Bernhardt's Edge Read Online Free PDF Page A

chins. And, yes, Friedman’s vest was smudged with cigar ash. As always.
    When Bernhardt sat across the table, Friedman handed over a slip of paper.
    â€œIs this Betty Giles a skip?” Friedman asked. “Is that it?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œThen you may be in luck.” He pointed to the paper. “There was a moving violation issued against her car in Santa Rosa, two days ago. That’s the citation number, and the license number, and description of the car.”
    Gratefully, Bernhardt pocketed the paper. “This could help. A lot. Thanks, Pete.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œAre you ready to order? Or do you want a drink first?”
    â€œLet’s order.”
    After they’d made their selections, Friedman leaned back in his chair, eyeing Bernhardt quizzically. Bernhardt knew that mannerism, knew what was coming next. He was about to be interrogated.
    â€œSo what’s doing?” Friedman asked. “How’s life?”
    Bernhardt shrugged. “It goes on. What can I say?”
    â€œHave you got a girlfriend yet?”
    Slowly, Bernhardt smiled. “You’re a real busybody, you know that? You’re incorrigible.”
    Friedman considered. “How about ‘persistent’?”
    â€œHow about ‘persistently incorrigible’?”
    â€œYou haven’t answered the question. Anything?”
    Bernhardt shrugged. “I know a few women, naturally. There’s one, especially—we get together once in a while, get our rocks off. We’re friends, too, which always makes it nice. But we’re never going to get married.”
    â€œA nice Jewish boy like you—you were programmed for marriage, don’t you understand that? Preprogrammed.”
    Sipping a chilled glass of white wine, Bernhardt looked at the other man. Should he tell Friedman about Pamela Brett?
    No. God, no. Not yet.
    And he didn’t have to tell Friedman about Jenny, about their marriage, and how she died. They’d gotten past that years ago, he and Friedman. And they’d never talked about it since.
    So, instead, he shifted his ground: “I’m not really so sure I was programmed for marriage. Maybe I was programmed for exactly what I’m doing. My father died in the war, as you know. And my mother never even considered getting remarried, as far as I know. She did modern dance, and marched for peace, and civil rights, and Israel. That’s all she really cared about, I think. Dancing, and marching.”
    â€œYou think.”
    Bernhardt shrugged again, thanked the waiter as he served them.
    â€œWhat about Dancer?” Friedman asked. “What’s he up to—the low life?”
    â€œSame as always—making money. He’s got the knack, you know. I finally figured it out. He decided, early in the game, that he wanted rich clients. Powerful clients. And he’s smart enough, and smooth enough—” Bernhardt swallowed filet of sole, gestured with his fork. “He’s smart enough to cater to them, these power structure types. It doesn’t take any longer to send out a bill for ten thousand than it does for a thousand, you know. It’s the same postage.”
    â€œDancer has the morals of a puff adder,” Friedman pronounced.
    â€œNo argument.”
    â€œWhy d’you stay with him? What are you, his conscience? Is that it? Is that why he keeps you around?”
    â€œI stay with him,” Bernhardt answered patiently, “because I want to direct plays—and write plays, too. Which means I have to have outside income. Dancer pays me twice what anyone else in town’ll pay.”
    â€œNo one else in town does what he does—divorces, custody work. And child stealing, for God’s sake.”
    â€œThat’s not fair. A lot of agencies do divorce work, and you know it. And, anyhow, I don’t do those things. We’ve already been through this, Pete. I don’t do