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 lot 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.
Kellogg took a few steps backward. 'Yeah, I'm Kellogg.'
'Well, in that case, you can help me locate Emma.' Brolan forced himself to calm down and looked around again. The room was covered with drop cloths on the floor and walls. The drop cloths had been wounded many times with paint splotches-red, yellow, green, blue. Over in the east corner stood a half-dozen more canvases. These were all finished, and each of them bore the influence of Renoir. Each was just as bad as the half finished one on the easel.
'I don't know any Emma,' Kellogg said.
'You should. You're her pimp.'
'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'
'What the hell do you think it's supposed to mean, Mr. Kellogg?'
'You're calling me a pimp?'
'Right.'
'You bastard.' But there was a singular lack of passion in Kellogg's name-calling, as if his honour wasn't quite worth the effort. He nodded his curly dark locks toward the canvas. 'I'm a painter.'
'I can see that.'
You had to give Kellogg credit. At least he could pick up sarcasm. 'And you must be an art critic?'
'Afraid not. I work in advertising.'
Kellogg was passionate. His laugh was as scornful as Brolan had ever heard. 'Advertising? I'm not the pimp. You are.'
'Thank you.' Brolan was used to being insulted about being an ad man. Almost everybody considered himself morally superior to ad people. Even pimps.
Kellogg looked admiringly at his canvas as he spoke. 'So-called writers who write about cereal and so-called artists who design dog-food bags.' When his head swung abruptly back to Brolan, his dark eyes were angry. 'You're the pimp. Not me. And remember that.'
From inside his coat pocket, Brolan took one of the pornographic playing cards. He handed it with a certain elegance to Kellogg, as if he were presenting some most impressive credentials.
Kellogg recognized what it was immediately. He looked as if he wanted to drop the thing on the floor. 'What the hell's this thing?'
'Some people you know.'
'I've never seen them before.'
'Sure.'
Kellogg handed the card back. 'Exactly what the hell are you looking for anyway?'
'Emma.'
'I've already told you. I don't know any Emma.'
From somewhere inside the large condo, a telephone rang. 'Shit,' Kellogg said, shaking his head and glancing
