by Dane Hartman
They may have thick skins and fast minds, but they don’t like being crossed. And Tucker was in a position to do a lot of crossing. So Harry had figured that a powerful politico was behind it all along. Now, however, Harry had to amend his reasoning. Anyone powerful enough to mobilize the police, the street gangs, the redcaps, and the cabbies went beyond area politics. Harry admitted to himself that he was dealing with a power beyond that. A power of money. A power of business.
In San Antonio, power, money, and business meant one of two things: fuel or food. Here, you made your fortune from either black gold or Black Angus. Houston or Dallas were really the major oil centers, so Harry figured that he might be dealing with a cattleman. Or a farmer. Either way, it was probably a self-made man who was used to destroying things with his own two hands.
And Harry was fixing to face him without jurisdiction, without his Magnum, and without a change of clothes.
“Hey buddy, need a ride?”
Harry turned toward the voice. It had come from the other side of the first taxi. The San Francisco cop squinted over the cab’s roof to see a San Antonio cop standing half-in and half-out of his patrol car. Callahan took his time pulling out sunglasses and slipping them on. In the reduced glare he noted the car was devoid of markings like “Property of the Sheriff’s Office.” It was a good old regular San Antonio police car.
The driver probably wasn’t a good old regular San Antonio police officer, however. No cop in any state was known for offering rides to tall, craggy strangers in airports. Harry’s mind harkened back to the “Vigilante Cop” case for a second, then eliminated the connection from his mind. It was unlikely a uniformed cop could kill a visiting plainclothesman in a cop car without raising interdepartmental ire.
Naw, it wouldn’t be worth it, Harry thought, and he did have to get into town somehow. He took a moment to look around. Too hot to walk, he decided, then moved over to the passenger side of the patrol vehicle.
“Heading for the Ramada Inn?” Harry inquired.
“I can handle it,” replied the uniformed patrolman, getting in. Harry followed his lead and hopped in the back. The first thing he noticed was the back of another cop’s head. The bright Texas sun was reflecting off the windshield, so even with his sunglasses Harry didn’t spot the driver’s partner. The second thing he noticed was that there was no grating between the front and rear seats. Usually they had a cage arrangement separating the arresting officer in the front seat from the “alleged perpetrator” in the back.
If Harry had spent less time checking out the inadequacies of the patrol car and more time double-checking his environment, he might have seen something interesting. He might have seen the first cab driver pick up his pad and write down the number of the cop car. He might have seen the cabbie’s wide face stare out the window after him. He might have seen the man’s thin lips spread into a tight smile. He might have seen the acne scars on both cheeks. He might have seen the face of the man in the white overalls.
The San Francisco homicide inspector had been half-right and almost lucky. The hitman was disguised and was waiting to kill him, but not at that time and place. The assassin was doing what all good assassins do; watching the victim react. He wanted to be ready when the time came to eliminate Dirty Harry Callahan.
His employer had arranged the whole airport stonewall, but he saw no reason why he shouldn’t take the opportunity to examine his future target. He also saw no reason to inform his employer. He had his own connections. They had gotten him the cab. Minutes after throwing Harry out of the taxi, in fact, the hitman took a family of four to the Air Force Village on the other side of town.
Instead of taking Route 410 to the military center of San Antonio, the patrol car went straight down San Pedro Avenue, through Almos Park, to the center of town. Instead of noticing the seven hundred fifty-foot Tower of the Americas or the Freeman Coliseum, Harry kept picking up more and more idiosyncrasies about the patrol car. Harry hadn’t ridden in a San Francisco model for years and had never seen the San Antonio version, but all the outfitting here told him this particular car was ancient.
“So you’re Harry Callahan,” said the driver out of the blue.
“Everybody else knows it,” Harry retorted. “Why not you.”
The driver laughed honestly and openly. It wasn’t the laugh of a man eager for a confrontation. “Yeah, well, Hannibal Striker isn’t exactly a charter member of the Welcome Wagon. You’re lucky he didn’t send you packing back to San Francisco.”
“Yeah, instead he destroys my packing. Who the hell is Hannibal Striker?”
“Calls himself H. A. Striker,” the partner suddenly said without turning around. “His real is name Edd Villaveda; a wetback made good. He called himself Hannibal until ‘Dallas’ became such a big hit, then he changed it to H. A. He thinks it makes him closer to J. R., the villain on that show. He likes people to associate his name with power and wealth.
“He likes gaining power and wealth. He likes using power and wealth. In San Antonio, he is power and wealth.”
Harry leaned up to get a glimpse of the cops in the front seat. “OK, now I know who Striker is, and you know who I am. Would you mind telling me who the hell are you?”
The partner turned to face Harry. He was a nice, innocent-looking guy with a sharp nose, cleft chin, and hollow cheeks. “I’m Peter C. Nash,” he said, tipping his police cap. “And this is a friend of mine,” he concluded, pointing the back of the cap at the driver. When he pulled off the hat, he exposed a nearly bald head, encircled on three sides by a band of nearly white hair.
“Nash,” Callahan repeated, “. . . you’re the one Dotty Tucker mentioned.”
“Yes,” Nash replied quietly. “I was Sheriff Tucker’s deputy.”
“Dotty also thought you were the one who got Tucker killed,” Harry revealed calmly.
Nash pondered Callahan’s words for a few moments before answering. “She’s probably right,” he said sadly. “Tucker was a good sheriff who was made into a great one. Great law officers don’t last very long around Striker. When Tucker couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be framed, and couldn’t be voted out of office, there was only one way left to get rid of him. He was killed for doing his job too well.”
It was a new twist, thought Harry. Usually a seemingly impeachable lawman was exposed to be inept, corrupt, and vicious upon examination. Tucker, it seems, was too good for his own good. “And where do you fit in, Nash?” he asked aloud.
“I arranged for him to do his job too well,” the man said earnestly. “I arranged all the busts and had Tucker move in for the actual kill.”
“So he got all the credit and became the main target.”
“Yeah,” said Nash with what sounded like honest regret. “I wasn’t interested in the ‘dirty’ side of the job. Tucker kept telling me it had to be done, so I let him do it.”
“That’s funny,” said Harry. “Usually the research, the stake-outs, and the setups are considered the dirty work.”
“Not to me,” Nash said with enthusiasm. “With the proper amount of background work, I created arrests that were seamless. We had the best prosecution ratio in the Midwest. Ask the D.A. Ask any D.A.!”
“So now you’ve been busted back to the beat,” Harry assumed, waving a hand at the out-of-date car interior.
“No, sir,” said Nash. “I quit as soon as the word of Tucker’s killing came in.”
“So what do you call this patrol car, then?” Harry wanted to know. “Where did you get those uniforms?”
“You can’t spend a couple of years on the San Antonio police force without making some connections,” said Nash with a smile. “There are still a few good cops left. All this was supplied to us.”
“What for? Why the charade?”
“Protection,” said Nash. “I said there were still a few good cops left, but there are still a lot of cops on Striker’s payroll. Like the new sheriff who met you at the airport.”
Callahan remembered the smug
ball-buster and his trio of goons. He began to realize what Nash was up against. “That was Tucker’s replacement?”
“Grown, nurtured, and groomed by Striker,” Nash acknowledged, “and then H. A. used his influence to get him into office.”
“The right honorable Sheriff Mitch Strughold,” the driver drawled sarcastically.
“Once he got in,” Nash continued, “he brought a whole mess of strong-arms with him. The whole office is under Striker’s thumb now.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Harry contended. “What’s with the dress-up and dance number you’re pulling?”
Nash looked at the driver then stole an incongruous glance out the side window as if he were afraid passing bugs were outfitted with electronic bugs.
“There’s a war going on in this town,” he told Harry in the hushed tones of a back-room conspirator. “And a war doesn’t stop because the General has been killed. I’m still working on destroying all of Striker’s dirty deals. I get as much help as my allies are able to give me. But we need a new general.
“I can get an out-of-use patrol car to confuse anyone watching. As far as Striker’s informers are concerned you were picked up by a non-existent pair of officers. What I can’t get is someone to do the dirty work Tucker used to do. All the guys have wives and families and they really need their jobs.”
“I’d be up shit’s creek if Strughold knew I even did this,” the driver interceded.
“So what you want is a hired gun,” concluded Callahan.
“In a way,” conceded Nash.
“If Striker can do it, why can’t we?” the driver demanded with emotion.
Harry lowered his head, smiling in amazement. San Francisco could get pretty weird at times and he would be the last one to say interpolice relationships were always tops, but at least he didn’t have two separate cop armies battling each other.
“Well, you’re out of luck with me,” he finally said. “I don’t even have a gun.”
In response, Nash leaned down to the floor of the front seat and came up with a sleek, well-stained walnut box. He handed it to Harry. The inspector recognized it immediately. It was a brand-spanking-new gun case, large enough to house a high-powered handgun. Harry lifted the top.
Sure enough, resting in a sea of green cloth was a shining bright blue Magnum .44 revolver with a six and a half inch barrel.
“I told you I had connections,” Nash said proudly.
Harry hefted the weapon. It had the weight and feel of his own. It was a Smith and Wesson Model 29 with a checked hammer, a grooved trigger, a front Red Ramp sight, and a rear Micrometer Click sight which was adjustable for elevation and windage. It was a beautiful weapon, which Harry knew how to use. Once some people knew how to ride a bike, they could ride any make or model. So it was with Harry and his handgun.
But the Magnum was not the most impressive thing in the box. The most impressive thing was the license underneath. The paper, duly signed and witnessed by Tucker and Nash, allowed Harry to carry the weapon on his person anywhere within the city borders.
“This still legal?” Harry asked Nash.
“Check the date,” the ex-deputy answered.
Sure enough, the document was good for an entire year. Callahan laid the gun and the license back onto the soft material, closed the box, and minutely shook his head with regret.
“What you want me to be is an enforcer,” he said thoughtfully. “I was an enforcer once and I lost something close to me.”
“Yeah, that terrorist thing,” Nash commiserated. “We know all about it.”
“That’s another thing,” Harry noted. “Everybody seems to know everything about me. Striker knew I was coming, you knew I was coming, and you’re all waiting and watching for my next move. The stakes are high and the odds are near impossible. Give me one good reason I should take the place of Tucker.”
“Sweetboy Williams,” Nash said immediately.
“What?”
“Sweetboy Williams,” Nash repeated. “H. A. Striker’s hired gun. He thinks he’s the last of the great gunfighters. He’s a gung-ho cowboy, a real John Wayne freak, and Striker’s favorite hitman. He’s the man most likely to have shot the sheriff.”
Harry became pensive. “He use a .44?”
“Yeah.”
“A John Wayne freak?”
“Knows all his movies backward and forward and thinks he’s living one.”
Harry sighed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The trio drove in silence for a while. The cop car driver tooled past the Alamo Stadium, Brackenridge Park, and almost reached Fort Sam Houston before Harry spoke again.
“Anybody know where I can get a second pair of pants cheap?” he asked. “It looks like I’ll be staying in town a while.”
“I want him,” said Sweetboy Williams.
“You can’t have him,” said Hannibal Striker, fingering a tomato. When it didn’t suit his tender appraisal, the man once known as Edd Villaveda hurled the red globe into the four-foot-high fireplace behind him. “Be reasonable,” the Mexican-American businessman implored his muscular lunch guest. “Here is a San Francisco inspector on an ostensive vacation. It wouldn’t be as easy to convince out-of-state authorities he blew his brains out.”
“No problem,” the hitman replied reasonably, his voice loaded with mock surprise. “A depressed lawman, despondent over a friend’s death, his own life rife with tragedy, decides to kill himself in sunny San Antonio. And the bullet would be from a .44 Magnum. What could be simpler?”
“And what would be stupider?” Striker replied sharply, pushing the plate of vegetables away from him. “Remember, I have no authority in California. The only reason the Tucker thing worked is that there was no one here interested in pursuing the matter. If Inspector Callahan were to die under suspicious circumstances, there’d be no way I could prevent a full-scale, indepth San Francisco investigation.”
Sweetboy Williams rose abruptly from the large, circular table and moved over to the sumptious walls of the dining room. Fingering the intricate inlaid wooden carvings and staring at the various ancient weapons displayed at set intervals, he defended himself.
“The only reason the Tucker thing worked is that I made it work,” he declared. “I can make Callahan’s death work.”
“No matter how innocent his death looked,” Striker soothed the assassin, “it would still raise questions back in his department. We mustn’t let him die on Texan soil. I say watch and wait.”
“And I say he must die now,” Sweetboy stressed. “Before it’s too late. He could destroy everything you’ve built.”
“You give him too much credit,” the businessman said quietly, iron-hard assurance in his voice. “No one man can disturb my system.”
“Tucker did,” Sweetboy reminded him.
“And now Tucker is gone,” Striker reminded him back.
“I killed him,” the hitman retorted.
“On my instructions,” the businessman concluded, rising from the table. He placed both sets of knuckles on the pristeen white tablecloth and leaned over the basket of multicolored flowers in the linen’s center. “This is the last time I shall remind you. You work for me. You follow my instructions. You have entered my home and my confidence by being the best at what you do. What you do is enforce my wishes. I instruct, you accomplish. I visualize, you realize. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” Sweetboy said simply and immediately. He would get nowhere if he started balking against the wetback now.
“Good,” said Striker casually, resuming his seat. “Come have some dessert. I’m sure it will make up for what the meal lacked.” He rang for service as the hitman returned to the table.
Sweetboy could be slick when he wanted to be. That was part and parcel of his charm. Ever since his hooker mother had named him Sweetboy because of his angelic face and happy demeanor, he saw himself as being the most affable of survivors. Through the ravages of childhood and life with a prostitute, Sweetboy had kept his humo
r by becoming sardonic and by escaping into Western fantasies.
His style was as natural as Striker’s style was extrinsic. The businessman had found it necessary to change his name when he entered into a partnership with an Anglo vegetable merchant. From those formative years he retained a vegetarian’s appetite and a deep-seated hate of Anglos. He stayed in the partnership until he knew enough to force the white half out and take over. Following that came years of expansion and education. Edd Villaveda wanted it all and thought it necessary to change his personality in order to get it.
He started with his name, then broke down everything else bit by bit. His voice, his speech, and his manner altered to soothe his Anglo business contacts while he tore what he wanted from them. He felt his success stemmed from his understanding of the Anglo mind, and the idea that the only way to beat them was to get under their skin. For him, it had worked. Edd Villaveda was Hannibal Striker as far as the hundreds who worked for him were concerned and if he wanted them to call him H. A., they’d call him H. A.
“I’m telling you, H. A.,” Sweetboy warned once he had regained his seat and a plate of fresh fruit was placed before him, “Callahan should be taken care of now.”
“No, no,” Striker said after wrapping his mouth around a succulent strawberry soaked in rum. “We watch and wait. The San Francisco inspector is our chance to trace Tucker’s team to its source. If Callahan simply gives the widow and family his condolences and goes home, all the better. But if he starts making trouble, we may discover the brains behind Tucker’s arrest record. It is worth the patience.”
Striker devoured a piece of pear, a half a peach, and an apricot before speaking again. “What I can’t understand is why the inspector waited until now to follow up Tucker’s death. Whatever could have led him to San Antonio?”
Sweetboy’s expression was the picture of innocence as he systematically ripped open an apple with a steak knife. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said.
C H A P T E R
F i v e
“Everything’s big in Texas!” the slushy voice boomed in Harry’s ear. “And so’s the city. The tenth biggest city in the whole United States. We’re bigger than Boston. We’re bigger than Pittsburgh. We’re bigger than all those piss-ass Eastern cities!”
