Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons (11 page)

Harry entered the dance hall in time to dodge a rain of beer bottles. Thurston was marking his escape with any box he could grab and throw behind him. Harry crouched to the side of the entrance and took aim again. This time he was able to call out “halt” without any interruptions.

Thurston reacted to the pronouncement by leaping behind a silver cask of beer and clawing at his waistband. That particular hand motion usually meant one thing to Harry; the alleged perpetrator was going for a weapon.

Acting on instinct, Harry’s finger tightened on the Magnum’s trigger. He immediately loosened his trigger finger for two reasons. First, he remembered that he was not shooting on home turf at a local scumbag. Usually that reason was not sufficient for Harry to let someone shoot back at him, but the second reason he didn’t shoot was the more important and the more pressing. Namely, Harry didn’t know whether the keg Thurston was huddled behind was full or empty.

If empty, Harry’s bullets would go through like they went through almost everything else. But if it was full and under pressure, it could explode with the force of a frag grenade, sending hunks of sharp metal and gallons of beer everywhere. Under normal circumstances, Harry might have tried it, but these weren’t normal circumstances. He was fighting in front of an innocent crowd and had no personal cover.

Before Thurston could bring his own gun up and aim, Harry threw himself from the room entrance into the kitchen by way of the rectangular ordering window. He slid across the Formica counter and dropped to the floor. Punctuating his landing were the sounds of two gunshots and the wholesale stampede of the bar’s patrons toward the exits.

Harry hazarded a look through the ordering aperture he had jumped through. Thurston kicked over his keg cover at that very moment, charging for the rear door like the Schlitz Malt Liquor bull. He fired his gun as he went, slapping lead all around the kitchen.

Callahan ducked down while calculating Thurston’s speed. As soon as he thought the guy had reached the rear door, he shot diagonally through the kitchen door. His aim was good but his timing was a smidge off. The bullet punched a hole midway up the kitchen door and blasted outside, narrowly missing both Thurston’s back and the swinging back door.

Immediately afterward Harry was up and out the kitchen door himself, almost tripping over the beer keg Thurston had kicked aside. After noticing that the kickback man was still hustling across the back porch trying to find a way out of the yard, Harry hefted the metal cask up. It was empty. He carried it with him as he cautiously neared the back door.

He stood to one side, his Magnum held high and the beer keg held low. He looked back at the barroom. What patrons were left were staring at him from behind furniture. The only noise was of the off-duty cop groaning in pain from his squashed toes.

Harry looked outside. The back yard was empty. The loading lights from the truck stop next door bathed the area in a humid yellow gleam. Combined with the dark blue of the night, it made the shadows slightly green.

Harry stepped outside. He saw no human figure and he heard nothing. Harry looked to the right. The open part of the porch looked invitingly escapable. Harry shuffled in that direction for a moment, then stopped. He looked down. He thought about the fact that the porch was mounted about six feet off the ground. He thought about all the empty space between the dirt and the boards he was standing on.

Then he silently lowered the beer keg to the porch floor on its side. He placed the sole of his shoe against it and pushed. The keg slowly rolled toward the right edge of the porch.

Two seconds after it started rolling, bullet holes started appearing from underneath. As it lazily drifted to the right, gun reports would mingle with the sound of lead popping through and inside the oblong cask. As Harry had figured, Thurston was underneath the porch, shooting what he thought was a stalking policeman.

As soon as Thurston thought his stalker was dead, he himself fled. He raced out from under the porch toward the right and headed for the front of the bar and his parked car. Putting his weapon away, Harry ran over to the hole-ridden keg, picked it up, and threw it after the running man.

The fairly heavy metal cask bounced off the back of Thurston’s head with a noise that was reminiscent of the sound the gong made at the beginning of a J. Arthur Rank film or throughout a Chuck Barris TV game show. Thurston’s head jutted forward, then the rest of his body followed. The kickback man did a forward somersault through the air, landed heavily on his back, and lay still.

“I tell you there’s nothing we can do about it,” complained Sheriff Strughold in a voice mixing pride with pleading. “The gun was legally registered, the final arrest was made by a duly authorized officer of the law . . . there’s absolutely nothing we can charge him with.”

“Do you mean to say,” H. A. Striker began, his voice mixing patience with displeasure, “that an out-of-state inspector throws a beer keg on one man’s head, assaults another, kills the third, and shoots up a night spot, and he hasn’t broken the law?”

“The owner isn’t pressing charges,” the Sheriff answered unhappily. “Every single witness backs up Callahan’s plea of self-defense. Besides, its being handled by the homicide and D.A.’s office. There was nothing I could hold him on.”

Hannibal Striker and Mitch Strughold stewed in the company of two bodyguards and two deputies at an outside café along the Paseo del Rio, the river Harry had mentioned to the drunk. It was a two and a half mile section of the San Antonio river dotted with shore-bound shops and eateries as well as floating vehicles for sightseeing and entertainment. The six powerful men sat around a square table right at the water’s edge.

On either side of them were trees that had strung lights reaching from branch to branch. It was a festive location and a beautiful Texas morning. It was a nice day to plan a vengeful counterattack.

The river was only about sixty feet wide and rarely more than twenty feet deep. Across the river from the half-dozen plotters was a walking area, often interrupted by stairways that led to stone bridges that spanned the water. On the bridge closest to the restaurant stood Harry Callahan. He watched as Striker and company talked.

He was wearing a new gray pair of pants which he had bought his first day in. It went well with his light brown jacket, the one he always wore, the light-green, button-down shirt and the maroon tie. Mrs. Nash was nice enough to take his other clothes to the wash today. She said she had to do the kids’ laundry anyway.

Harry stood on the scenic bridge, looking at the lovely city, tranquil waters, and quaint restaurant, and felt depressed. He felt depressed because both Mrs. Nash and Hannibal Striker looked exactly like he thought they would. Mrs. Nash was pretty. She was small, brunette, and looked like Mary Ann on “Gilligan’s Island.” The word to describe her was perky. Striker, on the other hand, was tan-colored and calculatingly handsome. His face was wide, his cheekbones were high, and he was dressed as only money can dress you. His entire appearance was professionally slick. The word to describe him was oily.

Harry didn’t like the idea of getting caught between those two people. Because when someone like him got caught between people like them, it was always the pretty, perky one who got hurt, no matter what happened. Even if Harry was to pull out his gun right there and then and put a bullet between Striker’s eyes, somehow the pain would reach Carol Nash.

No, Harry didn’t much like the situation he was in. But he liked men who killed honest sheriffs in front of their families, then kidnapped, raped, and murdered girls named Candy even less.

Harry marched across the bridge, down the steps, and toward Striker’s table.

While he walked, he had to admit to himself that he had been surprised to find a message from Striker waiting at the Ramada Inn when he had returned from the police station. If nothing else, the Mexican-American businessman worked fast. The message asked Harry if he would be so kind as to join Striker for an informal breakfast the following day. That’s exactly how he put it; to quote: “would you be so kind . . .” As soon as Harry read that, he knew he was in for an oily time. For some reason, he just didn’t like people to cover over their heritage with gloss. To Harry, it was like an Englishman learning a Bronx accent or a guy like him wearing a tuxedo on duty. It was so obviously false that it soon became an uncomfortable situation where someone had to mention it sooner or later.

Striker’s reaction to Callahan’s appearance fell right into Harry’s estimation of the man. He looked up, made a quick, whispered note of Harry’s approach to the others, then leaned back, smiled, and folded his hands together over his chest. What was he trying to do? Show off his expensive manicure?

“Ah, Inspector Callahan,” Striker said. “How good of you to come.” It figures he’d say it like that, Harry thought as he came to a stop before the one smiling face and the five wary, furtive ones. “Please be seated,” Striker went on, waving to a plain, black chair to his left.

Harry checked the positioning. The empty chair was between Striker and one of his bodyguards. The other bodyguard was sitting to the businessman’s right, next to the water’s edge. The sheriff was sitting between his two deputies—the same guys who frisked Harry at the airport—across the table. Harry pulled back the seat and sat down.

“I hope you don’t mind that we started without you,” Striker said. “I was afraid you might be a bit late, seeing that you had such a busy night.”

The evening had been a big success as far as Nash was concerned and a fiasco as far as Callahan was. He still had great faith in the ex-deputy’s planning, but none at all in the straight cops’ implementation. No matter how honest these guys were, they were still worried about their jobs. One too many successful Nash operations and their superiors on-the-take would get suspicious. That kind of pressure would take the edge off of any law officer. Besides, to most lawmen, Striker’s brand of graft was common and accepted knowledge. The fact that he had Tucker killed only made most of the honest men want to keep that much farther away from him.

“No big deal,” Harry said quietly. Only he knew it was a big deal. Callahan had hoped he could stay in the woodwork a bit longer to get the lay of the land. The fact that he had done most of the work last night put him in the spotlight. Now there could be no doubt as to Harry’s purpose in San Antonio.

The expressions on everyone’s face but Striker’s mirrored Harry’s thought. He felt like Custer sitting down with the Bull Run Indians. Or, to put it more aptly, given his location, Davy Crockett sitting down to lunch with the Mexican army.

“Anything we can get you?” Striker inquired, taking the lunch metaphor a little further. “Juice? Steak and eggs? A little melon, perhaps?”

“No, thanks,” said Harry.

“Very well,” Striker said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Then let’s get started, shall we?” Striker continued without waiting for any kind of response from anyone. “Inspector Callahan, I’m a businessman. What’s good for business is good for me, and what’s good for me is good for San Antonio. The city’s fathers and I have an understanding. We both like to see the city grow and prosper. We like to see a smoothly running machine. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Striker’s voice was unctious, lecturing, and slightly condescending. Harry wasn’t bothered by it in the least. In fact, he was expecting it. He was comforted by the fact that the businessman was so easy to read. And since the businessman was posturing, Harry figured it would be best to play out his preassigned role as well.

“Yeah, I can understand that,” he said. “And anything that gets in the machine’s way is crushed, huh?”

Striker’s reaction was smooth and full of mock-hurt. “Now why would you say a thing like that?”

Harry shrugged. “I felt it was expected of me.”

That took the businessman aback. He realized then that it wasn’t just another dumb cop he was dealing with. So deciding, he got down to hard cases.

“There are several ways I can deal with you, Inspector Callahan,” he continued in the same light tone. “I could buy you off or I could get rid of you. Which would you suggest?”

Harry had to hand it to him. If nothing else, Striker was damn sure of his position in the world. Harry figured it was about time to shake him off his perch.

“You can’t do either,” Callahan replied drily. “You can’t pay me off if I don’t take the money and you don’t have enough time to frame me. And the only way you can get rid of me is to send the hired help out to put on the muscle. And that’s just what I’m waiting for.”

Sheriff Strughold gave voice to what Striker’s expression seemed to say. “W—w—what?”

Harry continued after glancing sardonically at the stunned Sheriff. “I’ll tell you the truth, Villaveda. I’m completely disinterested in your tragic attempts to Anglosize yourself. I also don’t give a shit about your machine or your fucking city. All I’m doing is answering an invitation.”

Striker’s tan face was infused with purple. His knuckles grew white on the marble tabletop, and his body almost vibrated in rage. His two bodyguards took his near case of apoplexy as a cue for action.

As the one on Striker’s left began to rise, Harry slumped down in his chair, reached under the table with his right leg, hooked his toe under the other bodyguard’s chair, and pulled. The chair tipped backward, sending the second bodyguard headfirst into the river.

Sitting up, Harry then reached between the first bodyguard’s clutching hands, wrapped his own strong hand around the man’s tie, then stood up and swung forward at the same time. The bodyguard, off balance from trying to rise and grab Harry, lost his footing and was thrown across the table and into the river, scattering cutlery as he went.

Immediately after the two splashes subsided, Harry stepped back, both hands innocently raised to his shoulder level. The two deputies were going to leap up anyway until Striker raised one of his own hands. The policemen became still lifes halfway out of their seats.

Striker breathed deeply through his nose and exhaled out his mouth as the deputies slowly regained their seats. Harry realized the businessman wasn’t going to speak by the time both bodyguards had sputtered back onto dry land. The inspector turned to leave as Striker slowly lowered his hand. The five other men watched Callahan go.