Flyaway / Windfall (31 page)

‘Left.’

Hardin pondered. All this was adding up to the classic picture of a German soldier except that ritual duelling was no longer acceptable. ‘How old is he?’

‘Thirty-five—maybe forty. Not more. So you really don’t know the guy.’

‘I don’t give a damn about him and I don’t give a damn about you. All I want is to talk to Hendrix. Go get him.’

‘You don’t give a damn about me, and you don’t listen good.’ Biggie stuck out his forefinger then tapped himself on the chest. ‘The only way to get to Hendrix is through me.’

‘Does he know that?’ asked Hardin. ‘What is he, anyway? Your fancy boy?’

‘Christ, that does it,’ said Biggie, enraged.

‘Oh, shit!’ said Hardin resignedly as Biggie flexed his muscles, ‘I’m not mad at you, Biggie; I don’t want to fight.’

‘Well, I want to fight you.’ Biggie plunged forward.

It was no contest. Hardin was full of frustrations; his anger at Gunnarsson, the weary miles of travel, his sense of personal failure—all these he worked out on Biggie. He had several advantages; one was that Biggie had never learned to fight—he never had to because what idiot would want to tangle with a man who was obviously a meat grinder? The idiot was Hardin who had been trained in unarmed combat by experts. In spite of his age and flabbiness he still knew the chopping places and pressure points, the vulnerable parts of a man’s body, and he used his knowledge mercilessly. It was only by a deliberate act of will that he restrained himself from the final deadly blow that would have killed.

Breathing heavily he bent down and reached for the pulse at the side of Biggie’s neck and sighed with relief as he felt it beating strongly. Then he straightened and turned to see Hendrix watching him.

‘Jesus!’ said Hendrix. He was wide-eyed as he stared at the prostrate Biggie, ‘I didn’t think you could beat him.’

‘I’ve taken a lot of shit on this job,’ said Hardin, and found his voice was shaking. ‘But I wasn’t going to take any from him.’ He bent down and ripped the golden ankh from Biggie’s neck, breaking the chain. ‘And I’ve been insulted by a cop, a cop who told me this couldn’t be done.’ He tossed the golden cross down by Biggie’s side. ‘Now let’s you and me talk.’

Hendrix eyed him warily. ‘What about?’

‘You can start off by telling me your father’s name.’

‘What’s my old man got to do with anything?’ said Hendrix in surprise.

‘His name, sonny,’ said Hardin impatiently.

‘Hendrix, of course. Adrian Hendrix.’

‘Where was he born?’

‘Africa. Some place in South Africa. But he’s dead.’

Hardin took a deep breath. This was the one; this was the right Hendrix. ‘You got brothers? Sisters? Your Mom still alive?’

‘No. What’s this all about?’

Hardin said, ‘I wouldn’t know, but a man in New York called Gunnarsson wants to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a British lawyer wants to know. Maybe you’re inheriting something. What about going to New York with me to find out?’

Hendrix scratched his jaw. ‘Gee, I don’t know. I don’t like the East much.’

‘Expenses paid,’ said Hardin.

Biggie stirred and groaned, and Hendrix looked down at him. ‘I guess Biggie will be hard to live with now,’ he said reflectively. ‘He won’t want anyone around who’s seen him slaughtered like that. Might not be a bad idea to split for a while.’

‘Okay,’ said Hardin, ‘Is there anything you want to take?’

‘Not much,’ said Hendrix, and grinned, ‘I have a good surfboard but that won’t be much use in New York. I’d better take some clothes, though.’

‘I’ll come help you pack,’ said Hardin, and added pointedly, ‘I’ve had a hard time finding you, and I don’t want to lose you now.’

Hendrix told Hardin where he lived and, as he drove, Hardin thought about the other man looking for Hendrix. Or other men. The man described by Biggie was hardly likely to be the ‘nice young man’ as described by Mrs Parker. All right then; two or more men. He said, ‘Did Biggie ever say anything about another guy looking for you? Could be a German.’

‘Yeah.’ Hendrix lit a cigarette. ‘He told me. He thought you were together but he wanted to make sure first before…’ He broke off suddenly.

‘Before what?’

Hendrix laughed shortly. ‘Biggie thought there might be some dough in it somewhere. If you and the foreign guy were together, then okay; but if you weren’t he figured he could make a trade.’

‘Sell you off to the highest bidder?’ Hardin grimaced. ‘What did you think of that?’

Hendrix shrugged. ‘Biggie’s all right. It’s just that he was short of dough, that’s all. We’re all short of dough.’

‘All?’

‘The gang.’ He sighed. ‘Things haven’t been the same since we were busted over in the San Fernando Valley.’

‘When you blew up Mrs White’s house?’

Hendrix turned his head sharply. ‘You’ve been getting around.’ He sounded as though he did not like it. ‘But it
wasn’t all that much. Just some smoky walls and busted glass.’

Hardin came back to his main problem. ‘The foreigner. Did you ever meet him?’

‘No. Biggie set up a meeting for tonight in case he had something to trade. That’s why he wanted to blow you off fast.’

‘Where’s the meeting?’

‘I don’t know—we didn’t get that far. Man, you sure cooled him.’ He pointed. ‘That’s our place.’

Hardin drew up in front of the dilapidated house. ‘I’ll come in with you.’ He escorted Hendrix to the door and they went in. In the narrow hall they met the girl who had set up the meeting with Biggie. She looked at Hardin with surprise and he thought he detected something of alarm in her eyes.

She turned to Hendrix. ‘Where’s Biggie?’

‘He’ll be along. He…uh…had something to attend to,’ said Hendrix. ‘Come on, Mr Hardin; we’d better make this fast.’

As they climbed the stairs Hardin thought with amusement that Hendrix had every reason for speed. If Biggie came back and found him in the act of packing he would want to know why and Hendrix would not want to tell him. ‘How many in the gang?’ he asked.

‘It varies; there’s six of us now. Have been as many as twelve.’ Hendrix opened the door of a room. ‘This won’t take long.’

It took less time than Hardin would have thought. Hendrix was a nomad and had few possessions, all of which went into a metal-framed backpack. He lifted it effortlessly and then looked regretfully at the surfboard lying against the wall behind the unmade bed. ‘Can’t take that along, I guess. You sure there are dollars in this, Mr Hardin?’

‘No,’ said Hardin honestly. ‘But I can’t think of anything else.’

‘You said a British lawyer. I don’t know any Britishers and I’ve never been out of the States.’ Hendrix shook his head. ‘Still, you said you’ll pay my way so it’s worth a chance.’

They went downstairs and met the blonde girl again. ‘When‘ll Biggie be back?’ she asked.

‘He didn’t say,’ said Hendrix briefly.

She looked at the backpack. ‘You going some place?’

‘Not far.’ Hendrix coughed. ‘Just down to…uh…Mexico, Mr Hardin and me. Got to pick up a package in Tijuana.’

She nodded understandingly. ‘Be careful. Those Customs bastards are real nosy. What is it? Pot or snow?’

‘Snow,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mr Hardin.’ As they got into the car Hendrix forced a smile. ‘No use in letting the world know where we’re going.’

‘Sure,’ said Hardin. ‘No point at all.’ He switched on the ignition and, as he took off the handbrake, something whined like a bee in front of his nose. Hendrix gave a sharp cry, and Hardin shot a glance at him. He had his hand to his shoulder and blood was oozing through his fingers.

Hardin had been shot at before. He took off, burning rubber, and turned the first corner at top speed. Only then did he look in the mirror to check for pursuers. The corner receded behind him and nothing came into sight so he slowed until he was just below the speed limit. Then he said, ‘You all right, Hank?’

‘What the hell!’ said Hendrix, looking unbelievingly at the blood on his hand. ‘What happened?’

‘You were stung by a bee,’ said Hardin. ‘From a silenced gun. Hurt much?’

‘You mean I’ve been shot?’ said Hendrix incredulously. ‘Who’d want to shoot me?’

‘Maybe a guy with a German accent and a scar on his left cheek. Perhaps it’s just as well you and Biggie couldn’t keep that appointment tonight. How do you feel?’

‘Numb,’ said Hendrix. ‘My shoulder feels numb.’

‘The pain comes later.’ Hardin still watched the mirror. Everything behind still seemed normal. But he made a couple of random turns before he said, ‘We’ve got to get you off the streets. Can you hold on for a few more minutes?’

‘I guess so.’

‘There’s Kleenex in the glove compartment. Put a pad of it over the wound.’

Hardin drove on to the Santa Monica Freeway and made the interchange on to the San Diego Freeway heading north. As he drove his mind was busy with speculations. Who had fired the shot? And who was the intended victim? He said, ‘I don’t know of anyone who wants to kill me. How about you, Hank?’

Hendrix was holding the pad of tissues to his shoulder beneath his shirt. His face was pale. ‘Hell, no!’

‘You told the girl back there we were going to Tijuana to pick up a package of cocaine.’

‘Ella? I had to tell her something to put Biggie off.’

‘She didn’t seem surprised. You’ve done that often? The cocaine bit, I mean.’

‘A couple of times,’ Hendrix admitted. ‘But it’s small time stuff.’

‘A man can make enemies that way,’ said Hardin. ‘You might have stepped on someone’s turf. The big boys don’t like that and they don’t forget.’

‘No way,’ said Hendrix. ‘The last time I did it was over a year ago.’ He nursed his shoulder. ‘What the hell are you getting me into, Hardin?’

‘I’m not getting you into anything; I’m doing my best to get you out.’

They were silent for a long time after that, each busy with his thoughts. Hardin changed on to the Ventura Freeway and headed east. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Hendrix.

‘To a motel. But we’ll stop by a drugstore first and pick up some bandages and medication.’

‘Jesus! I need a doctor.’

‘We’ll see about that when you’re under cover and rested.’ Hardin did not add that gunshot wounds had to be reported to the police. He had to think about that.

He pulled into the motel on Riverside Drive where he had stayed before and booked two rooms. The woman behind the desk was the one he had seen before. He said casually, ‘The San Gabriels have vanished again.’

‘Yeah; it’s a damn shame,’ she said, a little forlornly. ‘I bet we don’t see them again for another ten years.’

He smiled. ‘Still, it’s nice to see the air we’re breathing.’

He got Hendrix into his room, examined his shoulder, and was relieved by what he saw. It was a flesh wound and the bullet had missed the bone; however, it had not come out the other side and was still in Hendrix. He said, ‘You’ll live. It’s only a .22—a pee-wee.’

Hendrix grunted. ‘It feels like I’ve been kicked by a horse.’

As he dressed the wound Hardin puzzled over the calibre of the bullet. It could mean one of two things; the gun had been fired either by an amateur or a very good professional. Only a good professional killer would use a .22, a man who could put his bullets where he wanted them. He tied the last knot and adjusted the sling. ‘I have a bottle in my bag,’ he said. ‘I guess we both need a drink.’

He brought the whiskey and some ice and made two drinks, then he departed for his own room, the glass still in his hand. ‘Stick around,’ he said on leaving. ‘Lie low like
Brer Rabbit. I won’t be long.’ He wanted to talk to Gunnarsson.

‘Where would I go?’ asked Hendrix plaintively.

On the telephone Gunnarsson was brusque. ‘Make it quick, Ben; I’m busy.’

‘I’ve got young Hendrix,’ said Hardin without preamble. ‘Only trouble is someone just put a bullet in him.’

‘God damn it!’ said Gunnarsson explosively. ‘When?’

‘Less than an hour ago. I’d just picked him up.’

‘How bad is he?’

‘He’s okay, but the slug’s still in him. It’s only a .22 but the wound might go bad. He needs a doctor.’

‘Is he mobile?’

‘Sure,’ said Hardin. ‘He can’t run a four-minute mile but he can move. It’s a flesh wound in the shoulder.’

There was a pause before Gunnarsson said, ‘Who knows about this?’

‘You, me, Hendrix and the guy who shot him,’ said Hardin factually.

‘And who the hell was that?’

‘I don’t know. Someone else is looking for Hendrix; I’ve crossed his tracks a couple of times. A foreign guy—could be German. That’s all I know.’ Hardin sipped his whiskey. ‘What is all this with Hendrix? Is there something I should know that you haven’t told me? I wouldn’t like that.’

‘Ben; it beats me, it really does,’ said Gunnarsson sincerely. ‘Now, look, Ben; no doctor. Get that kid to New York as fast as you can. Come by air. I’ll have a doctor standing by here.’

‘But what about my car?’

‘You’ll get it back,’ said Gunnarsson soothingly. ‘The company will pay for delivery.’

Hardin did not like that idea. The car would be entrusted to some punk kid who would drive too fast, mistreat the
engine, forget to check the oil, and most likely end up in a total wreck. ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But I won’t fly from Los Angeles. I think there’s more than one guy looking for Hendrix and the airport might be covered. I’ll drive up to San Francisco and fly from there. You’ll have your boy the day after tomorrow.’

‘Good thinking, Ben,’ said Gunnarsson, and rang off.

They left for San Francisco early next morning. It was over 300 miles but Hardin made good time on Interstate 5 ignoring the 55 mph speed limit like everyone else. He went with the traffic flow, only slowing a little when he had the road to himself. If you stayed inside the speed limit you could get run down, and modern cars were not designed to travel so slowly on good roads.

Hendrix seemed all right although he favoured his wounded shoulder. He had complained about not being seen by a doctor, but shut up when Hardin said, ‘That means getting into a hassle with the law. You want that?’ Apparently not, and neither did Hardin. He had not forgotten what Deputy Sawyer had said about spitting on the sidewalk.

Hendrix had also been naturally curious about why he was being taken to New York. ‘Don’t ask me questions, son,’ Hardin said, ‘because I don’t know the answers. I just do what the man says.’

He was irked himself at not knowing the answers so, when they stopped for gas, he took Hendrix into a Howard Johnson for coffee and doughnuts and did a little pumping of his own. Although he knew the answer he said, ‘Maybe your old man left you a pile.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Hendrix. ‘He died years ago when I was a kid.’ He shook his head. ‘Mom said he was a dead beat, anyway.’

‘You said she was dead too, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Hendrix smiled wryly, ‘I guess you could call me an orphan.’

‘Got any other folks? Uncles, maybe?’

‘No.’ Hendrix paused as he stirred his coffee. ‘Yeah, I have a cousin in England. He wrote to me when I was in high school, said he was coming to the States and would like to meet me. He never did, but he wrote a couple more times. Not lately, though. I guess he’s lost track of me. I’ve been moving around.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Funny thing about that. Same as mine but spelled differently. Dirk Hendriks. H-E-N-D-R-I-K-S.’

‘Your father spelled his name the same way when he was in South Africa,’ said Hardin. ‘Have you got your cousin’s address?’

‘Somewhere in London, that’s all I know. I had it written down but I lost it. You know how it is when you’re moving around.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hardin. ‘Maybe he’s died and left you something. Or maybe he’s just looking for you.’

Hendrix felt his shoulder. ‘Someone sure is,’ he said.

So it was that Hardin saw Gunnarsson sooner than he expected. Hardin and Hendrix took a cab from Kennedy Airport direct to Gunnarsson Associates and he was shown into Gunnarsson’s office fast. Gunnarsson was sitting behind his desk and said abruptly, ‘You’ve got the Hendrix kid?’

‘He’s right there in your outer office. You got a doctor? He’s in pain.’

Gunnarsson laughed. ‘I’ve got something to cure his pain. Are you sure he’s the guy?’

‘He checks out right down the line.’

Gunnarsson frowned. ‘You’re sure.’

‘I’m sure. But you’ll check yourself, of course.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘I’ll check.’ He doodled on a piece of paper. ‘Does the guy have kids?’

‘None that he’ll plead guilty to—he’s not married.’ Hardin was wondering why Gunnarsson did not invite him to sit.

Gunnarsson said, ‘Now tell me how Hendrix got shot.’

So Hardin told it all in detail and they kicked it around for a while. At last he said, ‘I guess I earned that bonus. This case got a mite tough at the end.’

‘What bonus?’

Hardin stared. ‘You said I’d get a bonus if I tracked down any Hendrixes.’

Gunnarsson was blank-faced. ‘That’s not my recollection.’

‘Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ said Hardin softly. ‘My memory isn’t that bad.’

‘Why would I offer you a bonus?’ asked Gunnarsson. ‘You know damned well we’ve been carrying you the last couple of years. Some of the guys have been bending my ear about it; they said they were tired of carrying a passenger.’

‘Which guys?’ demanded Hardin. ‘Name the names.’

‘You’re on the wrong side of the desk to be asking the questions.’

Hardin was trembling. He could not remember when he had been so angry. He said tightly, ‘As you get older you become more of a cheapskate, Gunnarsson.’

‘That I don’t have to take.’ Gunnarsson put his hands flat on the desk. ‘You’re fired. By the time you’ve cleaned out your desk the cashier will have your severance pay ready. Now get the hell out of my office.’ As he picked up the telephone Hardin turned away blindly. The door slammed and Gunnarsson snorted in derision.