AS DUBOIS TOUCHED ONE green button on the arm, the wheelchair’s motor whirred, the right wheel turned and the chair pivoted to the left, bringing him directly in front of the Utrillo. The painting was titled “The Marketplace,” and represented the best of Utrillo’s middle period. This was the time when Utrillo had been experimenting with the middle of his palette. Never had he been more successful with his close values and subtle textures, even though, in this period, it was possible to discern the beginning of the broader, bolder brush strokes that characterized his most productive, most evocative period, the period that continued until his death.
With the first two fingers of his right hand, he simultaneously pushed the two green buttons, lightly. The motor whirred again; the chair inched forward, letting him move close enough for his quadra-focals to bring the details of the painting into sharper focus.
Specially designed wheelchairs, specially ground lenses—special bed, special food, a special communications network mated to a mainframe computer, they were the miracles of science that circumscribed his life.
Yet, half a glass full, they expanded his life, these mechanical and electronic miracles. Without the self-propelled wheelchair he would be immobilized, dependent on a servant to wheel him wherever he went: to bed, to the bathroom—and here, to his paintings, these masterworks, these magnificent painted fragments of men’s lives, literally their souls expressed on canvas stretched over wooden frames. Without his gadgets, he would be denied this pleasure, this ultimate experience of his life.
Without the gadgets…
Without Betty.
If electrical gadgets circumscribed his life, then so did platitudes. She’s like a daughter to me was one of the paler platitudes. The child I never had was another.
But, surprise, these pale platitudes were definitive. Because, surprise, ever since he’d given the order to Powers, he’d—
In its holster slung outside the chair’s right arm, the wireless intercom phone beeped. As he touched the button beside the flashing red light he checked his watch: 5 P.M. exactly. As usual, Powers was precisely on time.
“Let’s go out on the deck,” DuBois said, turning the wheelchair to face the sliding glass door. With a kind of resigned contempt, he watched Powers come obediently to his feet, cross to the door, slide it open, step aside, wait for him and his wheelchair to whir out onto the deck. Without being told, conditioned to guard against drafts, Powers slid the door closed, then took a chair to face him. DuBois took a moment to admire the late afternoon vista: low clouds lying golden over a purpling ocean. When he spoke, his voice was soft: “What I want from you, Justin, is an update.” He paused, faintly smiling as he saw anxious puzzlement cloud the other man’s eyes, pucker his mouth, pinch at his nostrils.
“You mean—” The tip of Powers’ tongue circled his pursed lips. “You mean an update about—” Unable to pronounce the name, he broke off.
“Yes,” DuBois said gently, “I mean an update about Betty.”
“But I—I thought we’d agreed that the—the less we knew, each of us knew, the better. You said—”
“I said the less you knew about the, ah, background, the better it would be for you. And as for me, as long as there aren’t any problems, then there’s no reason I have to know any of the, ah, operational details. And that’s still true. However, since the last time we talked, I’ve been reconsidering.”
“You’ve been—?” The slow, incredulous widening of Powers’ eyes was ludicrous, a caricature of the yes-man’s eternal travail as he sought to guess the next turning of his tethered fate.
“Begin at the point where I told you to find her,” DuBois said. “Start there, and tell me everything. In detail.”
“Yes. Well—” Once more, the pink tongue circled the pursed, pale lips. As if to steady himself against seismic shock, Powers was gripping the arms of his chair, shifting his feet on the concrete surface of the deck, for better purchase. “Well, I—when you said you thought she was here, in Los Angeles, I decided to begin there. Here. I mean, I called MacCauley again. He’s the one—the private detective—that I used first, to keep track of—of—” Helplessly, he shook his head.
“—of Ames’ movements,” DuBois said gently. “In Los Angeles.”
“Y—yes.” Gratefully, Powers bobbed his head, painfully swallowing. “I decided that since I’d already contacted him, he’d already have been—you know—briefed.”
“Did you tell him Ames was dead?”
“I—ah—” Powers swallowed again. “No, I didn’t. I—I decided I didn’t want to tell him any more than was absolutely necessary.”
DuBois made no response, gave no sign of either approval or disapproval. Instead, he lifted his right hand from the chair, signaling for Powers to continue. Then he touched one of the red buttons, angling the chair so that he could face the other man squarely.
“I just said that I knew they’d been up north, the two of them, but that now I thought they were back here—that she was back here, in the Los Angeles area. So we agreed that he’d assign someone to watch her apartment building.”
“You told him he wasn’t to interrogate anyone at Powers, Associates.”
Quickly, Powers nodded. But, simultaneously, his eyes clouded. He’d made a mistake. Transparently, he’d made a mistake. A dangerous mistake, possibly. “What is it?” DuBois asked gently.
“Well, after I’d hired MacCauley, a man named Bernhardt came to the office. Alan Bernhardt. He—he’s a private investigator, and he was looking for Betty.”
“You didn’t tell me this, Justin. When I called you—told you to go ahead with it, with the plan for Betty—you should’ve told me about this man.”
“Well, I—I thought about it, considered it. But it was so quick, that conversation you and I had. And we’d agreed—you told me earlier—that the less said the better, the less contact we had about this, you and I, the better. So I decided not to say anything to you.”
“Tell me about him, what he said, what he did, this Bernhardt.”
“Well, he—he told the receptionist—he implied—that he’d been retained by her mother, because of illness in the family. So when I heard that he was there, at the office—that he’d gotten that far—I decided I should see him, see what he had to say.”
Gravely, DuBois nodded. “Yes, that was probably the right decision.”
“There wasn’t time to call you. And—and, even if there were time, I don’t think I would’ve called. For the reasons we just discussed.”
Once more, patiently, DuBois nodded.
“So I saw him, this Alan Bernhardt,” Powers continued. “I asked him what he was after. And I found out that he hadn’t been retained by her mother. Or, at least, I don’t think he had. Because he—he talked about Nick Ames, about the fact that he was dead.”
“The mother could still have retained him, though. Betty could have told her mother about Nick, and she was concerned for Betty’s safety. Perhaps Bernhardt was lying about an illness for the sake of convenience.”
Powers nodded. “Yes, that occurred to me.”
“How’d you leave it, the two of you?”
“Well, I—I tried to hire him. I thought that as long as he’d found us, I may as well get him on our side.”
“Did he accept the offer?”
“No, he didn’t. But he left his card. And he told me where he was staying, in Santa Monica.”
“But you don’t know what his purpose was, what he’s really trying to find out.”
“Not really. He’s very intelligent, I think. And he’s probably devious, too. But I got the feeling that his purpose was to find her, find Betty. I didn’t get the feeling he was concerned with Ames—with his death.”
“Have you heard from him since?”
“No. Yesterday, I called his motel, but he’d checked out. And now I wonder whether he found her.”
DuBois frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, I’d already hired MacCauley, you see, before Bernhardt arrived. So I called MacCauley and told him that he might follow Bernhardt, put a man on him, in the hope that Bernhardt would lead them to Betty. And that could’ve been what happened. Because yesterday, MacCauley called, and said he’d located Betty in Borrego Springs, at the Ram’s Head Motel. So it’s possible, you see, that MacCauley put an electronic device on Bernhardt’s car, and followed him to Borrego Springs.”
“You didn’t ask MacCauley whether, in fact, he did follow Bernhardt.”
“No—” Apprehensively, Powers was shaking his head, anxiously watching DuBois, searching for signs of approval.
“Did MacCauley say whether Bernhardt is in Borrego Springs, too?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“No, I didn’t. I—” Powers hesitated, then admitted: “I didn’t want to know any more than was necessary. I—I still don’t.”
DuBois let a moment of disapproving silence pass before he said, “So then you called your other friend. The one in Detroit. According to my instructions on the phone.”
“Yes.” As he spoke, Powers lowered his eyes. His voice was indistinct. In his lap, his pale fingers moved fretfully.
“Is your friend from Detroit in Borrego Springs now?”
“Please—” Powers raised his hands, as a supplicant might. “Please, don’t call him that. Don’t call him my friend.”
“Sorry—” DuBois let another moment of silence pass. Then, speaking quietly, he said, “Is he there?”
“I think so. He should be, anyhow. He left four hours ago, from LAX. It’s about a hundred fifty miles, from the airport to Borrego Springs.”
“Will he contact you before he—” This time, it was DuBois who broke off, unable to pronounce the fateful words.
“N—no. At least, I don’t think he will. We’re going to meet Saturday, at LAX. I’ll pay him off, pay him the other half, then.”
“Does he have a phone number for you?”
“Just one. My private line, at home. It’s under lock and key—the phone, and the answering machine, too.”
“But you don’t expect him to call.”
“No, I don’t. He implied that he wouldn’t call, in fact.”
“And you don’t know how to contact him in Borrego Springs. You don’t know where he’s staying, of course.”
“No, I don’t. The only way I could contact him would be to—” Slowly, incredulously, Powers raised his eyes, finally meeting the other man’s gaze. “I’d have to go there, and—” Once more, helplessly, he lapsed into silence. But his eyes remained fixed on DuBois’ face, as if he were fascinated. Fatally fascinated.
“She’s staying at the Ram’s Head Motel, you said. Is that right?”
“Y—yes. As of yesterday, anyhow. Last night. W—why?”
“Because,” DuBois answered, “I’ve decided to call her.”
“But why? Why?”
“Several reasons. First, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want her killed. I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“But you told me to—to arrange it, set it up. When I told you she’d been found, you told me to—”
“I’m well aware of that, Justin. But I’ve been considering the whole matter very carefully. And I think, if I can reach her by phone, I can make her see reason. After all, the purpose of the exercise isn’t to kill her. The purpose of the exercise is to silence her. And I think I can do that. I think if I call her and tell her that there’s someone who plans to kill her—someone in her immediate vicinity—then I think she’ll understand that she has to act reasonably. I think she’ll be frightened enough to understand. She’s very upset now. That’s perfectly understandable. She thinks she wants to make me pay for Nick Ames’ death. But it’s been my experience that, when a rational person realizes that death is imminent, a solid possibility, he becomes more manageable. And Betty is essentially a rational person. I know her. Intimately.”
“But she can ruin you. At least, that’s what you told me. You said that—”
“She’s always been able to ruin me. For years now, she’s been able to ruin me. But she hasn’t. And she won’t, either. Not if she’s handled properly.”
“But she—she could ruin me, too. She knows about us, about our association. So she’d suspect that I’m the one who—” Helplessly, Powers began to shake his head.
“Justin—” Patiently, DuBois shook his head, then touched both the green buttons, moving the wheelchair a few inches closer to the other man. As if they were confidants—equals—he lowered his voice. “That was necessary. If we hadn’t done that, silenced Nick Ames, I’m sure he would’ve made good on his threats. So you shouldn’t feel badly about that. Not at all.”
“It’s not a question of feeling badly. It’s a question of—of culpability.”
“It’ll work out, Justin. Believe me, it’ll work out.” Now he touched the buttons again, this time moving the chair back. It was a signal that the interview was about to end.
“We’ll talk again, soon,” DuBois said. “Keep monitoring your private line. If he should phone, call him off, tell him there’s been a change of plans. Meanwhile, I’ll call Betty, at the Ram’s Head. When I’ve reached her, if that’s possible, I’ll call you, fill you in. We’ll keep in touch”
“Wh—what about the money? The rest of the money, that I’ll owe? On Saturday.”
“You’ll pay it, of course. A deal’s a deal. Tell your man that the plans have changed, but that he’ll be fully compensated.”
“But why? Why change now? It—it seems risky for you to contact her. She could—”
“I’ve already told you, Justin. I think I can turn her around, make her see reason. And also—” He smiled: a faint, exhausted smile, the signal that, for today, he’d reached the end of his strength. “Also,” he said, “I’m fond of Betty, genuinely fond. I don’t want to see her harmed. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“But—” Suddenly Powers leapt to his feet, strode to the railing of the deck, turned to face the man in the wheelchair. “But this—” Vehemently, he shook his head, clenched his fists at his sides, took a single desperate step forward. “This is wrong. Don’t you see how wrong it is—how dangerous? You—” His voice caught. He was blinking rapidly now; his mouth was impotently opening and closing, his knees were trembling, shamefully trembling. In all their years together, he’d never before defied DuBois, never before dared to question, to complain. “You say you’ll call her, in Borrego Springs. You’ll tell her someone’s there, to—to kill her. But if you do that, scare her enough, she’ll call the police, tell them about it. And if they believe her—if they catch him, because of what she tells them—then I could be involved. He could tell them where to find me, on Saturday, when we’re supposed to meet. He could identify me. Th—they could arrest me. And besides that, there’s no—” Suddenly his throat closed. His voice, he knew, would be cravenly unsteady as he said, “There’s no way I can get hold of Fish—of him. No way I can stop him. Not unless I call every motel in town. And that wouldn’t work, because he’s undoubtedly using an alias. So th—that’d be another mistake. Because I’d be—” Once more, his throat closed, this time irrevocably, all hope gone. Thank God, he was standing close to the railing of the deck. Because suddenly he felt as if his legs were too weak to support him. And at his solar plexus, the center of himself, there was nothing left. Nothing but a terrible, shameful numbness.
As if he hadn’t heard, DuBois sat motionless in the wheelchair, his eyes fixed on the ocean, and the deepening sunset. Aware that he’d lost control, aware that fear was tearing at his face as viciously as claws tore at carrion, Powers stood helpless, his legs braced wide, his right hand gripping the railing. Finally DuBois spoke: “This is the first time we’ve ever differed, Justin. This is a new dimension, an entirely new dimension.”
“I—” Helplessly, he shook his head. His voice was hardly audible. “I realize that.”
“How much will you pay him, on Saturday?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“Do you have it? Now?”
“At home, yes. In the safe.”
“Well, then,” DuBois said, “I think you should go home, and get the money. Then I think you should get in your car and drive to Borrego Springs. It’s almost six o’clock now. If you hurry, you can probably be there by eleven, maybe earlier. Find your man, pay him off, send him on his way. Then call me. At any time, call me.
Aware that, now, it was an incredulous, craven relief that he must try to conceal, Powers could only nod.