Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons (15 page)

Striker’s manner immediately changed.

“Look, you bastard, I’ll make a deal—”

“I don’t have to make deals with you,” countered Callahan, switching ears.

“I said I was willing to make a deal!” Striker shouted into the speaker, his hands gripping the desk.

“Who gives a shit,” Harry replied calmly. “You miss the point. I don’t have anything to lose. I’ve already gone too far.”

“I could get the charges dropped,” Striker yelled defensively.

“I’m going to trust you?” Harry asked incredulously. “Forget it, Edd. I’ll make
you
a deal.”

Striker was on his feet, hollering down at the desk speaker as if it were a naughty child. “Who the hell do you think you are? This is my town! What could you possibly offer me?”

“You let Nash go and I won’t kill you.”

Striker’s mouth dropped open. He flopped down into his seat heavily. “I don’t believe this,” he said plaintively.

“You’ve got to come out sometime,” Harry said pleasantly. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re crazy,” said Striker.

“Yes, I am,” Harry agreed.

Callahan waited for the inevitable. Striker would either hang up or start negotiating. Either way, Harry was still in a fight for his life.

“All right,” the Mexican businessman finally said. “All right. I’ll let Nash go.”

“Fine,” said Harry.

“But I won’t let you go!” Striker exploded.

“Fine,” Harry repeated.

The businessman was again taken aback by Harry’s manner. He had to sit in his big brown chair and breath deeply a few times before he was able to continue. Harry didn’t mind. He expected the Mexican to be a hothead. It gave him that secure feeling that he knew with whom he was dealing. That feeling might be the difference between life and death when it came down to the inevitable confrontation.

“That means you will be brought up on charges for your full range of crimes,” Striker said, trying to make Harry a bit more humble.

“Fine,” Harry answered, tiredly closing his eyes. He felt like laughing. Hannibal Striker talking about crime prosecution. It was like David Dukes joining the NAACP. “I’ll take my chances,” he told the businessman.

“We’ll meet at the Tucker house for the switch,” Striker continued, becoming more decisive.

“The Tucker house?” It was Harry’s turn to be taken aback.

“Don’t worry,” Striker told him smugly. “It’s empty.”

“You sure?” Harry asked cautiously. He didn’t want to tip his hand, but he was interested in any details he could get to adorn Striker’s statement.

Thankfully, Striker took the question as another dig at this competence. “Don’t be stupid!” he shouted. “I’ve had it checked.”

Harry nodded to himself. “Forget it,” he said. “We’ll meet at Brackenridge Park. The Oriental Sunken Gardens at 8:00.”

“I said the Tucker house!” Striker exploded, simply trying to force his superiority on the upstart inspector.

“Meet in an empty house? Just me and your army?” Harry asked incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he concluded and hung up.

Striker reacted to Harry’s disconnection with remarkable poise, given his reactions during the conversation. The businessman closed his mouth, leaned back, and laid the flat of his hands on the beautifully polished desk top. There was a look of calculated bemusement on his face. He was thinking.

Harry, too, was thinking. He was thinking about how Tucker’s house could have been reported empty. He was lying flat out on the kitchen floor for hours. No one could have missed that.

Unless they wanted to.

Harry reviewed what he knew about Striker’s operation. While it seemed to be a huge, far-reaching network of corruption, the same faces kept popping up. It wouldn’t surprise Harry if Striker had asked Sweetboy to check out several of Callahan’s possible hiding places. It would be a stupid thing to do, but Harry could see Striker doing it.

And he could see Sweetboy following the orders. Even though it was a waste of the man’s murderous talents, Striker may have thought it a subtle way of displaying his own superiority. The businessman might have thought it a way of keeping Williams in line. His attitude seemed to be that “I can use anybody for anything I want.”

Only that attitude had begun to come back at him with a vengeance. Harry made himself a hundred-to-one bet. Sweetboy had shown up at the Tucker house. He had seen an exhausted, beat-up, unconscious Harry. He had not wanted to challenge him unless he was at the top of his form. But he didn’t want Striker to get his hands on him either. So he reported the house empty.

Harry smiled grimly and slipped on his sunglasses. He couldn’t help telling himself that the coming battle was going to be very interesting.

Sweetboy and Striker were thinking the same thing, but for different reasons. The hitman had been listening to the entire confrontation from his usual place on the office couch. He was looking forward to a fight worthy of him. Striker was still musing behind his desk, his fingers now wrapped together below his jaw.

“The Sunken Gardens at 8 o’clock.” Sweetboy interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll be there. And ready.”

“No, you shall not,” Striker said quietly, his clenched fists lightly tapping his chin. “You shall not even be near Brackenridge Park today.”

Striker let it go at that, but Sweetboy wasn’t about to. For the first time in his tenure of employment, he got angry.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, rising off the couch. “I could understand all that other shit work you had me do, but this is my specialty. This is what I’ve been waiting for! You can’t deny me this kill!”

Striker slowly dropped his hands to below the desktop level. Williams saw his neck and shoulder muscles tense minutely, as if Striker had just gripped something. The assassin decided that the businessman was either set to kill him or prepared to jack off.

“Inspector Callahan must die from a confrontation with duly authorized police officers. That is the only way he can die without arousing undue suspicion.”

“Big deal!” Sweetboy pressed. “You can say my bullet was from a police gun! Christ!
He’s
a cop and
he
uses a .44!”

“The meeting is at the park. In public. There may be witnesses.”

“Innocent bystanders! They’ve been accidentally shot before.”

“And you’re just the man to shoot them,” Striker reminded him sardonically. “The only blood that will be spilled will be Callahan’s.”

“Then get me a uniform! Hell, I’ll get a uniform!”

“No. This death must be seamless. Reports must be made out.”

Sweetboy stared at his boss. The businessman was sitting placidly behind his desk, both arms reaching underneath, his eyes half-closed. He was preparing himself for the kill, Williams realized. He’s ready to mow me down on the spot.

With an effort, the hitman forced himself to relax. He shuddered, moved his head and shoulders around like a stiffened athlete, then sighed.

“All right,” he said. “Yeah, I see your point.”

Striker wanted to make sure. “Inspector Callahan will be regrettably killed this evening by the police force. They have their orders. He is a dangerous fugitive to be shot on sight. You, on the other hand, will be packing for a vacation. Have you ever been to Europe?”

“Sure,” Williams answered, a chill moving down his arms. “I offed a guy in Paris once.”

“Good. Then I’ll be sending you to Britain. Or Ireland. Maybe the Alps. You’d like that, would you?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Go home and pack. I’ll send a car round for you at 8:00,” Striker informed him purposely.

Without looking back and keeping up an innocent act, Sweetboy left the office.

Striker maintained just as convincing a façade. But he knew that Sweetboy was getting harder and harder to control. Maybe after the prolonged holiday, he’d get back to his pliable self.

Walking out of the businessman’s mansion and crossing the beautifully maintained grounds to the huge garage, Sweetboy knew differently. He knew that if Striker knew about the Tucker house lie, he’d already be dead. And it was only a matter of time before the businessman found out. Sweetboy’s time on the payroll was short. He’d pack for a long trip, all right, but he wouldn’t be around his apartment when the car came to pick him up.

He had a date at 8:00. In Brackenridge Park.

The park was beautiful. It really was. Not only did it contain the Sunken Gardens and the Sunken Gardens Theater, it incorporated the Witte Museum of Fine Arts, the San Antonio Zoo, and the Old Trail Drivers Museum within its boundaries. It was a big place.

Even the Sunken Gardens alone was a big place. And it was a mastery of floral design. One great thing about floral design, Harry thought, is that it gave one plenty of cover. Besides the stone buildings designed in Oriental motifs, the gardens were packed, with trees, shrubs, and bushes. Along with the flowers, they were illuminated by tall, thin, overhead lights.

Harry had picked the place perfectly. It afforded him a lot of room to breathe and to hide. One could wander around for minutes without being seen. The only real way to get a drop on anybody inside was to ride the overhead cable car, and even that was unreliable. If your quarry was inside one of the stone huts or firmly entrenched in a tree, the rock and leaf roofs would keep him out of sight.

After Harry had taken pains picking the place, he had taken pains planning the rendezvous. He had bought some food and brought it with him, so if Striker’s men interviewed any area vendors they’d come up with nothing. Then he had made a thorough reconnaissance of the entire park. Only then did he slip into a phone booth and call Striker.

Reaching him had been no trouble. Keeping up a legitimate business front necessitated his company’s name being in the phone book. And while one normally had to go through a barrage of secretaries and executives, the name Harry Callahan magically melted all the interference out of the way.

After he had hung up, Harry headed for the hiding places he had picked out. He spent the rest of the afternoon moving from one to another.

Finally dusk began to fall. The park lights went on. The crowds of tourists got sparser. The Sunken Gardens Theater’s play started. The area all but emptied out. Two figures began to walk slowly down a darkened path.

Something about their walk attracted Harry’s attention. The walk seemed practiced, patterned, almost unnatural. The two figures walked in a steady, identical manner. They walked like two seasoned policemen on foot patrol.

The figures came into the light. They weren’t anybody Harry knew. They moved in a seemingly nonchalant manner, looking to and fro with exaggerated interest.

Harry smiled. They were cops, all right. Not only were they walking in unison, but they didn’t know what to do with their hands. Take a uniformed patrolman’s gun belt and nightstick away and you’ll have one awkward dude.

Harry had two. This was the advance guard. Two relative innocents thrown into the shark’s pool to see if he would bite. If these two made it through the Gardens without incident, Striker would probably start sending in the heavier guns.

Harry left the two sheep in plainclothes alone. He needed to get a better idea of how Striker was going to handle the trade-off. So instead of tracking the uncomfortable plainclothesmen, he silently moved toward higher ground.

The Sunken Gardens were built in what was essentially a system of big holes. Harry had worked out a way of scaling the sides of the hole in ever increasing circles—hiding himself amidst flocks of sweet-smelling orchids. From time to time he felt like one of the Greek explorers getting lost among the lotuses, but the occasional dive-bombing bumblebee always brought him back to reality.

As soon as Harry settled in a bit higher up, some more obvious officers sidled into his sight-lines. These guys were a little more practiced than the first pair, but Harry knew cops when he saw them. As he watched, an even half-dozen fanned out toward all sides.

Striker wasn’t taking chances, Harry reasoned. He had slipped through the businessman’s fingers too many times for any love to be lost. This time Harry figured that Striker would choke the park with police.

Harry thought about surrendering. It wasn’t something he often thought about, but for Carol Nash’s sake, he was considering it. He had given Striker his word that he’d give himself up and, crooked or not, he wasn’t about to start shooting cops to get back at the businessman. As long as Nash was brought to him alive and in one piece, he would go through with the exchange.

More cops stomped into the park. They entered the Gardens and spread out. The more that showed up, the less they seemed to care about looking inconspicuous. Some hardened vets even took up guard-like positions near the stone buildings.

Soon there was a veritable platoon below Harry. The inspector had little doubt that there was a platoon at each of the exits as well. Well, he couldn’t blame them. His reputation and his actions in San Antonio added up to a very nasty collar. No cop wanted to tackle the likes of Callahan alone.

The stage was finally set. All the officers created a spotlight of flesh that concentrated Harry’s attention on a single walkway. Harry shifted his position to get a better view of the pavement. He saw another two shadows at the other end. As he watched, the figures started moving toward the center of the Gardens.

Unlike the first pair, these two were handling themselves erratically. One seemed to be stumbling while the other seemed anxious, always moving ahead a couple of steps. When the illumination of an overhead lamp finally revealed them, Harry could understand why.

The stumbling man was Peter Nash. He had his hands cuffed in front of him and he looked like he had been cuffed by other hands. There were bruises all over his face. The anxious one turned out to be an even bigger surprise. First of all, his face looked worse than Nash’s. He had a bandage completely covering his nose and a huge black and blue mark spread out from that across his face like rays from the sun. Pulling Nash along after him was Sheriff Strughold.

It was a bad sign. Harry had hoped the dupe was laid up in the hospital from his punch. If ol’ Mitch was handling the trade, Harry’s chance of reaching the jailhouse alive was slim. Before he could give himself up, he’d have to think of a way to ensure that he wouldn’t be “regrettably killed while trying to escape.”