by Dane Hartman
He was wearing a new gray pair of pants which he had bought his first day in. It went well with his light brown jacket, the one he always wore, the light-green, button-down shirt and the maroon tie. Mrs. Nash was nice enough to take his other clothes to the wash today. She said she had to do the kids’ laundry anyway.
Harry stood on the scenic bridge, looking at the lovely city, tranquil waters, and quaint restaurant, and felt depressed. He felt depressed because both Mrs. Nash and Hannibal Striker looked exactly like he thought they would. Mrs. Nash was pretty. She was small, brunette, and looked like Mary Ann on “Gilligan’s Island.” The word to describe her was perky. Striker, on the other hand, was tan-colored and calculatingly handsome. His face was wide, his cheekbones were high, and he was dressed as only money can dress you. His entire appearance was professionally slick. The word to describe him was oily.
Harry didn’t like the idea of getting caught between those two people. Because when someone like him got caught between people like them, it was always the pretty, perky one who got hurt, no matter what happened. Even if Harry was to pull out his gun right there and then and put a bullet between Striker’s eyes, somehow the pain would reach Carol Nash.
No, Harry didn’t much like the situation he was in. But he liked men who killed honest sheriffs in front of their families, then kidnapped, raped, and murdered girls named Candy even less.
Harry marched across the bridge, down the steps, and toward Striker’s table.
While he walked, he had to admit to himself that he had been surprised to find a message from Striker waiting at the Ramada Inn when he had returned from the police station. If nothing else, the Mexican-American businessman worked fast. The message asked Harry if he would be so kind as to join Striker for an informal breakfast the following day. That’s exactly how he put it; to quote: “would you be so kind . . .” As soon as Harry read that, he knew he was in for an oily time. For some reason, he just didn’t like people to cover over their heritage with gloss. To Harry, it was like an Englishman learning a Bronx accent or a guy like him wearing a tuxedo on duty. It was so obviously false that it soon became an uncomfortable situation where someone had to mention it sooner or later.
Striker’s reaction to Callahan’s appearance fell right into Harry’s estimation of the man. He looked up, made a quick, whispered note of Harry’s approach to the others, then leaned back, smiled, and folded his hands together over his chest. What was he trying to do? Show off his expensive manicure?
“Ah, Inspector Callahan,” Striker said. “How good of you to come.” It figures he’d say it like that, Harry thought as he came to a stop before the one smiling face and the five wary, furtive ones. “Please be seated,” Striker went on, waving to a plain, black chair to his left.
Harry checked the positioning. The empty chair was between Striker and one of his bodyguards. The other bodyguard was sitting to the businessman’s right, next to the water’s edge. The sheriff was sitting between his two deputies—the same guys who frisked Harry at the airport—across the table. Harry pulled back the seat and sat down.
“I hope you don’t mind that we started without you,” Striker said. “I was afraid you might be a bit late, seeing that you had such a busy night.”
The evening had been a big success as far as Nash was concerned and a fiasco as far as Callahan was. He still had great faith in the ex-deputy’s planning, but none at all in the straight cops’ implementation. No matter how honest these guys were, they were still worried about their jobs. One too many successful Nash operations and their superiors on-the-take would get suspicious. That kind of pressure would take the edge off of any law officer. Besides, to most lawmen, Striker’s brand of graft was common and accepted knowledge. The fact that he had Tucker killed only made most of the honest men want to keep that much farther away from him.
“No big deal,” Harry said quietly. Only he knew it was a big deal. Callahan had hoped he could stay in the woodwork a bit longer to get the lay of the land. The fact that he had done most of the work last night put him in the spotlight. Now there could be no doubt as to Harry’s purpose in San Antonio.
The expressions on everyone’s face but Striker’s mirrored Harry’s thought. He felt like Custer sitting down with the Bull Run Indians. Or, to put it more aptly, given his location, Davy Crockett sitting down to lunch with the Mexican army.
“Anything we can get you?” Striker inquired, taking the lunch metaphor a little further. “Juice? Steak and eggs? A little melon, perhaps?”
“No, thanks,” said Harry.
“Very well,” Striker said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Then let’s get started, shall we?” Striker continued without waiting for any kind of response from anyone. “Inspector Callahan, I’m a businessman. What’s good for business is good for me, and what’s good for me is good for San Antonio. The city’s fathers and I have an understanding. We both like to see the city grow and prosper. We like to see a smoothly running machine. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Striker’s voice was unctious, lecturing, and slightly condescending. Harry wasn’t bothered by it in the least. In fact, he was expecting it. He was comforted by the fact that the businessman was so easy to read. And since the businessman was posturing, Harry figured it would be best to play out his preassigned role as well.
“Yeah, I can understand that,” he said. “And anything that gets in the machine’s way is crushed, huh?”
Striker’s reaction was smooth and full of mock-hurt. “Now why would you say a thing like that?”
Harry shrugged. “I felt it was expected of me.”
That took the businessman aback. He realized then that it wasn’t just another dumb cop he was dealing with. So deciding, he got down to hard cases.
“There are several ways I can deal with you, Inspector Callahan,” he continued in the same light tone. “I could buy you off or I could get rid of you. Which would you suggest?”
Harry had to hand it to him. If nothing else, Striker was damn sure of his position in the world. Harry figured it was about time to shake him off his perch.
“You can’t do either,” Callahan replied drily. “You can’t pay me off if I don’t take the money and you don’t have enough time to frame me. And the only way you can get rid of me is to send the hired help out to put on the muscle. And that’s just what I’m waiting for.”
Sheriff Strughold gave voice to what Striker’s expression seemed to say. “W—w—what?”
Harry continued after glancing sardonically at the stunned Sheriff. “I’ll tell you the truth, Villaveda. I’m completely disinterested in your tragic attempts to Anglosize yourself. I also don’t give a shit about your machine or your fucking city. All I’m doing is answering an invitation.”
Striker’s tan face was infused with purple. His knuckles grew white on the marble tabletop, and his body almost vibrated in rage. His two bodyguards took his near case of apoplexy as a cue for action.
As the one on Striker’s left began to rise, Harry slumped down in his chair, reached under the table with his right leg, hooked his toe under the other bodyguard’s chair, and pulled. The chair tipped backward, sending the second bodyguard headfirst into the river.
Sitting up, Harry then reached between the first bodyguard’s clutching hands, wrapped his own strong hand around the man’s tie, then stood up and swung forward at the same time. The bodyguard, off balance from trying to rise and grab Harry, lost his footing and was thrown across the table and into the river, scattering cutlery as he went.
Immediately after the two splashes subsided, Harry stepped back, both hands innocently raised to his shoulder level. The two deputies were going to leap up anyway until Striker raised one of his own hands. The policemen became still lifes halfway out of their seats.
Striker breathed deeply through his nose and exhaled out his mouth as the deputies slowly regained their seats. Harry realized the businessman wasn’t going to speak by the time both bodyguards had sputtered
back onto dry land. The inspector turned to leave as Striker slowly lowered his hand. The five other men watched Callahan go.
“H. A., we should’ve . . . !” Strughold sputtered until Striker raised his hand again. They all kept silent until Harry had crossed the bridge and disappeared into a white building on the other side.
“It’s fine,” Striker soothed, regaining his composure. “It’s all right. We’ve learned a lot today. This entire regrettable incident has given me an idea.”
Striker was a little less civilized when he confronted Sweetboy Williams later that afternoon. “Stupido!” he screamed, slapping himself on the forehead. “I ignored the mess you made of the Tucker hit. I’ve ignored your eccentricities, your minor idiosyncrasies, but this is too much—too much! All those things you said were mistakes were not mistakes, were they? Were they?”
“You hired me because I was the best, right?” Sweetboy answered calmly. “The Tucker thing worked because I meant it to work. The Callahan thing could work as well.”
“As well?” Striker exploded in amazement. “As well? Bodies littering an amusement park? A rape-murder in Los Angeles?”
“It got him here, didn’t it?”
“Who wants him here?” Striker shouted, his face getting purple again. “Not me. It was your aggravated sense of wild West fantasy that hatched this showdown idea. Callahan said he was answering an invitation. It was your invitation. Your invitation has left a trail of blood that has led to me!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Williams complained. “Callahan’s a renegade. There’s nothing official he can do. And once he’s out of the way, things’ll get back to normal.”
“Normal?” Striker asked the ceiling. “Normal? A dead San Francisco inspector? San Francisco investigators crawling all over the place? San Francisco chiefs pressuring San Antonio chiefs? That’s normal?”
“Callahan’s a renegade,” Williams repeated. “A rogue. A maverick. He’s got no friends, and his reputation is dicey. His Frisco superiors will probably be glad he finally bought it.”
“No,” Striker said flatly, sitting behind his large oak desk in his Spanish-style office. “You will not kill Inspector Callahan. You will go nowhere near Inspector Callahan. I shall accept the opinion that your luring him to San Antonio was done with what you felt were my best interests in mind. I grant you that he was Tucker’s friend and the most likely man to seek revenge, but this must not turn into a high-noon shoot-out.
“No,” Striker repeated. “There is another, more effective way of eliminating Inspector Callahan from the scene. I shall ask for your cooperation in this matter. Do I have it?”
“Yes,” Williams said immediately, rising from the thick beige couch in front of the desk.
“Then you will not approach Inspector Callahan in any way, is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Striker leaned back in the tall, brown, padded chair. “I will consider a little time off for you. A vacation. A reward, if you will, for a job well done. All right?”
“Yes,” Williams said for a third time, his expression empty, his eyes looking over Striker’s head.
“Very well. That’s all for now.”
Williams left quickly and quietly. Striker stared after him as the automatic door slid back into place. Then the businessman looked around his inner sanctum. The walls here, like the walls elsewhere in the mansion, were decorated with antique weapons. The ceiling was low and lined with gnarled crossbeams. The rest of the interior was furnished with a Spanish motif. The thick sliding door was detailed with sculpture. The beige walls were hand-stippled. The only window in the room was the large one behind Striker, outfitted with bulletproof, oneway glass so he could see the grounds but the guards and the rest of his staff couldn’t see him.
Striker turned to gaze out that window. He seemed to stare through the beautifully kept flora and the various animals he let roam on the grounds. He thought about Sweetboy Williams. It had been a very touchy thing, he knew, and he felt that the assassin realized it as well. The only thing between Williams and immediate execution was Striker’s attitude. For while the weapons on the wall were ancient, the weapons hidden in the desk were anything but.
It was only Williams’ past accomplishments that saved him. The hitman hadn’t stepped out of line until now. But it was enough. Striker knew he couldn’t trust Sweetboy as he had in the past. The businessman mused over the day’s two meetings. The Callahan question was already on its way toward being answered. And through that, Striker felt sure he could eradicate the people behind Tucker once and for all.
But the Williams question was still open. Striker thought about the assassin’s recent actions and reactions. He knew about the taxi cab reconnaissance at the airport. He had given Williams plenty of time to admit it, but the hitman had remained silent, choosing instead to inform Striker of the out-of-date cop car through another employee. The number had not been enough. He had needed Williams to follow the vehicle and identify the drivers. Instead, the assassin had collected some information about Callahan, and Striker had found the car in question at the police junkyard.
Striker pondered it all. He decided that he would have to terminate Williams’ employment quite soon. But first things first. Harry Callahan would have to be eliminated.
C H A P T E R
S i x
The locale was cheery. It was time for the annual Alamo Stadium Rodeo. The crowd was cheery. Among the roaring masses that were delighting in the assembled cowboys’ antics were Peter Nash and his family. The weather was cheery. The sun shone bright on the Stadium and its sparkling surroundings, Brackenridge Park, the San Antonio River, and the Hemis-Fair Plaza.
The only thing that wasn’t cheery was Harry Callahan. He felt the heavy weight of a cross-hair sight across his face all the time. He didn’t like the crowd, he didn’t like the noise, and he didn’t like the stake-out.
“Don’t worry,” Nash had said. “Everything is tightly planned.”
“As tight as the Four Ponies Bar?” Harry had asked.
“Tighter. Come on, don’t worry, Harry, we’re using only experienced officers this time. The whole thing will go down smooth as silk. You’ll see.”
But Harry had made his living worrying. It kept him on his toes and above ground. “I don’t like Carol and the kids being here.”
“Come on,” Nash said again. “I take them to the Rodeo every year. We’ll be three people amid tens of thousands!”
Even so, Harry didn’t like it. The whole situation had come together too easily. Word had gotten around that another Striker payoff was going down at the Rodeo. That made sense. It was one of the biggest civic events that occurred all year. It would be natural that Striker would skim off some extra cream. But the way the rest of the plan fell into place bothered Callahan.
He was to backstop Officer Henry Lieber, a by-the-book veteran who was set to catch Jack Foster, another Striker employee, in the act of payoff. That, too, was fine. What really worried Harry was that a huge stadium with thousands of screaming fans was a perfect place to payoff an out-of-town inspector. Harry kept about a tenth of his attention on Lieber and Foster, and ninety percent of his instincts were scanning the area for a Sweetboy.
To lower the risk of a back attack, Harry positioned himself against a solid concrete wall near the stables. He was watching the main stadium office from across an open area lined with animal enclosures. In the middle of the oblong space were heaps of straw and a wagon or two. Beyond that was a driveway leading to the stadium grounds flanked by paths into both sides of the stands.
Harry had been busying himself at that end of the open space for about fifteen minutes as off-duty officer Lieber worked his nonchalant way toward the office. The plan was to wait until Foster went inside the office, then they’d both move in to catch him in the act of receiving a kickback.
According to Nash’s information, Foster was late. That didn’t bother Harry a bit. If he had his druthers, Foster woul
dn’t show at all, so Harry could wait until the rodeo ended and everyone went home before leaving himself.
Lieber signaled that he would check up the road a bit to see if Foster was coming. Harry, preoccupied, signaled back in the affirmative. He was so intent on other things that he didn’t notice the look of honest regret that passed over Lieber’s face.
It didn’t take long for Lieber to disappear and a gang of youths to start ambling into the stable space.
Harry’s expression didn’t change, but his blood chilled for a moment, then picked up circulatory speed throughout his body. It was looking more and more like a setup, all right, but not the kind he was expecting.
In came the Mexican who had slashed his pants at the airport. Next came the kid who had stuffed his underwear. He recognized them all. It was the exact same group who accosted his luggage. Finally in sauntered Tattoo. As soon as he appeared, Harry toyed with the notion that Tattoo was Sweetboy. It didn’t seem likely, but the inspector wasn’t about to take chances. He placed his right hand inside his coat and moved forward to meet them.
The gang spread out across the enclosure, taking up what seemed to be preplanned positions near the middle of the stable space. They lined its equator, effectively blocking any route of escape. Harry saw that Tattoo was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and a dark green vest. As the inspector neared, Tattoo nonchalantly opened his vest to expose his torso.
“See?” he asked Harry. “No weapons.”
“No guns,” said the Mexican, unbuttoning his shirt.
“No knives,” said another kid, pulling off his jacket.
“No clubs,” said a third, turning all the way around with his arms out.
“No weapons of any kind,” said a kid in the back, pulling down his pants and giving Callahan a quick moon.
“So it would be murder if you shot any one of us with that big gun of yours,” Tattoo hastened to add.