A few minutes later they were wheeling out of the garage. On the steering wheel, Brolan's hands were trembling.
3
Greg Wagner woke up to David Letterman's smirking at him. Actually Letterman was smirking at a young actress who'd just told him of her mystical experiences, but the camera had pushed in tight on the gap-toothed TV host, and so he gave the appearance of smirking directly at Greg. Of course by now, age thirty-two, Greg was used to people smirking at him. He was four feet nine, and spent a lot of time in his electric wheelchair. He'd been born with spina bifida. While the hump on his back had been diminished by surgery, he was still unable to feel anything in the lower part of his body. He could not always control his bowel or bladder functions. This made winning the hearts of beautiful women more than a little difficult
He had fallen asleep in front of the TV. His first thought on waking was: She's dead.
He wasn't sure why he thought this, but he knew that it was more than a simple pessimistic thought. He knew-was somehow absolutely certain-that God, or something, had granted him the power to know her fate.
And he knew-despite the past twenty-four hours of hoping against hope-that she was dead.
Emma.
Dead.
He moved away from the TV set into the kitchen. The duplex had been built specially for him. He could wheel or walk anywhere inside it handily, quickly.
In the soft blue kitchen-'It's such a peaceful colour,' the matronly decorator had clucked-he took a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator and drank half of it down in three quick gulps. God, was he thirsty.
Taking more of the Coke, he looked around the kitchen. Actually he agreed with the gushy woman who'd decorated both sides of the duplex. This soft blue was a peaceful colour. The custom-built oak cabinets and antique drop leaf table, two ladder-back chairs, and Oriental rug also contributed to the sense of harmony and civility. Like the living room, with its beamed ceilings, deep leather furniture and built-in bookcases, the kitchen was a place where he could shut himself away. Inside this duplex he was the master. It was the world that was odd, not he.
Knowing he shouldn't-he hadn't been doing his exercises a lot lately-he went over to the refrigerator again. This time he got out a slice of balogna, folded it in half, and started munching on it. The fat content was probably something like 99.9%. Wonderful.
He went back to the living room, surprised that he'd been hungry in the first place. Because he knew she was dead. Knew it
A reddish glow from the fireplace flickered across the painting of Linda Darnell that hung to the right of the fireplace itself. Darnell was a beautiful actress from the forties, his favourite era. He collected fanatically all sorts of movie memorabilia, from pin-back movie star buttons with the likenesses of Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford on them (both from the early 1930s and worth a great deal of money) to original lobby cards that depicted such stars as Hedy Lamarr, Abbott and Costello, and Carmen Miranda. This was another means of escape, and how he loved it, entombing himself within the confines of the Technicolor fantasies of the forties-Ty Power as Zorro, Clark Gable as Rhett, and Alexis Smith as anybody. He thought Alexis Smith was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He played Stallion Road, her 1947 picture with Ronald Reagan, at least once a week on the VCR.
Only when he thought of his one and only trip to Las Vegas a few years before did he become depressed when confronted with all his movie memorabilia. In Vegas he'd met many of the people he'd corresponded with over the years, and while on paper they'd sounded like nice, normal people, they'd turned out to be sad oddballs. Just as desperate for love and acceptance as he was. He should have felt right at home-they seemed to be far more accepting of him with his curved back and wheelchair than he was of them-but he'd left after the first day, flown back home, and sat in his living room and cried. For the first time, he despised all his silly movie things-the Bette Davis doll, the Ruby Keeler ice cream cup lid, the painted plaster of Paris Rudolph Valentino-Vilma Banky Son of the Sheik bed lamp and incense burner-the pathetic little icons that gave him his pathetic little pleasures. Later, on that first night back from Vegas, he'd taken the black hard-wood walking cane he'd someday hoped to use (before the doctor said that particular operation would not be successful) and smashed half of what he'd owned.
Remembering that terrible night, he went over to the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialled Emma's number. Almost instantly the phone began ringing on the other side of the duplex, where Emma lived.
Correction: had lived.
The phone rang and rang, sounding lonely, mournful.
He had never deceived himself about Emma. She was no mental giant. But she was a beauty, and she was possibly the kindest, most tender person he'd ever known. Being a prostitute had not coarsened her in any way. She still retained that curious farm-girl innocence and the sweet, soft laugh, and when his own nights grew too long and treacherous-there'd been a few suicide attempts in the past, and she knew about them-she helped him from his chair and sat with him on the couch, her sweet white arm around him, and they watched TV, just as if they were real lovers; and one night, she let her breasts slip through the sheer fabric of her dressing gown, and he'd held them and kissed them and revelled in the acceptance and love they represented.
He listened to the phone ring a few more times.
Dead.
Setting the receiver back, he went over to the radio to see if there was any news of a body being discovered anywhere.
Sobbing overtook him, his slight body and enlarged head trembling, shaking with grief so violent, it hurt his back.
Emma.
Dead.
4
In St. Louis Park new money drove Mercedes sedans and Jaguars and the occasional Ferrari. Old money still tended to drive Cadillacs and Lincolns. Brolan had lived here for the past six months, after getting a very good deal from an acquaintance of his whose agency was going down. The man was moving to the West Coast, too many people here mad at him. Chapter 11 tends to ruin friendships.
The house was a board-and-stucco English Tudor accented with a brick facade and a tall chimney. The front door was enclosed by a brick archway and opened on a vaulted and skylighted entry hall. The vaulted living room, stone hearth fireplace, and three bedrooms were way too much for a divorced man, but given the tax advantages the place gave Brolan, he couldn't afford to live anywhere else.
As he guided his car into the right stall of the two-car garage, the door having just lifted automatically, he glanced around the neighbourhood. No signs of life. His neighbours weren't the partying kind, especially not on a weeknight. With the window down, he shivered slightly. During the past half hour, he had felt the weather shift. Autumn was coming to an abrupt halt in the Twin Cities. This happened most years. Tuesday it was in the seventies; Wednesday it was in the twenties.
Then he thought about the parking garage, the sudden sense of dread he'd felt. And still felt. There was no explaining it… It was something he simply sensed.
'Wish my garage looked this good,' Foster said.
'Huh?' Brolan said.
'Your garage.'
'What about it?'
'It's so neat and orderly.'
'Oh. Yeah. Right.'
Foster stared at his partner, trying to look sober. 'You're acting weird.'
