Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks
Page 9
“Oh good. A late night party in L.A.”
“Malibu. Beautiful view I’m told.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“It just came up. It’s been in the works but you know, baby, we’re both busy men.”
Having said all this, Braxton was certain he’d made his point. He was a bit troubled that Darlene wasn’t showing more pleasure; he’d have thought she’d greet his news with genuine enthusiasm. How many women get to see their man portrayed on the big screen, after all?
“I’m not going,” Darlene declared flatly.
Braxton frowned. “Of course you’re going. Get your wrap.”
“You may have forgotten, but tonight’s the night Icon II is opening.”
“Icon II. What the hell is an Icon II?”
“The discotheque, Icon II. It is opening tonight. Everyone is going to be there. Mike Nichols. Sam Spiegel. Anne Reed. Christine Ford. Francis Coppola. Everyone. At Icon II, not at your Mel Potter’s shack in Malibu. It’s your life he wants to do, not mine, so you go.”
Braxton refused to sympathize; opening night, closing night, it was the same to him. What mattered was the party in Malibu and the chance that he might be immortalized forever, or at least so long as the celluloid containing his story held up. But before he had an opportunity to terminate this argument (his ten minutes were nearly up), the telephone, a touchtone pink Princess, interrupted them.
“It’s for you,” Darlene told him, holding out the receiver for him.
“What did you say?” Braxton shouted into the phone. Darlene knew that it was bad news; Braxton got a look to him whenever it was bad news and that look was certainly there now. “Patel killed? How the hell did that happen? What’s this about some nigger? I don’t understand . . . You’re always giving me these bullshit explanations . . . I don’t want to hear it. You’re to get this cop out of the way . . . Yes, yes, damnit, bring in the Chicago boys, that’s what we’re paying them for, isn’t it? . . . You’re asking me where they are? . . . you’re supposed to know that . . . Let me think . . . All right, I know Bull’s out of town . . . You try to delegate authority and everyone fucks up. Can’t depend on anyone else but yourself.” Braxton removed a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flipped through a few pages before locating what he wanted. “OK, they’re in the Richelieu. On Van Ness. Nick Lesko and Patrick Passaretti. You give them the details . . . No, that’s Passaretti. P as in Paul . . . You give them the details . . . Right, you make sure that this fellow Callahan is floating in the bay by tomorrow night. Enough’s enough.” He slammed down the phone. Bad treatment for a Princess.
Moving past Darlene, he said gruffly, “Let’s go. We’re late already.” In his anger he had forgotten their argument of a few minutes before and so assumed that there was no problem whatsoever. Darlene was sensitive enough to Braxton’s moods to know that further resistance to going to L.A. was not only pointless but unwise. In this state there was no telling what he could do.
Once again he had won.
The party in Malibu turned out to be every bit as dreary as Darlene had anticipated. For one thing, there weren’t very many people; the party was more a small gathering composed largely of studio executives and their wives. Scarcely any glamour aside from one actor Darlene recognized from a soap opera that she watched regularly during the daytime. She asked him what was supposed to happen next on the series, but either he didn’t know or else he was under orders not to divulge any information. This disappointed her. There was no one to talk to and you could spend only so much time admiring the Pacific Ocean from the deck that adjoined the producer’s house.
Darlene tired of the shoptalk, and Braxton was so preoccupied by the discussion about this movie project and so flattered that she despaired of getting any attention from him. Instead she got looped, thoroughly intoxicated on some explosive punch concoction that people kept ladling from a big silver bowl.
All she could keep thinking about was the festivities she was missing at the Icon II. As the evening progressed, her mood darkened more and more, her anger took hold of her, and she became determined to somehow exact revenge on Braxton. It struck her with all the immediacy and surprise of a late afternoon summer thundershower; it was such a provocative and dangerous idea that came to her that she nearly burst into a fit of nervous giggles. At first she could not actually see herself pulling it off but as the hours passed, and as Braxton’s ego became perceptibly inflated, his voice more and more boisterous in recounting anecdotes, the idea seemed to gain in plausibility. Yes, she concluded, it is possible to do this thing.
There was no need to excuse herself. No one would notice her absence. She slipped upstairs, found a bedroom, and without the availability of light managed to locate a phone. “Operator,” she said, keeping her voice low, “could you connect me to the San Francisco Police Department. I would like to speak to an officer named Callahan. No, I don’t know the first name. Just Callahan.”
C H A P T E R
T e n
“Who did you say this is?” Harry asked.
“A friend,” the woman replied on the other end. “Just a friend.”
And she hung up.
Harry stared at the buzzing receiver in his hand as if in expectation that further enlightenment might be forthcoming.
Well, he thought, it might be worth checking out her information. The last time a call had come like this he’d nearly been lured into a trap and killed. He would have to remember to be more cautious in this instance.
The Richelieu Motor Hotel, situated on Van Ness at Geary, consists of an older five-story hotel building and a motel grafted onto it. The lobby is characterized by squares of blond wood; glass doors on one side lead to the darkened pool area.
Harry stepped up to the desk and inquired after Patrick Passaretti and Nick Lesko.
To his surprise, the man behind the desk seemed to recognize the names immediately. “Oh yes, sir. You must be Mr. Powell. Mr. Lesko and Mr. Passaretti are waiting for you inside of Zim’s. That’s right through the lobby. You’ll find them seated inside at one of the tables.”
Harry nodded in acknowledgment, wondering what the man’s reaction would be when the real Mr. Powell arrived, an event he assumed would happen imminently.
Zim’s Coffeehouse was open twenty-four hours a day which made it a convenient meeting place for insomniacs and drunks desperately in need of a restorative. It was close to two in the morning; Messrs. Powell, Passaretti, and Lesko kept late hours.
If you didn’t know what to look for, Passaretti and Lesko would not attract any special attention. But Harry did know, and they stuck out like circus freaks—and while their sedentary postures bridged the height difference between them it was still obvious to Harry that a few inches in either direction and they could well be circus freaks—one a giant, the other a sad-faced voluble dwarf.
Harry took a seat practically across from their table. It was reasonable to assume that these were two of the men who had attempted to kill him in his apartment and who very likely were now waiting instructions so that they could rectify their failure on Sunday. Although they would only have to crane their necks to spot Harry, they had no special motive to do so. And Harry knew enough about human nature to realize that even if their eyes fell on him they probably would not make the connection that this, for Chrissakes, was the man they were supposed to hit. Not because they didn’t have a clear idea of what their victim looked like but because they would not expect him here and as a result would overlook him. Harry was better at fading into the woodwork than they when he had to.
Ten minutes passed. And then the man he presumed to be Mr. Powell, a squat cigar-smoking character with a face turned beet-red by too much sun or too much booze or both, wandered in. He located Lesko and Passaretti right away and sat down with them. Harry was too far away to hear what they were saying, but he had a feeling he knew the subject of their conversation. Powell was someone who intrigued him. Powell was und
oubtedly a minion of Braxton and as such he could provide the kind of link Harry had been looking for so long and futilely.
It was unfortunate this trio’s discussion couldn’t have been wired but that would be hoping for too much. It was to escape just such clandestine scrutiny that they met in a public place like this.
Then Harry decided to try a bold experiment that would very likely lead to a lot more trouble than he needed. He was going to expose himself and compel them to take action. It was now time to emerge from the woodwork.
Yet he was anxious not to make it seem like he had caught on to them. They would be then confronted with a dilemma: on the one hand, maybe he was staking them out; on the other, maybe his being at Zim’s at two in the morning was a pure coincidence. In either event Harry was operating on the premise that he would present them with too great a temptation to resist.
So he deliberately called attention to himself. Throwing himself into the role of a drunk who has had a few too many, he knocked his plate, still half-filled with a Spanish omelette, onto the floor. The crash resounded through the coffee shop, causing heads to turn. Harry pretended to ignore the curious faces peering at him.
When the waitress appeared, he told her the omelette was inedible, which was not the case at all. The waitress, who looked like she’d much rather be asleep, was justifiably indignant. “Sir, if you don’t like our food you can let me know but that doesn’t give you any right to throw it on the floor.”
Harry gave her a disdainful glance and brushed past her.
“Sir, you still have to pay for your food.” Under her breath she cursed him mercilessly.
Harry continued out of the coffee shop, dismissing her with a peremptory gesture. He reminded himself that when this was all over—if it ever did get all over—he would have to return and give her a good tip for taking part, however unwittingly, in this little charade he’d contrived.
As he made his way through the lobby at a very cautious pace, half-lurching in emulation of a man well in his cups, he tried to restrain himself from looking around. There was no question that his victims had noticed him and the commotion he’d created—everyone in the coffee-shop had—but had they correctly identified him and having done that, decided to follow him? Ah, Harry thought, how could they not? Callahan too bombed to even see straight: it was like looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Instead of proceeding directly toward the lobby exit, Harry chose the door that led out into the deserted pool area. It would be assumed that in his intoxicated state he had mistaken one door for the other.
Although he heard someone shout at him, warning him that the pool was not open at two in the morning, no one attempted to impede his progress, such as it was.
He could hear footsteps in back of him but whose they were he had no way of determining. Not until he was at the pool itself did he allow himself the luxury of turning around.
Light was sufficient to catch a glimpse of yourself in the pool whose chlorine-blue water now appeared almost completely black. There were, however, enough shadows to get lost in. Which is exactly what Harry did.
But not quick enough . . .
“Over there, I see him over there!” Passaretti was trying to keep his voice down but in the silence and the still warm air it carried anyway.
“Where?”
“There, there!”
“What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know. Looks like he’s throwing up.”
And indeed it did. Harry was standing, with his back partially turned toward them, his head lowered out of sight. To complete the effect he began to retch. In the meantime, he had his .44 Magnum gripped firmly in his hands.
“Take him now.” Passaretti was speaking louder because he assumed that Harry, in his misery, would be unaware of any intrusive presence.
By his voice Harry had a fairly good idea of where Passaretti had positioned himself; he was just shy of the door to the lobby. Taking no chances, Lesko was walking away from him, moving to a point almost directly opposite Harry. His footsteps betrayed him but again, thinking that Harry was out of commission, he was less attentive to keeping them muffled.
Powell wasn’t with them. The Powells of the world never came in on the front line of this kind of operation. He was no doubt waiting for a favorable report in the lobby.
It was a matter of timing. Harry moved a moment too soon he might lose them. A moment too late he might lose himself.
He retched once again so as to reassure his impatient assassins that he was still thoroughly incapacitated. Then he dropped, spinning at the same time. Two shots, scarcely audible because of the silencers the men were employing, slammed into the wall a couple of feet above his head. Harry fired three times in succession, twice at Passaretti and once in the direction of his friend across the pool. Having no opportunity to properly aim at Lesko, he had to content himself with distracting him.
In this he succeeded. Lesko had in his effort to reposition himself slipped on a damp patch of cement and was struggling to regain his balance.
Passaretti had been hit. Only one of Harry’s two slugs had entered him but one was enough. On impact he’d been flung into the pool, creating a noisy splash. He was still alive, grappling desperately with the water to get back to the surface. The water was fast filling up with his blood and soon there was so much of it that you couldn’t see what had happened to the little guy. He never did come up for air. There was nothing much he could have used the air for in any case, with one lung shredded and hemorrhaging like crazy.
Lesko meanwhile had gotten himself vertical again and was firing back at Harry or where he thought Harry should be because by stumbling, he’d lost sight of his target and now couldn’t find him again.
Confusedly, Lesko began to circle the periphery of the pool, certain that Harry must be somewhere nearby but where? All at once he found out. The tip of a .44 pressed up against his head. No sense, he realized, in trying to turn around. No sense in doing anything but coming to a dead stop.
“Drop it.”
Lesko obeyed. His handgun bounced on the cement and flipped off into the pool, joining Passaretti and his gun. There was nothing but a blood-red cloud in the water; it would be one hell of a surprise for the people who came out for a dip the following morning.
“Now walk.”
Lesko walked. It seemed under the circumstances a reasonable alternative.
As they approached the door leading to the hotel lobby the door swung open. There silhouetted in the lights from the lobby was none other than Mr. Powell. Evidently he anticipated nothing but good news, for his cigar was still protruding from his mouth; he was puffing away on it contentedly.
He could not see Harry from where he stood since Lesko pretty much hid him from view. On the other hand, there was no way he could miss all the blood in the pool. He assumed that it had to be Harry’s blood.
“Where’s Passaretti?” he asked.
Lesko didn’t react. Harry hadn’t given him instructions and so he wasn’t about to say a word, not with a .44 strategically placed to expel the contents of his brain.
“You can tell him,” Harry whispered, having drawn up a .38 that he kept strapped about his ankle in reserve. With a pistol in each hand he was confident that Powell presented no threat.
“In there.” Lesko nodded towards the pool.
Powell frowned. He didn’t seem to have understood. “What the hell do you mean in there?”
“What I said. Passaretti’s finished, caput.”
He didn’t sound particularly aggrieved.
Now Powell understood. He took a couple of steps backward; if the light were any better you could have seen how pale he’d gone.
“Stay where you are,” Harry commanded.
Powell swore and turned and bolted. Or tried to bolt. Harry raised his .38 and fired a warning shot that stirred up the surface directly beneath Powell’s feet. He leapt up, did a little aerial ballet, but being so close to the door he didn’t stop.
With Lesko in front of him, Harry rushed toward Powell. Powell, stunned by the collision, must have realized that his opportunity had eluded him. Tugging a .357 Magnum out of a holster that had been hidden by his jacket he fired back. This gun of his lacked a silencer and so made quite a powerful concussive noise that probably awoke all the Richelieu’s sleeping guests. There was in response a spurt of water at the far end of the pool. Clearly, Powell wasn’t much of a shot.
Harry, still using his smaller caliber gun, returned the fire. Glass shattered but Powell was not harmed: Almost simultaneously Powell got off another couple of rounds, better targeted this time. Harry by this point was nearly on top of him—with Lesko still between them, doing what he could to escape the crossfire. But it was not Lesko’s lucky day. Hit in front he fell in the way of the .38 and was hit from behind. He screamed, then in an oddly graceful movement pitched forward into the pool.
Powell seemed to think that Lesko, in his death throes, would provide him with the distraction necessary to finally make it into the lobby. Now that the battle had come down to just him and Harry he realized that he’d better act quickly. If two professional hit men such as Lesko and Passaretti could not kill Harry then what chance did he have? He could depend only on chance, and he knew that men who depended on chance didn’t survive very long in this world.
So he turned and rushed headlong—this time avoiding a collision—into the lobby. For a moment he was convinced that he was safe; the well-lit interior was more reassuring than the partial darkness outside. That there were a scattering of people, guests and staff alike, who were observing his progress through the lobby in the general direction of Van Ness, that he still held his gun in his hand, did not occur to him. He was too busy escaping to notice such things.