by Ed Gorman
"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.
16
THE BUS RIDE TO St. Louis Park took nearly an hour. During it the sky turned from dark grey to black, the oppressive winter-black that Denise hated so much sometimes. It got so dark so early in the late fall and winter, it was as if there were never any light at all, especially during the months of November and December. She always wondered how Eskimos got used to it
The closer the bus drew to St. Louis Park, the larger and more impressive the homes became. When she was still living with her parents, she'd liked to watch sitcoms from the fifties and sixties. The homes in those-at least to Denise's farm girl eye-were like palaces. She recalled especially the Beaver's. What did the Beav and his dorky brother have to complain about anyway? Living in a home like that. God.
Glancing around her, inside the bus, she felt out of place. The other passengers tended to be much older, mostly women toting home various packages. None of them looked particularly friendly, either. She knew she looked out of place. She wondered if they suspected who she was, what she'd been doing with her life the past eleven months. Going with the men still embarrassed her. No matter how she tried to rationalize it, the word was always the same: whore.
That's the word other people put upon her anyway. She could not quite bring the word upon herself.
The bus driver had told her he'd tell her where she should get off. Sure enough, he kept his word. He turned around and said, "This is it, hon," and pulled up to a dark corner. She took a moment to note how he'd called her "hon." Actually, it made her feel good. She knew it was foolish. To put too much on somebody's calling her an affectionate name. But it made her feel good anyway.
She nodded her thanks and got off the bus, standing on the corner until it pulled away in an invisible cloud of diesel fuel.
She looked around. She felt as if she'd just been dropped off at the last outpost of civilization. Despite all the big houses, she still felt isolated. Hunching down into her coat, she crossed the street and began looking for the address that was on the wallet card.
It took her nearly twenty minutes to find it. The place was large, angular, and set in a copse of elm trees up on a shelf of a hill. The place was also dark. Completely. It stood out in contrast to all the well-lighted homes on either side of it.
The first thing she did was check out the garage. She walked along the snow-encrusted side of the attached garage and looked to see if there were any cars. Pressing her nose up to the window, she peered inside. Empty. Without knowing why, she felt relief. She also felt cold. The temperature had to be nearing zero. Her nostrils felt glued to the bone in her nose. Her cheeks were already numb.
Having no skills whatsoever as a burglar (actually, a few months back, there'd been a street kid who had a crush on her who'd wanted to teach her about such things), she decided the only thing she could try was smashing a window in the back and climbing inside. She might have no skills as a burglar, but she had the appetites. Maybe the guy had stuff worth stealing. Portable stuff that could be easdy sold in pawnshops.
Pale moonlight gave the snow on the hill in back an eerie flat gold colour. She could see occasional dog turds and yellow snow. Either the guy had a dog, or neighbourhood dogs had elected his yard the communal toilet. Dogs scared her. She looked with new fear at the dark windows facing her on the back of the house. What if she got in all right, only to be jumped on and tom about by some pit bull lying in wait? She'd seen a 60 Minutes report on pit bulls that had made her forever petrified of the animals.
She stood there for a time saying an odd prayer or two for good luck and then realized that this was about the worst thing you could do-ask God to help you become a good thief.
She went up to a window to the right of the door, made a fist of her gloved hand, and then smashed her hand through the glass.
She held her breath, waiting for a burglar alarm to sound. She heard a car hissing by on the street out front, a big aeroplane lost somewhere in the rolling silver clouds above, a lonely dog yipping and yapping in the far distance, and an even more distant train roaring through the white mid-western night.
But she did not hear a pit bull, and she did not hear a burglar alarm.
Even though she knew she was being sacnlegious, she offered a silent prayer of thanks.
Then she set about trying to get into the house.
The first thing she realized was that she was too short to reach the hook inside that locked the window. She had to go into the oil-smelling garage and get a plastic milk case and bring it back to the window and stand on it to give herself enough height. The second thing she realized was that she had to break yet another window and fiddle with yet another hook to actually get inside. So, she had to go through all the terror again-waiting for the sound of a pit bull, waiting for the sound of an alarm.
In all it took her seventeen minutes to get inside. She stood in a large and largely empty dining room. The whole place-from what she could see from there-sort of looked like that… curiously empty. Oh, everything looked nice and expensive, what there was of it, but it appeared that the guy didn't have the money (or something) to finish the job of furnishing the place.
Still leery of a pit bull springing on her from nowhere, she set about searching the house. Once, just as she was standing in the centre of the living room, headlights splashed through the curtains and across the wall. She stopped, frozen, heart pounding, a glaze of sweat covering most of her body.
The man was home.
What was she going to do?
But then, miraculously, the headlights withdrew, a transmission whined in reverse, and the car was going back down the street.
Just turning around. Nothing more.
Her next stop was the basement. She'd found a flashlight sitting on a kitchen counter, and she used it then, easing her way down the basement stairs. A furnace blasted on when she got about halfway down, startling her. The flashlight picked out a large family room that, like the upstairs, gave the impression of crying out for furniture. Instead of curtains, for instance, the windows were covered with sheets and pillow cases.
In other parts of the basement she found a bathroom complete with shower, a formidable workshop area, and a large freezer.
For some reason she was curious about the freezer and was ready to open it when the phone started ringing upstairs. Suddenly she heard a male voice filling the darkness above her. An answering machine telling people that
he wasn't home. She let her hands slide from the lid of the freezer. She decided to go back upstairs, to the bedrooms. Most people kept cash on hand somewhere in the house. Thus far she hadn't found any, true, but the bedrooms were probably a more likely place to hide cash anyway.
On her way through the living room to the staircase, she thought again of sitcom families. Just a little more furniture, and this place would be a palace. How nice it would be to live there instead of a cramped, five-room farmhouse, where every night she'd had to listen to… She thought of her older sister Janice. How Janice had looked that last time in the hospital.
But there was no time for that. She wanted to find some cash… She went up the stairs.
There were three bedrooms on the upper floor. In the beam of the flashlight, the upstairs looked even more desolate than the rooms downstairs. In one she found clothes that still were packed in boxes, along with odds and ends such as hairbrushes and cuff links and shoe trees. In another, she found boxes of books. Here was a man who obviously liked to read. She pulled up one of the books and looked at it, an expensive hardcover entitled The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. She had seen the movie version of this with Robert Redford and hadn't liked it.
In the third bedroom she found a double bed askew with twisted sheets and covers. The electric blanket was still on, its controls still glowing orange in the darkness. The windows were rimmed with frost; she wanted to climb into the bed and get under the covers and luxuriate in long hours of uninterrupted sleep.
In a four-drawer dresser in the west corner of the bedroom she found a small red box that had once contained chequebooks. It now contained cash. More than two hundred dollars. She put the money in her coat pocket and started downstairs.
When she got halfway down, the phone rang again. The sounds were loud, almost eerie, in the big, dark, empty house.
She heard the man's voice say he wasn't home but would call back as soon as possible, and then she heard another voice, the live one, describe how badly he wanted to talk to the man who lived there. The caller said that he knew the man could take his messages off this machine from a long ways away, so would the man please come over to the caller's house ASAP. Then the caller hung up.
