Flashpoint by Dan J. Marlowe Read Free Book Online Page A

nodded. "And the other one was taller and stood like this?" He went into a military brace with his gut sucked in and his shoulders braced.
        "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