch god behind the swirling fog and snow, the building had a certain obstinate dignity, its angles breaking up the fog, its interior lights glowing warmly in the cold mid-western night.
Brolan got out of the car and walked up to the building. It sat on its own lot just off Grand Avenue. The other buildings were far enough away that Brolan felt a great sense of isolation.
In the lobby he pressed the lone elevator button that would take him to the fourth floor. He and Foster had worked in this building for three years before they'd had their final falling-out with Richard Cummings. The cleaning people had already done their work for the night, and a memory of scents came back to him as the elevator bore him up to the top floor. They were using the same cleaning solvent. The memories reminded him of his son, who was still in grade school then, and of his wife and how painful their split had been. Time rushed at you and ultimately made no sense. You just got older, and if it meant anything, its meaning was well hidden.
The top floor housed the executive offices. Unlike the days of his tenure, you now needed an electronic card to have access. He stood outside the door wondering what to do. The obvious.
There wasn't much else to do.
He knocked.
He knocked many times but got no answer.
From down the hall he heard a vacuum cleaner burst into operation. Following the sound, he walked down the deeply carpeted hall, around the corner, and down another long hall.
A grey-haired woman with a backside too broad to quite fit into her tight jeans moved a vacuum cleaner back and forth, back and forth. Over the roar of the machine she hummed something faindtly familiar. Brolan was careful how he approached her. He didn't want to scare her.
But he scared her anyway. As soon as he touched a finger to her shoulder-she'd seemed unable to hear his three different greetings-she lurched as if shot, whirling on him.
He saw instantly why she hadn't heard him. She carried a Walkman strapped to her belt. Tiny grey earphones stuck out from her head like growths. She took them from her ears with obvious reluctance. "Jes?"
"I was wondering if you could help me get into the offices."
"You a frien' of Mr. Cummings's?" She spoke with a heavy accent.
"I worked here for many years. My name's Brolan."
"Oh." She assessed him. She looked as if she couldn't quite make up her mind what she thought of him. He seemed to offer her reasons for dislike and reasons for like.
"I'd really appreciate it," he said as he watched her work through her assessment process.
She stared at him a moment longer, shrugged, then yanked the vacuum cleaner plug out of the wall. She had one powerful arm.
She disappeared for the next few moments. Far down the hall and around the corner he could hear her letting herself into the main office.
He stood there reminiscing. He thought of all the campaigns he'd worked on in this building. His first Clio. His first network spot. His first self-obtained client. Cummings was definitely a prick-no doubt about it-but he was also a genuine ad genius.
He regarded advertising the way Hider had regarded his armies-as his vehicle for taking over the world. He could write copy, direct spots, scope out a print ad layout, create a product song, and design a billboard. He'd had four wives and several children and dozens of clinging, nubile girlfriends, but none of them had ever been as real to him as the ads he created. Hardly a wimp-he was, in fact, an almost psychotic weighdifter-Cummings could stand in front of people and weep openly at one of his own sentimental commercials. He loved showing beautiful little mid-western kids and beautiful mid-western sunsets and beautiful mid-western old folks, all made even more overwhelming by a Cummings musical score, a weepy melange of violins and gorgeous female choruses. He was a man of many and conflicting parts. He was, by turns, brilliant, generous, loving, as well as vindictive, spiteful, and treacherous. Nobody ever left his employment on good terms. He always threw them out-or so he made it appear-even if it had been their intention to leave anyway. He was notorious for punching out employees and clients alike. If he didn't like you, he didn't much give a damn who you were; you were treated to his infamous fist. Indeed on the very night-here in this very office building-that Brolan had resigned, Cummings had finally leaped over the desk and taken a hard swing at Brolan. Only ducking in time had saved Brolan from serious injury. When he lost his temper, Cummings was a crazed fool.
"I won't tell you what he tol' me to call you. If I do, I have to confess it to the priest, you unnerstan'?"
The Hispanic woman was back and shaking her head. "I don' think he likes you too much, you know?"
Brolan grinned. "No, I don't think he likes me too much, either." He leaned in and patted her on the shoulder. "Sorry you had to hear such vile language."
The woman smiled at him. "It's not the language so much. It's his face."
"His face?"
"Yes. When he is angry, he has terrifying face. You know?"
"I know." The woman wasn't exaggerating. Cummings was a man whose face could clearly-almost oppressively-convey his feelings. You never had to worry about where you stood with Cummings. All you had to do was consult his face.
"Thanks again," Brolan said. He walked back around the corner and started up the hall.
Near the elevator the office door opened, and suddenly there was Cummings. He wore a fitted white shirt with a loosened red necktie and blue pleated trousers that obviously belonged to a suit.
"You've got balls, Brolan, I've got to say that for you." Brolan had the impression that this was the old West and that the meanest man in town had just announced his intention to draw down on him.
"How are you, Richard?"
"Don't give me any amenities, you jerk-off. What the hell are you doing up here?"
"I'd prefer talking in your office."
"I'd prefer not talking to you at all." Cummings's jaw muscles bulked. His eyes flared. As Brolan drew closer to him, he could feel Cummings's rage come off him like waves of heat. "Anyway, I figured you'd be out celebrating the account you took from me."
Brolan smiled. "That was a few nights ago."
He had the impression that Cummings was going to swing on him. Instead the man moved backward to the door, smashed it open, and stepped back for Brolan to go inside. "I still want to know what the hell you're doing here."
But before Brolan had a chance to speak, Cummings turned and led the way through the executive offices to his own office far in the back.
The place had changed a great deal since his last days there, Brolan noted. Dark panelling and even darker wainscoting gave the place the air of an exclusive lawyers' office. You wouldn't know the office was in the ad business at all except for a few discreetly placed framed print ads, all of them Clio winners. The buff blue carpeting seemed to get thicker the deeper you went into the place. By the time they reached Cummings's office,
Brolan had glimpsed half-a-dozen offices standing empty, each with a miniature American flag standing on its desk. Cummings must have gotten an extremely right-wing client and wanted to impress the man with the executives' patriotic fervour-exactly something Cummings would do, and without seeing anything ironic or cynical about it at all.
If the other offices looked as if they belonged to lawyers, Cummings's looked as if it were a judge's chamber. The dark panelling continued here, but it was joined by massive built-in bookcases and leather furniture that had recently been polished. It smelled pleasantly of oil. Mounted ashtrays sat next to each chair. They were made of marble and had claw bottoms, the sort of thing you would have seen in a men's club back when Victoria was still chiding Englishmen about their morality. A faint trace of cigar smoke lay on the air. Cummings probably still indulged-two a day, and good Cubans at that, never more.
Cummings hit him directly on the jaw.
It was a sucker punch because Brolan hadn't been expecting it at all, and it was, as you'd expect from Cummings, a hard punch. One moment Brolan had been standing there checking out the cushy office, and the next Cummings was slugging him.
Pinpoints of light-red, yellow, faint green-danced across the sudden panoramic darkness that cloaked Brolan's vision. It wasn't so much the pain as it was the disorientation, the rushing coldness in his nostrils, the wobbling of the knees. Blindly he put out a hand, grasping for anything that would help keep him on his feet. He didn't want to give Cummings the satisfaction of seeing him pitch to the floor. Why help Cummings gloat?
His fingers touched the leather of a chair. He steadied himself.
"Pretty mean punch, wouldn't you say?" Cummings said. He sounded as if they were boys talking about athletic prowess.
"You son of a bitch," Brolan said, his vision beginning slowly to return.
"Me, son of a bitch? You steal one of my biggest accounts, and you call me a son of a bitch?"
Cummings put out a hand to Brolan's elbow. He was going to help Brolan sit down. Wasn't that sweet? Brolan jerked his arm away. He didn't want Cummings to touch him. All his hatred for the man-the man's preening, the man's arrogance, the man's psychotic temper-rushed back to him now. There were times when he could be almost sentimental about Cummings (the man's larger-than-life qualities could sometimes be endearing when viewed from far away) but now Cummings's presence was too real and overwhelming.
Brolan went over and sat down in one of the high-backed leather chairs.
"You want a cigar?" Cummings said.
"No, I don't want a cigar."
"You want some sherry?"
"No."
"I'm trying to be nice. I feel a lot better about you now, Brolan."
Brolan said, "I want to know where she is."
"Where who is?"
"The girl on the playing card. The one in the S amp;M get-up." Cummings had been on his way around the desk. He stopped now and jabbed a finger in Brolan's direction. "You sent that, you bastard?"
"Where is she?" The playing card was what Brolan had sent over earlier that afternoon by messenger.
"What the hell's going on here, buddy boy? How did you even know I knew her?"
Brolan waved Cummings's anger away. "You're not answering my question."
Cummings went around the desk and sat down. The leather squeaked as he moved around in the chair, getting comfortable. His broad mahogany desk was clear except for a framed photograph of his children and a blank tablet and pen sitting in front of him. Cummings was an anal-retentive where neatness was concerned. He was famous for popping unexpectedly into someone's office and raging at the person for having a cluttered desk. Sometimes Cummings would clear the desk right then, sweeping everything to the floor, even breaking some things with the heel of his shoe. This was Cummings at his worst-the spoiled-little-boy temper, the unfathomable rage-and it was one of the reasons Brolan and Foster had left.
"What the hell is Emma to you?" Cummings said.
Brolan had decided on the way over there to use the story the pimp had unwittingly provided him. "I've made a bad mistake. I've fallen in love with a hooker." He shrugged, keeping himself nonchalant. He rubbed his sore jaw. He was tempted to fly across the desk and punch Cummings a few times before Cummings gathered himself and beat him into a crumpled heap. But he had more serious things to worry about than his ego. A murder charge, for one.
"I thought you were supposed to be making a fool of yourself over the beautiful Kathleen," Cummings said. He smirked. "The stories I'm hearing just aren't like you, old buddy. You were the one who always gave women a run for their money. But Kathleen is humiliating you every chance she gets, in the office and out of it." He laughed. "That's the sort of story I hate to hear. I think of you and Foster like my own sons."
"Have you seen Emma in the past three days?"
"No, I haven't. But why don't you ask Culhane?"
"Tim Culhane?" He decided to play naive, see what Cummings had to say on the subject.
"The one and only. Emma told me about him."
"What about him? That he sees her?"
"That he sees her and that he's into violence."
Cummings opened his desk drawer. In a moment he produced the playing card Brolan had sent him. Brolan's hope had been to rattle Cummings, make him reveal something useful about his relationship with Emma. But he'd forgotten how ably Cummings could defend himself. He was a past master at shifting blame. Now he was blaming Tim Culhane.
"That's quite a deck of cards, isn't it?" Cummings said.
With a great deal of ceremony and violence, he tore the card in half, letting the two pieces fall on his desk. "Stuff like this makes me sick."
"Then why hang around hookers?"
Cummings stared at him. "You mean you hadn't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"About my… problem the past few years."
"I don't know what you're talking about"
He smiled and pointed a stubby finger down to where his crotch was. "I've been having trouble making Harold stand up tall and proud."
"Ah."
"Better to embarrass yourself in front of women you're paying than women you're trying to impress. If you're paying them, they tend not to laugh. At least until you close the door on your way out." Then, obviously uncomfortable with appearing vulnerable in any way, Cummings said, "What're you here for, Frank?"
"I'm looking for Emma."
"Why?"
Brolan shrugged, forced a smile. "I told you. I fell in love with her."
"Then I pity you."
"Why?"
"You'd really want a hooker for a lover, Frank?"
Brolan leaned forward to the desk and stared at the photograph of Cummings's kids. They'd be early-college age by this time. "How're they doing?"
Cummings followed his gaze. "Damn well. Missy's at the university here, and Ted's got a job in a car wash. Good for him. He got sort of messed up on drugs during high school and dropped out. We had him down at Rochester for a while. Now he's doing a lot better. This is the first job he's ever held. As far as I know, he's really off the drugs. And his mother makes sure he gets up every morning for work. He's slowly putting it back together."
Brolan could never recall seeing Cummings quite this laid-back, quite this human. His ego wasn't even apparent in all this talk. Just concern for his children. What a perfect disguise-the ultimate nice guy-if you had something to hide.
Cummings came roaring back into character. "So, how're things with the Down Home Bakery folks?"
"Fine"
"You have no scruples." Ah, yes, there was the more familiar Richard Cummings. Spite in his voice, rage in his eyes. "You started bird-dogging them two years ago, and you've kept it up."
"In point of fact they came to us first. They wanted us to try a project."
Cummings jumped to his feet and brought down a mallet-like fist against the desk. His handsome face was now ugly with anger. "You don't know what the hell's going on, do you Frank?"
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning maybe you won't like what you find out." Cummings had sat down. He was still angry but not quite so angry. He set his fists on the top of the desk as if they were weapons he was temporarily giving a rest "I don't know how you two've done it."
"Done what?"
"Gotten the accounts you have." Cummings studied Brolan's face.
"We know what we're doing. We're good ad people." Cummings challenged him with a glare. "You really think that's it, Frank?"
"Sure. What else would it be?"
"You really believe Foster went out and got those accounts himself?"
"Who else would have gotten them?"
Brolan sighed. It was odd that even after all these years apart, the two men found themselves arguing about the same things. Back when Brolan had worked there, Cummings had always said that Foster was not too smart, just cunning.
"Well, he did it, and he did a damn good job, too." Cummings shifted subjects again. This was one of his techniques. He was able constantly to surprise you this way. "Tell me, Frank, why're you really looking for this hooker?" Cummings leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Brolan's face. Brolan recalled a time in eighth grade when he'd made a terrible mistake while serving mass as an altar boy, causing the other altar boy to laugh out loud uproariously, right there on the altar. Father Banyon, big, fleshy, white-haired Irishman that he was, had called Brolan in to his study afterward and proceeded to sit there and stare the young boy down. Not say a word. Just stare. By the time he spoke, Brolan had been so unnerved, he probably would have admitted to anything. He'd never noticed it till that moment, but Father Banyon and Richard Cummings had a lot in common.
"You going to tell me the real reason, Frank?" Cummings said. A smile was tucked into the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were huge and malevolent.
Did he know that she was dead? Was that what this was all about? That Cummings knew that she was dead and had decided to put the pressure back on Brolan? But if Cummings knew, that meant he was the killer.
"What's your real problem here, Frank?"
Brolan sat up straight in the chair, trying to look and sound composed. "I was told you knew her."
"By whom?"
"Somebody I met"
Cummings smirked again. "You always did like being mysterious." He nodded at Brolan to continue. "So, somebody told you I knew her. So what?"
"So, as I said, I've been trying to find her."
Cummings sat back in his chair, knitting his hands behind the back of his head. He looked like an ageing matinee idol who had recently been touched by a bad case of malice.
Cummings said, "You want to hit me, don't you? You're still pissed that I punched you, and you weren't able to. do a damn thing about it. That really galls you, doesn't it, Frank?"
Brolan stood up. Any time a conversation with Cummings degenerated into bullying, the conversation was over. Cummings could snake-charm himself into such a mood, but he was rarely able to snake-charm his way out of it.
Brolan started to walk away. "See you, Richard."
Brolan turned his back to Cummings and took three more steps to the door.
Behind him he heard the rustle of clothes and feet actually trotting across the carpeted floor. Was Cummings going to sneak up behind him and hit him?
Brolan turned just as Cummings aimed another punch at his head.
This time Brolan ducked. The punch missed him by several inches.
"You shouldn't have done that, Richard," Brolan said, surprising both of them. He then sailed a hard fist into Cummings's midsection. He was surprised at all the flab his hand encountered. Cummings looked to be in much better shape than he was.
"You son of a bitch," Cummings said, face red from pain and embarrassment. But he was still doubled over. The punch had taken its toll. "You son of a bitch," he said again, clawing out a hand and trying to reach Brolan.
Brolan simply moved out of his way. "You're getting older, Richard. People are going to start taking advantage of that. People are going to start hitting back."
"You son of a bitch," Cummings said.
"You already said that," Brolan said. "Many times."
Cummings, standing erect now, cocked a fist, as if he were going to strike Brolan. But a hint of leeriness showed in his eyes. Not fear. Just wariness, as if Brolan had dimensions that Cummings had never before suspected.
Brolan walked to the door. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Richard." There was no need to trowel on the sarcasm. It was inherent in the words themselves.
He closed the door gently behind him.