Dirty Harry 08 - Hatchet Men (11 page)

“It looks like they’re already beginning to,” Harry reminded him.

“And that’s what’s worrying me,” Bressler said, coming around to sit on the edge of his desk. “These guys probably grabbed this Michelle girl for reasons all their own. I can’t begin to figure it out. You lived in the same building, Harry. You got any ideas?”

Harry thought about it. His private life was his own business. He didn’t talk about it to anyone. No one knew he and Suni were occasional lovers. The only reason one of the reporters asked is that reporters always wanted to aggravate their target. It had been a lucky guess.

But Harry now had enough information to safely assume that Suni was taken by the Nihonmachi underworld for some reason having to do with their fight for attention and power. But as far as he could tell, there was little or nothing the police force could do about it. The girl stood a better chance without an army of cops seeking to clean up Japantown, but with one enforcer who couldn’t give a shit about gang wars and just wanted to rescue her.

“No,” he lied to his immediate superior. “No ideas.”

“Well, whatever way it pans out,” Bressler went on, looking over Harry’s shoulder through the office window at the small army of detectives trying to sort out the mass of murders on their rosters, “it’s not our headache.” He looked back at Callahan pointedly. “You read me, Inspector?” he asked. “This is Missing Persons’ baby. And . . .” the lieutenant checked his watch, “in about sixteen hours the FBI will come in. Let them handle it, is that clear?”

Harry scowled. Rather than answering, he threw a curve ball into the conversation. “What about the Chinatown murders? That’s not a Missing Persons case.”

Bressler stood up, fixing Harry with an impatient stare before turning back toward his seat. As he took up his position behind the desk, he pulled a sheet of paper from his top drawer. “Very true, Inspector,” he said formally. “I’ve already set up a homicide task force to look into it. Your name is not on the list.” Bressler threw down the paper and ran his hands through his hair. Callahan, could see it wasn’t easy for him.

“Come on, Harry,” he finally said, all rigidity out of his voice and demeanor. “It’s for your own good. You know how these Oriental street gangs operate. All that shit about maintaining face and seeking revenge for shame. Well, you just shot one right in the back. You take a step into Chinatown and your life won’t be worth a plug yen.”

“Lieutenant,” Harry replied calmly, “the man I shot was Japanese. The Chinese hate the Japanese’s guts. I’ll probably get a ticker-tape parade in Chinatown.” The bravado was all for the lieutenant’s benefit. His killing a Japanese terrorist would probably not balance out the damage he did in the brothel and restaurant.

Bressler leaned back, throwing his hands up. “Chinese, Japanese, is there really that much difference? They’re all crazy for vengeance. I really think you ought to lay low for a while, Harry. How about a week off?”

Callahan brought the talk back to its main subject. “Any positive I.D. on the man I shot?”

“None,” Bressler begrudgingly admitted. “Yet. But you know how close-mouthed the Orientals can get. See nothing, know nothing.”

“In this case, it’s true,” Harry said with conviction. “You’re not going to find anything in San Fran’s Japantown, Lieutenant, because the Japanese here have too much to lose by allowing this kind of thing to go on. The Japanese who kidnapped the girl were out-of-town talent.”

“All right, Inspector, that’s enough,” Bressler said flatly. “You don’t know anything for sure and there’s no way this department is going to let you continue with the investigation. I want you out of town too, Inspector. I thought I could reason with you, get you to agree to take some time off, but you seem to think you’re a goddamn member of
The Untouchables.
You’re taking a vacation, Callahan. Starting now. And that’s an order.”

Harry couldn’t believe how well it worked out. He was planning to lead up to asking for some leave, but the lieutenant had beat him to it. But he kept his face stoic and replied with a simple “Yes, sir.”

Bressler didn’t like it when Harry called him “sir.” It reminded him just how vulnerable he was to the screaming from upstairs in the department. “Look, Harry,” he said apologetically. “With you gone for a while, it’ll give everybody a chance to cool down and see straight. The press will get off the department’s back and the department will get off my back. I promise you. If we don’t make any progress by the time you get back, I’ll reapproach the commissioner about putting you on the case. But for now, enjoy yourself. Go on a little trip, ok?”

Harry allowed himself a little smile. “Ok,” he replied, turning to go.

“Callahan,” Bressler called after him as he reached the lieutenant’s door. Harry turned. “You, uh, have any idea where you might be going?”

Harry understood what lay behind the question. If Bressler knew where he was, he would know where to find him in case of emergency. And if he knew where he was, he could guarantee his superiors that Callahan would stay out of their hair. At least for a couple of days.

“I hear there’s a lot of good Irishmen in Chicago,” Harry told the lieutenant. “And a lot of beautiful women. I think I’ll check out the Windy City.”

Bressler smiled with relief. Harry smiled back. What he didn’t mention was the city’s Oriental population, nor the one particular beautiful woman he was looking for.

The plane took three hours to get from San Francisco Airport to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. In that time, Harry tried to ignore the little plastic pouches of nuts, the little plastic-covered sandwiches, the little plastic glasses of booze and the little plastic smiles of the flight attendants. Instead, he tried to assimilate as much as he could about the Windy City. In three hours, he found the place had some things in common with his home town—most primarily a devastating natural disaster. In Chicago’s case, it was the Great Fire of 1871, after which the city was rebuilt brick by brick.

In the twenties, the city’s rebirth was interrupted by Prohibition and the gang violence that was brought to a head by Al Capone. Four years after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, Chicago celebrated its centennial with its second world’s fair. Before the modern economic crunch set in, Mayor Richard Daley set about leveling the slums and giving rise to a spanking new Chicago.

He didn’t completely succeed, and now the new city government had to contend with ridiculous transit problems and vicious racial tensions. In the three hours of flight time, Harry got a general idea of the city’s layout and history while some of Chicago’s finest got prepared for his arrival. As Callahan had learned in the past, news of his movements traveled fast.

After the plane had touched down and he had walked the long tunnel to the disembarker’s lounge, he found two big airport officials waiting for him. It was no coincidence. Both men had the look of practiced assurance people got in occupations that incorporated possible violence. Their hands were crossed in front of their crotches, their eyes were half-closed and small, smug smiles hung just below their noses.

“Inspector Callahan?” one asked as Harry moved toward them. “Inspector Harry Callahan?” The San Francisco cop nodded and slowed. As he did so, the two wide airport men, wearing official O’Hare jackets, positioned themselves on either side of him. Although neither Chicagoan was as tall as Harry, together they looked like half the front line of the Bears’ football team.

“Please come with us,” said the other man reasonably. Harry saw no other choice, so without a word, the trio broke off from the rest of the passengers, who were finding relatives and friends or going in search of buses, rent-a-cars or taxis, and marched down the clean, bright hallways into the airport’s bowels.

Somebody must’ve been pretty busy with the phone while he was packing and flying, Harry figured. Somebody was either anxious to keep very close tabs on him or very worried about what he might do. Harry’s two companions chaperoned him to a tiny room by the custom’s agents—the little gray, soundproofed cells where folks were known to do strip searches and find all manner of illegal goods.

Inside, the room was one long table and no chairs. The two brawny men motioned Harry in first. He moved to the other side of the table. They stood just inside the one door that they closed behind them.

“Where’s the rubber hoses, boys?” Harry asked amiably. He mentally dubbed the pair Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.

The two men’s expressions remained the same. “No rubber hoses,” said Tweedle-dee just as affably. “Would you mind opening your bag for us, Inspector?”

Harry stared at the men for a moment, then swung his one carry-on case onto the table, unclipped and unzipped it open. He laid it out and stepped back. The two men moved forward and gingerly displaced the shirts, socks, tie, and underwear until they revealed a handgun-cleaning kit.

“Toiletries?” Tweedle-dee innocently inquired. The two men retreated to their previous positions.

“Would you mind taking off your jacket, Inspector?” asked Tweedle-dum.

This was the moment of truth, Harry realized. He would be within his rights not to comply, but he didn’t see what good it would do him. The city’s officials would only keep after him until they pegged him. Might as well get it over with at the outset, he figured.

Harry didn’t take off his coat. He merely pulled one side back to reveal his .44 in its shoulder holster. Now the pair of men let their smiles grow. One tsked. The other clucked.

“Now that isn’t exactly kosher, is it, Inspector?” said Tweedle-dum the clucker. “I’m sure you have a right and proper license to carry the weapon, but I don’t see how you could have arranged to get the proper permits completed for Chicago possession, given that you just left San Francisco this afternoon.”

“You got me, boys,” Harry emotionlessly admitted. “So what’ll it be? Confiscation, a night at headquarters, or some friendly graft?”

“None of the above,” said the short, dark-haired man in the tailored suit who suddenly entered the room from behind the pair. Harry could only see his shoulders from behind the two brawny officials. When those men moved aside, the third man’s back was toward Harry since he was closing the door after him. Finally he turned to face the San Francisco cop. Harry saw the smooth, handsome face of a slim, muscular man in his mid-thirties. A man with straight dark hair, slanted eyes, and slightly yellowish skin. An Oriental man. A Japanese man.

“Sergeant Terry Inagaki,” the smaller man said, standing about five feet eleven inches in his loafers. He held his hand across the table, over the open suitcase, toward Harry. Callahan took it, feeling a hard, practiced grip. He saw the man’s wrist was thick and muscular. He either used a heavy, powerful gun himself or was seriously training with weights.

“Sorry about the inconvenience, Inspector,” Inagaki went on in soothing, apologetic tones, “but we had to know where you stand.”

“I’m just visiting,” Harry countered. “No good cop goes anywhere without his piece.”

Inagaki smiled a patient, but disbelieving smile. “I’ve read your file, Inspector,” he went diplomatically on. “You never let go of an investigation once you get your teeth in it. It is not mere coincidence that you are in Chicago just sixteen hours after the kidnapping of a Japanese girl from your apartment house.”

“So what’s the bottom line?” Harry asked.

“I think . . .” Inagaki began, then changed his approach. “The department feels that you should choose some other location for your vacation. We are prepared to fly you, at no extra cost, to the city of your choice anywhere within the continental United States”

“Why?” Callahan cunningly asked.

Inagaki answered flatly. “Because we do not want you to be the first innocent victim of the coming Oriental street-gang explosion.”

The room was suddenly filled with indirect menace. The looks on the two airport officials’ faces told Harry that what Inagaki had said was valid. Even these guys had seen the signs of upcoming trouble. “Do I have a choice?” Callahan slowly inquired.

Inagaki slowly became blandly inscrutable. “You always have a choice, Inspector. This is a free country. It is a democracy which would never consider incarcerating its own citizens out of fear and ignorance.” Harry picked up the sardonic irony of the policeman’s statement. His own relatives had probably been put in the American internment camps for the Japanese during World War II.

“Then I think I’ll stay awhile,” Callahan decided. “You want my gun?”

Inagaki stood his placid ground for a second before waving a casual hand at Harry’s shoulder holster. “Keep it,” he said lightly. “And come with me. If you’re going to get back from your vacation alive, we have a lot of groundwork to cover.”

Driving from the airport to downtown Chicago was a little like traveling from Kansas to the land of Oz. After staring off into vast stretches of flat, dull farmland, the glittering glass spires of the Windy City—lit up in the Illinois dusk—appeared in the distance like the Emerald City itself. The first hint of its mortality came on the highway when Inagaki’s unmarked car stopped in a sea of other vehicles—all crawling home in the errantly named “rush” hour.

“The lines have been drawn,” Inagaki was telling Harry as the car creeped along. “Out of the morass of early fighting, two Japanese gangs have risen to power, each with their main concentration in Chicago. Whoever emerges victorious in the coming war will be able to reap profits from women, numbers, drugs, and gambling in New York, Los Angeles, and your own San Francisco.”

“How organized is it?” Harry asked.

“As tight as the Chinese groups,” Inagaki answered. “The leaders are
yakuza
and ex-yakuza from Japan, who give orders to Japanese businessmen in America who control the young gang members who serve as soldiers.”

“What are the two factions?” Harry inquired.

“The more violent, desperate, and disorganized of the two are the ‘Seppuku Swords,’ which roughly translates into the Suicide Swords. They’re losing ground to the
Kozure Ronin,
which means ‘Renegade Wolves,’ so they’ll do anything to weaken them.”