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?'
'Yes. When he is angry, he has terrifying face. You know?'
'I know.' The woman wasn't exaggerating. Cummings was a man whose face could clearly-almost oppressively-convey his feelings. You never had to worry about where you stood with Cummings. All you had to do was consult his face.
'Thanks again,' Brolan said. He walked back around the corner and started up the hall.
Near the elevator the office door opened, and suddenly there was Cummings. He wore a fitted white shirt with a loosened red necktie and blue pleated trousers that obviously belonged to a suit.
'You've got balls, Brolan, I've got to say that for you.' Brolan had the impression that this was the old West and that the meanest man in town had just announced his intention to draw down on him.
'How are you, Richard?'
'Don't give me any amenities, you jerk-off. What the hell are you doing up here?'
'I'd prefer talking in your office.'
'I'd prefer not talking to you at all.' Cummings's jaw muscles bulked. His eyes flared. As Brolan drew closer to him, he could feel Cummings's rage come off him like waves of heat. 'Anyway, I figured you'd be out celebrating the account you took from me.'
Brolan smiled. 'That was a few nights ago.'
He had the impression that Cummings was going to swing on him. Instead the man moved backward to the door, smashed it open, and stepped back for Brolan to go inside. 'I still want to know what the hell you're doing here.'
But before Brolan had a chance to speak, Cummings turned and led the way through the executive offices to his own office far in the back.
The place had changed a great deal since his last days there, Brolan noted. Dark panelling and even darker wainscoting gave the place the air of an exclusive lawyers' office. You wouldn't know the office was in the ad business at all except for a few discreetly placed framed print ads, all of them Clio winners. The buff blue carpeting seemed to get thicker the deeper you went into the place. By the time they reached Cummings's office,
Brolan had glimpsed half-a-dozen offices standing empty, each with a miniature American flag standing on its desk. Cummings must have gotten an extremely right-wing client and wanted to impress the man with the executives' patriotic fervour-exactly something Cummings would do, and without seeing anything ironic or cynical about it at all.
If the other offices looked as if they belonged to lawyers, Cummings's looked as if it were a judge's chamber. The dark panelling continued here, but it was joined by massive built-in bookcases and leather furniture that had recently been polished. It smelled pleasantly of oil. Mounted ashtrays sat next to each chair. They were made of marble and had claw bottoms, the sort of thing you would have seen in a men's club back when Victoria was still chiding Englishmen about their morality. A faint trace of cigar smoke lay on the air. Cummings probably still indulged-two a day, and good Cubans at that, never more.
Cummings hit him directly on the jaw.
It was a sucker punch because Brolan hadn't been expecting it at all, and it was, as you'd expect from Cummings, a hard punch. One moment Brolan had been standing there checking out the cushy office, and the next Cummings was slugging him.
Pinpoints of light-red, yellow, faint green-danced across the sudden panoramic darkness that cloaked Brolan's vision. It wasn't so much the pain as it was the disorientation, the rushing coldness in his nostrils, the wobbling of the knees. Blindly he put out a hand, grasping for anything that would help keep him on his feet. He didn't want to give Cummings the satisfaction of seeing him pitch to the floor. Why help Cummings gloat?
His fingers touched the leather of a chair. He steadied himself.
'Pretty mean punch, wouldn't you say?' Cummings said. He sounded as if they were boys talking about athletic prowess.
'You son of a bitch,' Brolan said, his vision beginning slowly to return.
'Me, son of a bitch? You steal one of my biggest accounts, and you call me a son of a bitch?'
Cummings put out a hand to Brolan's elbow. He was going to help Brolan sit down. Wasn't that sweet? Brolan jerked his arm away. He didn't want Cummings to touch him. All his hatred for the man-the man's preening, the man's arrogance, the man's psychotic temper-rushed back to him now. There were times when he could be almost sentimental about Cummings (the man's larger-than-life qualities could sometimes be endearing when viewed from far away) but now Cummings's presence was too real and overwhelming.
Brolan went over and sat down in one of the high-backed leather chairs.
'You want a cigar?' Cummings said.
'No, I don't want a cigar.'
