"I mean, they're not about me."
"Right."
"They're really not."
Polly smiled. "They're about a friend of yours."
"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.