Bernhardt's Edge (7 page)

“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.

M
OVING 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.

P
OWERS 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.

W
ILLIS 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.

They always waited upwind, the jungle killers, lying in the tall grass, watching, waiting. For hours, they waited. Protective coloration: the right clothes, the right car—the right time, the right place—and you were home free.

In eight years, he'd played a lot of characters. He'd played a messenger once, and once he'd played a rock musician. That had been a good one, that part. He'd really gotten into it, bought leathers, a two-hundred-dollar cowboy hat, with a snakeskin band. Mostly, though, he played the simplest part of all: an ordinary hoodlum who'd kill for whatever he found in the mark's pockets. Because if the cops thought it was a mugging that misfired, they forgot about it. But a hit, a professional job, they never forgot, because they could sniff the headlines, the ink. So, whenever he could, he pretended to be a hood, robbing on the street. Meaning that he had to go through their pockets, turn them out, pull off the rings, the gold chains. Sometimes he found something, sometimes he didn't. Once he'd found nothing. Absolutely nothing. The mark had been rich, too: a union official, with a Coupe de Ville. A fancy car, a fancy house, a fancy wife—but nothing in his pockets. Zero.

And then once, in New York, on a skinny mark who'd looked like a bum, he'd found thirteen thousand dollars, in an envelope, stuck down the front of the mark's pants. And he got to keep it all, part of the deal.

So it averaged out. Whatever he could take, that was his commission, plus his fee.

Fifty thousand dollars, Nick Ames was worth.

Fifty thousand—his biggest fee ever.

The first time, that bookie who was holding out, he'd done it for five hundred dollars. And he'd almost died. On bad nights, he could still see it: that gun barrel, pointing at him, with the hole so big, so black, filling the whole world. And the click, when the gun misfired. He could still hear the click, the difference between living and dying, a defective firing pin, or a cartridge that wouldn't fire.

That first time—those first years—protective coloration hadn't been a problem. He'd operated where he'd spent his whole life, in Detroit, the whole city a slum, all of them killing or getting killed, all of them black, animals feeding on animals, living off garbage, pissing in doorways, breeding like maggots, fucking like dogs, everywhere.

Then he'd gotten the assignment in Kansas City. Venezzio had put him in line for the job, coached him, given him the plan, told him the moves, then given him the money: a thousand up front, another five, when the job was done. Later, he'd discovered that Venezzio had taken half, his fucking commission, he'd said.

In Kansas City, he'd learned about protective coloration, learned how it felt, a black face in a lily-white suburb, sticking out like a snake on a rock.

It had taken him a week, to get the job done—a week until he'd finally figured it out, finally bought some jeans and a workshirt and a floppy hat, and posed as a gardener, while he staked out the mark, memorized the mark's schedule, like Venezzio had told him.

A snake on a rock—Kansas City, so many years ago—Beverly Hills, only two years ago. They'd been the same, those two. The same problem.

And now Santa Rosa, the smallest town he'd ever worked. He'd arrived five hours ago. He'd slept last night at a hotel near the San Francisco airport. He'd left a call for seven o'clock. He'd had breakfast, rented a car, made the drive to Santa Rosa in exactly an hour and forty minutes.

And so far he hadn't seen one black face. Mexicans, yes. Lots of Mexicans. But not a single black face. Meaning that, wherever he went, whatever he did, they'd remember him. He'd seen it in the motel manager's eyes, seen that look, the look you always lived with, the look you never could quite forget.

He'd picked the Holiday Inn, always a good choice, probably with the most rooms in town. He'd washed up, changed into a sweater, took the heavy suitcase, went out the back way, to his car. He'd put the case in the trunk and driven to the Starlight Motel, on the other side of the city. His first drive by, his first trip around the block, had told him a lot—told him that it would be very simple, to keep track of the Toyota.