Done with the girlie magazines, he set the cards on top of the desk and proceeded to thumb through them. The men and women pictured wore leather get-ups that managed to make them look kinky and silly at the same time. Sometimes the girls held the whips; sometimes the guys held the whips. A few of the photos depicted people with fake blood smeared all over them.
All he could think of was Emma and what she'd looked like when he was setting her in the freezer. Her body cut up so many ways, so many times. He wondered if this was what all these people in the pictures wanted-either to be the killer or the killed.
Down near the bottom of the deck, he found the card that had the power to shock him. Even with a domino mask on, she was obviously Emma. She was being whipped by a fleshy man.
He put the cards in the pocket of his suit jacket, replaced the magazines, and then left the office.
In ten minutes he was inside his own office, the door closed, writing a letter to his partner, Foster.
I've decided, pally, that I need to stay home and get some work done.
I hope you understand.
I'll check in from time to time.
When he was finished with it, he took it down the hall to Foster's office. He folded it in half and set it on Foster's desk.
Then he was in the elevator and on his way to see his old enemy, Cummings.
He knew he was running out of time. He had to start searching. He just wished he knew what he was looking for.
13
Her second night in the neighbourhood she'd seen two old drifters go at each other with switch-blades. In a way, scary as it was, it was funny, too. The guys were so old and so drunk on Ripple that they could scarcely get around. But they went at each other pretty good, there in a small circle of light supplied by a light bulb over a warehouse door. It seemed the two old farts had been sleeping in the same boxcar-there was a railroad siding maybe a hundred yards to the east-when one woke up, found he'd drunk nearly all his wine, and then decided to blame the missing wine on the other drifter.
In all the fight went ten minutes, and neither one of them laid a blade on the other. Not that they didn't try hard. Not that they didn't want to. They were both truly mendacious sons of bitches, hard-core types who'd probably spent a good number of years in the slammer, and who were dying out their days lost amid the urban homeless. In her six months since leaving St. Louis and wandering through the Mid-west with just her little for-hire body and her soft night prayers to keep her going, she'd met a lot of such people.
Denise thought of all this as she headed that morning for Papa's Place, a grungy restaurant near the sleeping room she crashed in when she had money from turning tricks. In her coat pocket rode the billfold.
She thought again of the guy who tried to strangle her the previous night. She still couldn't decide if the attempt had been real or if it had just been part of getting his kicks. Maybe at the very last second he would have let her go. Maybe.
Papa's was filled, as always, with working-class guys breaking all the rules about cholesterol by ordering three eggs, ham, and American fries. This was the meal Denise liked herself. Spend a few bucks on a breakfast like that, and you didn't have to worry about food the rest of the day.
In the back, in the booths, were the drifters and the hookers, female and male alike. Papa's was one of those very old places with a pressed-metal ceiling, two big wooden-paddle fans to move around the greasy, sluggish air, a wall-length of counter and stools, and a wall-length of booths. Against the back wall were pinball machines that looked kind of neat when they were all lit up at night. Next to them was a jukebox. The guy who ran the place was always arguing with the runaways. He claimed that his real "paying customers" liked country and western. The kids, of course, wanted Madonna and rap music and things like that. Apparently he didn't consider buying a Pepsi or two an horn: proper qualification for being a "paying customer."
The kids were dressed for winter. The sexy clothes of summer had been replaced by heavy coats and pullover sweaters. There were ten of them scattered over three booths drinking, variously, pop and coffee. At the sight of Denise they waved and nodded but without much enthusiasm. Denise wasn't a particular favourite. She had a tough time talking about her feelings, and she distrusted almost on principle anybody who tried to get close to her. She'd been close only to her mother. But then her mother died. Denise had never forgiven her.
She went over to the last booth, where Polly sat. Denise hated the name Polly. It didn't fit the girl at all. A seventeen-year-old runaway from Ogden, Utah, Polly was, despite a few extra pounds, a classic beauty. Pretty as Denise was, she envied Polly her regal looks. But Polly was more than good-looking. She was the smartest runaway Denise knew.
Polly sat with Bobby, a handsome, dark-skinned boy, who was a favourite of men who cruised for boys. Bobby was seventeen and from a farm town up near the Canadian border. With his fashionable haircut and his cute, knowing face, Bobby gave the impression of being very sophisticated. But when he talked, you could tell he was a hick, with hick tastes. Bobby's big dream was to live in one of those condos near St. Louis Park and have a girlfriend. Bobby was always talking about girlfriends. He didn't want any of the kids to think he was gay just because he went with men.
"Hey, kiddo, how's it going?" Polly said. She always called Denise kiddo. For some weird reason Denise liked it. She guessed it was Polly's way of saying that she both accepted and liked Denise. Polly didn't call anybody else kiddo. Then, before Denise could say anything, Polly said, "You look kinda tired, kiddo."
"I am."
Bobby grinned. "Then throw yourself down here." He held his arm out as if he wanted Denise to slip right inside. She didn't mind playing around with Bobby-he was as nice as he was cute-but right then wasn't the time.
"Bobby, would you be mad if I asked to speak to Polly alone?"
"Whoa," Bobby said, grinning. "This must be serious stuff."
"It kinda is," Denise said.
Bobby shrugged. "They still playing hearts in that booth back there?"
Denise looked back in the booth. "Yeah. Why?"
"Then I'll go join them. Hearts are fun."
The kids played hearts all day sometimes, just waiting for the night and the stand they made on the streets or in Loring Park. Denise hadn't lived through a winter there yet, so she wasn't sure what happened when the snow started flying. Standing outside for long would probably get to be a drag real fast.
Bobby got up, kissed Denise on the cheek, and then slid into the booth behind them.
"You want some coffee?" Polly asked as Denise sat down.
"Huh-uh. Not right now, anyway."
Polly stared at her. "Wow, you really looked wasted." She narrowed her eyes and looked at the bruises along Denise's cheek. "Some bad-ass tried to stomp you."
"Sort of, I guess."
"I won't go with those rough-stuff guys, kiddo. You got to watch yourself. Remember all the things I told you."
"I remember, Polly. I really do."
"Good." She smiled. She had a beautiful smile. She seemed so much older and more mature to Denise. Almost wise. "So, what's up?"
"I just want to ask you some questions."
"All right."