Bernhardt's Edge Read Free

chosen the building for its views, and now, reflectively loosening his tie, he stood looking out over the rooftops of Chinatown. Beyond the northern edge of the city, the waters of San Francisco Bay were deepening into purple as the sun began sinking slowly toward the great orange arc of the Golden Gate Bridge.
    Dancer drew a long, deep breath. Expanding his chest, he arched his back, lifted his chin, rose on his toes, raised his arms high over his head, exhaled, drew another deep breath. He was a compactly built man, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that could have been made by Justin Powers’ tailor. At forty, Dancer was as slim as he’d been at twenty, and just as wiry. His gray eyes were shrewd, yet curiously empty. His small mouth was slightly pursed: a corrupted cherub’s mouth. His chin was small, slightly indented. His nose was curved, a little too large. His forehead was broad; his sandy hair was receding. Except for the eyes, so cold, so empty, the face was mild, even benevolent. But it was the eyes that defined the man—as many had discovered, too late.
    Neutralized …
    Had Powers meant to say it?
    Some people used words very precisely. Others didn’t. Powers was a precise man, a man who obviously understood words, and could calculate their impact. It must be assumed, then, that “neutralized” had been carefully chosen.
    Meaning that, when Betty Giles was found, Powers would call MacCauley. And MacCauley would call the leg-breakers.
    Because, behind his suave banker’s face, Powers was badly frightened. Terrified, perhaps, of Betty Giles.
    A rich client, a terrified client…
    Potentially, it was a promising combination, one that Dancer had often turned to considerable profit.
    Dancer smiled and turned to his desk, and the phone. From memory, he touch-toned a number.

2
    T HE SIX OF THEM sat in the front row of the Howell Theater, a ninety-nine-seat house located in San Francisco’s Eureka Valley district. With the house lights up and the work light on, the theater plainly showed its age: fifty years, at least, originally built as an Odd Fellows’ Hall, later used as a neighborhood community house.
    One of the six rose to his feet. He was a tall, lean man with dark, thick hair and an angular, deeply etched face. The face was Semitic: olive-hued, with a long, thin nose and an expressive mouth. Unmistakably, it was a Jewish face, a face that reflected both an ancient sadness and a new, gentle hope. The tall man wore corduroy slacks, an Icelandic wool sweater, and an open-neck shirt. Beneath heavy eyebrows, his vivid blue eyes moved restlessly as he spoke to the five still seated:
    â€œI guess I should introduce myself. I’m Alan Bernhardt. I’m forty-two years old, and I’ll be directing this play. It’s the fifteenth play I’ve directed at the Howell. I came to San Francisco eight years ago. Before that I spent several years in New York, mostly acting off-Broadway—and sometimes on Broadway, if the part was small enough.” He smiled: a slow, rueful, half-shy smile. He waited for the chuckles, then continued. “I directed off-Broadway, too—and had a play of mine produced at Circle in the Square. It didn’t have a very long run, I’m afraid—” Now the smile twisted slightly, quietly ironic. “But at least I’ve got the clipping, and a photostat of the check.” He paused, looked at the five aspirants: three men, two women. One of the women, on his far right, interested him. Her name, he’d learned, was Pamela Brett. She was in her middle thirties. Serious. Attentive. Pretty face. Great body. Not on display, the body. But definitely there, beneath the jeans, and the loosely worn fisherman’s sweater.
    â€œThe reason I’m telling you all this,” Bernhardt said, “is that I want to make the point that, as far as I’m concerned, the Howell is the best theater of its kind