Free Bernhardt's Edge by Collin Wilcox Page A

another law of nature, another jungle law. Or, more like it, the same jungle law, the only jungle law: pay or get paid, kill or get killed.
    His mother had paid. God, how she’d paid. The polite name was B-girl. But the bedroom walls had been thin, and the men had been loud.
    He’d been seventeen, when he moved out. He’d been working up on Twelfth Street, spotting for Clarence Brown. Right from the start, Clarence had liked him, let him ride with him sometimes, making the rounds, keeping the pushers on the ball, off the shit. “You’re a smart kid,” Clarence told him. “You watch. You remember. You got a future.” And when the wars started, for territory, Clarence had given him a gun, a Colt .45 automatic, army issue. He’d been in the car behind Clarence when the Beachum brothers had come up beside them, a van and two cars, with machine guns, fucking Mark 16s, the papers said. Clarence’s car had skidded to a stop against some parked cars and Clarence had rolled out, rolled behind some trash cans, told him to get out, too. He’d been riding beside the driver, with the .45 stuck in his belt. He could still remember the weight of it, the feel of it, pressed against his young belly. Nothing had ever felt so solid, so important.
    He’d rolled out of the car, like Clarence did, dodged low, got behind the trunk of Clarence’s car, started shooting. He’d seen Alvin Beachum, right over his sights, lined up. He’d pulled the trigger, kept pulling it, felt the gun buck in his hands, saw Beachum fall.
    They’d left him in the street, Beachum’s soldiers. They’d left him, and they’d left Alex Saugis, too, dead, both of them dead.
    That night, Clarence had called him in, given him two thousand dollars, told him how good he’d done, told him that he was in now. Only seventeen, and in. “You’re a killer,” Clarence had said, smiling at him, saying it so they could all hear, some of them who’d rolled under the cars, not shooting, just protecting themselves. “You’re a natural killer, swear to God.”
    Two thousand dollars…
    He’d never have money like that again, money that meant so much, made so much difference. Never before, never again.
    Almost four o’clock—almost an hour, parked in one place. Already, a police car had passed, cruising: a new-looking car, neat-looking cops, looking him over. On their next round, maybe, they’d stop, get out of their car, ask questions.

2
    B ERNHARDT ANSWERED THE TELEPHONE on the second ring.
    â€œHow’s it going?” Dancer asked. “Any change?”
    â€œNo change. Why?”
    â€œI’ve just heard from the client. You can come in. Have you had dinner?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, have a good dinner, on the expense account. Then come in.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll stay here tonight, come in tomorrow. There’s something I want to see on TV. And the room’s paid for until noon tomorrow.”
    â€œSuit yourself,” Dancer answered. “Got to go. Shall I wait for your expenses before I authorize the check? Or would you rather have your time now, and your expenses later?”
    Bernhardt smiled. To Dancer, he would always be a charity case. So, to make a statement, he answered, “Why don’t you wait, write one check? Make it simple.”
    â€œFine. Got to go, another call.” Abruptly the line went dead. As Bernhardt cradled the phone, he looked out across the courtyard of the Starlight Motel. Dusk was falling: a soft, warm September evening. The Toyota was parked in front of unit twelve, where it had remained since noon, when Betty Giles and Nick Ames had driven to a nearby Mexican restaurant for lunch. Bernhardt had parked around the corner, walked to the restaurant, and sat at the counter, covertly watching them while he ate a taco and drank dark Mexican beer. Added to the few times he’d seen them together