Windfall

'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.'