Windfall

'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 from 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.