Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons (8 page)

Shannon held up a finger and smiled, his perfect, white teeth grinding against each other. “Watch,” he said. He lowered his finger onto the intercom button resting on the interrogation room table. “Sergeant, you can collect the suspect now.”

Heald was yelling all the way out into the hall and down to the detention cells. After the stoolie was dragged out, Shannon sat down in the vacated chair.

“Cops come and cops go,” he sighed, “but one thing that never changes is our sadistic sense of humor.”

“Could you pin this on him?” Harry asked.

“In this fucked-up town, anything is possible,” Shannon answered. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s good at what he does.”

Shannon snorted.

“There’s no way a pro is going to hire a renowned stoolie unless he wants something spilled,” Harry continued with disgust. “And there’s no way you can forget a line like ‘John Wayne’s graveyard.’ ”

Shannon clasped his hands on the table and leaned in. “What the hell is going on, Callahan? What the hell have you gotten me into?”

The San Francisco cop’s mind clamped onto the truth like a vise chomping onto a gun barrel. This guy was a pro. But he was a pro with a purpose. He had been leaving dead bodies around like letters of a marquee. He wanted attention for a particular reason. And the reason was enough to make Harry’s mouth fill with the flavor of ash.

“It’s not your problem anymore,” he told Shannon.

“Come on, you heard Heald’s brilliantly executed declaration. John Wayne’s graveyard is right here. Every cop in California will be after this guy.”

“He’s not in California anymore,” Harry said with certainty.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re the Hollywood detective,” Callahan sighed. “You ought to know.” Shannon shrugged. Harry lectured. “John Wayne only died in a few of his films . . .”

“He died in his last one,
The Shootist,
and he died in that war one.” Shannon remembered, trying to make up for whatever Harry thought he should have known.

“And he died in
The Alamo,”
Harry said, aware of how outlandish it was all getting.

“He directed that one,” Shannon related, proud and defensive of his film knowledge. “That and
The Green Berets.”

“Oh. yeah?” said Harry, feigning interest. “Really? Well, the Alamo is in San Antonio . . . the same place Boris Tucker came from.”

Lester Shannon suddenly became subdued. He looked at the interrogation tabletop with his lips pursed. Then he smacked his lips, shook his head, and leaned back expansively.

“Man, it’s crazy,” he said. “What’s he doing it all for?”

“Advertising,” Harry mumbled.

“What?”

“I said he’s advertising.”

“What for?” Shannon wanted to know.

“For me,” Harry said.

C H A P T E R
F o u r

A
lot of Southerners talk about San Antonio, but Harry Callahan thought Davy Crockett put it best. “You kin all go to hell, I’m a-goin’ to Texas.”

The way the modern-day inspector was feeling, those sentiments could be the other way around. Nicely put, his reception back at San Francisco headquarters was not enthusiastic. Trying to explain the hitman’s rationale to Lieutenant Bressler was like explaining calculus to a coal miner.

But Harry remained decisive. In order for the assassin to kill Tucker, he had to follow the sheriff from San Antonio to Fullerton. Once arriving in California, the hitman must have known that Tucker arranged a dinner with Harry the day of his death. And once Tucker and Garris were dead, he must’ve discovered Garris’ date was from San Francisco.

It all added up to one thing; the hitman wanted Harry to come after him. Killing a friend, kidnapping a residential girl, leaving behind a stoolie-related clue, it was all part of his warped way to offend Callahan’s sensibilities. That sort of personalized logic fell on deaf ears. Neither Bressler nor his superiors could be convinced that Harry had a case.

Instead, Bressler was convinced Harry was working too hard that he was having paranoid delusions. He suggested Harry take a little time off. Harry agreed. On his own time and with his own money, the cop reserved a ticket to San Antonio, Texas.

Harry’s reception in the large Texas city was as chilly as it had been in California. No sooner had he stepped off the plane at the San Antonio International Airport than he found four lawmen waiting for him.

Two of the uniformed men carefully took Harry’s bag and suit carrier out of his hands. The third stood by, his hand gently, but noticeably, resting on his holstered gun butt. The fourth, and eldest, officer, dressed in a sheriff’s finery, stood directly in front of Harry with a big smile on his face and both thumbs hooked into a thick, wide, gun belt.

As Harry looked slowly and silently at the two standing men and the two others who were diligently tearing his luggage apart, all the other tourists walked around the scene, their happy entry into the town turning into a hushed hurried exit. The officers of the law hadn’t even waited until Callahan got out of the arrival area.

Finally the suitcase search was over. Harry’s clothes were strewn across the lounge rug. So far not one word had been spoken. The smug sheriff with the hooked thumbs was the first to break the silence.

“Welcome to San Antonio,” he began, his voice a classic Texas twang. “I hope you don’t mind but we have reason to suspect a thorough search of yer person might be in orda.”

Harry answered by narrowing his eyes, letting his lip infinitesimally curl off his teeth, then raised his arms. The two suitcase searchers approached and patted him down just as casually and callously as they had strewn his luggage about.

Soon his pocket money, key chain, and wallet had joined his clothes on the floor. His belt was taken off, his shoes were removed, and even his cufflinks were scrutinized. Finally the pair of officers moved back, looking at their superior with resignation.

The sheriff moved forward until the top of his cowboy hat was level with Harry’s forehead. Pulling out his own long barrel revolver he gently tapped Harry’s crotch as he spoke.

“We was jes kinda wonderin’, you know, whether you thought about bringin’ yer weapon along.”

Harry looked down with a slight look of surprise, but when he replied, his voice was a quiet, threatening snarl. “You and I both know that would be illegal.”

“That it would,” said the sheriff, stopping his tapping. “That it would. Just how long are you fixin’ on staying in our fair city, Inspector Callahan?”

“Just long enough to straighten out a few things,” said Harry, looking pointedly at the three other cops. Back to the sheriff, he added “not too long at all.”

The sheriff’s smile wavered a bit, but held on. “Now that’s good to hear,” he answered pleasantly, motioning to his men to leave. “Y’all take care, hear?” he said to Harry as he backed out of the waiting room.

“You, too,” said Harry quietly. Callahan wasn’t sure if the sheriff heard him and the sheriff wasn’t sure Harry actually said it. Whatever the reason, the Texas lawmen left without further incident.

It was not a good sign, Harry sardonically decided as he surveyed his strewn belongings. Even though his visit was officially described as unofficial, and Lieutenant Bressler certainly wouldn’t call ahead to tell the Texas law of his inspector’s arrival, the newly replaced sheriff of San Antonio proper knew Harry was coming. He knew far enough ahead to be waiting for him. Harry wondered if the sheriff was the only one who knew.

He discovered the answer soon enough. As the supposedly vacationing Californian did his best to collect his clothes without looking ridiculous, a small group of teenagers collected at the door of the arrival lounge. Harry kept collecting until he noticed that the kids all looked pretty smug and all seemed to know each other.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asked, bent at the waist to retrieve a wrinkled shirt.

“Hey, no, man,” said a lanky, angular kid in front wearing a T-shirt, ten-gallon hat, and a tattoo of a bull on his upper arm inscribed with the word “beef.” “Can’t a guy watch?” he continued.

“It’s a free country,” said Harry, picking up the shirt, rolling it into a ball and throwing it at his open suitcase.

“Hey, guys, is this what we call Texas hospitality?” said another kid in the back of the group. He was wearing a short-sleeved military-cut shirt and chinos. “Why don’t we help the dude?”

“Yeah,” said the kid with the tattoo, like it was some kind of brilliant idea. “Want some help, mister?”

“Don’t tire yourself,” Harry answered offhandedly, scooping up his wallet.

“No, it’s OK,” said tattoo, leading the rest of the gang into the waiting room, “we can handle it.”

The group began to spread out to all four corners of the enclosure. Without making it obvious, Harry counted eight guys altogether.

“Yeah,” said a Mexican kid in a rose-colored tank top, “I can get your pants.” Harry leaned over to pick up a pair that rested on a plastic chair. The Mexican sat heavily on them. Harry let go, straightened, and turned toward tattoo.

The lead kid was smiling much in the same way the sheriff had been smiling previously. Another kid standing to the left scooped up a pair of cotton briefs. “Yeah, and I can get your shorts.”

Harry stood rooted to the spot, not taking his eyes off tattoo. Tattoo just kept smiling.

All around them, the gang started collecting Harry’s clothes in earnest. Some threw them around, others ripped them up, the Mexican pulled out a switchblade and cut neat lines in the pant legs, and the kid to the left stuffed the underwear down his own pant front.

Harry continued to stare at the tattooed kid. The longer he stared, the less sure tattoo’s smile became. Finally, the kid felt forced to speak.

“Hey, don’t even think about slugging me, man, because if you do, you’ll spend your vacation in jail.” Tattoo’s declaration was higher pitched than his earlier conversation, and he hit the word “vacation” a little too hard. To make up for his
faux pas
he continued in a forcibly lower voice. “And don’t go looking for a cop. By the time you find one, we’ll be long gone.” Tattoo hit the “you” hard in that sentence.

Harry just stared.

“OK, guys, let’s go,” Tattoo hastily ordered, waving his arm, but keeping one eye on Harry. When Harry didn’t move, even after everybody but Tattoo left, the kid felt inclined to give the cop some unasked-for advice.

“Hey, man, you’re crazy. If I were you, I’d get right back on that plane and go back where you came from.”

Harry didn’t move, but he said, “Thanks.”

The kid’s eyes widened, he shook his head quickly, then disappeared from the waiting room door. Harry waited a few seconds, collected his key chain and cash, and left the rest for the airport custodians.

While walking down the shiny hallways of the airport toward the taxi stand, Harry whistled “Deep in the Heart of Texas” and flipped his key chain over and over in the air. When he wasn’t whistling, he was grinning. Grinning like a wolf who smelled dinner. In spite of his welcoming committee’s lack of warmth, Harry felt good. He now knew he was in the right place.

He walked up to the first redcap, tapped him on the shoulder, pointed back to the arrival room, and started giving instructions. He was halfway through the part about getting the suitcase repaired when he noticed the redcap wasn’t listening. The redcap was not only disinterested, but he was making a point of being disinterested. He was looking at the ceiling and leaning on his cart as if Harry wasn’t there.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” said Harry.

The redcap took that as a cue to walk away, pulling his cart with him. Harry looked to the next redcap in sight. As soon as that one saw Harry looking at him, he suddenly became very busy helping an old lady who looked lost. A third redcap suddenly decided to see what it was like on the other side of the airport. After that, Callahan decided to chuck his luggage along with the clothes and head into town.

He walked outside to the waiting cabs and hopped into the back seat of the first one. If he were lucky, he figured, it would be the hitman himself disguised as the driver, waiting to kill him. No such luck. The driver merely said “on call” without turning around. Harry got out and looked at the taxi sign on the car’s roof. It was turned off. He pivoted around to look at the next car in line. As he turned the taxi’s off-duty sign went on.

Deciding to be a glutton for punishment, Harry checked all six cabs in line. The next to last three were all using variations on the first two cabbies’ excuses. The last cabbie had an original flair. He was out to lunch.

Harry wasn’t worried. He wasn’t even a little bit pissed. But he did readjust his thinking. All along he had figured that it was some sort of political ramification that got Tucker offed. Callahan couldn’t see the late sheriff getting killed by a jealous husband or vengeful crook. For a sheriff to get croaked in as spectacular a fashion as Tucker did means that the man must have tread on some very tender toes. And the tenderest toes Harry knew belonged to politicians.

They may have thick skins and fast minds, but they don’t like being crossed. And Tucker was in a position to do a lot of crossing. So Harry had figured that a powerful politico was behind it all along. Now, however, Harry had to amend his reasoning. Anyone powerful enough to mobilize the police, the street gangs, the redcaps,
and
the cabbies went beyond area politics. Harry admitted to himself that he was dealing with a power beyond that. A power of money. A power of business.

In San Antonio, power, money, and business meant one of two things: fuel or food. Here, you made your fortune from either black gold or Black Angus. Houston or Dallas were really the major oil centers, so Harry figured that he might be dealing with a cattleman. Or a farmer. Either way, it was probably a self-made man who was used to destroying things with his own two hands.

And Harry was fixing to face him without jurisdiction, without his Magnum, and without a change of clothes.

“Hey buddy, need a ride?”

Harry turned toward the voice. It had come from the other side of the first taxi. The San Francisco cop squinted over the cab’s roof to see a San Antonio cop standing half-in and half-out of his patrol car. Callahan took his time pulling out sunglasses and slipping them on. In the reduced glare he noted the car was devoid of markings like “Property of the Sheriff’s Office.” It was a good old regular San Antonio police car.