The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page A

contact with your own subconscious. Or, at least, that’s what the experts say. As far as I’m concerned, I just—just wait for it to happen. And hope. It’s a very unpredictable thing, believe me.”
    “I read an article about you two or three years ago, in Newsweek .” He seemed to stress the title. “I was interested. I really was. I remember they said something about the subconscious, too, like you say. They said it was like an iceberg. The 90 per cent that’s under the water, that’s the subconscious. The other part is the way we think, just about anything.” He paused, frowning. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “Did you go to college?”
    “Yes. I studied journalism.”
    “That fella that was just here …” He pointed to the empty chair. “He’s my lawyer.”
    “I gathered that.”
    He nodded, staring at me with eyes narrowed and jaw thrust forward. I was remembering the remark Montez had made about the college graduates Russo employed.
    I realized that I was beginning to squirm. And then, surprisingly, I realized that I wasn’t squirming from fear or nervousness, but rather from irritation and impatience. Russo, in the flesh, didn’t intimidate me. He was just another forceful, aggressive, self-made man who couldn’t manage his syntax as well as he managed his bank balance.
    “You know,” he said suddenly, his voice a little louder. “You know, I like you. You’re all right. The trouble with my business, you never have a chance to meet guys with any real class. Everyone’s either yessing you or else they’re out to get you. And you get tired of it. I been on my own since I was twenty years old. And I’ve done all right, too. But all my life I haven’t had anything but third-rate guys around me. Tough guys. That’s all they think about, how tough they are. You know what I mean?”
    “Yes, I know what you mean.”
    “Like Dominic. He was a tough guy. And look what it got him. Dead.”
    I decided not to answer. If he was ready to talk, I was ready to listen.
    “You know what I’ve got a good mind to do?” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve got a good mind to let you go ahead and see what you can find out. I’d like to see what happens.” Then, frowning, he added, “If you didn’t do this other—this crime reporting—you wouldn’t even be here, believe me. But when I heard about it, I figured you must be a guy who knows how things are. Right?”
    I felt myself nodding. I knew how things were. Larsen knew, too.
    “What I mean is,” he continued, his voice lowering to a more purposeful, more confidential note, “I’ve talked with a few reporters in my time. And I’ve talked to a few cops, too. I guess I don’t have to tell you that. And it’s like you said a little while ago, you’ve got to live and let live. But if someone gets out of line, no matter which side he’s on, he gets his knuckles rapped. Right?”
    I cleared my throat. “Yes. Right.”
    For a long, intent moment he stared directly into my eyes, still sitting hunched forward in his chair.
    “What I mean,” he said, “is that I don’t want you talking to anyone, without you first talk to me. That means Aidia, or the cops or anyone else. If you get a—a picture, you tell it to me first. Right?”
    I nodded, slowly.
    He raised his hand and deliberately pointed his index finger directly at my forehead. As he did, he closed one eye, sighting along the finger.
    “You’re sure you understand me, now? You’re a nice young guy. I like you, like I said. You’ve got class. So I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.” He lowered his forefinger, still staring at me with his small dark eyes. “You understand?”
    All I could think about was Larsen’s similar gesture: the long forefinger, pointing in warning.
    “Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I understand.”
    Immediately he smiled, settling back in his chair.
    “Good.” He said it loudly, heartily. Then, reaching to the bottle-laden table, he said,