by Dane Hartman
Unless they wanted to.
Harry reviewed what he knew about Striker’s operation. While it seemed to be a huge, far-reaching network of corruption, the same faces kept popping up. It wouldn’t surprise Harry if Striker had asked Sweetboy to check out several of Callahan’s possible hiding places. It would be a stupid thing to do, but Harry could see Striker doing it.
And he could see Sweetboy following the orders. Even though it was a waste of the man’s murderous talents, Striker may have thought it a subtle way of displaying his own superiority. The businessman might have thought it a way of keeping Williams in line. His attitude seemed to be that “I can use anybody for anything I want.”
Only that attitude had begun to come back at him with a vengeance. Harry made himself a hundred-to-one bet. Sweetboy had shown up at the Tucker house. He had seen an exhausted, beat-up, unconscious Harry. He had not wanted to challenge him unless he was at the top of his form. But he didn’t want Striker to get his hands on him either. So he reported the house empty.
Harry smiled grimly and slipped on his sunglasses. He couldn’t help telling himself that the coming battle was going to be very interesting.
Sweetboy and Striker were thinking the same thing, but for different reasons. The hitman had been listening to the entire confrontation from his usual place on the office couch. He was looking forward to a fight worthy of him. Striker was still musing behind his desk, his fingers now wrapped together below his jaw.
“The Sunken Gardens at 8 o’clock.” Sweetboy interrupted his thoughts. “I’ll be there. And ready.”
“No, you shall not,” Striker said quietly, his clenched fists lightly tapping his chin. “You shall not even be near Brackenridge Park today.”
Striker let it go at that, but Sweetboy wasn’t about to. For the first time in his tenure of employment, he got angry.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, rising off the couch. “I could understand all that other shit work you had me do, but this is my specialty. This is what I’ve been waiting for! You can’t deny me this kill!”
Striker slowly dropped his hands to below the desktop level. Williams saw his neck and shoulder muscles tense minutely, as if Striker had just gripped something. The assassin decided that the businessman was either set to kill him or prepared to jack off.
“Inspector Callahan must die from a confrontation with duly authorized police officers. That is the only way he can die without arousing undue suspicion.”
“Big deal!” Sweetboy pressed. “You can say my bullet was from a police gun! Christ! He’s a cop and he uses a .44!”
“The meeting is at the park. In public. There may be witnesses.”
“Innocent bystanders! They’ve been accidentally shot before.”
“And you’re just the man to shoot them,” Striker reminded him sardonically. “The only blood that will be spilled will be Callahan’s.”
“Then get me a uniform! Hell, I’ll get a uniform!”
“No. This death must be seamless. Reports must be made out.”
Sweetboy stared at his boss. The businessman was sitting placidly behind his desk, both arms reaching underneath, his eyes half-closed. He was preparing himself for the kill, Williams realized. He’s ready to mow me down on the spot.
With an effort, the hitman forced himself to relax. He shuddered, moved his head and shoulders around like a stiffened athlete, then sighed.
“All right,” he said. “Yeah, I see your point.”
Striker wanted to make sure. “Inspector Callahan will be regrettably killed this evening by the police force. They have their orders. He is a dangerous fugitive to be shot on sight. You, on the other hand, will be packing for a vacation. Have you ever been to Europe?”
“Sure,” Williams answered, a chill moving down his arms. “I offed a guy in Paris once.”
“Good. Then I’ll be sending you to Britain. Or Ireland. Maybe the Alps. You’d like that, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Go home and pack. I’ll send a car round for you at 8:00,” Striker informed him purposely.
Without looking back and keeping up an innocent act, Sweetboy left the office.
Striker maintained just as convincing a façade. But he knew that Sweetboy was getting harder and harder to control. Maybe after the prolonged holiday, he’d get back to his pliable self.
Walking out of the businessman’s mansion and crossing the beautifully maintained grounds to the huge garage, Sweetboy knew differently. He knew that if Striker knew about the Tucker house lie, he’d already be dead. And it was only a matter of time before the businessman found out. Sweetboy’s time on the payroll was short. He’d pack for a long trip, all right, but he wouldn’t be around his apartment when the car came to pick him up.
He had a date at 8:00. In Brackenridge Park.
The park was beautiful. It really was. Not only did it contain the Sunken Gardens and the Sunken Gardens Theater, it incorporated the Witte Museum of Fine Arts, the San Antonio Zoo, and the Old Trail Drivers Museum within its boundaries. It was a big place.
Even the Sunken Gardens alone was a big place. And it was a mastery of floral design. One great thing about floral design, Harry thought, is that it gave one plenty of cover. Besides the stone buildings designed in Oriental motifs, the gardens were packed, with trees, shrubs, and bushes. Along with the flowers, they were illuminated by tall, thin, overhead lights.
Harry had picked the place perfectly. It afforded him a lot of room to breathe and to hide. One could wander around for minutes without being seen. The only real way to get a drop on anybody inside was to ride the overhead cable car, and even that was unreliable. If your quarry was inside one of the stone huts or firmly entrenched in a tree, the rock and leaf roofs would keep him out of sight.
After Harry had taken pains picking the place, he had taken pains planning the rendezvous. He had bought some food and brought it with him, so if Striker’s men interviewed any area vendors they’d come up with nothing. Then he had made a thorough reconnaissance of the entire park. Only then did he slip into a phone booth and call Striker.
Reaching him had been no trouble. Keeping up a legitimate business front necessitated his company’s name being in the phone book. And while one normally had to go through a barrage of secretaries and executives, the name Harry Callahan magically melted all the interference out of the way.
After he had hung up, Harry headed for the hiding places he had picked out. He spent the rest of the afternoon moving from one to another.
Finally dusk began to fall. The park lights went on. The crowds of tourists got sparser. The Sunken Gardens Theater’s play started. The area all but emptied out. Two figures began to walk slowly down a darkened path.
Something about their walk attracted Harry’s attention. The walk seemed practiced, patterned, almost unnatural. The two figures walked in a steady, identical manner. They walked like two seasoned policemen on foot patrol.
The figures came into the light. They weren’t anybody Harry knew. They moved in a seemingly nonchalant manner, looking to and fro with exaggerated interest.
Harry smiled. They were cops, all right. Not only were they walking in unison, but they didn’t know what to do with their hands. Take a uniformed patrolman’s gun belt and nightstick away and you’ll have one awkward dude.
Harry had two. This was the advance guard. Two relative innocents thrown into the shark’s pool to see if he would bite. If these two made it through the Gardens without incident, Striker would probably start sending in the heavier guns.
Harry left the two sheep in plainclothes alone. He needed to get a better idea of how Striker was going to handle the trade-off. So instead of tracking the uncomfortable plainclothesmen, he silently moved toward higher ground.
The Sunken Gardens were built in what was essentially a system of big holes. Harry had worked out a way of scaling the sides of the hole in ever increasing circles—hiding himself amidst flocks of sweet-smelling orchids. From
time to time he felt like one of the Greek explorers getting lost among the lotuses, but the occasional dive-bombing bumblebee always brought him back to reality.
As soon as Harry settled in a bit higher up, some more obvious officers sidled into his sight-lines. These guys were a little more practiced than the first pair, but Harry knew cops when he saw them. As he watched, an even half-dozen fanned out toward all sides.
Striker wasn’t taking chances, Harry reasoned. He had slipped through the businessman’s fingers too many times for any love to be lost. This time Harry figured that Striker would choke the park with police.
Harry thought about surrendering. It wasn’t something he often thought about, but for Carol Nash’s sake, he was considering it. He had given Striker his word that he’d give himself up and, crooked or not, he wasn’t about to start shooting cops to get back at the businessman. As long as Nash was brought to him alive and in one piece, he would go through with the exchange.
More cops stomped into the park. They entered the Gardens and spread out. The more that showed up, the less they seemed to care about looking inconspicuous. Some hardened vets even took up guard-like positions near the stone buildings.
Soon there was a veritable platoon below Harry. The inspector had little doubt that there was a platoon at each of the exits as well. Well, he couldn’t blame them. His reputation and his actions in San Antonio added up to a very nasty collar. No cop wanted to tackle the likes of Callahan alone.
The stage was finally set. All the officers created a spotlight of flesh that concentrated Harry’s attention on a single walkway. Harry shifted his position to get a better view of the pavement. He saw another two shadows at the other end. As he watched, the figures started moving toward the center of the Gardens.
Unlike the first pair, these two were handling themselves erratically. One seemed to be stumbling while the other seemed anxious, always moving ahead a couple of steps. When the illumination of an overhead lamp finally revealed them, Harry could understand why.
The stumbling man was Peter Nash. He had his hands cuffed in front of him and he looked like he had been cuffed by other hands. There were bruises all over his face. The anxious one turned out to be an even bigger surprise. First of all, his face looked worse than Nash’s. He had a bandage completely covering his nose and a huge black and blue mark spread out from that across his face like rays from the sun. Pulling Nash along after him was Sheriff Strughold.
It was a bad sign. Harry had hoped the dupe was laid up in the hospital from his punch. If ol’ Mitch was handling the trade, Harry’s chance of reaching the jailhouse alive was slim. Before he could give himself up, he’d have to think of a way to ensure that he wouldn’t be “regrettably killed while trying to escape.”
If Harry could get into something else besides the sheriff’s car, there was a good chance he could contact Bressler and the San Francisco boys before the roof fell in. Once that was accomplished he’d have to avoid the jailhouse knife-in-the-ribs or slit-throat or despondent-hanging-suicide ploy or any other mishap that’s apt to befall a caged “enemy of the state.”
To add to his problems, with Strughold shepherding Nash, there was no guarantee the ex-deputy would get back either. Harry could be safe in custody before Striker pulled the rug out from under all of them. In that case, Harry would have accomplished nothing.
Instead of making a decision, Harry counted the cops in his immediate vicinity. There were two near the doorway of the stone building. There were four lounging near the middle of the walkway. There were two more near Strughold and Nash. There were three others keeping their eyes on various flower arrangements. Just under a dozen men against one man and a helpless, handcuffed hostage.
Almost of its own volition, the .44 Magnum was out and in his hand. He crouched in the flowers, ready to move off to the right and get behind Strughold and his prisoner. So he was ready when the first explosion came.
A crackling boom suddenly echoed across the Gardens. Harry looked down at his own gun in surprise, then saw a flash in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head up in time to see the second cop behind Strughold crumble to the ground. The first cop had already fallen, his gun barrel still smoking.
Bursting out from the shadows was a big, muscular man with a huge silenced Magnum revolver. For the first time, Harry laid eyes on Sweetboy Williams.
He must’ve been in ‘Nam, was the first thing Harry thought because the hitman was wearing a completely black outfit and his face was smeared with grease. He had blended in with the night perfectly. And nobody could use a Magnum that well and that fast without some sort of concerted practice. The only real place for concerted practice was either in police academies or the military and Sweetboy sure as hell wasn’t no ex-cop! Not the way he mowed down the officers present without a shred of remorse or hesitation.
Harry saw the assassin’s left arm swing at Strughold while his right hand aimed the silenced Magnum. He hit the sheriff and killed the cops at the building entrance at the same time. All three crumbled. Williams in action was astonishing.
The remaining cops’ first thought was not to avenge their fallen comrades; it was not to join them. The others scrambled behind any cover they could find as Sweetboy grabbed Nash around the neck. Harry broke out from his cover as the hitman dragged the ex-deputy back the way he had come.
Callahan raced across the flowers, trampling beautiful buds as he went. He leaped onto the sidewalk just in time to see Sweetboy cut across the theater grounds and for the hiding cops to show themselves again. To them, one big silhouette with a Magnum was just like any other, so they started firing on Harry.
The sidewalk ripped apart with little asphalt gushers as Harry went after Williams. The theater was built on the edge of the river which wound its way through the entire park. There was a bridge connecting an open-air summer theater stage with a bleacher section of seats on the other side. Williams and Nash were dodging in and out of the bleachers as Harry stepped out onto the stage.
The only applause he got was in the form of .44-caliber bullets. Williams may have been good, but no one was good enough to hit Harry with anything from across a river in the middle of the evening. Harry leveled his own weapon and snapped off a shot.
It was a mistake. Not only had he jeopardized Nash’s continual breathing but he set up a booming beacon for the other cops to follow. Harry didn’t want them to catch him midway across the bridge, so he ran to the stage edge and dropped into the water.
That wasn’t a mistake. Not only didn’t the arriving policeman spot him, but he was able to follow Williams by simply floating down the shallow river.
The Paseo was so shallow at that point that Harry was able to crouch beneath the walled-up bank with his torso and weapon out of the H2O. He listened as the cops scanned the opposite bank for any sign of their prey. He heard them admit defeat and plan to spread out and search. Harry grinned. Both he and Sweetboy had gotten away from the cops again, but Sweetboy hadn’t gotten away from him. Not yet he hadn’t. Harry pushed off down the river.
He pulled himself out of the drink in front of a wooded area into which he saw two shadowy figures disappear. The night had taken on a quietly ominous atmosphere. The bright lights of the park only added to the feeling by cutting through the treetops like laser beams. It was a night of blue shadows and pale white bolts. The evening’s warmth started coming off the water in the form of mist. Harry rose from the river like a gun-toting Creature from the Black Lagoon.
He dripped across the woods, remembering the last two times he had done the same. In Los Angeles he had wound up in the middle of a Western movie. This time he was close. He wound up facing the entrance to the Old Trail Drivers Museum. The front door, which should have been locked, was wavering in the night wind. It shuddered open for a moment, then clacked close, only to blow slightly open again.
Harry walked over and went inside without pausing. As soon as he was in he moved quickly to the other side of the entrance. He waited on
his haunches for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. About thirty seconds later, just as it seemed they had, the lights went on.
But only for a second. Long enough for Harry to see Sweetboy seeing him. He saw the hitman’s gun point at him, then the lights went off again.
He heard the cough of Williams’ gun and the tinkle of broken glass even as he was diving toward the open door. As he slapped the unlocked entry open and rolled away he heard a slapping sound on the floor where he had been.
He righted himself as the door banged against the wall and bounced closed again, allowing the dim moonlight into the museum in an ever widening then ever thinning band. That weak illumination was enough to let Harry glimpse Sweetboy moving deeper into the museum. Strangely, Nash was nowhere to be seen.
Remembering the exhibits’ placements from the splitsecond the lights were on, Harry followed Sweetboy’s lead. He moved carefully, his gun held out of harm’s way, one arm out and his feet silently shuffling across the floor. As soon as he had attained the second room, the lights went on again.
Sweetboy was aiming at him from over the driver’s seat of an old-fashioned flatbed wagon. He fired and the bullet splattered into the wall next to Harry’s head. Harry fired back, his bullet biting off a hunk of the wooden handbrake next to Sweetboy’s cranium. The lights went off again.
Harry ran forward, hoping to cut Sweetboy off where he saw him last. When he reached the flatbed in the darkness, he heard footsteps moving in the opposite direction. The lights went on again. Sweetboy was leaning out the back of a covered wagon, gun swinging in Harry’s direction.
Callahan shot first this time, right through the cloth of the wagon. The bullet billowed the material from both sides but streaked over Sweetboy’s right shoulder. His silenced pistol leveled in his left hand, the hitman fired back, ripping off an entire plank from the side of the flatbed.
Harry ran until he was looking through the covered wagon from the front. Sweetboy was jumping out the back. Harry fired again, neatly cutting off a lock of Williams’ hopping hair. Sweetboy landed, bent to his knees and shot under the wagon. His bullet went between Harry’s legs. The lights went off again.