Windfall

'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, put-ting 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, arid 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 lightweight 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 irate. 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.'