'Yeah, that's it,' the boy said.
Erikson didn't pursue the subject. 'Now tell me-'
'What's your story about who you're from?' the boy interrupted him.
I could see Erikson starting to boil at the all-but-outright insolence in the boy's tone. I had wondered at the kid's attitude almost from his first words. 'You don't sound to me like someone interested in finding Frank's killer,' I put in before Erikson could say anything.
The effect was startling. The Mexican boy's features crumpled like wet cardboard. Tears spurted from beneath his eyelids and ran down his brown cheeks. 'What the h-hell do you know about it?' he blubbered. He swiped at his eyes with the back of a still-greasy hand. 'Wh-what the h-hell-'
He swung around and stumbled inside the mangy-looking office, slamming the squeaky-hinged door behind him. Erikson and I stood in the bright sunlight looking at each other. Erikson shrugged finally and followed the boy inside. I was right behind him.
The temperature inside the shack must have been a hundred and twenty degrees. The boy stood with his back to us, facing the single window which was unopened. 'How old are you, son?' I asked.
'Si-sixteen.' The tone was muffled. 'And you g-guys will never know about F-Frank. You j-just come in h-here and ask about the plane. And now Frank's gone and my job's g-gone and the desert will have the f-field back in six months and I don't know h-how I'll s-support my mother-'
'A good mechanic can get a job anywhere,' I said when the shaky voice trailed off. 'And you're a good mechanic or Frank wouldn't have hired you.'
'Even when you're good, they don't h-hire you if you're a Mex,' the boy said in a hopeless tone. 'I tried before.'
'What about the telephone call that set up the charter?' Erikson asked impatiently.
'Go ask Elaine!' the boy snarled. He swung around and faced us defiantly. 'She was the one in the office when the call came.'
'Elaine?'
'Frank's wife.' The boy's lower lip curled.
I picked up a tattered telephone directory from a splintery board counter. I found Dalrymple, Frank with the address 224 Oliveras Street. I showed it to Erikson. 'We'd better talk to her in person,' he said, and went out the door of the shack.
I stayed behind. 'Who was at the field when the man showed up for the chartered flight?'
'Frank.'
'How was Frank supposed to know him?'
The boy shrugged. 'He must have used the s-same name he gave Elaine on the phone. Hawk.'
'Hawk? Mr. Hawk, or was it a nickname?'
'I don't know.' The boy had turned sullen again. 'I won't even get paid what Frank owes me now. Elaine h- hates everything connected with the field. She was always trying to get Frank to give it up and get a job.'
'Did you tell the other men who came about Elaine?'
'They didn't ask me.'
I followed Erikson out to the car. He rammed it back out to the highway at a fast clip. He had already forgotten the Mexican boy.
I hadn't.
When a kid like that gets the ground cut from under his feet suddenly, ground he's been depending upon, it takes only a light shove to start him in a direction he'd never have considered previously.
I know because it happened to me.
The homes on Oliveras Street were not mansions. Number 224 was a two-family dwelling with tired-looking grass in the tiny front yard. Erikson pressed the 224-A button after leaning down to check the nameplates. The door opened three inches and a thin-faced, brassy blonde stared out at us. She had on slacks and a bra. No blouse. Her feet were bare. 'I want to talk to you about Frank Dalrymple's last chartered flight,' Erikson said gruffly.
'I got nothing to say to you!' the blonde retorted. She tried to slam the door but Erikson had a shoe wedged inside. He shouldered the door open, and we walked into a midget-sized hallway. 'You get out of here!' the blonde shrilled. She had a voice like the sound of a rat tail file on rusty metal.
'You can get us out of here by answering a few questions,' Erikson told her. 'Or maybe you'd rather answer them downtown?'
'You're not local,' the woman informed him. 'And if you're not, you don't have any jurisdiction here.' She looked as though she weighed only ninety-eight pounds, but she also looked competent. I had a feeling that this one was a survivor.
'Call your lawyer,' Erikson suggested.
She made no move toward the phone on the table.
'What about that charter flight?'
'The phone call was from New York,' she said reluctantly.
'Why was your husband selected to make the flight?'
'If he knew, he never told me. Not that I'd have tried to stop him. We needed the cash. With him wasting his time out at that piece of desert acreage instead of supporting-'
'What about the call?'
'Well, I took the message. Frank was away, and he called New York when he came back. The charter customer-'
'Frank called New York? You had a number for him to call? Where is it?' Erikson rapped at her in one breath.
'It's probably still in my handbag. Wait a minute.' Her bare feet slap-slapped into the next room and back again. 'Here.'
Erikson looked at the number scrawled on a torn scrap of paper. 'Judson two-four-seven-O-five,' he read aloud. He shoved the paper into a pocket. 'What else?' he demanded.
'Nothing else,' the blonde said spiritedly. 'I wasn't at the field when the man came.'
'And a good thing for you,' I told her. Her eyes widened as though she hadn't thought of that aspect of it before. 'And for the Mexican kid. The boy said the charter customer used the name Hawk. Did you get the feeling it was a nickname or his surname?'
'I didn't get a feeling one way or the other.'
'Thanks for your trouble,' Erikson said, and started for the door.
I lingered. 'See to it that the kid gets the wages due him,' I suggested to Elaine.
'What the hell do you mean?' she flared up.
'You wouldn't want the wages-and-hours boys looking over your shoulder.'
'I'll have you know I pay my bills!' she rasped.
Outside, Erikson beep-beeped the horn of the rented car. 'Fine,' I said, and left.
'Those two men the kid at the airport described were Israeli intelligence agents,' Erikson said as I got into the car. 'They didn't lose any time.'
He drove until he found a street telephone booth. I waited in the car while he made his call to check out the telephone number he'd retrieved from Dalrymple's wife. 'It's a bar on Lexington Avenue not too far away from Grand Central,' he said when he returned.
'Does that tell us anything?'
'Not from this distance it doesn't.' Erikson sat there frowning, his big hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. Finally he turned his head and looked at me. 'You're still the only one who's seen this hijack character. How'd you like to make a quick flight to New York with me?'
'I don't think so,' I demurred. 'Hazel has a few things for me to do around the ranch.' I'd been thinking of going to New York ever since I heard the phone number, but I didn't want to go with Karl Erikson looking over my shoulder.
'You weren't listening, Earl.' Erikson's tone changed. 'I said that you're the only person to this point who can identify the hijacker. It happens to be important to the government, and as the government's representative, I'm here to persuade you to cooperate with us.'
I didn't like the way he said it. 'Persuade?' I repeated. 'Cooperate?'
