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.
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?"