Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks (11 page)

Longlegs regarded him with bafflement. “What do you mean?”

“What I said.” Harry was becoming impatient. “I want you to disappear. For a good long time.”

“How long’s a good long time?”

“Oh, five or ten.”

“Weeks?”

“Years.”

“This is my home.”

“Not any more it isn’t.” He leaned across Longlegs and opened the door for him. “See you around,” he said, at the same time slipping the Saturday night special from the black man’s grasp. “Let me dispose of this for you.”

Longlegs gave Harry one more questioning glance, then did as Harry had ordered. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Forget it,” Harry told him. “Forget everything.”

C H A P T E R
N i n e

T
he dress (orange in color, modest in style) that Darlene Farley first chose was not the one she finally settled for. Blue silk was what she ultimately decided on, a clinging bold designer concoction that she thought would be just right for dancing the night through till dawn. The silk had nearly the same texture as a spring breeze and was just about as protective; one brusque movement in any direction would result in the exposure of a breast. From every angle it was the sort of dress that disclosed another interesting view.

The necklace that wound close around her neck and the gold bracelets that jangled a trifle too noisily on her wrists had just been removed from her safe deposit box that morning. She was not so security-conscious as Braxton, but he’d prevailed upon her to secrete her valuables. The problem was that she didn’t really care if her jewelry and furs were lost, stolen, or somehow mutilated. But that was because she’d never paid for any of them.

The occasion for which she dressed so seductively and for which she’d squandered most of the day in preparation, deliberating over creams, lotions, scents, and clothes, was the debut of a new discotheque that was located in the Nob Hill area off California.

There was nothing quite so much that Darlene liked to do as dance, with the notable exception of the entertainment she did in bed. There was all this nervous energy she had and, aside from dancing until exhaustion stopped her, she rarely could think of a better way to work it out of her system.

Usually Braxton indulged her, occasionally even accompanied her to discotheques. But try as he might, he couldn’t comprehend why people gave themselves over to music that he found by turn monotonous and aggravating. He preferred his old hangouts, male enclaves, where he and his cronies could fall back oh the rites and conversational gambits that they’d been developing for years. Not that Braxton didn’t like being seen, parading around with a nubile twenty-eight-year-old blonde on his arm, displaying his virile image to all of San Francisco. But when he did squire her about, it was to such established nightspots as the Starlite Lounge, Henri’s, and The Penthouse. People under the age of forty were an enigma to him and while having Darlene around invigorated him he seemed to resent her youthfulness and did his utmost to keep her away from others who were equally as young. Especially men.

But because he was busy with union affairs he sometimes had to relent and let her loose. Better, he thought, that she should go dancing at some public place than seclude herself in a bedroom—her own or someone else’s—where she could not be as easily monitored.

Accordingly, Braxton had arranged for escorts for her who had his personal approval. These escorts Darlene referred to derisively as eunuchs because, while they were all handsome and urbane, walking models out of
GQ
Magazine, they would sooner shoot themselves than lay a hand on her. Temptation might be awesome, but still they would refrain. They knew, and knew with the absolute certainty that Jehovah’s Witnesses have about God, that they need only make a pass at her and they would suffer retribution. Getting fired would be the least of it. For if they were correctly reading the implication in Braxton’s commands they might end up being turned into eunuchs literally, and not just metaphorically.

So they danced with Darlene and dined with her and joked and were photographed with her for the
Chronicle’
s society page, but when they brought her back to her apartment at the evening’s end they were chaster than a virgin adolescent on his first date.

There were times when all the jewelry, all the furs, all the expense accounts, all the attention and money did not make up for the frustration she felt. She regretted that men could not be miniaturized so that she could smuggle them back home in her pocketbook, then blow them up again to full size.

But there was the dancing to save her. In ten minutes Philip Lem, tonight’s eunuch, was to come and pick her up. But when she saw her door opening she knew that it was not Philip. Couldn’t be. Only she and Braxton had the key.

Matt Braxton stood at the doorway, dressed elegantly in a tux. He smelled strongly of English Leather.

Darlene gave him a perfunctory kiss. She did not like it when Braxton burst in on her like this with no warning. “Don’t tell me,” she said, barely concealing the annoyance in her voice, “you’ve made a change in the schedule.”

“How did you guess?” Braxton had the complacent smile he wore on his lips whenever he exercised power. Over a union or a single woman it didn’t matter, the smile appeared. “We’re going to L.A. The limousine’s waiting outside. Ten-fifteen flight on Air West.”

“What’s in L.A.?”

“What’s in L.A.? I’ll tell you what’s in L.A. Mel Potter is in L.A.”

“I should know who Mel Potter is?”

“You should. You should know a lot of things. Mel Potter is a big-shot producer. He’s on the backlot of 20th Century-Fox. The man’s got a million deals going.”

“That’s the only sort of person you admire, isn’t it? A man who’s got a million deals going.”

Braxton chose to ignore her. He had no intention of arguing with her. He’d allotted exactly ten minutes to the task of persuading Darlene to accompany him and no more. “This man Potter, he’s interested in doing a story about my life. About the rise of the union under my leadership. We never met. So—” Braxton took hold of Darlene’s hands, “so he arranged for me to meet some of his friends at a late night party.”

“Oh good. A late night party in L.A.”

“Malibu. Beautiful view I’m told.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“It just came up. It’s been in the works but you know, baby, we’re both busy men.”

Having said all this, Braxton was certain he’d made his point. He was a bit troubled that Darlene wasn’t showing more pleasure; he’d have thought she’d greet his news with genuine enthusiasm. How many women get to see their man portrayed on the big screen, after all?

“I’m not going,” Darlene declared flatly.

Braxton frowned. “Of course you’re going. Get your wrap.”

“You may have forgotten, but tonight’s the night Icon II is opening.”

“Icon II. What the hell is an Icon II?”

“The discotheque, Icon II. It is opening tonight. Everyone is going to be there. Mike Nichols. Sam Spiegel. Anne Reed. Christine Ford. Francis Coppola. Everyone. At Icon II, not at your Mel Potter’s shack in Malibu. It’s your life he wants to do, not mine, so you go.”

Braxton refused to sympathize; opening night, closing night, it was the same to him. What mattered was the party in Malibu and the chance that he might be immortalized forever, or at least so long as the celluloid containing his story held up. But before he had an opportunity to terminate this argument (his ten minutes were nearly up), the telephone, a touchtone pink Princess, interrupted them.

“It’s for you,” Darlene told him, holding out the receiver for him.

“What did you say?” Braxton shouted into the phone. Darlene knew that it was bad news; Braxton got a look to him whenever it was bad news and that look was certainly there now. “Patel killed? How the hell did that happen? What’s this about some nigger? I don’t understand . . . You’re always giving me these bullshit explanations . . . I don’t want to hear it. You’re to get this cop out of the way . . . Yes, yes, damnit, bring in the Chicago boys, that’s what we’re paying them for, isn’t it? . . . You’re asking me where they are? . . . you’re supposed to know that . . . Let me think . . . All right, I know Bull’s out of town . . . You try to delegate authority and everyone fucks up. Can’t depend on anyone else but yourself.” Braxton removed a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flipped through a few pages before locating what he wanted. “OK, they’re in the Richelieu. On Van Ness. Nick Lesko and Patrick Passaretti. You give them the details . . . No, that’s Passaretti. P as in Paul . . . You give them the details . . . Right, you make sure that this fellow Callahan is floating in the bay by tomorrow night. Enough’s enough.” He slammed down the phone. Bad treatment for a Princess.

Moving past Darlene, he said gruffly, “Let’s go. We’re late already.” In his anger he had forgotten their argument of a few minutes before and so assumed that there was no problem whatsoever. Darlene was sensitive enough to Braxton’s moods to know that further resistance to going to L.A. was not only pointless but unwise. In this state there was no telling what he could do.

Once again he had won.

The party in Malibu turned out to be every bit as dreary as Darlene had anticipated. For one thing, there weren’t very many people; the party was more a small gathering composed largely of studio executives and their wives. Scarcely any glamour aside from one actor Darlene recognized from a soap opera that she watched regularly during the daytime. She asked him what was supposed to happen next on the series, but either he didn’t know or else he was under orders not to divulge any information. This disappointed her. There was no one to talk to and you could spend only so much time admiring the Pacific Ocean from the deck that adjoined the producer’s house.

Darlene tired of the shoptalk, and Braxton was so preoccupied by the discussion about this movie project and so flattered that she despaired of getting any attention from him. Instead she got looped, thoroughly intoxicated on some explosive punch concoction that people kept ladling from a big silver bowl.

All she could keep thinking about was the festivities she was missing at the Icon II. As the evening progressed, her mood darkened more and more, her anger took hold of her, and she became determined to somehow exact revenge on Braxton. It struck her with all the immediacy and surprise of a late afternoon summer thundershower; it was such a provocative and dangerous idea that came to her that she nearly burst into a fit of nervous giggles. At first she could not actually see herself pulling it off but as the hours passed, and as Braxton’s ego became perceptibly inflated, his voice more and more boisterous in recounting anecdotes, the idea seemed to gain in plausibility. Yes, she concluded, it is possible to do this thing.

There was no need to excuse herself. No one would notice her absence. She slipped upstairs, found a bedroom, and without the availability of light managed to locate a phone. “Operator,” she said, keeping her voice low, “could you connect me to the San Francisco Police Department. I would like to speak to an officer named Callahan. No, I don’t know the first name. Just Callahan.”

C H A P T E R
T e n

“W
ho did you say this is?” Harry asked.

“A friend,” the woman replied on the other end. “Just a friend.”

And she hung up.

Harry stared at the buzzing receiver in his hand as if in expectation that further enlightenment might be forthcoming.

Well, he thought, it might be worth checking out her information. The last time a call had come like this he’d nearly been lured into a trap and killed. He would have to remember to be more cautious in this instance.

The Richelieu Motor Hotel, situated on Van Ness at Geary, consists of an older five-story hotel building and a motel grafted onto it. The lobby is characterized by squares of blond wood; glass doors on one side lead to the darkened pool area.

Harry stepped up to the desk and inquired after Patrick Passaretti and Nick Lesko.

To his surprise, the man behind the desk seemed to recognize the names immediately. “Oh yes, sir. You must be Mr. Powell. Mr. Lesko and Mr. Passaretti are waiting for you inside of Zim’s. That’s right through the lobby. You’ll find them seated inside at one of the tables.”

Harry nodded in acknowledgment, wondering what the man’s reaction would be when the real Mr. Powell arrived, an event he assumed would happen imminently.

Zim’s Coffeehouse was open twenty-four hours a day which made it a convenient meeting place for insomniacs and drunks desperately in need of a restorative. It was close to two in the morning; Messrs. Powell, Passaretti, and Lesko kept late hours.

If you didn’t know what to look for, Passaretti and Lesko would not attract any special attention. But Harry did know, and they stuck out like circus freaks—and while their sedentary postures bridged the height difference between them it was still obvious to Harry that a few inches in either direction and they could well be circus freaks—one a giant, the other a sad-faced voluble dwarf.

Harry took a seat practically across from their table. It was reasonable to assume that these were two of the men who had attempted to kill him in his apartment and who very likely were now waiting instructions so that they could rectify their failure on Sunday. Although they would only have to crane their necks to spot Harry, they had no special motive to do so. And Harry knew enough about human nature to realize that even if their eyes fell on him they probably would not make the connection that this, for Chrissakes, was the man they were supposed to hit. Not because they didn’t have a clear idea of what their victim looked like but because they would not expect him here and as a result would overlook him. Harry was better at fading into the woodwork than they when he had to.

Ten minutes passed. And then the man he presumed to be Mr. Powell, a squat cigar-smoking character with a face turned beet-red by too much sun or too much booze or both, wandered in. He located Lesko and Passaretti right away and sat down with them. Harry was too far away to hear what they were saying, but he had a feeling he knew the subject of their conversation. Powell was someone who intrigued him. Powell was undoubtedly a minion of Braxton and as such he could provide the kind of link Harry had been looking for so long and futilely.