Читать книгу Windfall - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 9

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 over 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 years.’

‘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 not 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 LA. And he did not like the Los Angeles version of the much lauded Californian climate. The smog veiled the sun and set up irritation is 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 in North Hollywood.’

‘Not the LAPD?’ queried Wainwright. ‘Don’t they have jurisdiction in North Hollywood?’

Hardin was sure Mrs White had not mentioned the Los Angeles Police Department, but he checked his notebook. ‘No; my informant referred to the Sheriff’s Department.’

‘So what do you want?’

Hardin looked at Wainwright in silence for a moment before saying patiently, ‘I want Biggie.’

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.’ Wainwright thought a while. ‘Might take a little time.’

‘Not too long, I hope.’ Hardin stood up. ‘And do me a favour, Charlie; you haven’t seen me. I haven’t been here. Especially if Gunnarsson wants to know. He’s playing this one close to his chest.’

‘How are you getting on with the old bastard?’

‘Not bad,’ said Hardin noncommittally.

Two hours later he was in a coffee shop across from City Hall waiting for a deputy from the Sheriff’s Department. Wainwright had said, ‘Better not see him in his office—might compromise him. You don’t have an investigator’s licence for this state. What’s Gunnarsson up to, Ben? He’s not done this before. These things are usually handled by the local office.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t like me,’ said Hardin feelingly, thinking of the miles of interstate highways he had driven.

He was about to order another coffee when a shadow fell across the table. ‘You the guy looking for Olaf Hamsun?’

Hardin looked up and saw a tall, lean man in uniform. ‘Who?’

‘Also known as Biggie,’ said the deputy. ‘Big blond Scandahoovian—monster size.’

‘That’s the guy.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Ben Hardin. Coffee?’ At the deputy’s nod he held up two fingers to a passing waitress.

The deputy sat opposite. ‘Jack Sawyer. What do you want with Biggie?’

‘Nothing at all. But he’s running with Henry Hendrix, and I want to visit with Hank.’

‘Hendrix,’ said Sawyer ruminatively. ‘Youngish—say, twenty-six or twenty-seven; height about five ten; small scar above left eyebrow.’

‘That’s probably my boy.’

‘What do you want with him?’

‘Just to establish that he’s his father’s son, and then report back to New York.’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Some British lawyer according to my boss. That’s all I know; Gunnarsson doesn’t confide in me. Operates on need to know.’

‘Just like all the other ex-CIA cloak and dagger boys,’ said Sawyer scornfully. He looked at Hardin carefully. ‘You were a Company man, too, weren’t you?’

‘Don’t hold it against me,’ said Hardin, forcing a grin.

‘Even if I don’t that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And you don’t have an investigator’s licence good in California. If I didn’t owe Charlie Wainwright a couple I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t like you guys and I never have.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Hardin. ‘What’s eating you?’

‘I’ll tell you.’ Sawyer leaned forward. ‘Last year we busted a gang smuggling cocaine from Mexico. Turned out that half of them were bastards from the CIA. They claimed we’d wrecked one of their best Mexican operations. We said they were breaking the law of the United States and we were going to jail them. But do you think we could? Those sons of bitches are walking around free as air right now.’

Hardin said, ‘You can’t blame that on me.’

‘I guess not,’ said Sawyer tiredly. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you where to find Biggie.’ He stuck out his forefinger. ‘But step out of line one inch and I’ll nail your hide to the barn door, even if it’s for spitting on the sidewalk.’

‘Thanks,’ said Hardin ironically.

‘You’ll find the gang down at Playa del Rey. If they’re not there try Santa Monica, down near the Bristol Pier. There’s a greasy spoon called Bernie’s where they hang out.’

Hardin wrote in his notebook. ‘Does Hendrix have a record? Or Hamsun?’

‘Hamsun’s been busted for peddling pot. He had a fraction under an ounce on him, so it didn’t come to much. Nothing on Hendrix; at least, not here.’

‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ said Hardin, putting away his notebook. ‘When you cracked down on the commune in North Hollywood you found some funny things in the house, I hear. Statues of some kind, and not the kind a good, Christian woman would like.’

‘The good, Christian woman being Mrs White,’ said Sawyer ironically. ‘The old witch. There’s nothing to it, Hardin. It’s just that the kids tried their hand at pottery; reckoned they could sell the stuff at the Farmer’s Market and make a few dollars. That pottery kiln did most of the damage to the house when it blew up.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all,’ said Sawyer, and laughed. ‘Turned out they weren’t very good at sculpting. They didn’t know enough anatomy; least, not the kind you need for sculpting.’ He became philosophical. ‘They’re not a bad crowd of kids, not as things are these days. Sure, they smoke pot, but who doesn’t? I bet my own kids do when I’m not around. They’re just mostly beach bums, and that’s not illegal yet.’

‘Sure,’ said Hardin. He had a sudden thought. ‘Does Biggie still wear the ankh?’

‘The what?’

‘The ankh.’ He sketched it on the back of the menu.

‘Yeah, he still wears that thing. Didn’t know it had a name. It should be valuable. It’s big and looks as though it’s solid gold. But it would take some real crazy guy to rip it off Biggie.’

Hardin spent two days at Playa del Rey and drew a blank, so he went up the coast to Santa Monica. He found Bernie’s and had a cup of coffee, steering clear of the hamburgers. The place stank of rancid oil and he judged the level of hygiene was good for a jail sentence. The coffee was lousy, too, and there was lipstick on his cup.

He questioned the harassed waitress intermittently as she passed and repassed his table and again drew a blank. Yes, she knew Biggie but had not seen him for some time. No, she didn’t know anyone called Hendrix. Hardin pushed aside the unfinished coffee and left.

For another two days he roamed the Santa Monica water front, questioning the kids—the beach bums and surfing freaks—and made little progress. Biggie was well known but no one had seen him around. Hendrix was less known and no one had seen him, either. Hardin looked gloomily at the offshore oil rigs which periodically sprang leaks to poison the fish and kill the seabirds, and he cursed Gunnarsson.

On the evening of the second day he checked again at Bernie’s. As he stared distastefully at the grease floating on the surface of his coffee a girl sidled up next to him. ‘You the guy looking for Biggie?’

He turned his head. Her long uncombed hair was a dirty blonde and her make-up had been applied sloppily so that she looked like a kid who had just used the contents of her mother’s dressing table for the first time. ‘I’m the guy,’ he said briefly.

‘He don’t like it.’

‘I’m broken hearted.’

She made a face. ‘But he’ll talk to you.’

‘When and where?’

‘Tonight—eight o’clock. There’s an old warehouse on Twenty-seventh Street at Carlyle. He’ll be there.’

‘Look,’ said Hardin, ‘I’m not interested in Biggie, but he has a sidekick called Hendrix—Hank Hendrix. Know him?’

‘Sure.’

‘He’s the guy I want to talk with. Let him be at the warehouse. I don’t give a damn about Biggie.’

The girl shrugged. ‘I’ll pass the word.’

Hardin was at the rendezvous an hour early. The abandoned warehouse was in a depressed area long overdue for urban renewal; the few windows still intact were grimy, and the place looked as though it would collapse if an over-zealous puff of air blew in from the Pacific. He tested a door, found it unlocked, and went inside.

It took only a few minutes to find that the building was empty. He explored thoroughly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous interior, and found a locked door at the back. He unlocked it and returned to his car where he sat with a good view of the front entrance and lit a cigarette.

Biggie and Hendrix showed up halfway through the third cigarette. Biggie was unmistakable; tall and broad he looked like a circus strong man, and there was a glint of gold on his bare chest. Hendrix, who walked next to him, was no light-weight but next to Biggie he looked like a midget. They went into the warehouse and Hardin finished his cigarette before getting out of the car and crossing the road.

He entered the warehouse and found Biggie sitting on a crate. Hendrix was nowhere to be seen. Biggie stood up as he approached, ‘I’m Ben Hardin. You’ll be Olaf Hamsun, right?’

‘Could be,’ conceded Biggie.

‘Where’s Hendrix?’

Biggie ignored the question. ‘You a pig?’ he asked.

Hardin suppressed an insane desire to giggle; the thought of describing himself as a private pig was crazy. Instead, he said mildly, ‘Watch your mouth.’

Biggie shrugged. ‘Just a manner of speaking. No offence meant. What do you want with Hank?’

‘If he wants you to know he’ll tell you. Where is he?’

Biggie jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Back there. But you talk to me.’

‘No way,’ said Hardin decidedly.

‘Suit yourself. Now shut up and listen to me, buster. I don’t like creeps like you asking questions around town. Christ, every Joe I’ve talked to in the last couple days tells me I’m a wanted man. Hurts my reputation, see?’

‘You shouldn’t be hard to find.’

‘I’m not hiding,’ said Biggie. ‘But you and your foreign friend bug me.’

‘I don’t have a foreign friend,’ said Hardin.

‘No? Then how come he’s been asking around, too?’

Hardin frowned. ‘Tell me more,’ he said. ‘How do you know he’s foreign?’

‘His accent, dummy.’

‘I told you to watch your mouth,’ said Hardin sharply. He thought for a moment and remembered that Gunnarsson had mentioned a British lawyer. ‘Could it be a British accent?’

‘You mean like we hear on those longhair programs on TV?’ Biggie shook his head. ‘No; not like that. This guy has a real foreign accent.’ He paused. ‘Could be a Kraut,’ he offered.

‘So you’ve talked with him.’

‘Naw. I had a friend talk with him at Bernie’s. I was in the next booth.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Same as you. He wants to visit with Hank.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Sure. Big guy, well set up; looks like he can handle himself. Short hair, crewcut like a soldier boy.’ Biggie scratched his chest absently, his hand moving the golden ankh aside. ‘Scar on his cheek.’

‘Which side?’

‘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.’