Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death (15 page)

After the chauffeur had ordered a drink and settled himself in, Gallant selected a stool close to his. The chauffeur didn’t notice, being too mesmerized by the sight of the naked flesh just a few feet away from him. It would have been within touching distance actually if he decided to stand up. To Gallant, the girls seemed ordinary. Only one held any attraction for him, and even then he found her too fleshy. He wondered idly what Sheila would look like naked.

He returned his attention to his mark. At a break in the music, he addressed the chauffeur. “Say, could you tell me something?”

The chauffeur turned, regarding him with puzzlement. “Are you talking to me?”

“That’s right. I was wondering . . . uh . . . whether these girls fuck, you know, the customers.”

The chauffeur shrugged. “Sure, if you pay them. A twenty will get you twenty minutes, that’s how it works. They take you upstairs as soon as they get offstage. But it’s never longer, see, because twenty minutes later, they’ve got to be back on again. These aren’t the best though. I know, I’ve tried. There’s one coming on later, name’s Lisa, she’s something, you wait.”

“No problem, I’m not going anywhere.” Gallant reached over, extending his hand. “The name’s Dave,” he said.

“Dave, pleased to meet you. My name’s Roy. I drive people around for a living, rich people. What do you do?”

“Me? I don’t do shit. I’m presently unemployed, you might say, but I got a job off the books so there’s no cash flow problem. Speaking of which, may I offer you a drink?”

The drinks were overpriced and whatever Roy’s salary might be, he was clearly pleased to have someone offer to buy him a second round.

Gallant moved to the stool next to Roy’s and began to engage him in conversation, allowing him to do most of the talking. From what he gathered, Roy lived a lonely life. His job was shit, his employers were shit, he said, and his ambition was to save up enough money so that he could buy a cab and go off on his own, and not to have to answer to anyone ever again.

“What kind of rich people are these?”

Roy freely told him. He mentioned his employer had a daughter who’d recently moved in.

“She a looker?”

“Oh, she’s something all right,” said Roy appreciatively. “And you can tell she’s hot to trot, but she’s so goddamn stuck up there’s no getting close to her. She just sees a uniform, she never sees me.”

Feigning sympathy, Gallant nodded and insisted on buying Roy another drink. Roy protested Gallant was spending too much money on him, but the protest was a half-hearted one. After the fourth round, Roy felt obligated to buy Gallant a drink. Gallant accepted, only because he didn’t want the chauffeur’s suspicions aroused. The man might think Gallant was coming on to him, and bolt. And as Roy was a big man with a great capacity to hold his liquor, and as the drinks were clearly watered, Gallant resigned himself to a very long night.

Predictably, Roy broke off conversation once Lisa came on stage. Roy was right about her. She possessed a statuesque body and a classically proportioned face framed by a flow of blond hair. She came on in a sleeveless blouse and shorts cut way up her thighs, and these two articles of clothing she quickly discarded. A barely visible slip of black cloth covered her crotch and after awhile she dispensed with this too.

Roy was dazzled. “After this I’m going to have to excuse myself,” he mumbled. “Me and Lisa are old friends.”

Roy sipped leisurely at his drink, watching Lisa dance. He took no notice of Gallant.

Gallant was extracting from the inside of his jacket an icepick, a small one to be sure, but sharp and lethal enough.

In the reflection of the garish pink light, Roy’s profile was clearly visible. The hollow of his cheekbone, the irregular tapering of his nose, suggested he’d once had it broken.

Roy was spellbound by Lisa’s writhing and the convulsive movements she made to mimick orgasm. Gallant raised the ice pick so if Roy had glanced sideways, there was no way he could miss it. But his eyes were fastened completely on the stage. Gallant, with one deft motion, guided the ice pick into Roy’s brain, piercing it to a depth of five inches.

Roy’s eyes gaped open for a moment, then clouded over as his consciousness died. Gallant withdrew the ice pick and quickly returned it to his jacket pocket. Roy’s head dropped to the surface of the bar.

There was little blood, just a speck of it at the corner of his eye. Gallant liked this method of killing—it left so little mess.

The barmaid, as voluptuous a specimen as was being offered for view on stage, though only slightly more clothed, came over to him. She gazed down at Roy and frowned.

“I think he’s had a little too much to drink,” Gallant said apologetically.

“You wouldn’t want to get him out of here, would you?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t take responsibility for him. He’s just a guy I met in here. But give him a few minutes, maybe he’ll come to.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You get Lisa here, you’ll see.”

The barmaid was dubious, but didn’t press the matter. Gallant made sure to leave her a big tip.

It was remarkable how much his mind had absorbed during his stay at Turner’s underground condominium. For instance, he had only to glance at the cabinet positioned by the fireplace to know that it was probably designed by Pierre Manguin in the time of Napoleon III. The painting above the fireplace was a portrait of a dour-looking woman by Mary Cassatt; the small abstract figure of bronze resting on the table was by Boccioni; the chair he occupied was designed by Gio Ponti; and the one his host lounged upon was an elegant Mies Van Der Rohe.

Silk looked the part of a multimillionaire. He was approaching his sixties, but he projected an aura of radiant good health and vitality that many men decades younger might envy. His hair was solidly gray, his face had a rugged, somewhat unfinished appearance to it, and Gallant guessed that he had come late to money. But even poverty-stricken, Jay Silk would be a natural aristocrat. Gallant could see where Sheila came by her looks—and her arrogance.

“You come highly recommended by Mr. Turner,” Jay Silk was saying, glancing down at a sheaf of papers he held in his hand. Perhaps, Gallant thought, it was his fraudulent resume, but he wasn’t sure just what else Turner had provided the man.

“I owe Mr. Turner a great deal.” Gallant was adept at sounding respectful and self-deprecating if need be. Jail had provided him with considerable practice at it, after all.

“You know, while I am not an ardent supporter of Mr. Turner’s organization, I do send him a small donation from time to time. I am in accord with many of his opinions. It’s just that I am not always convinced The Saving Remnant is the best means of effecting the necessary changes in this society. It seems to me we must get out there and fight rather than hunker down in a fallout shelter. Are you with me?”

Fight for what? Gallant wondered. But, of course, he nodded to signal his assent to what Jay Silk was saying.

“Now, to the matter at hand,” Silk went on. “I want you to realize the job of chauffeur is one that requires more than just driving members of my household to and fro. Although I am retired, I am still identified with the so-called establishment, and as such, face risks of all kinds.”

“You’re saying I am also to be a bodyguard?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” He lowered his eyes to the papers again. “Apparently, you have had the training that would make you ideal for such a role.”

“You can rely on it, sir.”

“Good. Then it’s agreed. You can start tomorrow. Come here at eight. The pay, by the way, is two hundred and fifty dollars a week, but take into account that you will be provided with food and lodging.”

Silk expected Gallant to balk at the wage, but Gallant surprised him by saying that the salary was fine with him.

“Excellent. I am so happy to have you on board, Mr. . . .” Here he again had to consult Turner’s documentation. “Mr. David Holstrom.”

The two men shook hands. Just before Silk bid him farewell, he had a cautionary note to impart. “Mr. Holstrom, while I make it a point not to pry into the personal lives of my employees, there are certain things I must insist upon. Your predecessor, Mr. Roy Streeter, had, shall we say, certain proclivities. He tended to fall in with unwholesome elements in establishments that are notorious for lewd exhibitions.”

“I see,” Gallant said. “And what happened to Mr. Streeter, if I may ask?”

“He came to a bad end, I’m afraid. He was murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes, a very gruesome business, and you’ll forgive me if I don’t go into detail. What I want from you is your word as a gentleman that you will not engage in acts that might possibly bring dishonor on my name or on my household. It is for your personal integrity as well that I must insist on this.”

“Of course, sir. You have my word,” said Gallant with as much conviction as he could muster, “as a gentleman.”

As Gallant was leaving, escorted by a manservant who seemed nearly as old as the Manguin cabinet, he caught a glimpse of Sheila walking with her daughter along one of the garden paths. She stopped and stared at him. He stared right back.

Their eyes met briefly, then Sheila resumed her walk, Louise racing ahead of her.

“That is Mrs. Richmond, Mr. Silk’s daughter,” declared the manservant.

“Oh, and is there a Mr. Richmond?”

“No, sir, he died several years ago under very tragic circumstances.”

“Well, I am truly sorry to hear about that,” Gallant remarked. “It is surprising she hasn’t remarried. She is a very striking woman.”

“She is at that, sir.”

The rest of the walk, to the gate, where Gallant had left his black TransAm, was made in silence.

Now that Gallant had secured his employment, and was exactly where he wanted to be, one further piece of old business remained to be completed. He got into his car, assuring the manservant that he’d show up promptly at eight the following morning, and sped away.

Sometime after noon, he arrived at the headquarters of The Saving Remnant.

As he was well-known to the men who patrolled the compound, he was admitted without hesitation. At the main house, he was told that Turner was in the shelter, examining some recent acquisitions to his burgeoning collection of antiques and paintings.

No one else was quite as obsessed with antiques as Turner was, and while he had an assistant with him, cataloguing the pieces, Gallant could see that the assistant was bored and anxious to get back to the shooting range. The coming war against the Communists was what concerned him, not the current war against inflation that Turner was conducting by robbing millionaires of their valuable assets up and down the coast.

The latest haul clearly had Turner excited. “Look at this one, Jimmy! You know what it is?”

“French, I’d say.”

“Right on the mark. An Empire cheval-glass.” Turner was addressing not Gallant, but Gallant’s reflection in the glass.

“Interesting,” mumbled Gallant who didn’t find it interesting at all.

“And this over here is a Delaherche vase which I think is absolutely superb. And see this, Jimmy . . . this is simply magnificent.”

He grabbed hold of a painting and lifted it up for Gallant’s inspection. “What do you think?”

“I’m impressed. It’s a Matisse, isn’t it?”

The colors were bold in the decorative element peculiar to the French master.

“The value of this is incalculable, simply incalculable.”

“Of course, you’d never be able to sell it,” Gallant noted. “I’m sure the owner has notified the police and every gallery and museum in the country has a description of it.”

“That’s hardly the point.” Turner didn’t like to have his enthusiasm dampened. “When the economy is in ruins, do you think that such legalities will make any difference to investors? You’re forgetting your lessons.”

“So I am, sorry.”

Turner continued to describe the latest additions, but Gallant was no longer listening. He was keeping his eye on the assistant, a young man scarcely out of his teens who’d joined The Saving Remnant in hope of adventure. This was not quite what he’d had in mind. Finally, Turner sensed his impatience and told him he could go.

His relief was no greater than Gallants. It was bad enough having to deal with one man, let alone two.

Turner was still rambling on. His words echoed unintelligibly in Gallant’s brain. It seemed he was asking Gallant a question.

“Well, Jimmy, how did it go? Tell me, how did your interview go?”

At last, Gallant understood him. “Fine, fine.”

“You look a bit peaked, are you sure everything’s all right?”

“Absolutely no problem at all.”

Turner didn’t look convinced, but he returned to his improvised lecture with all the enthusiasm of a museum curator.

Gallant was walking a few paces behind him. Slowly, he inserted his hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers about the handle of the ice pick there. Slowly he removed it, then slipped it in back of him, out of Turner’s view.

Gallant had become so preoccupied by the problem of extracting the ice pick, he neglected to see they were directly in front of the Empire cheval-glass that Turner had first pointed out to him.

Turner’s eye caught on the reflection he and Gallant cast on it. It took him a few moments before he realized what the object was Gallant was holding in back of him.

“What the hell?” He whipped about to face Gallant.

Gallant understood his error. He struck out with the ice pick, fast enough to give his benefactor a glancing cut on his stomach. Blood instantly stained the lower half of his lemon-colored shirt.

“You’re crazy! You’re a fucking madman!” Turner said, lurching backwards. He bumped into a precariously balanced Empire clock and sent it toppling to the floor where it shattered beyond repair. The disturbance did not bring anyone running as Gallant had suspected it would.

Turner struggled to loosen his sidearm from his belt. It was stuck for some reason and though Turner managed to free it, he had exhausted precious moments in doing so.

Gallant advanced on him in a series of long strides. He drove the ice pick into Turner’s right arm, once, twice, then a third time, causing him to surrender his grip on the gun. Turner screamed, but still no one appeared to discover what the matter was. Maybe they were all out on the practice range.