Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill (10 page)

“Are you running away from me?”

“I was in the process of leaving your husband, not running away from you.”

She was now moving down the stairs, bare feet silent against stone steps. “Ex-husband.”

“Not yet,” Harry reminded her.

“A mere technicality.”

She approached him. Light was pouring in through high-arched windows in back of her, igniting her caftan so that it reduced the thin summer material to transparency. There was nothing Harry could discern that she wore underneath.

“Well, so long as we’re not getting on each other’s nerves, I suppose that’s what’s important.”

“Oh, but we are. Didn’t you hear what Harold said? He’s a man determined never to lose.”

“You overheard our conversation?”

“Every word.” Her smile was a dangerous thing. So was the caftan. Harry was relieved when she stepped away from the light. Relieved and disappointed. She sat down on a couch—there were three to choose from in the enormous room—and asked Harry if she could get him something.

“Your husband—ex-husband, excuse me—already provided me with a drink.”

After his flight from his hospital bed he’d neglected to eat anything. The alcohol in his system, having nothing to sponge it up, had gone straight to his head, which had suffered enough lately.

“I see. That’s how we are around here, we vie for the position of host. Needless to say, Harold generally wins.”

“But not always.”

“There are some things Harold, even with all his money, will never have. Nature is occasionally more bountiful than real estate deals.”

Harry gave her a searching look. “I noticed,” he said.

“Are you familiar with a place called Lord Jim’s?”

“On Polk? I’ve passed by it, why?”

“Do you think you could meet me there at five-thirty this evening?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Other plans?” She did not sound surprised by Harry’s refusal.

“Something like that.” Other plans included sleep because right now he could barely keep his eyes open.

He started toward the door. Wendy didn’t move from the couch. She called after him, “Harry, did you like the flowers?”

He stopped. “So you’re the one?”

“I’m the one.”

“Very pretty flowers. Thank you.”

He took another few steps before she brought him to a stop again. “Did the police tell you who called them and told them the
Hyacinth
was going down?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, did they?”

“They didn’t know.” Harry was looking at her real carefully. “Anonymous caller,” he added.

“Not so anonymous now.” She did not let Harry get a word in. “And did they tell you who pulled you out of the bay?”

So, Harry thought, my mysterious admirer turns into my mysterious rescuer too. This was getting very complicated. “What time did you say? Five-thirty?”

She nodded, and at last he was free to leave.

C H A P T E R
E i g h t

L
ord Jim’s, on the corner of Polk and Broadway, was not the sort of place Harry was used to frequenting or felt particularly comfortable in. It was a place where ferns and plants with long-winded Latin names climbed and hung and drooped from every niche and crevice, their growth probably inhibited by the rock music pulsing out from some of those same niches and crevices. Tiffany lamps and what rays of the sun got through the stained-glass windows provided most of the light in the room. There was only space at the bar. The settees and the couches were filled with couples who radiated such good health that Harry had half a mind to rush back to his sickbed. Even Lord Jim himself wouldn’t know what to do in this kind of atmosphere.

Wendy sauntered in. She wasn’t a woman who walked anywhere. Her legs were too long for just plain walking. She had exchanged the provocative caftan for a blue blouse and white skirt that was slit way up the thigh and provided more than just a view. It was something like a spectacle.

She perched gracefully on the stool next to Harry’s, addressed the bartender whom she knew by name, and ordered a gin and tonic. “You look lousy, you know that,” she said to Harry. “Nothing personal.”

“I don’t take anything too personal, Mrs. Keepnews.”

She caught the trace of sarcasm in the unexpected formality, but didn’t remark upon it.

Her attention was directed elsewhere in any case. Her eyes were concentrating on the crowd that was collecting near the bar. Finally she saw who it was she was looking for. She waved. “Over here, Max! Over here!”

The man she called to was a straight-shouldered, handsome man barely past twenty. He had sandy hair and eyes of coral blue and the sullen disposition of a dog left out in the rain for too long. All he wore was a clean white T-shirt and ragged fading jeans that clung to him like it would take a knife to get them off.

“Max, meet Harry. Harry, Max.”

Harry nodded in acknowledgment, growing progressively impatient the longer he sat here. He may have owed Wendy his life, but being forced to sit here among these mingling veterans of the singles scene and listen to taped rock music and meet Max was a painful way of paying off his debt.

Max didn’t seem too pleased to be introduced to Harry. He lowered his eyes and inspected the floor for a while. Then Wendy whispered something to him, and he withdrew into the crowd from which he’d just emerged.

“What did you want me to meet him for?”

“Simple. I’d like you to save his life.”

“He looks like he’s doing well enough on his own. Who do you think I am, Jesus Christ?”

She laughed, finding this very funny. “Christ saves souls. Or he’s supposed to. I’m talking about his flesh and blood. He’s in danger of being killed.”

“That’s his perogative.”

“You don’t understand, Harry.” She took hold of his hand and held onto it for a moment longer than necessary. “It’s Harold who wants to kill him.”

“Oh shit.”

“That’s what I said. You see, Max was my lover.”

“Was?”

“Was. Definitely past tense. Harold thinks that if Max’s out of the way I won’t have any reason for divorce. That’s how he thinks.”

“Revenge.”

“That’s right. Just like the
Hyacinth.
No one takes his boats or his woman and gets away with it. A positively medieval attitude but there it is.” She looked around again, not for Max, for somebody else. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sent somebody here to watch me. But when it comes time for the killing Harold will want to do it.”

“How long were you—uh, involved with Max?”

“A few months, not long. He doesn’t look like someone who’d wear long, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“There were a few others, I have to confess. But it was Max Harold found out about.”

“Tell me, why don’t you move out? Wouldn’t it make life a bit easier for both of you?”

“Emotionally maybe it would. I’ve thought of it. But legally it gets sticky. You see, I want the house. So does Harold. If I leave I might surrender my title to it. The situation is fine with Harold because that means I’m still around. We don’t share the same bed or even the same part of the house, but to the outside world we’re living together and that counts a lot with Harold.”

“You rich people have a shitload of problems, don’t you?”

“You put it so nicely.” The dangerous smile came back to her lips.

“Now you mind telling me how I’m supposed to save your precious Max’s life?”

“Take him with you.”

“And where am I going?”

“Mexico.” She had everything figured out just like her husband. No wonder they couldn’t get along, Harry thought, they were too much alike.

“Mexico?”

“You’re going, aren’t you? Max can come with you. We’ll give him another name. He’ll come on as one of the crew. He won’t be any problem. He’s an experienced sailor. He used to sail on the
Hyacinth
every time Harold went on one of his fishing expeditions. He knows the waters there like the back of his hand. How do you think I met him in the first place?”

“Won’t Harold find out?”

“No, he’s not interested in details. You and Slater—that’s Slater Bodkin, the skipper Harold always hires—he’ll leave you two to do the picking and choosing. I’m on good terms with Slater so there’ll be no problem there either.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to take your lover—”

“Ex-lover.”

“Anyone you know who isn’t ex?”

“Sure. You.”

“Great.” Harry went back to looking at his drink. It was easier on the blood pressure than maintaining eye contact with Wendy. “Between you and me, aren’t there simpler ways of getting Max out of harm’s way? There are other boats owned by other millionaires he could ship out on.”

“It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Of course not, this way you could do a number on your husband.”

“It’s more than that. What happens if Max ships out on another boat? He’ll come back and still be faced with the same situation. My husband doesn’t forgive or forget, honey. But if he proves himself, goes down to Mexico, and shows that he’s equal to the task . . .”

“You mean if he wastes a couple of pushers instead of the other way around?”

“Well, I guess you could put it that way.”

“You people are really fucking nuts, you don’t mind my saying.”

“Oh, I agree with you there. But you got to understand Harold. What eats at him is that I should find somebody like Max attractive. It’s an insult. But if Max turns out to be well, courageous, if he has some balls, he might not be so resentful.”

“I love your kind of logic, Wendy.”

“So you’ll do it for me?”

There was no doubt in her voice. She was convinced Harry would agree.

“Hey, I haven’t even agreed to your husband’s proposal, let alone yours.”

“You owe me one. Considering it was your life I saved I think maybe you owe me more than one. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again. I don’t like calling in debts like this. But . . .”

“But? But what?”

“You know how it is.”

“Save my ass so you can save Max’s.”

“Don’t be mad. I did it because of you, not Max.”

“Shit, lady, I don’t think I want to understand you. Let’s get out of this joint.”

“Absolutely.”

For all his irritation, Harry couldn’t help observing what an impression Wendy was making. As soon as she got up from her stool she drew the attention of half the men in the place. She would have gotten the other half too if they could have seen beyond the ferns and the plants and the people.

As soon as they got out on Polk Street they heard a confusion of loud voices halfway up the block. From the sound of them, Harry was reasonably certain a fight was brewing. Well, it was to be expected with the heat, and he for one had no intention of investigating further to see what the trouble was.

But Wendy tensed suddenly, clutching Harry’s arm. “It’s Max.”

“What’s Max?”

“There with those men up ahead. That’s his voice.”

“So that’s his voice, what of it?”

“Look, they’re attacking him.”

Harry looked and just as Wendy said, they were attacking all right, four men advancing in on him, no telling why.

Though Harry was tempted to let Max’s assailants finish him off and spare Harold the obligation of killing him and himself the obligation of saving him, he knew Wendy was counting on his help.

“I’ll go see what the matter is,” he said, thinking that a man in his shabby condition should not get himself involved.

“Fags! All a bunch of fucking queers!” Max was shouting, apparently undaunted even though he confronted four blades which nicely caught the westering sun.

Whatever the sexual proclivities of the quartet facing down Max, they weren’t taking too kindly to his abuse. Harry had no doubt that it was Max who’d provoked this altercation, thinking he could bust some ass and triumphantly walk away. Just because these four young men might have gone in for ostentatious dress, bright glossy shirts, tight pants, and bracelets, and just because they didn’t look especially strong didn’t mean they couldn’t take Max on and make mincemeat of him.

Max kicked out at one, smacking him in his arm so hard that the man was forced to release the knife grasped in his hand. This was enough to trigger the others. They rushed him all at once. One lunged forward with his blade, scraping a bit of T-shirt and flesh off of Max, causing blood to appear, a red cloud against the background of white fabric. Max evidently didn’t register the pain. He was too busy trying to knock another attacker on his ass. A third man seemed anxious to plunge his knife straight into one of Max’s kidneys.

Harry was watching this without making a move. To be truthful about it, he wouldn’t have minded seeing the knife hit home, but he felt a responsibility to Wendy and intervened, taking the man by surprise. He and one of his buddies turned all their attention on Harry, assuming he was an ally of Max’s. Harry swept his arm forward in a swift, harsh motion. He caught a man in the neck and sent him sprawling.

By sidestepping, he avoided the other assailant completely. When the man came at him again Harry had produced his present. He didn’t expect to have to use it. Usually the prospect of a .44 cartridge in one’s body was sufficient to immobilize even the bravest soul.

“Aw fuck,” one man said, recognizing how dramatically the odds had changed.

Max didn’t seem to notice the introduction of a Magnum into the fray and was busy expending his rage by stomping one of his antagonists into the sidewalk. The man looked bruised and battered, but certainly he appeared in no worse shape than Max himself. Blood was oozing copiously out of tears in his flesh and down his arms and chest. Where there wasn’t any blood there were patches of dirt and sweat. But he was so gone on adrenalin and his own particular brand of craziness that he didn’t seem to notice.

“Max, that’ll be all for today,” Harry said. “School’s over.”

Max didn’t seem to hear or else he decided he’d prefer to ignore Harry’s remark.

“Max!”

Max wasn’t paying any attention, so Harry strode over to him and put his gun to his head. This caused Max to listen more closely. Reluctantly, he did not complete the kick he had begun. His victim rolled gratefully away, clutching his damaged rib cage with his hands.