Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks Read online

  But he hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t considered the implications of what he’d heard or seen. He kept thinking it had to do with something else, something that wasn’t a hit. When enough time had elapsed and nothing had happened, he concluded that he’d been mistaken and forgot about the affair entirely.

  Until yesterday morning when he’d read the papers. The fifty thousand dollar reward money meant shit, Meltzer knew. Anyone who pointed the finger at the man responsible was sure never going to collect it. That wasn’t what was motivating Meltzer. And he wasn’t even certain that if it had been just Bernie he’d have worried. Hell, he’d seen enough men bloodied and not a few of them killed in labor strife. He’d never cared for Bernie and his untimely departure from the world was no cause for losing any sleep. But his wife? His kids? That was what got to Meltzer, that went way beyond a vendetta.

  Meltzer sat on the side of his unmade bed, smoking one cigarette after another, coughing up phlegm. He was thinking of how to go about this; he’d never had any dealings with the police before, never wanted to. He’d prefer to tip them off anonymously, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. He was a witness; his confession was the only evidence that would mean anything. He’d have to present himself in person.

  Even after reaching this decision he didn’t act on it right away. He walked for hours, circling around the station house, continuing the debate with himself long after he realized it was useless. At last he flung a butt into the gutter with a derisive grunt and stepped forthrightly into the San Francisco Police headquarters.

  “I’m here to talk to somebody about the Tuber killing,” he announced to the man at the desk.

  No surprise registered on the man’s face. People were constantly coming in to divulge information to the police, some of it useful, much of it specious.

  “Well, you want to speak to Callahan. He’s the officer on the case. But I don’t think he’s in right now.”

  Meltzer, having deliberated this long over coming here, was not about to leave without telling somebody his story. If he did leave he wasn’t certain he’d get up the nerve again to come back.

  “What I’ve got to say is important. I don’t care who you get to talk to me.”

  “Of course, I understand. I think Officer Patel is available.”

  “That’s fine with me. Just so long as they listen.”

  Officer Sandy Patel listened. He had a certain appealing boyishness to his manner—you could almost call it charm—that made him seem accessible and sympathetic. He was a fair-haired beachboy, tanned under a Malibu sun, who’d come of age. This was a man who never drank, who was working on achieving his back belt by the end of the summer, and who required just five hours of sleep to function well. He had porcelain blue eyes that invited women into his bed long before he got around to saying hello to them.

  “So, Mr. Meltzer, you say you’ve worked for Mr. Braxton for how long?”

  “For as long as he’s been president. Twelve years come this October.”

  Meltzer was feeling rather uncomfortable; there was no ashtray anywhere to be seen and he didn’t want to start flicking ashes on this police officer’s floor. Recognizing his plight, Patel smiled and graciously pulled out an ashtray from a desk drawer.

  “Have you made this allegation—?”

  Meltzer didn’t let him finish.

  “Allegation! Ain’t no allegation. I’m telling you the truth, what I saw with my own eyes.”

  “Please, it’s just a habit. Legalese, you know. Let me rephrase that. Have you told anybody this story? Your wife? A friend? Anybody?”

  “My wife’s been dead for four years. And all my friends work for Braxton. I’d be a damn fool to tell any of them.”

  This somehow seemed to please Officer Patel. “Could you just wait here for a moment? There’s something I have to take care of. I’ll be right back.”

  Five minutes passed before he returned. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Meltzer,” Patel said. “You can go now. We have your phone number and when we need you we’ll be in touch.”

  Meltzer rose from the chair, a perplexed look on his face.

  “Is that all there is? Don’t I see someone else?”

  “Right now we’re finished. Unless there’s something further you wish to add?”

  “No, no, I told you everything I know.”

  “Fine then.” Patel offered his visitor one last winning smile and held open the door for him. “Have yourself a good day.”

  Meltzer walked slowly from the station, still bewildered. Maybe he hadn’t been believed. The officer who’d seen him had hardly reacted. And he’d thought, with the kind of sensational information he had, that there’d be an uproar. But—but it was nothing.

  Five minutes after Meltzer’s departure Harry wandered in, looking somewhat exhausted.

  “You need a vacation, Harry,” one of his colleagues observed.

  “Sure I need a vacation. Everybody on the planet needs a vacation.”

  He seated himself at his desk and began grudgingly to write out his field report. He’d scarcely gotten more than a couple of lines on the page when he was interrupted by Arnold Judson, a cop who’d seen eighteen years on the force which was in his eyes about seventeen too many. It was just that he couldn’t figure out what else he could be doing. “Anything happening on the Tuber case?”

  Harry made the sign of a zero with his fingers.

  “They tell you some guy was in here claiming he had information about it?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, just left a few minutes before you got here. Patel saw him.”

  “Patel?” Harry, always suspicious of somebody who didn’t drink anything stronger than herbal teas, couldn’t stand the man.

  “Well, maybe I’ll have a chat with Sandy Patel.”

  Patel was just on his way out when Harry encountered him.

  “I’m told you spoke to an informant who knew something about the Tuber killing.”

  Patel displayed a page of typewritten notes that he held in his hand. “It’s all down here, Harry. A crank if you ask me. Unreliable. I’m not sure what his angle is.”

  Harry glanced down at the notes. They were cursory and not at all helpful. There was only one mention of Matt Braxton buried way at the bottom of the page.

  “You say here the man used to work for Braxton?”

  “Apparently he was fired. It’s possible he’s out for revenge.”

  He looked up to find that Harry wasn’t listening to him. For that matter, Harry wasn’t even there.

  The man at the desk in the lobby was named Emerson, no relation to Ralph Waldo.

  “You sent somebody to see Patel,” Harry said. “He left here maybe ten minutes ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Describe him.”

  Emerson tried.

  “You didn’t notice which way he turned when he got out of the building?”

  “Left I think it was. He was moving very slowly like he had no particular place to go.”

  Harry got into his car and began cruising the streets in the vicinity in hope of somehow finding Meltzer. He didn’t seriously believe that he would succeed but he felt it necessary to try. That sixth sense of his was operative again, warning him that if he didn’t get to Meltzer now he might never have another opportunity. Meltzer was the sort of individual other people like to turn into a statistic. But on the other hand, he was exactly the sort of individual upon whom Grand Jury indictments often hinge.

  To his surprise, he observed a man who fit Meltzer’s description meandering up Van Ness at a desultory pace. It was true what Emerson said; the man was certainly in no hurry. His hands were in his pocket, a cigarette was in his mouth; he looked vaguely defeated.

  Harry was about a block away from him and now he proceeded to draw closer to the sidewalk and slow down. The last thing he wished to do was to frighten Clay Meltzer.

  Just at that instant a olive-green Ford Galaxy in the lane parallel to Harry’s acc
elerated, speeding ahead of Harry and cutting him off. The sound of the switching gears was deafening, like some jungle beast in its death throes.

  The Galaxy pulled in toward the curb; a man on the passenger side leaned out and yelled, “Hey, Clay! How’re you doing, Clay?”

  Meltzer stopped in his tracks, turned to see who was addressing him.

  Harry knew what was coming and he placed his foot hard down on the acclerator, gunning his car forward directly toward the Galaxy.

  There wasn’t any noise; the man was using a silencer and he was good at his work.

  Just as Harry’s car rammed right into the back of the Galaxy, propelling it several feet up Van Ness, Meltzer slumped over and collapsed on the pavement. Pedestrians in the vicinity had no idea what was happening, unable to connect the noisy collision of the two cars with this man’s keeling over. Nor did there seem to be anything obviously wrong with the man on the sidewalk at first sight. Someone was screaming, “Heart attack! The man’s had a heart attack!” until Meltzer was turned over and more scrupulously examined. Then it was discovered that there were two bloody holes in his chest. Within moments he was immersed in a small but growing pool of blood as it poured out of the exit wounds in his back.

  At the same time the Galaxy shot forward, pulling away from Harry’s car. One glance told Harry that if Meltzer wasn’t dead he was surely close to it. He directed all his attention to the pursuit of the Galaxy. The Galaxy wasn’t getting very far, having a formidable amount of traffic to contend with. But that same problem made it equally difficult for Harry to maneuver. Two other cars and a Van Lines moving truck had gotten between Harry’s vehicle and the one the killers were using. Some sort of tie-up seemed to have developed up ahead at the junction of Market Street. Whatever it was, neither blaring horns nor changing lights were of much help. The best you could do would be to inch forward.

  Harry, cursing the downtown San Francisco traffic situation, decided that he was not about to make any progress if he remained behind the wheel. So he did the logical thing and got out of the car, abandoning it in the middle of Van Ness. A shrieking siren on Fulton Street heralded the impending arrival of an ambulance for the fallen Meltzer, but despite the crescendo of horns the ambulance wasn’t getting anywhere fast either.

  Darting in between the stalled cars, Harry kept low, hoping to avoid detection in the rearview mirror of the Galaxy. The other drivers, fuming at the delay, were too preoccupied to notice the man with the .44 Magnum in his hand as he made his way up to the Galaxy.

  He was barely three feet away from it when abruptly the traffic began to move. The logjam down on Market Street had apparently broken.

  “Shit,” Harry muttered as he watched the Galaxy beginning to pick up speed.

  The driver of the car approaching Harry wasn’t exactly pleased to see him blocking the way. He pounded on his horn, producing enough of a din for one of the hit men in the Galaxy to turn around. Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry fired, first at the Galaxy’s rear window, turning much of its glass to a fine dust and creating a spiderweb of lines through what remained of it. With the explosion of glass it was impossible to see whether he’d succeeded in hitting anyone. Now he fired at the rear tires, puncturing them so that they began immediately to deflate. The incapacitated Galaxy screeched as the driver fought to navigate it out of the line of fire. And in spite of its crippled back wheels the car was still moving forward though on an erratic course. Again Harry fired, mindless of the confusion of traffic that surrounded him, but this time managed only to strike the chrome bumper; the bullet ricocheted with a lot of noisy metallic clanking.

  Whether by intention or because the driver had lost control of his car, the Galaxy swerved abruptly and collided with a pickup truck in the next lane. Fenders crumpled like paper but the Galaxy still kept going. But it had become locked to the pickup truck and was dragging it along, much to the outrage of the truck’s driver who was clinging to the wheel, forlornly trying to extricate his vehicle.

  Harry was tearing after the Galaxy and its unwanted mate, no longer firing because it was senseless to do so until he came within range. And having no time to reload, he did not wish to squander what remained of his ammunition, since it was abundantly clear he would have to save some for the occupants of the wounded Galaxy.

  But as he made his approach, coming up within five yards of his target, which was about to bound over a curb and knock over a hydrant, still dragging along the pickup truck, a shot struck a parking meter directly to Harry’s right. Turning, Harry looked to see where the shot had come from and in doing so just avoided a second one. Both were obviously meant for him.

  He quickly threw himself down on the pavement and crawled behind a parked car. Two additional shots came from out of nowhere; whoever was shooting at him was not all that interested in hurting him; rather his objective was to keep Harry pinned down. And in that he was being very successful.

  All at once there was a resounding crash that might have signaled the apocalypse or at least the dress rehearsal for it. But from his vantage point Harry couldn’t see what precisely had caused it—the Galaxy, the pickup truck, or some other moving or unmoving object that had gotten in their way. The air was filled with the raucous staccato sounds of sirens from every point of the compass. Well, Harry considered, if I don’t get those sons of bitches someone else will.

  No additional shots were coming at him and so Harry rose, testing the altitude. It seemed safe enough. Seeing Harry, others did likewise, crawling out from temporary shelters.

  Around the corner a crowd had gathered to look at the Ford Galaxy’s burial ground which was a drugstore. The car had swept right into the plate glass window and crashed inside, doing as much damage to the interior, with its racks of pharmaceutical supplies, as it did to the druggist and one of the customers, both of whom lay dead under the ruptured tires. Another customer, his head washed over with blood from a deep scalp wound, looked to Harry like he could make instant use of the entire collection of drugs still left intact scattered through the store.

  The pickup truck had come to a rest not far away though still in the street. It was upside down. The driver, shouting in fury, was crawling out of the vehicle, evidently none the worse for his experience.

  But where the hit men had gone, Harry was at a loss to say. One man allowed that he had seen them scamper away while the car was still moving, throwing open the doors and bolting. He said there were three men, another man claimed two. But two or three, they had, with the aid of their unseen ally who’d pinned Harry down, achieved their escape.

  And Harry had a feeling he knew who this ally was—the same man who’d tailed him around the city in the morning and stood watch outside the Quemoy Inn.

  There’d be statements taken from witnesses, of course, and the Galaxy’s license and registration would be checked out. The police might even decide to cordon off the area for a couple of hours while they searched for Meltzer’s killers, but Harry knew, with that sixth sense of his, that none of these stratagems would do any good. When you dealt with professionals like this you worked against the odds.

  Thinking back on the incident, he recalled how Sandy Patel had dismissed Meltzer as a crank, a disaffected out-of-work flunky who was anxious to spread malicious rumors about Braxton. No one usually put a contract out on a poor bastard like that unless someone took him seriously. Very seriously.

  Patel bears watching, Harry thought. Can’t prove shit now maybe, but he bears watching. Problem is who else in the department also bears watching and how far up you have to look.

  C H A P T E R

  F o u r

  The woman in the double bed moved languorously; the sun, ruthlessly exposed as soon as the curtains were drawn, struck her face with such insistence that it succeeded in pulling her up from a sustained sleep. Groaning at the unwelcome onset of consciousness, she threw a sheet up over her head, leaving only an unruly trickle of honey-blonde hair in view.

  “Come on, Darlene,
rise and shine. It’s nearly noon. You don’t want to miss the day.”

  Seeing that Darlene had no intention of complying, Matt Braxton, already shaven and dressed to the nines in a black tux, strode over to the bed and gripping hold of the top of the pink silk sheet, tugged it down, flinging it off the bed entirely so that she could not easily retrieve it.

  What Braxton liked about Darlene was that she looked practically as good in daylight, with the sun full on her, as she did at night. What he didn’t like about her was most everything else: her personality, her flamboyance, her tendency to gossip incessantly. Why he kept coming back to her he couldn’t begin to imagine.

  Well that wasn’t exactly true. That body, lithe but with just enough flesh to hold onto, no Vogue-like emaciation, full breasts, fuller ass, that body was why he kept coming back. And that face, always saying: I want, I want, I want, but always implying: You’re the only one who can give it to me the way I like. That face, too, kept him coming back. It was like a goddamn addiction.

  Worse than the compulsion were the doubts Darlene constantly aroused in him; he was sure she was screwing around on the side, that any number of men in his organization had balled her at one time or another, but the bitch of it was he couldn’t prove a thing. The detectives he hired to spy on her could come up with only the most fragile evidence of any infidelity. He had the feeling that she knew when he suspected her and made certain that her behavior was irreproachable at those times. Braxton’s temper she knew was a thing to be feared.

  But even threats, veiled or explicit, were not enough to assure Braxton of her loyalty. He lavished her with jewelry and clothes—designer wear purchased at exorbitant Beverly Hills boutiques. He gave her a cream-color Cadillac Seville and a chauffeur to drive her around in it. But how could he stop her from admiring young men or at least from thinking of them and the day she would be free of Matt Braxton?

  She was twenty-eight, Braxton was more than thirty years beyond that. Not that he was in bad condition for someone his age; the formidable muscular frame of his body, built up after years of labor on the docks, had suffered only minor erosion. Matt Braxton was a man on the move, no sedentary existence for him. Arthritic aches, neuralgic irritation he ignored. If he went out, he wanted it to be all at once—light, then darkness—no gradual withering away of the body and spirit by illness and senility.