Windfall. Desmond Bagley
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