Windfall

‘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?’