Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks

by Dane Hartman

  It was a little after nine when the limousine—one of those Lincoln numbers, a block long with a sunroof and champagne in the cooler—conveyed Bull back to his home in Sausalito. Bull was tired; actually he was rather surprised to discover how exhausting his day in prison had been. Consequently, he’d declined an invitation extended by Braxton to have a celebratory dinner. What was he supposed to celebrate? His release on bail? By this point he had the feeling that he would soon be back in the slammer. Fail-safe devices weren’t working any more and he didn’t know why. What the hell purpose did it serve to pay out so much cash in protection money if he could still be allowed to twist slowly, slowly in the wind. It was a humiliating predicament, and Bull hadn’t an inkling as to what he should do about it. He would see Braxton tomorrow morning but he already knew what Braxton would tell him: Forget it, we’ll take care of everything, nothing to worry about, just get back to work. To save his own ass, Braxton would easily cut him loose—particularly if he thought that Bull was going to betray him.

  It was developing into a real war of nerves—who would move first? And it had the effect of draining Bull completely.

  The house he owned in Sausalito was a beautiful two-story edifice that rested a bit precariously on a steep gradient overlooking the honeycomb of houses and stores that composed the commercial center of the town. It was a spacious house with ten rooms; a comfortable place for a family. But the problem was there was no family. Bull’s wife had taken his three kids and left him six years before, declaring that he was faithless to her and only loyal to Matt Braxton.

  This was not quite the truth; he was rarely unfaithful to her—and then only with some one of those hookers that worked big city conventions. But he was hardly ever at home; he was no husband, still less a father. She’d been right to leave. But now what was he left with? A big house and a woman who came in a couple of times a week to clean.

  He was too weary to prepare a meal for himself. He figured he’d drink it. Hell, that’s all he wanted to do now, get loaded, watch the tube, and let a pleasant alcoholic oblivion overtake him sometime before day came in through the rectangular picture window that gave him a better view of Sausalito than he really wanted.

  He was just settling into his armchair when there was a strange knocking sound against the side of the house. Bull stiffened in his chair, darting his eyes back and forth across the room. His ears perked up, anticipating another sound. But when it came it wasn’t from the side of the house. No, this sound was the noisy clatter of glass as a bullet displaced it from the picture window.

  Bull looked to the window. A jagged hole was there now and a stiff breeze blowing up from the bay was penetrating it. At first Bull couldn’t understand what had happened. His brain was reacting too slowly; his exhaustion and the growing impact of the whiskey he was drinking were cutting down on his reaction time.

  However, a second round, better aimed this time, did have the effect of arousing him. More glass was broken and blown halfway across the room as the bullet thudded into the armchair. Bull dived clumsily to the floor. A third shot took out the lamp, piercing its shade, splintering the bulb, and throwing the room into darkness.

  Bull lay sprawled on his carpet, breathing hard; a painful rasping emerged from his lungs, he could barely swallow. Sweat popped out on his face and from under his arms. Something on the other side of the room exploded loudly. Although he couldn’t see what it was, Bull guessed that it was the antique Chinese vase. Pity, it had been worth a small fortune. He dared not move. Even after an hour had passed he remained where he was for fear that the assailant was still out there or—who knows?—might have decided to circle around and break into the house in order to complete what he’d started.

  It was only when the first dim gray light appeared through the broken picture window that Bull allowed himself the luxury of picking himself up off the floor. The attack was evidently over. He first retrieved his whiskey. The ice had long ago melted but the drink still had its potency. Bull swilled down what was left, then went to the phone.

  But as soon as he’d picked up the receiver he realized that he did not know whom to call. Braxton? It was probably Braxton who had engineered this assault against him. He had to do something, but for the next two and a half hours—while the sun inched itself up in the eastern sky—he found himself completely immobilized, unable to make any decision at all. Finally he dialed a number.

  “I want to speak to Harry Callahan,” he said. He waited until Callahan came on the line. “This is Ryan here. I want to tell you a little story if you got a minute.”

  C H A P T E R

  T w e l v e

  Once again the press was called out, a small restive army equipped with tape cassettes, 35mm Leicas, and mobile video units. This time they were summoned to a quaint gaslit street in the Cow Hollow district on Union Street. Right off it, on a mews, looking more like the creation of a confectioner than an architect, was a Victorian-influenced house, replete with an elaborately ornate roof and gingerbread façade. There was a boutique nearby, and both customers and proprietors were emerging from it to see what all the excitement was about.

  Although a great deal of Matt Braxton’s life was lived out in the open, in full view of the public, not many people knew where he made his home. This was information that was withheld not only to protect the Brotherhood leader’s privacy but also because a charming, restored Victorian house didn’t exactly fit the tough aggressive image that Braxton wished to propagate. This was his retreat, where he went to sequester himself against the intrusions of the world; other times he used an apartment near Jackson Square, right in the heart of the city’s business district.

  For John Bull Ryan, four uniformed men—plus Harry—had been recruited to make certain the arrest was carried out with no difficulty. For Matt Braxton, there were eight, including another plainclothes detective.

  It was known that Braxton was usually guarded, at least by two men who kept the mews under discreet surveillance whether or not the retired union leader was at home. But their responsibilities did not call for their holding off the police. All they could do was to dash up the stairs into the house, presumably to ask for further instructions. It had been many years since Matt Braxton had last been arrested and that was when he was a militant agitator down on the docks. Not the same situation at all.

  Braxton, viewing the gathering forces from his bedroom window on the second floor, was more stunned than he was angry; having convinced himself that he was forever immune to arrest, he could not suddenly alter his state of mind to adjust to reality.

  What particularly infuriated him was that Bull obviously had turned on him. It shouldn’t have happened. There was no reason for it. Sure, someone had shot out his window and scared him shitless, but no one from the Brotherhood had been responsible for that; he’d given no orders to instigate a campaign of terror against Bull. What would have been the point? He would have had Bull killed and be done with it. Not that he hadn’t considered doing so; it was just that there were already too many bodies. One more, he’d felt, he might have run out of luck. Well, he’d gambled and lost. It had happened before.

  The door to the bedroom was opened; the bodyguard standing directly outside nodded to him.

  No words were necessary. “Hell, invite ’em in.”

  Although he’d done his best to ensure Harry’s death he was not unhappy to see him now. Here, he thought, was an antagonist worthy of his attention. He was tired of enemies he could easily vanquish.

  Brushing aside the warrant that Harry proffered to him, he said to him, “Callahan, I have a question I want to ask you.” When Harry refused to reply he went on. “Tell me something, did you shoot out that poor fucker’s picture window in Sausalito? I sure as hell had nothing to do with that.”

  Harry looked at him directly and smiled. “Now why would I do a thing like that?”

  Braxton laughed good-naturedly. “Yeah, why would you? Shit, why would you go and do something like that? Cal
lahan, I want to tell you something else. You’ve done better than I thought anyone could. Honest to God. But I promise you you are going to get fucked. I mean you are beyond redemption, boy. And I am going to have one hell of a time doing it.”

  “But not this afternoon.”

  “No, you’re right about that. This afternoon I’m the screwee. Later on we change positions.”

  Braxton assumed naturally that he, like Bull before him, would be back out on the streets by the time the sun set that day. But he had not taken into account one thing. Bull was still president of the Brotherhood and although he was lying low, hidden in some corner of the city, fearful of retribution from Braxton’s allies, he still exerted control, for all practical purposes, over the organization. His signature was necessary for the disbursement of any large sum of money from the Brotherhood’s treasury. And he had no intention at all of authorizing the money required to spring his predecessor on bail. So Braxton stayed in the jug.

  By now much of the shock had worn off and there was in its place simple, blind fury. He raged in his cell; no longer able to content himself with visions of future vengeance, he was driven by the need to do something quick and decisive immediately. And since, even in jail, he was not altogether powerless, he realized that it was only a matter of time before the opportunity presented itself.

  Since Matt Braxton was no ordinary prisoner he was treated especially well. He had a color television and radio and all the books he wanted at his disposal; a shower, if he wanted it, was his every morning. His food, superior to the fare served the other inmates, left him with little in the way of amenities to complain about. The real problem was that he was kept in isolation. Warders, detectives, prosecutors, lawyers, and guards could see him, but no one from the prison community. But that did not mean the other prisoners didn’t know he was there nor did it mean that they couldn’t communicate back and forth.

  And so inevitably Braxton got the word out: Shut down the docks. He was determined to show the City of San Francisco—and especially Some Fucking Police Department (SFPD), as many of its detractors called it—that they could not expect to take on Matt Braxton and win.

  But Braxton’s word was no longer Law; that was the sticking point. Half the union membership, the older half, was willing, as always, to comply with the boss’s command and walked off the job. The other half, owing its allegiance to whomever controlled the Brotherhood at the moment—in this case Bull—chose to continue working. Ironically, the same dissidents who’d supported the late Bernie Tuber now found themselves allied with John Bull Ryan.

  The stage was set for violence on the docks of the bay.

  C H A P T E R

  T h i r t e e n

  Bressler wasn’t altogether happy with Harry. Not that he was ever exactly happy in general, but Harry particularly irritated him. He irritated him when he, for whatever reason, failed to solve a case or else left a lot of loose ends hanging. But he certainly irritated him more when he successfully brought a case to a close. Bressler was intelligent enough to recognize how irrational this line of thinking was, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to act any differently toward Harry. It was, he decided, something chemical; they belonged on different planets, that’s all.

  A week after Braxton’s arrest he called Harry into his office.

  Harry waited impatiently for Bressler to address him. He figured that his superior had found something else to criticize him about. But this time Bressler had nothing to complain of; instead, he had a new assignment for Harry. New, but still related to the Tuber case.

  “You’ve heard about what’s going down on the docks,” he started.

  “It’s hard to miss.”

  “We have every reason to suspect it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Now one of our difficulties is that we don’t know who is organizing the wildcat strikers. But the violence seems carefully orchestrated—the brawls, the firebombings, the sabotage.”

  “Braxton. He’s behind it.”

  “You have an obsession about this guy, Harry. What you’re saying is speculation. Remember, just because he’s in jail now doesn’t mean anyone’s convicted him.”

  Harry remained sitting in stony silence.

  Bressler relented. “Well, say, for the sake of argument, that it is Braxton. He’s not on the docks himself. Someone has to be his eyes and ears. Who? What I’d like you to do is infiltrate the area, see what you can dig up, see if you can’t identify the go-between.”

  Before Harry left Bressler called out to him: “And Harry, watch yourself. Those longshoremen, they play pretty rough when they’re angry.”

  Harry couldn’t help smiling. Bressler expressing concern for his safety? The man must be going soft.

  The bar that Harry stationed himself in was the sort of dark derelict place that even Longlegs would have avoided. The men—and the few depleted hookers—that hung out here had the look that comes from years of drink and bitterness; you had the feeling that anything could touch them off, even under the best of circumstances. Killing was an option barely worth a second thought.

  Harry was tall, and strong, but in comparison to some of these customers he appeared almost diminutive. With their sinewy arms festooned with fading tattoos and their pectoral muscles straining hard against their well-worn T-shirts, they made for intimidating presences. Their capacity for booze was formidable. But it was nothing to their anger; they were men who hated with a vengeance.

  For this was a bastion of Braxton adherents. This bar’s clientele was enraged that their man should have been put in jail. Even if he did order the execution of Tuber and the others, well, that was all to the good, in their estimation. Tuber was a son of a bitch who had it coming to him.

  Had any of the men known that Harry was directly responsible for Braxton’s arrest they would have wasted him right there and then. But they did not know so they contented themselves with isolating and patronizing him because whatever he was, he was an outsider who didn’t belong and if he wasn’t a cop then he probably was one of Bull’s men.

  Usually no one would talk to him. It took nearly half an hour for the bartender—an ex-longshoreman himself—to serve him. But by the fourth day he’d come into the place, at least one customer was curious enough—and inebriated enough—to entertain notions of speaking to him.

  He was a shortish fellow actually, unshaven, halfblind, a veteran of a good many wars on the docks. He sidled up to Harry. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m a shipping investigator.”

  “The fuck you are.”

  “Don’t believe it, same difference to me.”

  “Never heard of a shipping investigator.”

  “That’s not my fault now, is it?”

  “What’s a fucking shipping investigator supposed to fucking do?”

  “Collect information, find out when this wildcat strike’s going to end so we can reschedule shipping accordingly.”

  For a moment it didn’t appear that the man had understood. Glassy-eyed, he regarded Harry with baffled scrutiny. Then he blinked. Leaning over the bar he grasped hold of the morning paper and thrust it in Harry’s face, so close he could scarcely be expected to read it. But he knew what it said. The Grand Jury had handed up a five-count indictment against Matt Braxton on charges of murder, assault, and conspiracy to commit murder. The trial, the story said, was likely to start soon given the enormous publicity surrounding the case. Defense attorneys were already saying that they would apply for change in venue, averring that their client could not hope to receive a fair trial in his home city. Actually, this promised to be only the first of at least two trials; he’d only been indicted for the slaying of Clay Meltzer and the attempts on Harry’s life. He would then face charges in connection with the Tuber killings and have to go up on trial in Palo Alto.

  But all these technical details did not interest the man speaking to Harry. The only thing that mattered to him was that his leader had been placed unceremoniously in the slammer and
there was little likelihood that he’d be released soon.

  “Fucking Bull,” he was saying, no longer concerned what Harry did or did not do for a living. “He’s telling us to go back to work. We’ll fucking go back to work all right if they release Matt. If they don’t, they better forget about it. We’re shutting down the fucking docks. You tell your fucking shipping people they can get that through their fucking heads. You got that?”

  Harry said he’d gotten it.

  The man, however, didn’t seem convinced he’d adequately made his point. “You think you’ve seen trouble, you’ve seen nothing. You step over to Deringer’s, well now I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Investigator.” He was turning coy. “You being what you say you are you should know these things.”

  What Harry knew was that Deringer’s was a saloon favored by the union dissidents. Already there’d been some heated brawls there. But what he didn’t know was what was planned—and when.

  So Harry pretended not to be interested. “Nothing,” he countered, “is going to happen over there. I’ve been there. Boring place you ask me.”

  “Oh you think so do you, Mr. Investigator? Tomorrow afternoon you be over there you see some fucking action.”

  The longshoreman was drunk and boastful and Harry didn’t exactly invest him with much credibility. But the next afternoon he was there at Deringer’s just in case. Deringer’s didn’t really look very different than the bar habituated by Braxton’s men; it was equally dark, and the air was stale and thick with the smell of booze that had spilled and had never been cleaned, and with the rancid stench of too many cigarettes lit up at once. The jukebox was filled with Irish music hall numbers, polkas, some C&W, none of it particularly to Harry’s taste.

  No one looked like they expected any trouble; either that or they’d grown so accustomed to it that they didn’t bother making any special to-do over it. Every so often from down the other end of the bar you could hear a group of men arguing about the wildcat strike and the ultimate fate of Braxton and his disloyal successor, John Bull Ryan.