by Dane Hartman
Harry heard him shouting even while he was still on the sidewalk in front of the building. The words were muddled but there was no mistaking the fiery conviction behind them. He looked at the sign above the boarded up windows and steel front door. It read The Ying-Yang Bookstore and had the appropriate Oriental circular symbol painted nearby. The place used to hawk volumes on zen and macrobiotic cooking.
Callahan had almost no trouble getting in. Slipping his fingers in the crack between the edge of the metal door and brick building, he was able to pull the obstruction open—a feat that was not lost on the two homosexual guards standing inside the entrance. They both took one look at the tall muscular cop and forgot the disapproval they were about to express.
All three were standing at the rear of the one room store, its length stretching at least sixty feet, almost all of which was packed with buzzing, angry humanity. The last few rows, as everywhere, had a life of its own. Just like in school, church, and theaters, those in the last row usually had an attitude slightly bent from the rest of the establishment. Even in the SAFE house it was no different.
“What can I do for you, handsome?” said the man to Harry’s left, getting an elbow in his ribs from his male date as a reward.
“Looking for a friend,” Harry answered almost truthfully, scanning the crowd for any sign of Kim Byrnes.
“There, you see?” said the first man’s friend. “Mind your own business, Kenny.”
“Later, pal,” the first man said quietly to Harry.
“Sure,” he replied. Not wanting a confrontation of any kind, Harry moved deeper into the throng, hearing more clearly Steele’s shouted words.
The well-built man with the thinning blond hair and the oval head was standing on a small, wooden platform at the very back of the store, flanked by tiny round coffee tables and thin metal chairs. On one of these tables was a java dispenser, on another was a tray of donuts. Around the remainder were people, mostly couples.
Seated at the farthest table to the right was a boney thin-lipped girl with close cut, unkempt red hair. She wore a white T-shirt and tight black pants. She had her arm around the white fuzzy-sweatered shoulders of Kim Byrnes. The smaller, better built girl was holding both hands of the girl on her left, her eyes intently watching Steele as he whipped his lecture to the boiling point.
“The truth is finally coming out!” the man was booming, his voice sonorous. “Finally, you can see what I’ve been saying all along is true! There is a plot abroad in the land . . . There is . . . a conspiracy!”
At this point, most of those in front echoed the speaker’s sentiment, their fists upraised. “Conspiracy!” they cried.
Harry looked closer, pushing his way through the group on the right. Coming around near the coffee machine, he saw Steele’s cheering section, his own personal peanut gallery. The dozen or more men and women who sat there were all of a ruddy type, dressed in a makeshift uniform.
Black berets were worn by the men at a jaunty angle, while the ladies had little leather caps with narrow brims, They all had leathery jackets that came down to their thighs, on which they wore dark pants tucked into black boots. Harry caught glimpses of shiny things on their belts below turtleneck sweaters—some he recognized as chain links, while others were more esoterically unfathomable.
“Yes!” Steele continued. “A conspiracy. A conspiracy to rid you of your rights, your homes, your friends, and finally . . . !”
As he rattled off the list, his front row backers started chanting with him, their fisted arms punching at the air. As they struck upward, their sleeves receded, revealing what looked like something combining the sadistic with the medieval. Alternating strips of leather were attached to strips of copper steel. They were long, reaching from the wrist to almost their elbows from what Harry could tell.
“Yes!” Steele repeated what seemed to be a favorite word, then his manner and voice grew prophetically quiet. “Finally your lives.”
The whole place added to the uproar this time. Callahan stayed off to the side where things were a bit more quiet. He watched the choppy-haired redhead with her arm around Byrnes whisper something in the girl’s ear. He saw Kim turn at the suggestion and shake her head.
“It’s happening already,” Steele warned. “You’ve read about it! You’ve heard about it! They’re digging our sisters out of the ground. The bodies have been piling up there for years! How many were buried there? How many more graveyards filled with our murdered brothers and sisters are there? You’ve seen it yourself, you know what I’m talking about.
“Each one of you,” he said intently, pointing at the gathered mass. “Each one of you has had a friend. A friend you met one day, but when you went to find them the next, they were gone. Disappeared. Admit it! You’ve all had something like that happen to you. I have. Where did they go? Well, I can tell you. They went underground! Six feet underground. Down, down into the San Francisco dirt!”
Steele tried to continue, but the crowd was getting unruly. Things were finally brought back to a semblance of order by the peanut gallery who started to chant, “Tell us more.”
Soon everyone joined the chant, so they were ready to quiet down when Steele raised his hands. “How could this happen?” he asked them, “I’ll tell you how. Because for years there’s been a conspiracy. An extermination plot fostered by the fathers of this city to get rid of one thorn in their side—the homosexual community. Like the blacks in the Civil War . . . like the Jews in the Second World War . . . we are the oppressed minority that the killers in the government think they can wipe out! Well, I say no!”
With great passion everyone inside the room agreed with him. Even Kim’s comrade let go of her long enough to lean forward and raucously agree with the man. He basked in their energy for a few moments, his arms out, then he started shouting over their cheers.
“When you kill a brother, it’s called fratri-cide! When you kill an entire racial group, it’s called geno-cide! In San Francisco, it’s called homo-cide!”
The room shook with madness. Harry thought, this guy was a bad combination of a television reporter and evangelist. He took unsubstantiated reports and whipped his followers into a false froth, leading them to drink the stuff before they knew what was in it. He could understand now why Kim had signaled him in. M. Peter Steele was only making matters more difficult for the police.
Harry decided to have a discreet little talk with the man. By the looks of it, he had the power to do the gay community either serious harm or good. If he could mobilize his task force effectively, they might work together with the police to run the killer to ground. Otherwise they’d be nothing better than a lynch mob.
Having finished his speech, Steele left his low podium to move among his people on the floor. He stepped off to his left first, walking right up to Kim and her partner, taking one of each of their hands in both of his. After a quick firm handshake, he moved on, clasping hands with many others.
There was a sea of people between Harry and the SAFE leader so the cop moved forward as the crowd surged around Steele. Judging by his rate of progress, Harry could catch up to the man halfway toward the door. Both men kept pushing their way through the mass, each intent on a different purpose. Steele was smiling, waving, and handshaking like a winning politician, while Harry was only intent on catching up.
He didn’t worry about Byrnes. She had gotten decent instructions from Wu on how to act. She’d be friendly and open, but reluctant to go further than that. Her story was she had just broken up with a lover and wasn’t ready to get into anything serious. If the partner became too insistent, Byrnes could tell them about the death of her best friend. That would cool anybody’s ardor.
Callahan turned his head to take a last look at Byrnes before he approached Steele. Over the bobbing heads of the others pressing to reach their leader, he could see their table was now empty. Harry’s head whirled around, but he couldn’t spot Kim or her companion anywhere. It was possible that he had lost them among the masse
s in the smokey interior.
Suddenly worried, Harry pressed harder to reach his quarry. He was able to break through the general audience, but then he came up against a circle of Steele’s cheerleaders, who acted, in this case, like Secret Service men. They weren’t professional guards, however, so Harry was able to move around toward the front to circumvent them. He was just a few heads away from Steele, his hand already outstretched, when he heard a gasp coming from the left.
He looked in that direction just as Steele was about to clasp his hand. “Oh my God! It’s him!” he heard a strident voice say. “It’s Harry Callahan!” He saw the words emitting from the mouth of an overweight bearded young man with glasses. As the words reached his ears, he thought he vaguely recognized the boy.
That made no difference to Steele, who automatically gripped Harry’s fingers, not comprehending the meaning of the bearded man’s words. But when the kid saw that, he jumped forward, shouting “No!” He pushed their two hands apart and stood protectively in front of his leader, pointing at the undercover cop as if he had the plague.
“Don’t you understand?” he all but shrieked. “That’s Callahan! Inspector Harry Callahan. He’s the one who shot our four brothers.”
The cop recognized him now. The bearded man was one of the many people who crowded the Justice Department steps, camera or tape recorder in hand. He was a reporter. His shout and push was enough to stop Steele’s parade right in its tracks. Callahan saw that when the SAFE leader heard the word “police,” he went deathly white.
The scene remained frozen that way for what seemed like minutes. But then the reporter put a more potent cap on his interruption by saying, “Watch out! He might have a gun!”
Steele was suddenly pulled back, his protectors surging toward the surprised policeman.
Harry moved quickly. He certainly wasn’t interested in taking on the entire San Francisco chapter of SAFE. He turned and charged toward the door.
His way was blocked by four beret-topped SAFE men. Just as quickly as he tried to run, Harry spun back and opened his coat to show them that he carried no weapon. No sooner had he revealed that than somebody punched him in the stomach.
The woman in the middle of the SAFE guards had stepped forward and let Harry have it as hard as she could. He doubled over, his arms wrapped around his waist. The girl moved in to kick him in the balls.
The boot came up unerringly between Harry’s legs. He watched it coming, his head down in a “oh man, I’m hurt” stance. But at the last second, he let his hands drop from his stomach and cup around the girl’s ankle. She was forced to move forward to keep her balance, pulling her almost right on top of Callahan.
Then he straightened up like a wrecking ball. The top of his head cracked into her jaw; the sound sharp enough to send a jolt through all present. After her initial strike, they thought they were going to have easy pickings.
Harry took advantage of their surprise by following the falling girl. He practically pushed the woman into the other guards behind her, clearing a space for him to break through deeper in the store. They moved away from the cop as if he were a leper and charged the front door as if the place was on fire.
Callahan didn’t mind. Their panic kept the four guards at the door pinned, making it a lot easier for him to move. The non-militant SAFE members backed away to the walls and then ran forward, leaving the back of the room to the caps, berets, and Harry. As he ran past them toward the back wall, his eyes searched for a possible escape route.
There had to be one, because as quickly as he scanned, he noted that Steele was no longer in sight either. He had probably gone the way Kim and her friend exited because they too did not leave by the front entrance. Harry hurled tables behind him, scattering the chairs as they fell. The store became an obstacle course. As he ran out of room, two of his pursuers, one man and one woman, got their legs caught in the rolling furniture. They both went down.
There were two doors on the rear wall—one to the right in the corner and one to the left near a white-washed window.
Harry chose the left door. He reasoned that behind the window—opaque or not—there was most likely a way out of the building. Grabbing the almost empty metal tray of donuts as he pivoted sharply to the left, he swung it viciously behind him, catching a male pursuer in the neck. He choked, reddened, and went down, the tray flipping over his falling head.
Having cleared the way, Harry raced to the left-hand door, seeing that it opened outward. Not worrying about a lock or taking the time to turn the knob, he bellowed and sent himself through the air. He smashed lengthwise into the door with all his power, ripping the rotting thing out of the doorjamb and practically pulling its pins out of the wall.
The door swung back, Callahan flew through, and smashed in a standing position against the back wall of a tiny bathroom.
“Kim,” Steele breathed into her ear as the two were running. “Kim, please. Slow down.”
But the girl was too excited, too thrilled at the way things were turning out. She flew in front of both Steele and her female companion, leading them down one alley after another.
It was an incredible stroke of luck that the reporter had been there to identify Callahan. It saved her the trouble of siccing the SAFE guards on him in the alley just outside the right back door—the same door through which she had hustled Steele.
Now, hopefully, the brawny guards would beat him to death. But whether he was killed or just severely mauled didn’t matter to her. She was safe either way. But to make the plan complete, there was one other loose end to cover.
She kept running, concentrating on her plan, until Steele, nervous and tired, began to stumble.
“Kim,” the redhead called, taking the SAFE leader’s arm. “We’re losing him.”
Only then did the girl slow, reaching into her pocket.
“Come on, Michael,” she admonished, taking some white powder in a little baggie out of her pocket. “You can do it. Just need a little more fuel, that’s all.” She stuck the open top of the plastic holder under his nose, and he inhaled. Seconds later, they were running again.
“Jesus, Kim,” the redhead complained, still at Steele’s side. “Now I need to rest. I’ve got to stop.”
“You’ll rest soon enough,” Byrnes promised. She led them right around a corner where the maze of alleys finally emptied into a dark back street. Blocking their way was a lone police car.
“Oh my God,” Steele moaned.
“Take it easy, Michael,” Kim soothed. “Here,” she said, handing him the bag of drugs. “Take this and run.”
“But I can’t take this!” he wailed. “What if they catch me?”
“They won’t catch you,” Byrnes vowed. “Just get some of your boys together and go to the hideout. We’ll meet you there later.”
“But Kim . . . ,” the SAFE leader whined, glancing with trepidation at the patrol car.
“Don’t worry,” she demanded. “We’ll delay the cops. You just get going. Hurry!”
Steele raced off in a panic, his strength and fiery leadership in the bag of powder he clasped in his sweaty hand.
“I swear,” the redhead said, looking at him go. “He’s nothing without you, is he?”
“Never mind that now,” the other female said. “Let’s just keep this pig from following him.”
“You lead the way,” the redhead said. “He’ll be more interested in you anyway.”
“No, no,” Kim disagreed. “You do the talking. I’ll just stay in the back, looking available.
The redhead giggled. “Good idea. I’ll give him the old ‘who, us?’ routine.”
Kim nodded and they both started moving forward.
As they approached, the redhead could see the silhouette of a man behind the driver’s seat in the light from the street beyond. As they got closer, he slowly opened the door and stepped out. He came to the front of the car as they got close enough to see him. He was fairly young looking—with brown hair and a mustache.
> “Hello, officer,” the redhead said, coming close.
“What are you two doing out here so late at night?” the cop asked, his voice flat.
“Who us?” the redhead asked. Kim came up behind her companion and hit her as hard as she could on the top of the head with a piece of asphalt.
There was a sharp, wet thunk that filled the alley followed by the soft thud of the redhead collapsing to the ground. Byrnes fell on her knees beside the body and continued slamming the rock into the girl’s skull.
“Damn dike,” she hissed as the jagged piece of black stone rose and fell in her hands, its surface oozing a liquid red. “Motherfucking lesbo. I’ll show you. I’ll teach you a thing or two.”
“Come on,” shouted the man. “We don’t have time for this. Where are the others?”
But Byrnes continued oblivious. The force of her blows was so strong that the asphalt chunk was beginning to turn to powder in her hands. She reared up, with a maddened look in her eyes, and searched the alley until she found a section of board. She smashed that into the girl until, in her fury, she broke it against the ground.
“That’s enough,” the cop said, grabbing her arms. “We can’t take the chance of being seen.”
“What’s the matter?” Byrnes spat back, breathing heavily. “Pissed you can’t rape her like all the others?”
“She’s part of the plan, remember?” he answered sarcastically. “We’ve got to get her into place before the rest of the force shows up.”
“Don’t worry,” Byrnes said, moving back from the corpse. “I know just where we can put her where it’s guaranteed she’ll be found by morning.”
C H A P T E R
E i g h t
So much for logic. Harry had been expecting to hit the far wall of an alley, but the toilet wall brought him up short. He saw another window, too small for him to break through, perpendicular to the larger window on the outside wall. It was just his luck that the building was L-shaped and not just square.
