Bernhardt's Edge by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page B

above the hip bones. Holding the pose, he turned a quarter to the left, checking the stomach.
    â€œ A quarter turn to the left, guys ,” the loudspeaker had blared. “ Give us a profile, how about it ?”
    In the voice—the sergeant’s voice, amplified—he’d heard it all: the boredom, the hate, the total indifference, the cheerful, impersonal cruelty, and, always, the casual contempt. Because at that time, in that place, they were two different kinds of people, the officer and the inmates. Nine to five, the sergeant knew he was going home that night. Whoever waited for him, whatever waited, the sergeant would be going home to something—anything.
    But in his cell that same night, Willis Dodge had felt the loneliness close in on him, a vise, clamped across his chest, a fist, squeezing him dry.
    He’d cried, that night. He’d been seventeen, as tough as they come, he’d thought. But he’d cried. He’d thought about his mother, and he’d cried. And his father, too—the father he’d never seen—he’d thought about him, too, the man without a face.
    He let his muscles relax, took a white terry-cloth robe from an ornate golden hook, slipped into the robe, cinched in the belt at the waist, lifted the collar snug around his neck. The robe smelled laundry-fresh. It was a smell he needed, one more proof that, yes, he’d gotten it all. In eleven years, dating from that same night in his cell, that first time he’d ever been arrested, beginning probably with those hot, desperate tears of loneliness, of utter terror, he’d never looked back. He was twenty-eight now, with money in the bank, clothes in the closet, a BMW in the garage—and a white woman in his bed, whenever he felt like making the call.
    Willis Dodge…
    Black, beautiful Willis Dodge…
    Black, beautiful, rich Willis Dodge.
    Once a month, at least, he visited the old neighborhood, never at night, because of the BMW, always in the daytime, so he could see the car through his mother’s front window. He always—
    From the living room, he heard the telephone warbling. As he walked down the hallway, he checked the time: a little after eight. In a half hour, Diane would be there.
    Leaving the living room in darkness so he could see the city’s sparkling skyscape, he lifted the phone from its cradle.
    â€œIs this Mr. Fisher?”
    Fisher. Meaning that “Mr. Carter” was calling.
    â€œYes, this is Mr. Fisher.”
    â€œWell, we’ve—” A small, nervous pause. Good. Nervousness meant more money, more profit. Always.
    â€œWe’ve found him for you,” the voice said. “He’s in—ah—California. Northern California, a town called Santa Rosa. That’s about fifty miles north of San Francisco.”
    â€œGood. That’s good. I can take care of it right away. How d’you want to arrange it?”
    â€œYou want—ah—half now, up front. Is that right? Cash?”
    Willis Dodge nodded. “Yes. Just right.”
    â€œWell, what about if we—ah—if I send someone up to San Francisco—the San Francisco airport. I’ll give him the money, and all the information, in a sealed envelope. You could meet there, at the airport. Then you could rent a car, drive up to Santa Rosa.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” Dodge said. “The airport, that’s fine. But I want you to come, Mr. Carter. Just you.” He spoke softly, distinctly. “I don’t deal with flunkies. I already told you that, the last time we talked.”
    â€œOh. Well—” A cough. “Well, yes. I—ah—yes, that’ll be—” Another cough. “That’ll be fine.”
    â€œAre you calling from a pay phone?”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll make a reservation, and call you back in a few minutes. I think I can get out tonight. It’s only six o’clock, your time.