by Dane Hartman
Strangely, with Carol still in her nightgown and three eggs with six pieces of bacon waiting for him, the only thing Harry really noticed in the kitchen was another radio, this one being a short-wave jobbie that picked up police calls. Harry sat down at the small Formica table and dug into the grub while keeping his ears open.
The radio reports were interrupted by Carol Nash. She sat down across from him, poked at her food, then put her chin in a cupped hand and sighed.
“So what do I do now?” she wanted to know.
“What do you mean?” Harry asked around a hunk of egg.
“I washed your shirt, cooked you breakfast, and cleaned the basement. I had already sent the kids to their grandmother and checked out our savings. So what do I do now?”
Harry leaned back and pushed himself away from the table. “You’re acting like Peter Nash is already dead.”
“He is,” she said indifferently, “to me.”
“He may need you very badly after this,” he reminded her.
“He never needed me,” she answered, staring at her mushed-up eggs. “I was an obligation he promised himself. Aw, who knows where he is now. I’ve never known.” She looked to Harry for some sort of affirmation. She saw that Harry was not looking at her. His gaze was intent on the police band radio and one hand was held up in a “silence” sign.
All she heard was a set of jumbled numbers and something about a call for “extra officers.” Harry took it as a clarion call to duty. He wiped his mouth with his hand and stood. He tapped the jacket pockets, then he pulled open the jacket and pulled out his revolver. He broke it open, snapped it shut, spun the chamber, and stuck it snugly back into the shoulder holster.
“Can I use your car?” he asked Carol offhandedly.
“Keys are over in that dish by the back door,” Carol replied automatically, feeling like she and Harry were an old married couple or brother and sister or father and daughter or something unquestionable like that. “Harry, what is it?”
“I think they’ve cornered Sweetboy,” he said, picking up the keys. “And where Sweetboy is, your husband probably is, too.”
Carol rose from the table and moved to Harry’s side. “What are you going to do?” she asked, feeling foolish.
Harry shrugged. They stared at each other for what seemed like a minute. Harry was waiting for her to say anything she might need to. She couldn’t think of anything. Instead she frowned for a second, looked back at the kitchen, then squeezed Harry’s upper arm. Harry leaned down and kissed her quickly. She smiled. Bravely. Self-consciously. He opened the door to go.
“Harry,” she called.
He stopped and turned.
“I’ll be here if he needs me,” she assured him.
“OK,” Harry said and left. He never saw Carol Nash again.
As Jack Webb might put it, San Antonio is a big town. The major center lies in a neat oblong shape near the center of Texas. Just to the east of the central city is a suburban center nicely nestled among cypress, oak, and pecan trees. To the east of that is a thin line of railroad tracks, cars, and stations. Directly to the east of that is the sprawling Golden State Beer Brewery.
Like the drunk at the Four Ponies had said, everything’s big in Texas, and the brewery was no exception. First there was a series of wooded glens, neatly sculptured. After that was a system of lakes, perfect for recreation. Then there was the brewery proper; an interconnected series of buildings that ranged from public exhibits to a public restaurant to the actual beer-making facilities. Beyond that were the truck loading platforms and a huge parking lot. All together, the establishment stretched over fifty acres.
So if it was so big, why can’t I find it, Harry asked himself. He had gotten on Route 81, but kept on winding up in Windcrest County. The only good thing about getting lost, Harry figured, was that he could catch up on the scuttlebutt coming from any one of Nash’s car’s three radios.
From yet another portable police band system Harry found out the police were waiting for a meeting with the brewery owner and the sheriff’s office before moving in. From the installed CB, Harry heard about the hitman. According to regular newscasts, the man inside the brewery was just another gun-toting nut with a hostage and a mad-on. According to the truckers he was a cornered mad-dog killer harboring a grudge. Harry didn’t know how these good ol’ boys on eight wheels always seemed to know these things, but he blessed their macho little hearts.
And he blessed the heart of K-NEW, San Antonio’s all-news AM radio station. One particularly intrepid reporter had tracked down the brewery’s owner for a hasty talk. Although the owner was non-committal, surly, and uncooperative, his very existence brought the whole brewery siege into focus. The owner of Golden State Beer’s San Antonio Brewery was Hannibal Striker. H. A. to his friends.
Harry got off the Route 410 loop and headed downtown. He was just in time for the end of the strategy meeting at the sheriff’s office.
Striker and Strughold headed for the sheriff’s car, instructing Mitch’s two deputies to follow in another. Both men watched the young cops get into another patrol car as they slid into the front seat of their own. Strughold took the driver’s seat, despite the bandages on his nose and the large Band-Aid on his head. The sheriff turned the key, the engine roared into life, and the car lurched forward.
It wasn’t until they were well on their way to the brewery on Highway 90 that anyone spoke.
“It went all right, I suppose,” said the sheriff.
“Of course,” snapped Striker. “We couldn’t let the regular force move in and take him. It has to be you and your men. And you cannot, under any circumstances, bring him out alive.”
“But it’s a big place,” Strughold complained, “and Sweetboy knows it like the back of his hand. I don’t relish goin’ in thar with jest two of my men.”
“Then I’ll make you a deal,” said Harry Callahan from the back seat, sitting up from the floor and sticking the barrel of his Magnum against Striker’s neck.
“Callahan!” the businessman boomed in surprise.
“I do get around, don’t I?” Harry said, smiling.
“Yer crazy!” the sheriff yelled, trying to drive, stare at the inspector, and think of a way out at the same time. “When we get to the brewery you’ll be wrapped in more chains than a whore into leather!”
“Who says we’ll get to the brewery?” Harry inquired innocently. “A small accident. A fiery wreck. Two of San Antonio’s finest citizens killed. They might never find the bullet holes in your charred bodies.”
“What do you want?” Striker demanded.
“A truce,” Harry said immediately. “You pull in your long arm for a minute and let me go after Sweetboy.”
“Yer crazy!” the Sheriff said again.
“Shut up,” hissed Striker. “What’s the deal?” he asked Harry, his voice low.
“Same as before,” Harry answered. “Me and my crimes for Nash’s life.”
Striker turned in his seat to look over the Magnum barrel. He was smiling. “You are crazy.”
Harry leaned back in the rear seat, keeping his gun pointed at the businessman. “We’ve been through that before,” he said wearily. “We have a deal?”
“We have a deal,” Striker agreed. Strughold kept silent, but Harry didn’t miss the look they gave one another. It was the look of two inventors of a better mouse trap chauffeuring a test rat to their lab.
Harry mentally shrugged. He was crazy, but this was the only way he saw of getting inside the brewery without his hide being perforated. But he had little doubt that the sheriff was saving that for last. Striker was probably already thinking of more ways he could turn Harry into Swiss cheese.
Strughold got to the brewery with no trouble. The parking lot was filled with police cars; all their turrets flashing and whirling. The sheriff pulled right up to the factory’s entrance and got out, his hands held up in the face of a dozen reporters and police officials running up to meet him.
Harry
put his gun away and got out the other side. He held the door open for Striker. A police lieutenant looked from Harry to Strughold with a strange expression, but the Sheriff smiled and nodded.
“It’s all right, Ted,” he told the policeman. “He’s in custody.”
Ted looked at Harry again. Callahan shrugged as if saying “what’re ya gonna do?” He then glanced at Striker’s stone face and moved around the front of the car to join Strughold. The sheriff’s deputies drove up, saw what was happening, brought the car to a screeching halt and leaped out of the vehicle with their guns drawn.
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” the sheriff soothed the quizzical newsmen and the aiming deputies. “This is Inspector Callahan from San Francisco, folks. We have reason to believe he might be implemental in capturing the alleged perpetrator inside.”
“Instrumental,” Harry corrected.
“Thank you, Inspector Callahan,” Strughold said laboriously. “Come on, come on, boys,” the sheriff spat at his deputies, still holding their guns on Harry. “Now put yer weapons away and c’mon!”
The sheriff led the way to the front door of the brewery. Harry waited until the deputies holstered their guns and followed, casting back furtive glances at him. He brought up the rear. Strughold held the door open for his men. Harry took it out of his hands and motioned “after you.” The Sheriff scowled and went in.
Before he entered Harry heard the beginning of a joint statement to the press by Striker and the police chief. The chief assured the public that he would not allow any terrorist to hold them captive and commended Striker on his firm action. Striker thanked his “old and dear friend,” then went on to repeat that they were not sure as to the identity of either the gunman or his hostage.
Harry snorted and went inside. The difference between the brewery’s exterior and interior was stunning. Outside, it was a squat, greyish building. Inside it was cool, burnished wood, and luxurious. The entrance was a wide hallway with murals painted on either wall, crossbeams on the roof and stained wooden columns down the middle of the solid maroon flooring.
The three cops walked ahead of Harry, seemingly oblivious of his company. They were covering all the bases, Harry realized. Since Striker had said that they didn’t know who the gunman and his hostage were, the sheriff couldn’t be blamed for gunning them both down. And if the visiting Frisco inspector just happened to be caught in the cross fire, then that was just too bad.
The only thing Harry felt sure of was that they weren’t going to turn their guns on him until they had moved a little deeper into the brewery. They couldn’t have the press finding Harry’s corpse before the hitman and his hostage were even located, now could they? Only thing was that Harry wasn’t going to give them a chance to catch him unawares.
He slowed his pace until the trio of cops was almost half a hallway down from him. They were heading for the doors at the other end. The doors that led to the exhibits and then the brewery. Harry spied a door to his right. Keeping an eye on the cops’ backs, he turned silently and pushed through it.
He got into the new room with no trouble. The door hadn’t been locked and the sheriff hadn’t noticed his detour. By the looks of the small office, Harry had walked into the manager’s or night watchman’s room. Across a desk that filled most of the office was a large window. There was no visible latch or other means of opening it so Harry picked up a chair and hurled it through the glass. That brought the deputies running.
But as soon as they had heard the window shatter, Harry was up onto the desk and leaping through the opening. By the time the trio of cops burst into the room, Harry was halfway across the adjoining courtyard, racing toward a roofed patio that stretched all the way around the area.
The sheriff wasn’t going to stand on ceremony. He shoved his associates out of the way and started shooting. Harry made it across the patio and into another door across the way as the bullets ineffectively slapped into nearby trees and grassy mounds.
One of the deputies started to crawl out of the window after him, but the sheriff pulled him roughly back. “All the halls lead to the brewery,” he said. “We’ll run into him again soon enough.”
Harry was thinking the same thing the sheriff was saying. He knew the time of reckoning was at hand, but he wanted to fight it on his own terms. What he didn’t want was three crooked cops letting him have it when he wasn’t looking.
The inspector ran through a gallery of different wildlife dioramas. As he moved down each hall and turned each corner deeper and deeper in the brewery, more and more types of animals stared at him from trophies on the wall, stands on the floor, and glass-encased boxes serving double-duty as windows. As he passed all these frozen, lifeless examples of nature he heard a grinding hum getting louder and louder. He was nearing the actual brewery section.
The Golden State Brewery was one establishment that did it all. It soaked the barley and heated it into malt before grinding it. It mixed the malt with water while adding the necessary cereals. That mixture, called wort, was then heated again, stirred, and filtered. Hops and yeast were added before fermentation in huge metallic vats. The process went on seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. Only now the staff had been emptied out because Sweetboy showed up.
The hitman had chosen his Waterloo well. It being Striker’s establishment, Sweetboy probably felt secure that Strughold would be coming after him. And with Strughold showing up, he probably figured Harry wouldn’t be far behind. He was right, Harry admitted to himself. It was an educated guess all the way around. Even if he hadn’t stumbled on Sweetboy’s hideout from following the sheriff or listening to the radio, the assassin probably could’ve made good his escape after getting rid of Nash’s dead weight.
The buzz of the brewery was getting louder. Harry slowed down. He didn’t want to speed around a corner right into the waiting weapons of the sheriff or Sweetboy. Harry started stalking purposefully across the brown tiles. He had twenty-one rounds left. He had checked his ammo after cleaning his wet gun a second time at Nash’s house. He had three rounds left over from the fight at Brackenridge Park and three auto-loaders beyond that. That left about five bullets for each of his possible targets, with one for good luck.
Harry had come to the end of the exhibits. He passed a circular portrait of all the Golden State beverage products. Beautifully rendered were cans and bottles of their regular brew, their draft beer, their light beer, and their ale. Just next to that was a double swing doorway with the words “No Entry Beyond This Point” written across it. Above the doorway were several Golden State Beer signs emblazoned with their mottos: “A Brew As Big As Texas!” and “Double Brewed, Double Delicious!”
There were no windows on the doors but the hum was heavy behind it. Harry pulled out the Magnum, set himself, and burst through.
As soon as the doors burst open, the gunshots started. Bullets smashed between Harry’s feet and into the door as he fell and rolled toward cover. Out of the corner of his eye he had spied a sign-in desk. Harry rolled to that as a temporary cover.
He looked up to see one of Strughold’s deputies on a catwalk between two vats above him. The cop tried to hit Harry with another shot. Harry ducked beneath the desk lip again. The bullet plowed into the desk top. If the deputy had shot nearer the desk edge, his .357 bullet might have gotten through the wood and into Harry’s back.
As it was, the deputy pulled his gun up and ran. Harry took the moment to take aim. At the last possible second before the deputy made it to safety, Harry eased up on the trigger. It wouldn’t do to waste a bullet just to let the creep know he was there. He’d save his lead for a sure thing.
Standing up, Harry took in the entire area with a quick glance. After the sign-in desk came a row of six vats. Above them were a system of catwalks crisscrossing another system of conveyer belts. These two systems moved downward behind the vats to end at a group of tall, rectangular storing structures. Beyond those were three metal stairwells; one on the right wall, one on the
left, and one in the center of the back wall. At each level, the stairs were connected by long landings that stretched from one wall to the other.
Just to make the examination complete, Harry glanced over his shoulder. There were two stairways behind him that led to the catwalks. He raced up the nearest one as the sounds of gunfire echoed from the other side of the big room.
Harry had made it to the second level when a bullet splattered against the wall high over his head. He looked up and over the landing to see the second deputy firing madly back the way he had run. That told Harry that Sweetboy was at the other end of the enclosure, making a stand on the far third level. The only question left for Callahan to answer was where were Nash and Strughold?
By the time Harry set foot on the third level, he was too busy to consider any possible answers. The first deputy was waiting for him. He was crouching against the top of a vat on the right side aiming at Harry while his partner was behind a vat on the left side firing at Sweetboy. The only thing between Harry and the deputies were another two vats. The inspector imagined the same would be true for Sweetboy.
Harry dodged, pivoted, and leaped behind the top of the closest vat as the first deputy opened fire again. As he dropped behind the shiny silver structure, he heard a pop and felt something cold and wet splash across his head. He looked up into a beer shower. Ignoring the frosty liquid, Harry fell to his stomach on the left of the vat, crawled around to the other side and squeezed off a shot at the first deputy who was still waiting for him to appear on the right side.
The .44 bullet punched into the other vat right next to the first deputy’s ear. Instead of blood, golden liquid shot out, then continued pouring in a steady stream. Harry noticed that the fight between the hitman and the second deputy had already made the catwalk slick with beer. The stuff was foaming over the sides and onto the floor below.
Even though Harry had shot dangerously close to the first deputy, the crooked cop couldn’t take cover on the other side or he’d be right in Sweetboy’s sights. The only chance the deputies had was to keep their targets so busy that they didn’t have time to pick the vulnerable lawmen off.
