Full Circle Read Online Free PDF Page B

man.”
    “Powers had Ames killed in Santa Rosa, and he tried to have Betty killed in Borrego Springs?” she said, checking.
    “Yes. Except that at the eleventh hour DuBois claims he tried to stop the guy from killing Betty. He claims he sent Powers to Borrego Springs to stop it. But Powers was too late. And, in fact, there’s evidence to support the allegation.”
    “Why’d DuBois change his mind?”
    “Sentiment. I already told you, Betty is the daughter DuBois never had. When it came right down to it, he couldn’t bear to have her killed.” Once more Bernhardt raised the empty bread basket. “Jesus, next they’ll be charging extra for bread.”
    “So DuBois got Betty out of town. Paid her, probably, to disappear.”
    “This,” Bernhardt said, “is the part I’m not sure I should be telling you.”
    “Why’s that?” She asked the question easily, conversationally. Then, with a teasing smile, eyeing him over a forkful of scampi, she said, “Shall I take another guess?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “You’re the middleman, the go-between. You know where Betty is, but DuBois doesn’t.”
    His silence was eloquent.
    “You’re involved.”
    Once more, no reply was necessary. Yes, he’d gotten involved.
    “I didn’t have a choice. Christ, Betty was petrified. For all she knew—or I knew—there was another hit man on the way to finish the job, finish both of us, maybe. I figured I had to see DuBois to save my own skin. And I’m still convinced it was the right decision.” Once again he waved the empty basket. This time, the waiter narrowly avoided eye contact.
    “ Dammit .” Bernhardt shifted the basket to his left hand, waving it as he ate the fettucini with his right hand.
    “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.” But she was smiling, enjoying the contest.
    “Without sopping up, fettucini loses its meaning. You don’t come from New York.”
    “New York?” Teasing him, she repeated, “ New York? Am I missing something?”
    “In New York it’s either you or the waiter. Unless you don’t tip. Then it’s the Italian leg-breakers. Or a safe, mashing you on the sidewalk.”
    “A safe? ”
    Finally, resigned, the waiter gritted his teeth, minimally inclined his head in a long-suffering nod, snatched a basket of bread from the serving counter, placed it with elaborate ceremony on their table. Without thanks, Bernhardt sopped up the last of the fettucini’s sauce.
    “ Alan. Tell me. What happened, for God’s sake? You talked to DuBois. How’d you manage it?” Now Paula, too, was sopping up her scampi sauce. But it was a pro forma gesture, merely keeping the faith while she urged him to continue: “ Tell me.”
    “Betty had his private number. I called him from a pay phone. He knew who I was. Immediately.”
    “Ah.” Avidly she nodded. “Sure, he knew your name. Of course.”
    “Are you up for dessert?”
    Vehemently she shook her head. “You know I don’t want dessert. Alan—come on. Tell me.”
    “As soon as I identified myself, he told me to come to his house. Of course, I didn’t do it. We finally settled on the promenade outside the Huntington Library.” As the waiter cleared their table in haughty silence Bernhardt ordered two espresso decafs. Wordlessly the waiter accepted the order and turned away.
    “We talked an hour and a half,” he said. “And, God, it was incredible the way the conversation went. I mean, there I was, essentially a Jewish kid from New York with a college diploma and a widowed mother who taught modern dance in our loft and marched for whatever left-wing cause was in the news. And there he was—Raymond DuBois, who could probably buy out the Rockefellers in the morning and the Du Ponts in the afternoon.”
    “Maybe he could buy out the Rockefellers, but you could ruin him. And he knew it. That’s why he agreed to meet you. My God, Alan. How could you keep this from me?”
    “When I finish, you’ll understand.” He spoke quietly now. Reflectively.