Free Full Circle by Collin Wilcox

And then, in the darkness, the thin, shrill sound of the siren, coming closer. All of it juxtaposed on the other obscenity: Justin Powers, presiding behind his huge desk at Powers Associates. Justin Powers, the ultimate executive, smiling, smooth-talking, infinitely secure, granting Bernhardt a few minutes of his precious time, ostensibly to help Bernhardt find Betty Giles, once a Powers employee.
    “Yes,” Bernhardt said. “I can talk.” His eyes were on the doorway to the kitchen, where Paula was struggling with a stubborn wine cork. Crusher, ever optimistic whenever anyone was at work in the kitchen, was sitting attentively beside Paula, hoping for the best.
    Bernhardt turned his back on the kitchen. “Why’re you calling?”
    “I want to meet with you. Tomorrow. Preferably down here, in Los Angeles.”
    “Why?” As he spoke, it was as if he were two characters in tandem, his outer self and his inner self. The inner self spoke next: Why do you want to see me? So you can hire someone else to kill me, you son of a bitch?
    “I’ll have five thousand dollars for you, and I’ll meet you in the terminal at LAX. I’ll be wearing blue jeans, running shoes, a Dodgers warm-up jacket, and a Dodgers baseball cap. I’ll be wearing sunglasses, and I’ll be carrying a copy of a car magazine, probably Motor Trend. I’ll be in Concourse C, gate forty-two. That’s four-two. I’ll arrive there at three p.m., and I’ll remain there until four-thirty. I’ll be sitting down, either reading the magazine or looking out the window. Is that clear?”
    Bernhardt decided to pitch his response to a patronizing note distilled in pure, savage hatred. “You sound like you’re doing a very bad imitation of a third-rate spy, Powers.”
    “Tomorrow. Three o’clock. Concourse C. Gate forty-two.” The line clicked, went dead.

EIGHT
    E VEN IN THE WARM-UP jacket and Dodgers cap, Powers was unconvincing as a sports fan waiting for his flight. Perhaps, Bernhardt decided, it was the razor-cut hair showing beneath the cap. Or perhaps it was body language: the well-paid, infinitely secure executive, accustomed to regarding the masses with disdainful tolerance.
    Bernhardt slid into the empty chair beside Powers—and waited. His eyes were focused on the floor-to-ceiling window of Concourse C that offered a view of one of the busiest airports in the world. Seen at this distance, the taxiing airliners looked like battery-powered toys. Only on takeoff, roaring down the runway and climbing into the sky, undercarriage dangling, flaps extended, whorls of exhaust trailing the engines, did the airplanes acquire scale and substance.
    Finally, also looking straight ahead at the airport view, Powers spoke: “Mr. Bernhardt.”
    “Powers.”
    “Let’s get a cup of coffee.” Without waiting for a reply, Powers rose, walked rapidly down the concourse in the direction of the main terminal. Soon the two men were sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups as they looked at each other across a tiny Formica table that hadn’t quite been wiped clean. Powers dropped his copy of Motor Trend on the floor beside Bernhardt’s flight bag.
    “In the magazine,” Powers said, “there’s an envelope with the money inside. I’ll leave first. When you leave, pick up the magazine.”
    “Fine.”
    “My, ah, employer told me to do this, meet you here.”
    “Mr. DuBois.”
    Plainly fearing that Bernhardt wore a wire, Powers looked pained as he nodded.
    “DuBois told you to hire the man who tried to kill Betty and me in Borrego Springs.”
    “Mr. Bernhardt—” Powers’ voice was no more than a whisper, his meager mouth pursed. Behind dark designer sunglasses his eyes were mercifully invisible. “Please.”
    “I could have died, you son of a bitch, and you’re asking me to spare your feelings.” As he said it, Bernhardt experienced a sudden surge of rage, a vestige of the fury that had engulfed him that night in the desert. “I should strangle you.”
    “I’m