"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.