by Ed Gorman
Kellogg took a few steps backward. "Yeah, I'm Kellogg."
"Well, in that case, you can help me locate Emma." Brolan forced himself to calm down and looked around again. The room was covered with drop cloths on the floor and walls. The drop cloths had been wounded many times with paint splotches-red, yellow, green, blue. Over in the east corner stood a half-dozen more canvases. These were all finished, and each of them bore the influence of Renoir. Each was just as bad as the half finished one on the easel.
"I don't know any Emma," Kellogg said.
"You should. You're her pimp."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"What the hell do you think it's supposed to mean, Mr. Kellogg?"
"You're calling me a pimp?"
"Right."
"You bastard." But there was a singular lack of passion in Kellogg's name-calling, as if his honour wasn't quite worth the effort. He nodded his curly dark locks toward the canvas. "I'm a painter."
"I can see that."
You had to give Kellogg credit. At least he could pick up sarcasm. "And you must be an art critic?"
"Afraid not. I work in advertising."
Kellogg was passionate. His laugh was as scornful as Brolan had ever heard. "Advertising? I'm not the pimp. You are."
"Thank you." Brolan was used to being insulted about being an ad man. Almost everybody considered himself morally superior to ad people. Even pimps.
Kellogg looked admiringly at his canvas as he spoke. "So-called writers who write about cereal and so-called artists who design dog-food bags." When his head swung abruptly back to Brolan, his dark eyes were angry. "You're the pimp. Not me. And remember that."
From inside his coat pocket, Brolan took one of the pornographic playing cards. He handed it with a certain elegance to Kellogg, as if he were presenting some most impressive credentials.
Kellogg recognized what it was immediately. He looked as if he wanted to drop the thing on the floor. "What the hell's this thing?"
"Some people you know."
"I've never seen them before."
"Sure."
Kellogg handed the card back. "Exactly what the hell are you looking for anyway?"
"Emma."
"I've already told you. I don't know any Emma."
From somewhere inside the large condo, a telephone rang. "Shit," Kellogg said, shaking his head and glancing at his canvas. Obviously he thought he was quite good.
Without excusing himself, he trotted off in his bare feet to get the phone. Around the corner where Kellogg had disappeared, Brolan got a glimpse of a coral wall behind a beautiful marble fireplace, a settee, and an Oriental rug. Kellogg certainly hadn't gotten those things from his painting.
Brolan strolled over to where other canvases had been stacked against the wall. He couldn't resist the impulse to find out just how bad a painter John Kellogg really was. The first few canvases were just about what he'd expected. Fruit bowls and winter skating scenes done in the Renoir style. Then he came to a canvas that rattled him. Staring up at him, her lovely green eyes sorrowful, was Emma. Not even John Kellogg's lack of talent could ruin the beauty of her face. Like the other canvases stacked there, this one had a paper "sold" tag on the back. It was made out to a Charles Lane.
He had just stepped back to the canvas when Kellogg came back into the room.
"Probably the Louvre calling, wasn't it?" Brolan said.
"You're very funny."
"When's the last time you saw Emma? And don't tell me you don't know her."
Kellogg's scornful laugh sounded again. "I told that bitch not to freelance." He had picked up his brush; he set it down again. "You made the big mistake, didn't you, fella?"
"What big mistake?"
"You paid her for an evening or so, and then you fell in love with her."
"Is that something that happens often?"
Kellogg nodded. "Often enough. That's why Emma needed me."
Brolan took due note of Kellogg's past tense.
"Emma went on her own?"
"On the side. We had an argument."
"About what?"
"Why should I tell you?"
Brolan waved the playing card at him again. "Any idea who's behind these?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you." He picked up his paintbrush again. He turned around and began studying the canvas once more. Without looking at Brolan, he said, "You won't be able to pull it off."
"Pull what off?"
" 'Taking her away from all this.' That's what you've got in mind, don't you? One of those corny redemptions you see in old movies. She's a beauty, I'll grant you that. But she's also a hooker through and through. She's one of the few women I know who actually enjoys this job."
"I'd like to find her. That's all I'm asking you."
"I haven't seen her for a couple days. Can't help you." Then he moved his brush to his palette and began the process of painting. "Now, why don't you flake off, fella?"
Brolan stared at the canvas. "You must have a special market."
"Huh?"
"Selling paintings to blind people."
"Funny stuff, asshole," Kellogg said.
Brolan left. He had concluded that he and John Kellogg were not in danger of becoming fast friends.
15
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.<
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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 see
n 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&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?"
