by Ed Gorman
The girlie magazines were harmless enough if you liked the type. The girls weren't pretty, and many of them were tattooed, and most of them were fat. All of them had their legs spread and showed you their wet pink sex. During the dreary days following his divorce, Brolan himself had bought magazines such as these. Not Penthouse and Playboy, which he still bought, but the down-and-dirties. At that time they'd held a curious appeal for him-their ambience seemed to be part danger and part sorrow. The women looked like the type who always turned up floating in a river somewhere. They bore no resemblance to Hefner's Playmates, with their radiant smiles and radiant bodies.
Done with the girlie magazines, he set the cards on top of the desk and proceeded to thumb through them. The men and women pictured wore leather get-ups that managed to make them look kinky and silly at the same time. Sometimes the girls held the whips; sometimes the guys held the whips. A few of the photos depicted people with fake blood smeared all over them.
All he could think of was Emma and what she'd looked like when he was setting her in the freezer. Her body cut up so many ways, so many times. He wondered if this was what all these people in the pictures wanted-either to be the killer or the killed.
Down near the bottom of the deck, he found the card that had the power to shock him. Even with a domino mask on, she was obviously Emma. She was being whipped by a fleshy man.
He put the cards in the pocket of his suit jacket, replaced the magazines, and then left the office.
In ten minutes he was inside his own office, the door closed, writing a letter to his partner, Foster.
I've decided, pally, that I need to stay home and get some work done.
I hope you understand.
I'll check in from time to time.
When he was finished with it, he took it down the hall to Foster's office. He folded it in half and set it on Foster's desk.
Then he was in the elevator and on his way to see his old enemy, Cummings.
He knew he was running out of time. He had to start searching. He just wished he knew what he was looking for.
13
HER SECOND NIGHT in the neighbourhood she'd seen two old drifters go at each other with switch-blades. In a way, scary as it was, it was funny, too. The guys were so old and so drunk on Ripple that they could scarcely get around. But they went at each other pretty good, there in a small circle of light supplied by a light bulb over a warehouse door. It seemed the two old farts had been sleeping in the same boxcar-there was a railroad siding maybe a hundred yards to the east-when one woke up, found he'd drunk nearly all his wine, and then decided to blame the missing wine on the other drifter.
In all the fight went ten minutes, and neither one of them laid a blade on the other. Not that they didn't try hard. Not that they didn't want to. They were both truly mendacious sons of bitches, hard-core types who'd probably spent a good number of years in the slammer, and who were dying out their days lost amid the urban homeless. In her six months since leaving St. Louis and wandering through the Mid-west with just her little for-hire body and her soft night prayers to keep her going, she'd met a lot of such people.
Denise thought of all this as she headed that morning for Papa's Place, a grungy restaurant near the sleeping room she crashed in when she had money from turning tricks. In her coat pocket rode the billfold.
She thought again of the guy who tried to strangle her the previous night. She still couldn't decide if the attempt had been real or if it had just been part of getting his kicks. Maybe at the very last second he would have let her go. Maybe.
Papa's was filled, as always, with working-class guys breaking all the rules about cholesterol by ordering three eggs, ham, and American fries. This was the meal Denise liked herself. Spend a few bucks on a breakfast like that, and you didn't have to worry about food the rest of the day.
In the back, in the booths, were the drifters and the hookers, female and male alike. Papa's was one of those very old places with a pressed-metal ceiling, two big wooden-paddle fans to move around the greasy, sluggish air, a wall-length of counter and stools, and a wall-length of booths. Against the back wall were pinball machines that looked kind of neat when they were all lit up at night. Next to them was a jukebox. The guy who ran the place was always arguing with the runaways. He claimed that his real "paying customers" liked country and western. The kids, of course, wanted Madonna and rap music and things like that. Apparently he didn't consider buying a Pepsi or two an horn: proper qualification for being a "paying customer."
The kids were dressed for winter. The sexy clothes of summer had been replaced by heavy coats and pullover sweaters. There were ten of them scattered over three booths drinking, variously, pop and coffee. At the sight of Denise they waved and nodded but without much enthusiasm. Denise wasn't a particular favourite. She had a tough time talking about her feelings, and she distrusted almost on principle anybody who tried to get close to her. She'd been close only to her mother. But then her mother died. Denise had never forgiven her.
She went over to the last booth, where Polly sat. Denise hated the name Polly. It didn't fit the girl at all. A seventeen-year-old runaway from Ogden, Utah, Polly was, despite a few extra pounds, a classic beauty. Pretty as Denise was, she envied Polly her regal looks. But Polly was more than good-looking. She was the smartest runaway Denise knew.
Polly sat with Bobby, a handsome, dark-skinned boy, who was a favourite of men who cruised for boys. Bobby was seventeen and from a farm town up near the Canadian border. With his fashionable haircut and his cute, knowing face, Bobby gave the impression of being very sophisticated. But when he talked, you could tell he was a hick, with hick tastes. Bobby's big dream was to live in one of those condos near St. Louis Park and have a girlfriend. Bobby was always talking about girlfriends. He didn't want any of the kids to think he was gay just because he went with men.
"Hey, kiddo, how's it going?" Polly said. She always called Denise kiddo. For some weird reason Denise liked it. She guessed it was Polly's way of saying that she both accepted and liked Denise. Polly didn't call anybody else kiddo. Then, before Denise could say anything, Polly said, "You look kinda tired, kiddo."
"I am."
Bobby grinned. "Then throw yourself down here." He held his arm out as if he wanted Denise to slip right inside. She didn't mind playing around with Bobby-he was as nice as he was cute-but right then wasn't the time.
"Bobby, would you be mad if I asked to speak to Polly alone?"
"Whoa," Bobby said, grinning. "This must be serious stuff."
"It kinda is," Denise said.
Bobby shrugged. "They still playing hearts in that booth back there?"
Denise looked back in the booth. "Yeah. Why?"
"Then I'll go join them. Hearts are fun."
The kids played hearts all day sometimes, just waiting for the night and the stand they made on the streets or in Loring Park. Denise hadn't lived through a winter there yet, so she wasn't sure what happened when the snow started flying. Standing outside for long would probably get to be a drag real fast.
Bobby got up, kissed Denise on the cheek, and then slid into the booth behind them.
"You want some coffee?" Polly asked as Denise sat down.
"Huh-uh. Not right now, anyway."
Polly stared at her. "Wow, you really looked wasted." She narrowed her eyes and looked at the bruises along Denise's cheek. "Some bad-ass tried to stomp you."
"Sort of, I guess."
"I won't go with those rough-stuff guys, kiddo. You got to watch yourself. Remember all the things I told you."
"I remember, Polly. I really do."
"Good." She smiled. She had a beautiful smile. She seemed so much older and more mature to Denise. Almost wise. "So, what's up?"
"I just want to ask you some questions."
"All right."
"I mean, they're not about me."
"Right."
"They're really not."
Polly smiled. "They're about a friend of you
rs."
"Well, let's just say they're not about me."
"If you say so."
Denise snuggled into the booth, trying to get comfortable. Not easy, when the booth was nothing more than painted pine board. The ass quickly got sore sitting on painted pine board. "Say you were with this guy who tried to beat you up."
"Okay."
"But I mean real serious. Maybe he even tried to kill you."
"All right."
"And say that you managed to get away safely."
Polly nodded.
"And say that earlier you'd picked him clean, you know, taken his wallet and stuff. So, you knew where the guy lived and everything."
Polly frowned. "You're thinking of Chet, aren't you?"
Denise didn't say anything for a while then answered, "Yeah, I guess so."
Chet was a fifteen-year-old who'd gotten himself linked up with a doctor who was really into the rough stuff. The doctor enjoyed being beaten. Really severely. All the kids on the street thought this was hilarious. There was just something inherently funny about a doctor who wanted you to work him over (he particularly liked the sting of black leather gloves). Then one day, when Chet was relating his latest experiences with this guy, one of the kids said, "You should tell this guy that if he don't start giving you a lot more money, you're going to start calling his family and his colleagues and shit like that, you know?" So, Chet took the suggestion and started shaking the guy down. How Chet's life changed. New clothes, access to the doc's convertible, lot of spending money. Even managed to work out a weekly deal with a not-too-bad-motel where he could stay. After a few months old Chet didn't even want to spend any time with the other kids. Considered himself too good for them. He no longer needed to turn tricks. He was shaking down the doctor. Then, after a while, Chet vanished. He didn't even cruise by anymore in the red convertible so the other kids would drool. He was just… gone. There was a lot of speculation. One story had Chet taking all his money and splitting for LA, where he was going to try to model. Another story had him taking off for Alaska, where he had a brother, and the brother had a wife and two kids and a big dog, and where Chet was going to forget everything he knew about the streets. A third theory-and the inevitable one-was that the doc got sick of paying Chet off and killed him in some fashion. A doc could do it good and maybe not even ever get caught. Anyway, Chet disappeared. People still talked about him. Whatever happened to him anyway? You really think the doc stiffed him?
Polly said, "It's pretty dangerous shit."
"I wouldn't ask for much."
"How much?"
"Couple hundred."
"This guy look rich?"
"He had a new car." She had dropped the pretence that she was talking about somebody else.
Polly sat there, with her gorgeous blue eyes and her somewhat imperious nose and her large, erotic mouth, and shook her head. "Kiddo, I don't think you want to get involved in something like this."
"I could buy some new winter clothes and stuff."
"I don't know, kiddo. What if he jumps on you again?"
"I'll take a knife." She tried to sound tough. "If he gets crazy again, I'll just pull the knife on him."
Polly laughed. "You don't see yourself right."
"Huh?"
"You think you're this real hard-assed street chick, but you're not, kiddo. You're just this lost little girl. I mean, I'm not tryin' to hurt your feelings, but it's the truth."
"I've managed to survive so far, haven't I?"
"Hey, don't get pissed, kiddo. I'm tryin' to be your friend. I'm tryin' to keep you out of trouble."
Denise shrugged. "I guess you're right. Sorry I got so uptight."
"It's all right." She reached across and patted Denise's hand. That was one thing Denise liked about Polly in particular. She wasn't afraid to act like your older sister or even mother. She smiled. "So, you gonna forget it, kiddo?"
"Yeah," Denise said. "Yeah, I am."
But of course she wasn't. As soon as she left there, she was going to look up on the city bus map the address she found in the guy's wallet. Then she was going to give him a surprise. One he'd never forget. One he'd be willing to pay for to forget.
After a time Bobby came back and asked if it was okay if he, like, you know, sat down. Bobby could be real shy sometimes, and that was part of why Denise found him so cute. So, he sat down and slid his arm around Denise and kind of flirted with her the rest of the time she was there. Denise liked Polly and Bobby so much; they were real friends. Maybe after she got the money from this guy, she'd do something real nice for them. Buy them sweaters or something.
In half an hour Bobby drifted away, and Polly announced that she had to meet somebody over by the Civic Centre. Denise assumed she meant a trick. Polly was very discreet, sometimes frustratingly so.
Denise sat there alone and finished her Pepsi. Before she left Papa's, she went in the back, near the toilets that always smelled like those scented skunks you hang off rear-view mirrors, and dug the wallet out of her coat She flicked through several pieces of ID, some credit cards, and about sixty dollars in fives and tens, and found the home phone number listed on the this-wallet-belongs-to card. The phone rang five times, and then an answering machine came on and a male voice, sort of distorted by the machine, said, "This is Frank Brolan. I'm unable to talk to you at the moment. If you'd leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as possible."
Standing there next to the sweet-smelling toilet, working men pushing against her as they made their way back up front, Denise smiled to herself, forgetting all the ominous stories Polly had told her about the boy named Chet. This was going to be easy and maybe even fun.
Real soon Denise was going to have herself some money.
14
NEAR THE UNIVERSITY of Minnesota was a small messenger service that would deliver virtually anything within the city limits. After leaving the agency, and taking along a plain white number-ten envelope, Brolan drove straight to the messenger service and asked if they had a mailing bag. The girl at the counter gave him one; Brolan went over to the customer counter and filled out the address he was sending it to. Then he took the playing card with Emma's photograph on it, circled her head in ink, and dropped the card back in the white number-ten. Then he put the number-ten inside the mailing bag he'd already addressed.
He took the bag back to the counter. The girl checked the address and said, "Three hours all right, sir?"
"Fine. How much will it be?"
"I hate to say it, but it'll be six dollars. There's a minimum, I'm afraid."
"I know." Usually this service delivered much heavier objects. In fact, the girl seemed puzzled-but didn't say anything-about Brolan's mailing something so light. He gave her six dollars and left.
John Kellogg was the name of Emma's pimp. Given his address, you'd never guess his occupation, which was probably why he was so successful at what he did. He had a condo not far from the expensive Shorewood area. Everybody in the glass-and-stone-and-wood six-plex seemed to drive a new Mercedes-Benz. Seeing six of them arrayed together, Brolan had the sense that he'd just entered a car lot.
Fog lapped at his face. Even this many hours from darkness, the overcast sky set the day in a kind of limbo-not exactly day, not exactly night. From one of the condos came the sound of Dvorak, turned up as loud as a teenager would have a boombox.
Brolan went in the first door and checked the three mailboxes. John Kellogg was in 108. Brolan went up the stairs. Dvorak's music filled the hallways. He was surprised-even given the good taste of the listener-that the neighbours didn't complain. It was one thing condo owners and ghetto dwellers had in common. Rude neighbours.
When he came to Kellogg's door, he knocked twice loudly. No response. He listened to the music for a time. It had a soothing effect on him. But soon enough images of a dead woman in a freezer chest and images of prison came to him. You're still the likely choice, pally, as Foster would say.
He knocked again, this time a l
ot more aggressively.
The guy who opened the door was probably around Brolan's age. He was slender; his curly dark hair formed a widow's peak on his forehead; his handsome features were outsize, lending them a certain theatricality. He wore a blue V-neck sweater with no shirt underneath, and a lot of astroturf hair spilled out of the V. His jeans looked painted on. He wore no shoes. Behind him, in a large room that was obviously intended as the living room, stood an artist's easel with a canvas on it. Half-finished was a watercolour of a bowl of fruit. The technique clearly stated that this man considered himself a disciple of Renoir. The only difference between the two men was that Renoir had had talent. Even with his untutored eye, Brolan could see that this was not a genius standing in the doorway.
"Yeah?" From the glance the man gave Brolan, it was obvious he was not exactly a big fan of Brolan's, either.
"You're John Kellogg?"
"Maybe."
Brolan had to smile. The man's surliness was almost childish. "I'm trying to locate a woman."
The man smirked. "Aren't we all?"
"Her name is Emma."
Something shifted in Kellogg's dark eyes. Not only recognition but some other emotion far more serious than merely recognising her name. Fear? Or was Brolan only finding what he wanted to find?
"Can't help you," the man said.
He started to close the door. Like a good encyclopaedia salesman, Brolan got his foot between door edge and jamb before the man could do anything more.
"I'd really appreciate five minutes of your time," Brolan said.
"You son of a bitch," the man said, glancing down at Brolan's foot.
Just then the Dvorak music swelled. Kellogg frowned and glanced, irritated, down the hall. Brolan used Kellogg's distraction to push his way in.
"Who the hell are you?" Kellogg said.
"You're Kellogg, right?"
"So what the hell if I am?"
"I want a straight answer." Brolan moved close enough to the man to rattle him a little.