Thankfully Hardin stepped over the threshold. Parker was a burly man of about forty-five with a closed, tight face, but Milly Parker smiled at Hardin. 'You want to know about the Hendersons, Mr Hardin?'
Hardin repressed the sinking feeling. 'Hendrix, Mrs Parker.'
'Could have sworn it was Henderson. But come into the living room and sit down.'
Hardin shook his head. 'I'm wet; don't want to mess up your furniture. Besides, I won't take up too much of your time. You think the previous tenant was called Henderson?'
'That's what I thought. I could have been wrong.' She laughed merrily. 'I often am..'
'Was there a forwarding address?'
'I guess so; there was a piece of paper," she said vaguely. 'I'll look in the bureau." She went away.
Hardin looked at Parker and tried to make light conversation. 'Get this kind of weather often?"
'I wouldn't know,' said Parker briefly. 'Haven't been here long.'
Hardin heard drawers open in the next room and there was the rustle of papers. 'The way I hear it this is supposed to be the Sunshine State. Or is that Florida?'
Parker grunted. 'Rains both places; but you wouldn't know to hear the Chambers of Commerce tell it.'
Mrs Parker came back. 'Can't find it,' she announced. 'It was just a little bitty piece of paper.' She frowned. 'Seems I recollect an address. I know it was off Ventura Boulevard; perhaps in Sherman Oaks or, maybe, Encino.'
Hardin winced; Ventura Boulevard was a hundred miles long. Parker said abruptly, 'Didn't you give the paper to that other guy?'
'What other guy?' asked Hardin.
'Why, yes; I think I did,' said Mrs Parker. 'Now I think of it. A nice young man. He was looking for Henderson, too.'
Hardin sighed. 'Hendrix,' he said. 'Who was this young man?'
'Didn't bother to ask,' said Parker. 'But he was a foreigner – not American. He had a funny accent like I've never heard before.'
Hardin questioned them further but got nothing more, then said, 'Well, could I have the address of the owner of the house. She might know." He got the address and also the address of the local realtor who had negotiated the rental. He looked at his watch and found it was late. 'Looks like the day's shot. Know of a good motel around here?'
'Why, yes,' she said. 'Go south until you hit Riverside, then turn west. There are a couple along there before you hit the turning to Laurel Canyon.'
He thanked them and left, hearing the door slam behind him and the rattle of the chain. It was still raining; not so hard as before but still enough to drench him before he reached the shelter of his car. He was wet and gloomy as he drove away.
His motel room was standard issue and dry. He took off his wet suit and hung it over the bath, regarded it critically, and decided it needed pressing. He wondered if Gunnarsson would stand for that on the expense account. Then he took off his shirt, hung it next to the suit, and padded into the bedroom in his underwear. He sat at the table, opened his briefcase, and took out a sheaf of papers which he spread out and regarded dispiritedly- His shoulders sagged and he looked exactly what he was – a failure. A man pushing fifty-five with a pot belly, his once muscular body now running to fat, his brains turning to mush, and the damned dandruff was making his hair fall out. Every time he looked at his comb he was disgusted.
Ben Hardin once had such high hopes. He had majored in languages at the University of Illinois and when he had been approached by the recruiter he had been flattered. Although the approach had been subtle he was not fooled; the campus was rife with rumours about the recruiters and everyone knew what they were recruiting for. And so he had fallen for the flattery and responded to the appeals to his patriotism because this was the height of the Cold War and everyone knew the Reds were the enemy.
So they had taken him and taught him to shoot – handgun, rifle, machine-gun taught him unarmed combat, how to hold his liquor and how to make others drunk. They told him of drops and cut-outs, of codes and cyphers, how to operate a radio and many other more esoteric things. Then he had reported to Langley as a fully fledged member of the CIA only to be told bluntly that he knew nothing and was the lowest of the low on the totem pole.
In the years that followed he gained in experience. He worked in Australia, England, Germany and East Africa. Sometimes he found himself working inside his own country which he found strange because the continental United States was supposed to be the stamping ground of the FBI and off-limits to the CIA. But he obeyed orders and did what he was told and eventually found that more than half his work was in the United States.
Then came Watergate and everything broke loose. The Company sprang more holes than a sieve and everyone rushed to plug up the leaks, but there seemed to be more informers than loyal Company men. Newspaper pages looked Like extracts from the CIA files, and the shit began to fly. There were violent upheavals as the top brass defended themselves against the politicians, director followed director, each one publicly dedicated to cleaning house, and heads duly rolled, Hardin's among them.
He had been genuinely shocked at what had happened to the Company and to himself. In his view he had been a loyal servant of his country and now his country had turned against ' him. He was in despair, and it was then that Gunnarsson approached him. They met by appointment in a Washington bar which claimed to sell every brand of beer made in the world. He arrived early and, while waiting for Gunnarsson, ordered a bottle of Swan for which he had developed a taste in Australia.
When Gunnarsson arrived they talked for a while of how the country was going to hell in a handcart and of the current situation at Langley. Then Gunnarsson said, 'What are you going to do now, Ben?'
Hardin shrugged. 'What's to do? I'm a trained agent, that's all. Not many skills for civilian life.'
'Don't you believe it,' said Gunnarsson earnestly. 'Look, Fletcher and I are setting up shop in New York.'
'Doing what?'
'Same racket, but in civilian form. The big corporations are no different than countries. Why, some of the internationals are bigger than goddamn countries, and they've all got secrets to protect – and secrets to find. My God, Ben; the field's wide open but we've got to get in fast before some of the other guys who were canned from Langley have the same idea. We wait too long the competition could be fierce. If this Watergate bullshit goes on much longer retired spooks will be a drug on the market.'
Hardin took a swig of beer. 'You want me in?'
'Yeah. I'm getting together a few guys, all hand picked, and you are one of them – if you want in. With our experience we ought to clean up.' He grinned 'Our experience and the pipelines we've still got into Langley.'
'Sounds good,' said Hardin.
'Only thing is it'll take dough,' said Gunnarsson. 'How much can you chip in?'
Money and Hardin bore a curious relationship. A dollar bill and Hardin were separated by some form of anti-glue they never could get together. He had tried; God, how he had tried. But his bets never came off, his investments failed, and Hardin was the centre of a circle surrounded by dollar bills moving away by some sort of centrifugal force. He had once been married and the marriage had failed as much by his inability to keep money as by the strain imposed by his work. The alimony payments now due each quarter merely added to the centrifugal force.
Now he shook his head. 'Not a thin dime,' he said. 'I'm broke and getting broker. Annette's cheque is due Tuesday and I don't know how I'm going to meet that.'
Gunnarsson looked disappointed. 'As bad as that?'
'Worse,' said Hardin glumly. 'I've got to get a job fast and I have to sweet talk Annette. Those two things are holding my whole attention.'
'Gee, Ben; I was hoping you'd be in with us. There's nobody I'd rather have along, and Fletcher agrees with me. Only the other day he was talking about how ingeniously you shafted that guy in Dar-es-Salaam.' He drummed his fingers on the table. 'Okay, you don't have money, but maybe something can be worked out. It won't be as sweet a deal as if you came in as a par
tner but it'll be better than anything else you can get. And we still want you along because we think you're i good guy and you know the business.'
So a deal had been worked out and Hardin went to work for Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc. not as a partner but as an employee with a reasonable salary. At first he was happy, but over the years things began to go wrong. Gunnarsson became increasingly hard-nosed and the so-called partnership fell apart. Fletcher was squeezed out and Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc. became Gunnarsson Associates. Gunnarsson was the ramrod and let no one forget it.
And Hardin himself lost his drive and initiative. No longer buoyed by patriotism he became increasingly dissatisfied with the work he was doing which in his view fulfilled no more elevating a function than to increase the dividends of shareholders and buttress the positions of corporate fatcats. And he was uneasy because a lot of it was downright illegal.
He fell down on a couple of jobs and Gunnarsson turned frosty and from then on he noted that he had been down graded as a field agent and was relegated to the minor investigations about which no one gave a damn. Like the Hendrix case.
Hardin lay on the bed in the motel and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. Come on, Hardin, he thought. You've nearly got a Hendrix – you're nearly there, man. Think of the bonus Gunnarsson will pay you. Think of Annette's alimony.
He smiled wryly as he remembered that Parker had referred to him as a 'private dick'. Parker had been reading too many mysteries. Natural enough, though; wasn't this Chandler country; Philip Marlowe country; 'down these mean streets a man must go' country? Come on, you imitation Marlowe, he said to himself. Get off your ass and do something.
He swung his legs sideways, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone. From what he had gathered the owner of the Parker house operated from her home in Pasadena, and it was still not too late in the evening to talk to her. He checked the number in his notebook and dialled. After a few buzzes a voice said in his ear, 'The White residence.'
The White House! He suppressed an inane chuckle, and said, 'Mrs White?'
'It is she speaking.'
'My name is Hardin, and I represent Gunnarsson Associates of New York. I understand you own a house in North Hollywood.'
'I own several houses in North Hollywood,' she said. 'To which do you refer?'
'It would be 82, Thorndale; at present rented by Mr Parker.'
'Yes, I own that property, but it is rented to Mrs Parker.'
'I see; but I have no interest in the Parkers, Mrs White. I am interested in a previous tenant, a man called Hendrix. Henry Hendrix.'
'Oh, him!' There was a sudden sharpness to Mrs White's voice. 'What is your business, Mr Hardin?'
'I'm a private investigator.'
'A private eye,' said Mrs White, confirming his theory that he was in mystery readers' country. 'Very interesting, I must say. What do you want him for? Nothing trivial, I hope.'
He explored the nuances of her voice, and said, 'I can't tell you, Mrs White. I just find them; what happens to them is out of my hands.'.
'Well, I hope that young man gets his comeuppance,' she said bitterly. 'He wrecked that house. It took me thirty-five hundred dollars to repair the damage done by him and his friends.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Hardin, injecting sincerity into his voice. 'How did it happen?'
'He – Hendrix, I mean – rented the house and agreed to abide by all the conditions. What I didn't know was that he was leader of what they call a commune. You know; those young people who go around with dirty feet and the men wearing head bands.' Hardin smiled. 'Mrs Parker tells me the place still stinks of marijuana. And the filth they left there you wouldn't believe.'
'And when did they leave?'
'They didn't leave, they were thrown out,' said Mrs White triumphantly. 'I had to call the Sheriff's Department.'
'But when was this?'
'Must be nine… no, ten months ago.'
'Any idea where they went?'
'I don't know, and I don't care. For all I care they could go drown, only it would dirty up the ocean.'
'You say Hendrix was the leader of the commune?'
'He paid the rent.' Mrs White paused. 'But no; I don't reckon he was the leader. I think they used him as a front man because he was cleanest. The leader was a man they called Biggie. Big man – tall as a skyscraper and wide as a barn door.'
Hardin made a note. 'Do you know his name – his last name?'
'No; they just called him Biggie. He had long blond hair,' she said. 'Hadn't been washed for months. Kept it out of his eyes with one of those head bands. Shaggy beard. He walked around with his shirt open to the waist. Disgusting! Oh, and he wore something funny round his neck.'
'What sort of funny?'
'A cross. Not a decent Christian cross but a funny cross with a loop at the top. It looked like gold and he wore it on a chain. You couldn't help but notice it the way he wore his shirt open.'
'Were there any women in the commune, Mrs White?'
'There were. A lot of brazen hussies. But I didn't have any truck with them. But 'I'll tell you something, Mr Hardin. There were so many of those folks in that little house they must have slept head-to-foot. I don't think there could have been a virgin among them, and I don't think they were married, either.'
'You're probably right,' said Hardin.
'Orgies!' said Mrs White, relishing the word. 'We found a lot of incense sticks in the house and some funny statues, and they weren't made in the way God made man. I knew then I was right to get rid of that man. Could have been another Charles Manson. You heard of him back East?'
'Yes, I've heard of Charles Manson.' Hardin closed his notebook. 'Thank you for your information, Mrs White; you've been very co-operative.'
'Are you going to put those folks in jail where they belong?'
'I'm a private investigator, Mrs White; but if I find evidence of wrongdoing 'I'll pass the information on to the authorities. Thanks for your help.'
He put down the telephone, Lit another cigarette, and lay back on the bed. Incense sticks and strange statues! And the funny cross with the loop at the top was probably an Egyptian ankh. He shook his head. God, the things the kids were up to these days.
He wondered briefly who else was looking for Hendrix and then closed his eyes.
Chapter 3
Hardin walked out of his room next morning into a day that was rainwashed and crisp. He put his bags into his car and drove to the front of the motel. As he got out he looked in astonishment towards the north. There, stretched across the horizon, was a range of mountains with snow-capped peaks rising to a height of maybe 10,000 feet. They had not been there the previous day and they looked like a theatrical backdrop.
'Hollywood!' he muttered, as he went into the inside for breakfast.
Later, as he was tucking his credit card back into his wallet, he said, 'What are those mountains out there?'
The woman behind the desk did not raise her head. 'What mountains ?' she asked in an uninterested way.
'That range of mountains with snow on the top.'
She looked up. 'Are you kidding, mister? There are no mountains out there.'
He said irritably, 'Goddamn it! They're practically on your doorstep. I'm not kidding.'
'This I've got to see.' She came from behind the desk and accompanied him to the door where she stopped and gasped. "Jesus, those are the San Gabriels! I haven't seen them in ten rears.'
'Now who's kidding who?' asked Hardin. 'How could you miss a thing like that?'
Her eyes were shining. 'Musta been the rain,' she said. 'Washed all the smog outa the air. Mister, take a good look; you ain't likely to see a sight like that for a long time.'
'Nuts!' said Hardin shaking his head, and walked towards his car.
As he drove downtown he pondered on the peculiarities of Los Angeles. Any community that could lose a range of mountains 10,000 feet high and 40 miles long was definitely out of whack. Hardin disliked Los Angeles and would n
ot visit it for pleasure. He did not like the urban sprawl, so featureless and monotonous that any section of the city was like any other section. He did not like the nutty architecture; for his money it was a waste of time to drive down to Anaheim to visit Disneyland – you could see Disneyland anywhere in L.A. And he did not like the Los Angeles version of the much lauded Californian climate. The smog veiled the sun and set up irritation in his mucous membranes. If it did not rain, bush fires raged over the hills burning out whole tracts of houses. When it rained you got a year's supply inside twelve hours and mud slides pushed houses into the sea at Malibu. And any day now the San Andreas Fault was expected to crack and rip the whole tacky place apart. Who would voluntarily live in such a hell of a city?
Answer: five million nuts. Which brought his mind back smartly to Hendrix, Biggie and the commune. To hell with Gunnarsson; he would go see Charlie Wainwright.
The Los Angeles office of Gunnarsson Associates was on Hollywood Boulevard at the corner of Highland, near Grauman's Chinese Theatre. His card got him in to see Charlie Wainwright, boss of the West Coast region, who said, 'Hi, Ben; what are you doing over here?'
'Slumming,' said Hardin as he sat down. 'You don't think I'd come here if I had a choice?'
'Still the same old grouch.' Wainwright waved his hand to the window. 'What's wrong with this? It's a beautiful day.'
'Yeah; and the last for ten years,' said Hardin. 'I had that on authority. 'I'll give you a tip, Charlie. You can get a hell of a view of the San Gabriels today from the top of Mullholland Drive. But don't wait too long; they'll be gone by tomorrow.'
'Maybe 'I'll take a drive up there.' Wainwright leaned back in his chair. 'What can we do for you, Ben?'
'Have you got a pipeline into the Sheriff's office?'
'That depends on what you want to come down it,' said Wainwright cautiously.
Hardin decided not to mention Hendrix. 'I'm looking for a guy called Biggie. Seems he's mixed up in a commune. They were busted by sheriff's deputies about ten months ago over ID North Hollywood.'
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