Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks

by Dane Hartman

  Keiko didn’t dare speak. Whatever Harry told her to do she would do. Where they were both positioned, stretched out on the floor, there was no way that the sniper could hit them, not unless he could belly right up to the window and take aim. On the other hand, he could, if he wanted, keep Harry a prisoner in his apartment for as long as he cared to; the door was exposed through the shattered window. Should Harry and Keiko attempt to bolt, the assassin could bring them down instantly.

  With difficulty Harry inched toward the table by his bed where the phone rested. There was no further fire, but it was Harry’s feeling that the sniper was out there, undoubtedly enjoying his advantage in the situation.

  Harry brought the phone down level to him and dialed his department.

  He asked to speak to DiGeorgio but remembered that DiGeorgio was not on duty, it being the middle of a Sunday afternoon. He tried for Judson but Judson too was unavailable. So he had to settle for another colleague, Carl Pickney, with whom he was only marginally acquainted. As succinctly as possible he explained his predicament and was in turn assured that help would be forthcoming in minutes.

  No sooner had he placed the phone down than his invisible friend opened up again. This time he found a target in a half-empty bottle of Red Label that had been a Christmas gift from the radio dispatcher. The bottle seemed to disappear into a thousand fragments, jettisoned to all points of the compass by a geyser of scotch. Shards of glass and drops of scotch rained down on them but did not do any harm. The scalp wound Harry had sustained earlier had stopped bleeding although he looked a mess.

  “Next thing to losing my life, I hate losing a good bottle of booze,” Harry said. He winced as another couple of shots tore into a mirror and sent it tumbling in a confusion of splinters to the floor.

  The sniper seemed to be working according to some sort of schedule, three minutes on, three minutes off. But he varied this rhythm enough so that it was completely unpredictable. Perhaps he hoped that he would either catch Harry off guard or else get him so frustrated that he would risk exposing himself in order to retaliate. But there was really nothing Harry could do; no target presented itself. For all he knew, his assailant might be concealed in an apartment across the way or else be moving from one point to another.

  “How long do you suppose he’ll keep on like this?” Keiko asked, her voice reduced to a bare whisper.

  “Can’t be too much longer. There should be a backup unit here any moment. When that happens he’ll run.” Despite the confidence he tried to give his words he wasn’t quite so certain. As the minutes passed, he began to seriously wonder whether he could rely on his colleagues to come to his assistance.

  He reached for the phone and dialed again.

  “Harry, everything’s fine, we’re on our way,” Pickney told him. “Just hold on a minute longer.”

  A succession of rounds pulverized a swatch of the far wall. Plaster dust swept through the room in a cloud, causing both Harry and Keiko to cough.

  “Hold on a minute longer the man says.” Harry cursed Pickney for his complacent attitude; it stood to reason, he thought, Pickney wasn’t the one getting shot at.

  Right then there was a new series of reports, but they were originating from another direction altogether. Gruesome-looking holes had begun to appear in the door. But the sniper across the way wasn’t responsible for them. Someone in the hall, directly outside the door, was.

  “Shit. More trouble.” And more serious trouble, too.

  Meanwhile the sniper was continuing to lay down a barrage of greater intensity than before; undoubtedly this attack was being orchestrated by someone who wanted to make Harry sweat before finishing him off.

  The lock on the door yielded gracelessly to a quick succession of shots that sent it flying, still in one clumsy metal piece, clear across the room.

  Harry threw his body over Keiko’s, sighting his .44, but refrained from firing. He did not wish to betray his position yet. If he was correct in his thinking the sniper outside and the man—or men—outside his door were in radio contact. But he was fairly convinced that he was out of the sniper’s line of sight which meant that none of the attackers could be absolutely certain where he was in the apartment. The withering barrage was intended to lure him out but he wasn’t playing by their rules.

  And the attackers in the hallway did not have the latitude the sniper did. They couldn’t remain shooting out the door forever; they were sure to be spotted. Either they would have to move decisively or give up and go back to the drawing board.

  Abruptly, fire from both positions ceased. It was only a brief intermission between acts though. One of the gunmen, more optimistic perhaps than his companions or else more foolishly confident of his abilities, kicked the weakened door open and almost at the same moment threw himself backward. Harry saw not his body so much as his shadow; instinctively, he gauged the distance to where the man was and fired twice. The man was quick all right but not so quick that he eluded Harry altogether. One bullet took him at thigh-level and since the .44 is one powerful handgun it had sufficient force to throw him against the opposite wall, blood spurting from his wound in such torrents that Harry assumed he must have struck an artery.

  Keiko shrieked with terror and buried her head in her arms. There was a furious exchange of fire that while it lasted for only twenty seconds still seemed to resemble a full-pitched battle. The problem was, Harry had no idea of how many opponents he was facing. Two, possibly three, he figured. Evidently he had earned himself quite a reputation; a small army had to be sent to kill him.

  Curiously, despite the number of shots discharged, the only injuries that were inflicted accrued to Harry’s already devastated living quarters. Obviously the other assailants had no interest in following their companion’s display of bravado.

  During this fray the sniper had concentrated his fire away from the doorway rather than risk hitting his friends. So Harry decided to seize the opportunity. Cautioning Keiko to remain where she was, he sprang up and dived like a son of a bitch through the doorway, rolling over in a protective posture, the .44 extended in his hands. The sniper, caught unawares, sent several rounds whining ineffectually over Harry’s head.

  Except for the man he’d wounded, the hall was empty. Abandoned by his friends in their haste to get away, the enfeebled assassin was dragging himself down toward the stairs, leaving a long winding trail of fresh blood behind him. It was Harry’s hope that he could take him alive.

  Yet the hit man was not as interested in saving his own life as he was in taking Harry’s. With surprising dexterity on the part of someone who’d been badly wounded he half-turned and fired his .45 auto Mark VI. But his balance was precarious owing to the injury and his grip too unsteady for his aim to be reliable. But since Harry was not about to give him the opportunity to readjust his stance or steady his aim, he felt he had no choice but to fire back. The hit man took the round full in the chest and seemed to vanish as he toppled down the staircase at the other end of the hall.

  Harry moved quickly but cautiously, having no idea now as to the whereabouts of his other assailants. He gained the staircase, peered down to the landing. The fallen hit man lay sprawled out, his vitals spewing through the gaping hole the .44 had just produced. His friends were nowhere to be seen.

  Above him Harry heard all sorts of commotion probably from his neighbors wondering why their building had suddenly been converted into a war zone; they’d always considered Harry a little strange but assumed that the presence of a police officer nearby would at least provide them with a sense of security. Obviously they would have second thoughts about that now.

  With the way clear Harry raced down the stairs, leaping over the body there, prepared at any moment to confront the men who wanted to kill him. Keeping close to the wall, he was practically certain that his enemy would be waiting for him as soon as he reached the bottom landing. But this did not turn out to be the case. They had apparently fled.

  Warily, he proceeded to the bui
lding entrance, drew the door open so slightly that an observer would have to be scrutinizing it to notice the motion. But the opening he created was sufficient for Harry to get a good glimpse out into the street. He could see no one who posed a threat to him. In fact, the utter normalcy of the scene that greeted him was rather astonishing.

  It was just then that a police cruiser pulled up across the street. Harry breathed a sigh of immense relief but was puzzled as to why there was only this one cruiser and no more. He had tried to make it clear that his situation was one that necessitated a virtual SWAT team.

  The cruiser was occupied by only one man who presently emerged. Harry understood—or thought he did at any rate—why the reinforcement was so meager. The one man who had been sent to aid him was the last person in the world he cared to see. Sandy Patel.

  Patel, looking unusually pleased with himself, sauntered across the street, his gait relaxed and assured. He could have been on his way to the circus the way he was walking. And while his right hand was close to his gun he had yet to make any movement to unholster it.

  Harry, on the other hand, held his .44 Magnum within view. Allowing the door to open farther, Harry nodded to his colleague but his expression remained as blank as an Antarctic ice sheet.

  With trepidation, Harry’s neighbors advanced down the stairs, greeting the sight of the bloody body with gasps and muffled screams. Among them was Keiko, ashen-faced, her hands trembling. There were maybe a dozen observers in all; they stared at Harry as though he’d dropped in from Alpha Centurai. His face streaked with blood, his shirt and trousers coated with a dusting of plaster and unseemly scotch stains, his hair matted with some of those same substances, he presented a faintly grotesque, nightmarish appearance that he was, however, altogether oblivious of.

  Patel regarded Harry with a mixture of astonishment and amusement. Harry had the sense that he had not expected to find him alive.

  “Disappointed, Sandy?”

  Patel pretended to be surprised by the question.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking past Harry.

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  Harry directed him to where the hit man lay, his eyes still bulging open, expressive of the shock of his death. Blood had oozed all down the stairs making for a slick slippery surface.

  Patel surveyed the damage, removing his dark glasses to do so. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we should call downtown and get some help with all of this.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?”

  Ignoring him, Patel stepped away and began walking toward the door.

  Now that promptness wasn’t any longer necessary, the police units showed up within five minutes of Patel’s radio call. The whole street was cluttered with cruisers and two ambulances. But their arrival made no difference; neither the questions they put to Harry or the building’s residents nor their concurrent surveillance of the surrounding area yielded any information regarding the assailants. More disappointingly, the dead man was found to have absolutely no identification on him.

  At the end of an hour of questioning and unrewarding investigation on the part of his colleagues, Harry wearily trudged back up the stairs and returned to his apartment.

  It was in shambles; the tables were overturned, the door was useless, the window was no more. And the floor was so covered with plaster, glass, and wood splinters that it could hardly be discerned beneath all the rubble. If a cyclone had torn through the place it could hardly have done greater damage. If he needed a housekeeper to restore order before, he now needed a four-man construction crew.

  But more discouraging than the sorry state of his apartment was the realization that when he needed support the most his own department—or someone well-placed within it—had let him fight it out himself. Worse: someone had evidently set him up. Patel was part of it obviously, but he was a cog, an instrument. Well, he thought, he would have to work it on his own or else resign himself to the fate his would-be murderers had in store for him.

  From the otherwise empty apartment that faced Harry’s two men peered down at the policeman as he paced from one end of the room to the other, inspecting the wreckage. Every so often he would disappear from view but then, moments later, he’d come into focus again. At one point he stared through the shattered window glancing up in their direction but of course, he could see nothing that would alarm him. The shades were down in the windows; the strategic perforations that allowed the two men their view were too small to be discernible from such a distance.

  The two men, while they shared the same profession, were as unalike in temperament as they were in the build of their bodies. One was tall enough to be the envy of any pro basketball team though he seemed not to know just what to do with his excess inches. For that reason, and simply to get into certain rooms and doors, he would keep his neck perpetually bent, with the result that his head appeared to be attached directly to his chest. He was quiet, withdrawn, and seldom quick to action. But he knew his business; killing he regarded much as a chef does gourmet cooking. His companion was of average height but squat and rotund with a fleshy face that, when anger leaked into his blood, became deep red. He was garrulous, impatient, and would sooner put a bullet into a friend than have to wait hours to kill an enemy. That he refrained from doing so was a testimony to his lust for money and his understanding that indiscriminate, unauthorized murder does not improve one’s chances for a long happy life.

  But since his objective now was to make certain that Inspector #71 of the SFPD did not enjoy such a long and happy life he could not comprehend why he could not just pull the trigger the next time Harry stepped back into view and be done with it.

  “We need orders,” the taller one said, bored with having to explain over and over again.

  “We had our orders before.”

  “But everything’s changed now. The cops are everywhere.”

  “The cops are no problem.”

  “You don’t know that. Some cops are no problem. Others are.”

  “What’s he doing?” The shorter one still had his rifle—a German model Heckler & Koch G3SG/1, one of the finest sniper weapons available anywhere—aimed at Harry. But it was clear that what Harry was doing was moving out. Having thrown a few clothes into a suitcase, he was minutes from leaving. This meant that soon there would be no opportunity to make the hit at all. “I say take him out now. Right this minute.”

  The taller one was growing exasperated. “We wait. We don’t work without new instructions.”

  It was then that the phone rang. Besides the two men, the phone was the only other occupant of this musty darkened apartment.

  The taller one picked up. As he was better at delivering orders so he was better at receiving them.

  The voice on the other end said, “Let him go. Your job is finished.”

  “He lives?” This surprised even the taller one.

  “No, but we’ve chosen another strategy. You may be drawing too much heat so we want you to lay low for the time being. We’ve decided to employ someone else for the job.”

  “What’s he saying?” the shorter one asked.

  The taller one ignored him. He was offended that a substitute for them had been found. His professional pride was hurt. “We have him in view now. I want you to know we could take him with no problem.”

  “I am aware of that. But we’re going with another party. No outside people this time.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean we’re using a cop. One cop against the other.” With that he hung up.

  C H A P T E R

  E i g h t

  Although San Franciscans weren’t following the Series with the same avidity they would have had the Giants not snatched defeat from the jaws of victory by losing the pennant, the Baltimore-Pittsburgh rivalry still excited a great deal of interest, especially in the dive that Longlegs favored. Warm as it was, this early October evening in San Francisco, it looked like it was tight-scrotum w
eather in Pittsburgh. A foul wind was taking the ball and playing around with it before giving it back to the men on the field.

  Longlegs was enjoying this spectacle when he was grabbed roughly on the shoulder and spun around on his stool. When he looked up it was to see a cop.

  He didn’t know the cop’s name but that wasn’t important. He recognized him all right from the pawn shop. The blond with the 9mm Browning and the reflecting sunglasses.

  While he did not know what was coming down, he suspected that it was nothing good. His neighbors in the bar shied away from him, sensing trouble. In his most lawless days, when you couldn’t trust him with a dime, Longlegs had plenty of friends. But ever since the police had started getting on his case, people were staying far away from him. They acted as though he were contagious. Which, in a manner of speaking, maybe he was.

  “I want to talk to you outside for a moment,” said Sandy Patel.

  “What is this about, man? I’ve been real good the last couple of weeks.”

  Patel didn’t want to hear it. He got Longlegs outside and addressed him in a manner that left no doubt as to how serious he was.

  “I want you to get in touch with your friend Harry Callahan. Tell him you have found out who the hit men are and set up a meeting.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know nothing about no hit men.”

  Longlegs was shaking, his mouth was so dry he could barely speak.

  Patel backed him into a corner, into the shadows outside the bar, then threw him against the trashcans. Groaning with pain, Longlegs sank to his knees. When he attempted to regain his balance Patel slapped him hard, sending him reeling. Patel believed in the preemptive attack.