'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 why? 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 be 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, mis-treat 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 5 5 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 deadbeat, 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 f
rom Kennedy Airport direct to Gunnarsson Associates and he was shown into Gunnarsson's office fast. Gunnarsson was sitting behind his desk and asked 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.
Hardin took the elevator to the lobby and crossed the street the Irish bar where, in the past, he had spent more time than was good for either his liver or his wallet. He sat on a stool and said brusquely, 'Double bourbon.'
Over the drink he brooded on his fate. Damn Gunnarsson! It had never been Hardin's style to complain that life was unfair; in his view life was what you made it. Yet now he draught that Gunnarsson had not only been unfair but vindictive. Canned and out on his ear after five minutes' conversation – the bum's rush.
He viewed the future glumly. What was a man aged fifty-five with no particular marketable skills to do? He could set up on his own, he supposed; find an office, put some ads in the paper, and sit back and wait for clients – a seedy Sam Spade. Likely he'd have to wait a long time and starve while waiting. More likely he'd end up carrying a gun for Brinks or become a bank guard and get corns on his feet from too much standing.
And his car, goddamn it! He and his car were separated by three thousand miles. He knew that if he went back to Gunnarsson and reminded him of the promise to bring the car back to New York Gunnarsson would laugh in his face.
He ordered another drink and went over the events of the last few weeks. Gunnarsson bad promised him a bonus if he cracked the Hendrix case, so why had he reneged on the offer? It wasn't as though Gunnarsson Associates were broke – the money was rolling in as though there was a pipeline from Fort Knox. There had to be a definite reason.
Come to think of it the Hendrix case had been a funny one right from the beginning. It was not Gunnarsson Associates' style to send a man freelancing all over the country -not when they had all those regional offices. So why had Gunnarsson handled it that way? And the way he had been fired was too damned fast. Gunnarsson had deliberately needled him, forcing an argument and wanting Hardin to blow his top. Any boss was entitled to fire a man who called him a cheapskate.
Dim suspicions burgeoned in Hardin's mind.
His musings were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and a voice said, 'Hi, Ben; I thought you were on the West Coast.'
Hardin turned his head and saw Jack Richardson. 'I was,' he said sourly. 'But how did you know?'
'I had to call the Los Angeles office this morning. WAIN-WRIGHT said you'd been around. What's your poison?'
'Make it bourbon.' So Wainwright couldn't keep his big mouth shut after all. Richardson ran the files at Gunnarsson Associates; the records were totally computerized and Richardson knew which buttons to push. Now Hardin regarded him with interest. 'Jack, did you hear any of the guys in the office beefing about me? Complaining of how I do my work, for instance?'
Richardson looked surprised. 'Not around me. No more than the usual anyway. Everyone beefs some, you know that.'
'Yeah.' Hardin sipped his whiskey. 'Gunnarsson canned me this morning.'
Richardson whistled. 'Just like that?'
Hardin snapped his fingers. 'Just like that. Took him about thirty seconds.'
'Why?'
'I called him a cheapskate for one thing.'
'I'd have liked to have seen his face,' said Richardson. 'No wonder he fired you.'
'I don't think it was the reason,' said Hardin. 'I think it was something else. Could you do me a favour?'
'I might, depending on what it is. Don't ask for dough, Ben. I'm broke.'
'Who isn't?' said Hardin feelingly. 'I'd like you to ask your metal friend across the street for the name and address of the British lawyer who started the Hendrix case.'
'The Hendrix case,' repeated Richardson, and frowned. 'Gunnarsson seems to be keeping that one under wraps. He says he's handling it personally. I don't have any information on it so far.'
Hardin found that interesting but he made no comment. 'But the details of the original letter from England should be in the files.'
'I guess so,' said Richardson without enthusiasm. 'But you know how Gunnarsson is about security. The computer logs every inquiry into any case and Gunnarsson checks the log.'
'He can't check every log; he'd be doing nothing else.'
'Spot checks mostly,' admitted Richardson. 'But if he's handling the Hendrix case personally that's one log he might very well check. I can't risk it, Ben. I don't want to get fired, too.'
'For Christ's sake!' said Hardin in disgust. 'You know enough about the computer to gimmick a log. You wrote the goddamn programs for the data base.'
"What's your interest in this?'
'I'm damned if I know; I've got to do some hard thinking. There's something wrong somewhere. I feel it in my bones. But, for your information, Gunnarsson isn't handling the Hendrix case. I've been handling it, and I cracked it. Then I get fired. I'd like to figure out why I was fired.'
'Okay, Ben; 'I'll see what I can do,' said Richardson. 'But you don't talk about this. You keep your mouth zipped.'
'Who would I talk to? When can I have it?'
'I'll see what I can do tomorrow. 'I'll meet you in here at midday.'
'That's fine,' said Hardin and drained his glass. 'This one's on me. Then 'I'll go clean out my desk like a good boy.' He signalled the bartender. 'I wonder what Gunnarsson's idea of severance pay is."
Chapter 5
Gunnarson's idea of severance pay made Hardin madder than ever. He tried to complain but could not get past the acidulated spinster who guarded Gunnarsson's office, and neither could he get through on the phone. Gunnarsson's castle was impregnable.
But Richardson came up with the information he needed next day. He gave Hardin an envelope and said, 'You don't know where you got it.'
'Okay.' Hardin opened the envelope and took out a single piece of paper. 'This isn't a computer print-out.'
'You're damned right it isn't,' said Richardson. 'If Gunnarsson found a print-out with that information floating loose he'd head straight for me. Is it what you want?'
Hardin scanned it. A London inquiry agency, Peacemore, Willis and Franks, requested Gunnarsson Associates to search
for any living relatives of Jan-Willem Hendrykxx -Hardin blinked at the spelling – and to pass the word back. Hendrykxx was reputed to have married in South Africa and to have had two sons, one of whom was believed to have emigrated to the United States in the 1930s. There was also the address and telephone number of a lawyer in Jersey.
It told Hardin nothing he did not know already except for the unusual spelling of Hendrix, and the Jersey address confused him until he realized that it referred to the original Jersey in the Channel Islands and not the state of New Jersey. He nodded. 'This is it.' There was something more. Peace-more, Willis and Franks was the British end of Gunnarsson Associates, a fact not generally known. It meant that Gunnarsson had been in it right from the start, whatever 'it' was. 'Thanks. It's worth a drink, Jack.'
If Hardin was mad at Gunnarsson he was also broke. He moved out of his apartment on the East Side and into a rooming house in the Bronx. It cost more in subway and bus fares to get into Manhattan but it was still cheaper. He wired instructions to San Francisco to sell his car and wire the money. He did not expect much but he needed the cash, and a car was a needless luxury in the city.
He carefully maintained his pipelines into the offices of Gunnarsson Associates, mainly through Jack Richardson, although there were a couple of secretaries whom he took to frugal lunches and pumped carefully, trying to get a line on That Gunnarsson was doing in the matter of Hank Hendrix. The answer, apparently, was nothing at all. Worse still, Hendrix had vanished.
'Maybe Gunnarsson sent him to England,' Richardson said one day.
"You can check that,' said Hardin thoughtfully. 'There'll be an expense account for the air fare. Do me a favour.'
'Goddamn it!' said Richardson heatedly. 'You'll get me fired.' But he checked and found no record of transatlantic flights since Hendrix had arrived in New York. On his own initiative he checked for any record of medical expenses paid out for the treatment of Hendrix's wound and, again, found nothing. He was a good friend to Hardin.
'Gunnarsson is playing this one close,' commented Hardin. 'He's usually damned hot on record keeping. I'm more and more convinced that the bastard's up to no good. But what the hell is it?'
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