Bernhardt's Edge, page 5
part #1 of Alan Bernhardt Series
After a big dinner, Nick frequently relieved himself. And in the mornings, too. Always, in the mornings. For Nick, regularity was a major preoccupation.
Now he would be standing before the bathroom mirror, carefully combing his hair, wetting the comb under the tap, critically examining the effect, arranging and rearranging, fitfully frowning. At age thirty-six, Nick was beginning to lose his hair. In the year they’d been together, the hair loss had been obvious. And, yes, the rate of loss was accelerating.
And, yes, it bothered him. A lot.
Because, yes, Nick was a vain man, therefore secretly a vulnerable man. In Porterville, a valley town just north of Bakersfield, he’d been a star high-school athlete. He’d been co-captain of the football team in his junior year—the same year he’d scored his first piece of ass. Of course, according to Nick, the girl had been a cheerleader, a blonde sophomore with the biggest boobs on the squad.
The biggest, the best. Whatever it was, Nick had to have it—have it, or believe he’d had it.
It was, she realized, a braggart’s giveaway, a telltale admission of insecurity that would always dog him. When she was a young girl, still in grade school, she’d felt the same need to brag, to make up the stories of classroom triumphs that she would take home to her mother. Even in high school, still searching for an identity, desperately trying to impress others, she had invented petty triumphs. Some of the stories she told to her mother, but most she told to other girls.
God, how she’d envied them, the other girls who seemed so incredibly secure, so supremely self-confident, therefore so blasé. She could still remember the names: Angie Hill, so smart, so vivacious; Helen Patterson, so friendly, so sunny, so popular; Maxine Leamy, so beautiful, so incredibly assured. Once, when she was a junior, Helen Patterson had invited her to a pajama party. She’d been ecstatic, hardly able to believe it would really happen. But then, lying in bed that night, three nights before the party, the terrible truth had struck: If she went to Helen’s, and to Maxine’s, and Angle’s, then she must reciprocate, must invite them to her mother’s small, dark, third-floor apartment, must introduce them to her mother, of whom she was ashamed.
At the thought, the shameful memory, she closed her eyes, bit her lip, fought back a sudden sob. Because it was now, only now, at age thirty-three, that she finally realized how much her mother loved her. Only now, during these last terrible days, these deadly dangerous nights, did she realize, fully realize, that in all the world only her mother really cared for her. That fat woman, living alone with her two cats and her enormous TV and her grotesquely ruffled furniture—someone named Nora, who had briefly loved someone named Charlie Giles—that woman named Nora was all she had. And she was all her mother had. They’d started together, and might end together. Because the clocks were ticking: the temporal clocks and the biological clocks.
And, somewhere, a murderer’s clock was ticking, too.
Because if the wages of sin were death, then the wages of stupidity were—
The bathroom door opened. Wearing only his Calvin Klein jeans, Nick stood motionless for a moment in the doorway. He was a solidly built man, slightly bandy-legged, with bulging shoulders, a short, muscular neck, and strong, short-fingered hands that he carried away from his body, as if he were ready to defend himself. His face was self-indulgent, heavily handsome, with dark, thick eyebrows, a wide, muscle-bunched jaw. The mouth was thick-lipped, the nose was short and broad. But if the face was heavy, often combative, the eyes were a clear, vivid, celestial blue. And the voice was quiet—tight, often, but seldom harsh, almost never loud.
“What’s that?” He gestured to the TV. “I think I saw it.” He frowned, looked at the screen. Charlton Heston was driving alone through dark, deserted city streets. A submachine gun lay on the seat beside him. “I did see it. What’s the name of it?”
She shook her head, shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t been paying attention.”
“I know I saw it.” Still watching the screen, he stepped to the closet, took a plaid sports shirt from a hanger, took a clean undershirt from a drawer. She watched the play of his muscles as he slipped into the undershirt.
The feel of his muscles straining against her naked body was part of her permanent consciousness, she realized, her secret obsession. Constantly, she—
“Soylent Green,” he said, snapping his fingers. “It’s one of those after-the-atomic-war things. Ten, twelve years old, something like that.” As he spoke, he unbuckled his tooled leather belt, unbuttoned his jeans, began tucking in his sports shirt. On the TV screen, Charlton Heston was striding purposefully across piles of rubble, his machine gun cradled in the crook of his arm. She looked away from the screen, away from Nick, who now sat in the room’s single easy chair.
“Why don’t you turn it off?” she said.
Eyes still on the screen, he let a long, deliberate beat pass before he looked at her. “Where’s TV Guide?” he asked. “Maybe there’s something else on.”
“I want to talk, Nick. We’ve got to talk.”
He sighed petulantly, got up, switched off the TV, returned to the easy chair, which he swiveled to face her. As if the dead TV screen had snapped some essential connection with the make-believe world beyond, she saw his face sag, saw his eyes go suddenly hollow. This, she knew, was the face of fear.
And in her face, certainly, he could see the same sag of fear, the same emptiness behind the eyes.
She sat straighter in the bed, drew up her legs. She was wearing a T-shirt, and she saw his eyes drop appreciatively to her breasts. Sometimes she thought her breasts were all that drew them together. Sometimes it seemed that, since her teenage years, the swell of her breasts was her sole definition. Did her identity depend on the stares she could attract? Did any woman’s? Was anything else a self-deceiving illusion? A scholar had once written that, when man began walking upright, the relationship between the sexes began to equalize, because intercourse was then accomplished face-to-face. It was, the scholar had continued, the essential difference between men and the apes. Then he’d gone on to equate the buttocks of apes with the breasts of women, both contrived to invite the male, quicken his sexual appetite, the buttocks inviting intercourse from the rear, the breasts inviting “frontal entry,” as the scholar had put it.
“We’ve got to go back,” she said. “This isn’t any good. We can’t live like this.”
His eyes darkened. “You can go back if you want to. I’m not going back. Christ, they tried to kill me. Can’t you get that through your head?”
“It could’ve been robbery, Nick. Attempted robbery.”
Emphatically, he shook his head. “No. He was going to kill me. That’s all he wanted to do. I was lucky, just plain goddam lucky. But I’m not going to give them another chance. It’s easy for you to say we should go back. You’re not the one they’re after.”
“I can square it, though, make it right. I know I can make it right, if we go back.”
“You’re kidding yourself, Betty. For all you know, you could be next. Me, then you. It makes sense. Perfect sense. Think about it.”
“I’m willing to take the chance. It’s all we can do. It’s either that, or keep running.”
“You might be willing to take the chance. But I’m not.”
“I want to call him. I want to tell him you’re sorry—we’re sorry.”
“Sorry.” Contemptuously, he shook his head. “Christ, you make it sound like a—a kid’s prank, what we did. A game.”
“It’s what you did, Nick. You. Not ‘us.’”
“Christ!” He jumped to his feet, paced furiously to the door, turned to face her. “Is this what it’s going to be like—blaming me, putting everything on me? I thought—Christ, I thought we—” He gritted his teeth, chopped the air with a flattened hand.
“It was a crime, what you did, Nick.” Eyes downcast, she spoke quietly, regretfully.
“Wait. Whoa.” He stepped forward: one coiled, light, stiff-legged step. “It was a crime what he did, don’t forget that.”
“But it didn’t hurt you, what he did.”
“And it won’t hurt him, either, what I did. I—Christ—you talk like I’m a stickup man, or something. A fucking hoodlum.”
Still sitting with her legs drawn up, with her shoulders and back pressed against the bed’s headboard, eyes still lowered, she made no reply. In the silence, she heard voices from the driveway outside—young, eager voices, laughing, cavorting. Had she ever laughed like that, ever felt like that?
Still angry, he was speaking again, belaboring her with words: “I’m thirty-six years old, and I come from a long line of losers. And I decided—really decided—that I’m not going to eat shit for the rest of my life, like everyone else in my family. I decided, by God, I’m going to make people pay attention. Very goddam close attention.”
“They’ll pay attention, Nick. When you go on trial, they’ll pay attention.”
“Jesus, that’s just what I need, you know that? That’s just what I fucking need, right now. Thanks, Betty. Thanks a lot.” He turned, went to his suitcase, took the revolver from beneath the clothing. He thrust the revolver in his belt, grabbed a poplin jacket from a chair-back, slammed the door on his way out. Moments later, she heard the car’s engine come to life, heard the tires squeal as he pulled away.
4
MOVING SMOOTHLY, DODGE FLIPPED open the large saddle-leather suitcase on the bed. The suitcase was already partially packed with underwear, socks, a sweater, slacks, loafers, a toilet kit. He turned to his wardrobe closet, opened the doors, stood still for a moment, considering. Santa Rosa—Northern California—a medium-size town. Meaning sports clothes, nothing flashy, nothing citified. He stripped shirts from hangers, selected a casual jacket, two pairs of slacks, a pair of sport shoes from the shoe rack. He threw everything on the bed, then carefully folded the clothing, packed them, put the shoes in plastic bags. He straightened, took his practiced traveler’s last-minute inventory, then closed the suitcase, locked it with a key from his key ring. He returned to the closet, slipped out a matching leather case from the shelf. He took the second case to the bed, where he unlocked it, opened it. Both halves of the case were filled with scalloped foam. Embedded separately in the foam were a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum with a four-inch barrel, a .22 caliber Colt Woodsman with a six-inch barrel, and a UZI machine pistol, along with a silencer for the Woodsman, three clips for the UZI, and two boxes of cartridges, one for the .357, one for the Woodsman. Two ice picks, both with weighted metal handles, completed the cache. Quickly, he checked the contents of the cartridge boxes, checked the operation of the two handguns and the UZI. Working with the guns, his touch was as deft as a musician’s, handling his cherished instruments.
He closed the second suitcase and tested the lock. Now he slipped into a blue blazer, took an envelope from the first suitcase. He opened the envelope and riffled the contents: approximately five thousand dollars in used bills. He put the envelope in an inside pocket of the blazer, checked for his wallet, checked again for his keys, and his pocket change.
Next stop, San Francisco.
5
POWERS TOUCHED THE BREAST-POCKET-BULGE of the envelope, recrossed his legs, cleared his throat. Now he lifted the U.S. News and World Report so that it screened his face, as if he were nearsighted, and was concentrating on reading the magazine. His instructions had been simple, recognizably ingenious. He was to sit in the observation area, ostensibly reading. On his lap, placed so the logo could clearly be seen, he was to put a copy of Time. Both magazines were to be the current issues. Carefully, Fisher had repeated the instructions, then gone on to elaborate: If American flight 324 from Detroit was on time, and if Powers hadn’t been contacted by midnight, then he was to phone the Detroit number, and make new arrangements.
Meanwhile, dressed casually in slacks and a golf jacket, he was playing the part of the ordinary, work-a-day traveler, or the suburban husband, waiting to greet his returning family.
Time, 11:40 P.M.
What were the odds of his being recognized? How many people did he know in San Francisco, in Northern California? If it happened, if he was recognized, he’d say he was traveling incognito, suggesting that he’d been sent on a secret mission, business related. It was important, he knew, to have a prepared story, should the unexpected happen. Role-playing, staying one step ahead—in every field of endeavor, it was important. In the boardroom or the back alley, it was important to be prepared, constantly anticipating. He’d learned that, learned to—
He was aware that someone was standing in front of him—expectantly, politely standing in front of him. Conscious of a sudden, overwhelming reluctance, aware that his whole world was turning, tilting, about to fall away, he lowered the magazine.
Fisher was a black man, probably in his early thirties, conservatively dressed in a blue blazer, gray flannel slacks, a white button-down shirt, striped red tie, everything in place, the pat picture of the upwardly mobile black on the make. His luggage, too, was part of the predictable package: matched saddle-leather cases, convincingly worn. His features were regular, classical Negroid. His eyes were shrewd and watchful: careful, cautious, calculating eyes. His hair was short. His voice was quiet, urbanely modulated: “Mister Carter?”
Silently, Powers nodded. His eyes, he knew, were beyond control, in helpless flight from the impassive brown face before him to the nearby faces of random passersby to the doors leading out of the terminal—
—the doors he wished he were walking through, free.
The black man was sitting beside him, eyeing him expectantly. Familiarly, and expectantly.
“Did you bring it? The money?”
“Yes, I—” With his eyes still betraying him, aware that his voice was a stranger’s, he nodded, took out the envelope, handed it over.
“Thank you.” The black man nodded calmly, slipped the envelope into an inside pocket, the money uncounted. “Twenty-five thousand. Right?”
“Y—yes. Right.”
“In old bills.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll collect another twenty-five, right here, when the job’s done. Me and you, here, just like now. Right?”
“Yes.” Powers nodded, blinked, finally managed to keep his eyes steady, holding the other man’s gaze. “Right.”
“Okay—” The single word was soft and silky, the first suggestion of a Negroid patois. Was it intentional? Getting down to business, was Fisher deliberately evoking the dark, deadly menace of the ghetto, subtly threatening a black man’s vengeance if their bargain were breached?
“Now,” Fisher was saying, “what’s the situation, the rundown? Where is he?”
“He—” Involuntarily, Powers glanced cautiously aside, licked his lips, lowered his voice. “He’s traveling with a woman. It—it’s all in there—” He gestured. “In the envelope, with the money. I made a note of everything. And their pictures’re there, too. They’re staying at the Starlight Motel, in Santa Rosa. That’s an hour and a half north of here, by car. I put down their room number, too. Number twelve.”
“Have you got someone watching them?”
Powers nodded. “A private detective. He found them this afternoon, just this afternoon.”
“Is he staying at the same motel?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“This Santa Rosa—what kind of a place is it?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean,” Dodge said pleasantly, “what’s it like? Fancy? Not fancy? Give me the rundown.”
“Well, it—” Powers frowned, “it’s neither one. I mean, it's a nice, quiet place. About a hundred thousand people, I’d say.”
“What about black faces?”
“Black—?” Still frowning, Powers shook his head. Then, as realization dawned, he slowly nodded. “Oh, yes. I—I see. I see what you mean.”
Dodge’s full, purplish lips upcurved in a slow, contempt-twisted smile. “It’s called protective coloration, Mr. Carter. That’s what it’s called in the jungle.” As he spoke, he rose to his feet, picked up the two saddle-leather suitcases. “Tonight’s Wednesday. Why don’t we figure on meeting here—right here—at noon on Friday. That’s assuming I’ve got the job finished, by then. If you watch the Santa Rosa papers, you’ll read about it, probably, when it’s finished. Or maybe you won’t read about it, with luck. But, either way, you’ll be bringing the rest of it, the other twenty-five thousand. Right?”
“Y—yes. Th—that’s right. Friday. Yes. Fine.”
“You won’t forget, will you?” This, too, was said softly, a smooth, silky threat. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“N—no, I—I wouldn’t do that.”
“Good.” Dodge nodded politely, smiled pleasantly, and walked away, softly whistling.
THURSDAY September 13th
1
WILLIS DODGE YAWNED, BUNCHED his shoulders, rotated his head, gripped the steering wheel with both hands, using the wheel to push and pull against, doing aerobics, keeping the muscles loose. He’d been working the neighborhood for almost five hours, sometimes parking, sometimes driving, trying to disappear into the scenery, just another citizen, minding his own business. Because, like he’d told “Carter,” protective coloration was what it was all about: like animals, in the jungle. You didn’t stick out, you had an edge. You could get closer, without the mark suspicioning anything. Or you could just wait, until the mark came to you. If you looked like you belonged, wherever you were, played the part, looked like the part you were playing, then you could just wait, take it slow and easy, do the job, get the money, go home, get laid, go to sleep, forget.
Kill or be killed. Jungle law. Ghetto law, too.
