DANCER SLID THE MANILA folder across the desk. “That should be all you need. Remember, don’t contact anyone at Powers, Associates, where she worked. That’s important. And I don’t think you should talk to her, make contact with her. Just call me, when you find her. I’ll contact my principal.”
Picking up the folder, Bernhardt smiled. ‘Your principal.’ How many times have I heard that? They never have names, these principals.”
Dancer, too, was smiling: a small, supercilious smile, mocking the man across the desk. With their business concluded, he could afford a few minutes of relaxation, baiting Bernhardt.
“It’s called the edge. I sign your checks. That entitles me to an edge.”
Leaning back in his chair, crossing his long legs, Bernhardt accepted the gambit. Deciding on a condescending tone, he said, “Your edge is expediency, Herbert. Sometimes called borderline dishonesty. Face it.” As he spoke, he put a wry twist on his smile.
“It’s a dishonest world, Alan. It’s also a very messy world. You’re—what—forty-two? And you still haven’t figured out how the world really works. Have you ever considered what would happen if everyone suddenly started telling the truth? You’ve got a fertile imagination. Take a couple of minutes, sometime. Think about it.”
“Sure, it’s a messy world. But you make it messier. You steal children for a living, Herbert. You’re smart enough to rationalize it. But you can’t change it.”
A pale gleam of pleasure shone in his gray eyes as Dancer smiled. “I steal children for a good living. The distinction is important.”
“To you. Not to me.”
“People get divorced. It’s a way of life. They can usually agree on the money, and the houses, and the cars. But the children—they can’t afford to agree on the children, on custody. The mother can’t afford to admit that, really, she doesn’t want the kids, because they’ll cramp her style. And the husband feels guilty, for not wanting them.”
“So either way, you show a profit.”
“Either way.” Complacently, Dancer smiled.
“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as cynical as you are. I really don’t.”
“That’s not the question. The question is, am I right? And the answer is, you know damn well I’m right. Look around you. A woman doesn’t have an orgasm, she calls her psychiatrist, the first time it happens. The second time, she calls her lawyer. And the lawyers call us.”
“Not ‘us.’ You.”
Dancer shrugged. “The only real difference between us is that I make more money than you do.”
“Wrong. The difference between us is that you’re bleeding internally.” Pocketing the check, Bernhardt rose, picked up the folder. “This Betty Giles—she’s not dangerous, is she?”
“I don’t think so. She stole some papers, and her employer wants them back. He wants to talk to her, too.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to it than that?”
“Because that’s the feeling you always get.”
“And I’m usually right.”
“Yes,” Dancer admitted, “you usually are. For whatever good it does you.”
“We’re back to the edge, then.”
“We always come back to the edge. It’s your fate, Alan.”
Aware that he was probably behind on points, Bernhardt decided against an exit line. Instead he rose, collected himself, delivered a theatrical snort. He left the office, went to an unoccupied desk in the adjoining office. He consulted a pocket address book, touch-toned a number, waited, frowned, broke the connection, tried another number. Finally: “Yes—is Lieutenant Friedman around, do you know? It’s Alan Bernhardt calling.” As he waited, sitting on one corner of the desk, he flipped open the file folder, looked at the colored picture of Betty Giles. Her face, he decided, looked a little like Pamela’s—the same oval shape, the dark hair, dark eyes, generously shaped mouth, the same—
“Yes, all right. Yes, I’ll wait. Thanks.”
Pamela…
Over the remains of their pastrami sandwiches, they’d talked till after midnight. He’d walked her to her car, a Honda Civic, parked two blocks away. She’d opened the driver’s door, tossed her shoulder bag and script inside, then turned to face him. They’d smiled at each other, said something meaningless to each other. The moment of truth was upon them—upon them and beyond them. As she’d extended her hand, for a handshake, he’d put his hands on her shoulders, as if he’d meant to give her a comradely clap, or perhaps award her a medal in the French fashion.
Would it ever change, for him? That sophomoric awkwardness, that eternal comic relief, would it ever—?
“Hello—Al?” It was Peter Friedman’s familiar, good-natured rumble, gritty but cordial.
“Where were you? On the pot?”
“I was trying to figure out what buttons to push on our new six-million-dollar Japanese fingerprint computer. It’s not easy, believe me. What can I do for you?”
“If I give you a name and an address, can you give me a rundown on a car?”
“If you buy me a ten-dollar lunch I probably can. That’s the standard arrangement, you know.”
“It’s a deal. Can you run it this morning—and have lunch today?”
“No problem. What’s the name?”
“It’s Betty Giles. G-I-L-E-S. Or maybe Elizabeth.” He looked at the fact sheet, read off the address in Los Angeles. Friedman read it back, and they agreed on The Castle Grand, at twelve-thirty.