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, 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,
