by Ed Gorman
Culhane.
The man was always trying to prove his manliness. He swaggered around the offices. Whenever anybody gay appeared, he immediately started an undertow of innuendo. He gossiped with fat Shirley more than any other person-man or woman-in the shop.
Culhane.
My God, he was a wonderful suspect.
In all there were three more references to Culhane, each about the same. He had asked her if she would take his belt and work him over before they had sex. When she refused, Culhane got vaguely threatening. Then he'd calmed down and had sex with her. She noted that he never once kissed her or was tender in any way. He'd wanted anal intercourse, but when she'd refused, he settled for backdoor. It was as if he didn't want to look at her at all.
Brolan's mind was already racing ahead to his confrontation with Culhane the next day. Brolan thought again of how he'd given the executive post to Culhane's assistant. Culhane and his bitchy tongue were just too divisive to be in any position of real authority. He could easily imagine Culhane hating him enough to…
For a long stretch there was no more mention of Culhane or anybody familiar. Brolan decided to go to the bathroom and splash water on his face. Exciting as the news about Culhane had been, Brolan was getting groggy.
Like the kitchen, the bathroom had been cut to scale so that the four feet nine Wagner could reach things easily. In the mirror Brolan stared at himself. Once again a feeling of unreality came over him. Not even of nightmare. Just… an unlikely and harrowing turn of events. There were even comic aspects to it at certain times. A beautiful woman in a freezer. A man with a file full of scandal on various Twin Cities residents. A man (Brolan) so in love with a woman (Kathleen) that even in the midst of the worst crisis of his life he'd found time to plead and wheedle. At such terrible points in your life, you found out a lot of things about yourself. Brolan did not like very much of what he had found out these past forty hours or so.
When he came back to the computer, Wagner said, "Didn't you mention a man named Cummings?"
"Richard Cummings?"
"Yes. Richard Cummings."
"He's on there, too?"
"Right here." By then Wagner sounded as if he, too, was caught up in the whole process. He seemed happy that he'd been able to find another useful name for Brolan.
Brolan read the next four pages quickly. Cummings was just as kinky as he would have guessed-and just as violent. He'd twice slapped Emma and once, infuriated that she wouldn't do what he wanted her to, had dumped her off in the rain. Emma noted, with one of her rare flashes of anger, that her "friend," John Kellogg, forced her to continue seeing Cummings because Cummings was "so important" and could recommend both John and Emma to other important advertising people.
"How do I get hold of this John Kellogg?" Brolan asked.
Wagner smiled. "He lives over near Hennepin and Lake. He's under the impression-or at least he tries hard to give the impression-that he's an artiste and not a pimp all. He's a real piece of work, Brolan."
Brolan laughed. "I look forward to meeting him."
Brolan went over to the couch, and picked up his suit coat. He shrugged it on tiredly. He'd go home and catch a few hours sleep, then plod into the ad agency. He had a long day ahead of him. There was a good chance that one of the three men they'd talked about that night-Culhane or Cummings or Kellogg-had killed Emma and put her in the freezer.
"Anything you need?" Brolan said.
"No, thanks. I'm pretty self-sufficient."
"You make great scrambled eggs."
"You can thank the chicken for most of the work." The humour died in Wagner's eyes. "I want you to work closely with me on this. It's our deal, remember?"
"I won't forget."
"And when you catch the right one…" He let his voice trail off.
"I don't want you to do anything you'll regret," Brolan said. Wagner just stared at him. "Let me know how things are going."
Brolan nodded and left.
12
Thursday Morning
WHILE ADVERTISING PEOPLE are no better or worse than any other group of professionals, they've developed a reputation, largely through the media, of being less than hardworking. God only knows how this got started. Walk into virtually any ad agency at any time of night or day, and you'll find demons at work, people obsessed and possessed by their jobs. Ask the art director who worked until three because a client changed his mind on a certain layout and wanted to see a new version by 9:00 a.m. the following morning. Ask the media buyer who's just been given an additional three hundred thousand to spend on TV, only to learn that the targeted states are Utah and Wyoming (not a lot of fun to buy, given their population, their demographics, and their scarcity of stations). Or ask the account executive who's just sat through a very mean-spirited client meeting, the client accusing the agency of being lazy, too expensive, and greedy (But other than that, you sort of like us, don't you? the account exec wants to say); and now said account exec must come up with a new presentation to mollify this puffing dragon, and he's got (he figures) maybe two days maximum to do so. Such execs have been known to sleep on their couches and exist on Domino's pizza for as long as forty-eight hours. So let's put that "lazy" canard to rest. While ad people may not be budding Mother Teresas-but then, look around and ask who is?-they certainly know how to work, and how to work hard.
Two meetings required Brolan's attention. One dealt with a thirty-second commercial one of the account executives was having trouble with. The client had thought it was too slow-moving. After the agency had re-edited it, the client felt it was too fast-moving. At the top of the meeting this morning the account executive, a plump, well-dressed man named Baines, said, "Why don't we get down on all fours and look at it from the client's point of view?" It was the oldest gag in advertising. It never failed to get a laugh.
So, Brolan had Baines show him both versions of the spot. The product was a local restaurant chain. In the first version the people in the spot all looked as if they were having a ten-course meal. The scenes went on too long for the message the tagline was trying to convey-"Fast food prices for real-food meals." True, "real food" implied the old tablecloth and the old personal service and the old well-balanced meal… but did it have to be presented so boringly? With Mantovani strings in the background? And with table candles that you wouldn't actually find in the place? Brolan could see exactly why the client would object to this version.
The second version looked like a fast food spot. No sense of sit-down, leisurely dining at all. So many scenes cut so quickly that the place looked like McDonald's with table candles. No atmosphere at all.
As with most things there was room for a happy medium. As he watched, Brolan made notes on a long yellow legal pad. When the lights came up in the screening room, he turned around and gave his quickly considered wisdom to Baines, noting that some scenes and techniques from number one could be merged with scenes and techniques from number two in order to get a better product.
"You agree with our esteemed client?" Baines was one of those guys who disliked clients on principle, forgetting, apparently, who the hell was paying his salary.
"I do."
"I kinda liked number one."
"Too funereal."
"Too what?"
"Too slow; too sombre. We want them to come to one of our restaurants and have good food. We don't plan to embalm them." Baines shrugged. "I'll give your notes to the TV boys." Then he quickly changed to his favourite subject: the Vikings. "You catch them Sunday?"
"Afraid I didn't." Brolan was one of thirty-two people in the entire Twin Cities who did not follow the Vikings. Or the baseball team, either, for that matter. As more than one Viking fan had said, there was a special place in hell for people like Brolan. About that Brolan couldn't argue. There probably was. But it probably didn't have to do with the Vikings.
On waking that morning, Brolan's overriding thought had been to find out how it was that Tim Culhane had come to know Emma. And just how far
Culhane would go to act out his obvious hatred of Brolan.
***
On the way back to the production department-thirty minutes before his next meeting-he stopped by Kathleen's office to see if she was in yet. Because she always kept her door closed whether she was there or not, it was difficult to tell.
Shirley, the secretary the account executives shared, sat Buddha-like behind her battleship of a desk. Before her, like treasure she was admiring, lay two pieces of pastry, a strawberry kolach and a long john. The latter was sugar-coated and had a huge white wiggle of frosting on its top. Just what Shirley, at maybe two hundred fifty pounds, needed.
As always, however, Shirley was a testament to what big-and-tall shops could do for their customers. She wore a dark suit of sensible cut (sensible, given her size), a turquoise blouse, and some attractive rhinestones here and there. Her fleshy face was made pretty with makeup. For a woman her size, she was actually damned attractive.
But only if you didn't know her. Shirley, alas, was the agency gossip. Oh, everybody gossiped, even those self-righteous people who said that they hated gossip on principle. Everybody carried stories of who was sleeping with whom, who might be gay, who had a drinking problem, whose clients were slipping away. It was nothing to be proud of, certainly, but it seemed ineluctably human-people, even those who were otherwise decent, even those who were otherwise caring and sensitive people, indulged in gossip.
But with Shirley it was different. There was a meanness, an excitement, a pleasure in her gossip. When she knew something about you, she smirked every time you passed by. And if you had offended her in some way-Shirley was easily offended-then stories about you mysteriously started making the rounds. The past spring an art director Shirley despised had lost ten pounds. Shirley said it was from AIDS. A few months later a media buyer Shirley loathed was said to be having her two children taken from her because of her wild life-style. The woman was forever tainted with the notion that she was a bad mother. And so on. People loved to hang around Shirley's desk and hear her viciously and cleverly work over people who weren't there. In her repellent way she could be quite funny. This gave her a curious power within the agency. Shirley was in some respects the agency's arbiter of taste and standards. You always wanted Shirley's approval; you always wanted to be on Shirley's good side. Because otherwise Shirley would cut you up behind your back. But that was the irony, Brolan had learned. No matter how much you kissed up to her, no matter how friendly she might seem on the surface, she would inevitably turn on you. Brolan always wondered why the people who sucked up to her couldn't see that. That when they were gone, it was they Shirley talked about. Brolan had wanted her fired several months before. Foster had convinced him that she did good work, got along with all the account executives, and was not really a liability. This was one of those instances when Brolan had deferred to his partner. Foster felt more strongly about keeping her than Brolan did about firing her.
As Brolan approached Kathleen's closed door, Shirley said, "Not in." She didn't look up from the paperwork she was doing at her desk. She liked to give the impression that, like nuns, she had eyes in the back of her head.
"I need to see her on the Falcon account."
Then Shirley looked up. Smirking. "The Falcon account. Yessir." Of course she knew all about Brolan and Kathleen. "Has she called in?"
"No, but she told me she was having breakfast with Ken Gilman." The smirk again. Gilman was the hunky ad manager for one of the agency's manufacturing accounts. Gilman had made no secret at agency parties of pursuing Kathleen. With her eyes back on her work, Shirley clucked, "Third breakfast they've had in the past two weeks. They must really be working hard on that account."
Of course she wanted the satisfaction of seeing him hurt or angry. But he wouldn't give it to her. "Tell her I'd like to see her when she comes in," he said, and walked slowly away from her office. He didn't want to give the impression he was running. At one point, though, he shook his head. He knew how frantic and pitiful a figure Shirley would make him out to be to others in the agency. "Comes back here ten times a day. Always looking for her. Looks like a whipped puppy. I don't have the heart to tell him that she's screwing everything in pants." By this point he figured that being whispered about was just one of the costs he paid to pursue Kathleen. The other major tally was Foster's growing disgust with him. Foster genuinely saw Kathleen as a predator and saw his partner as jeopardizing the agency by having a romance with her. In Foster's world men Brolan's age just didn't walk around lovesick. That sort of thing was done when you were in college, perhaps, but never after.
***
The second meeting concerned some disconcerting focus group tests. Raylan Chemicals, a major account of theirs, was about to market a new herbicide for agricultural use. Raylan was a respected name in the agricultural community, many farmers having used its products since the days when Herbert Hoover had promised to put a chicken in every pot. But Raydar 2 ("Hunts bugs down like radar") had been angrily criticized by six different groups of farmers in six different focus-group tests, one on the West Coast, one on the East Coast, the other four in the heartland. The objection was both simple and deadly: price. Several competitors had moved into the herbicide market lately and had been forcing prices down. Raylan was getting nervous. Profits had been sliding, and it was thought that profit potential for Raydar 2 would cheer stockholders.
The meeting was held in a small conference room. For most of the hour and a half-while two research-firm guys in Cricketeer suits and bow ties (no kidding)-slogged through page after page of statistics, Brolan stared out the window at the harsh grey day.
He tried to concentrate on the report and recommendations, but how could he?
The conference room opened on a hallway that led from the art department. Through the window to the right of the door, Brolan could see various art staffers bundled up and making their way to lunch. When he saw Tim Culhane pass by, he stirred in his seat. He wanted to run up to the man and throw him against the wall and ask him what he knew about the death of a prostitute named Emma.
Culhane, wearing a snap-brim fedora and a blast jacket, hurried past the glass and was gone. Brolan turned his attention back to the researchers and tried very hard to concentrate. He made it for four minutes, five maximum. Then he gave up entirely.
"Excuse me, Gil," he said to the agency account executive. "I've got to make a phone call. Why don't you take it from here?"
"Sure thing," Gil said, giving Brolan a tiny salute of goodbye.
Brolan thanked the research men and left.
He wished then he'd counted the people who'd left the art department. Back in the small cluster of offices-and the one big open-spaced production office-there were twelve employees. If all twelve of them had left-and it was now ten past twelve-he'd be safe in doing what he was about to do…
Culhane's office was in the rear, with its own door, a mark of privilege. Two director's chairs sat on either side of the door, spots for suppliers when they came to call. Brolan checked the open area. All the stools adjacent to the art boards were empty. A radio played an old Doors song. The place smelled of Sprayment and cigarette smoke.
Before he went into Culhane's office, he tried the two cubicles on either side. These didn't have doors. But they were empty, thank God.
Brolan went back to Culhane's office, looked around guiltily, and then opened the door and went inside.
A Dali and a 'blue period' Picasso were framed and hung on one wall. A variety of advertising awards filled another. Culhane's desk was messy with purchase orders and phone messages. Culhane was notorious for not returning his calls, even when they came from clients.
The place was carpeted and furnished sparingly. It gave the impression of being an order desk in a third-rate print shop. That was the way Culhane liked it, hippie defiance in the face of encroaching yuppiedom. In a way Brolan didn't blame him.
Two framed photographs stood on the desk. In one two blonde little girls grinned at t
he camera. They were dressed for winter. One was missing her two front teeth. The other looked sad in a certain distant way. The other photograph showed a thirty-ish woman in a swimsuit. She was too fleshy for so small a suit, and her hair was cut so short, it only emphasised her sagging face. The same sadness in the little girl could be glimpsed in the mother.
Brolan had no idea what he was looking for. Something. Anything. He sat down in the swivel chair and started pulling out desk drawers.
The drawers were as messy as the desktop. Paper clips and half pieces of gum were thrown in with pencils and erasers and dozens of pink, cheery phone messages. One drawer held maybe twenty fast food coupons, everything from Hardee's to Domino's.
Thinking he heard something, Brolan stopped. Frozen. He felt like a small boy, sweaty and guilty and shaken.
A male voice called, "Tim? You back here? Tim?"
Brolan recognized the voice of a media buyer named Meyers. Culhane and Meyers often had lunch together.
"Tim?" Meyers called again. His voice sounded disappointed in the rolling silence of the big room.
Meyers came closer. His steps were big and flat, like a clown's. He paused, maybe ten feet away, said, "Tim?" and then waited a few seconds for an answer, then said, "Shit" to himself and left.
Brolan went back to the drawers.
All the drawers but the bottom one were the same jumble of business odds and ends.
The bottom one held very explicit girlie magazines and a deck of playing cards that made Brolan sick in a very judgmental way. He tried to believe that anything consenting adults cared to do was their business, and basically he did believe that. But he had never been able to quite accept sadomasochism. The notion of pain equalling pleasure was not something he could grasp. He always had the sense that this was the sort of experience that could quickly get out of hand. Fun turned fatal.
