'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 why? 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 be 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, 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.'