Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death

MAD DOG
VIGILANTE COP!

That’s what the papers are calling Dirty Harry. Some dude who’s no friend of Harry’s has lifted his prize Magnum and is blasting some of his worst enemies out of this world.

Harry wants to get his name clean, his gun back, and put an end to the “dead man” who’s playing Harry’s hand in a game of life and death.

Harry threw himself down, firing two shots, both of which caught the man at the bottom of the stairs in his gut. His face bore a look of unmistakable surprise and sudden shock. Somehow, even as he was thrown back against the further wall, he managed to maintain hold of the M10 which he discharged at a furious rate.

But his aim was way off, which was understandable as his main concern at the moment was getting the business of dying done, and rather than hitting Harry, he cut his friend down, savaging him with a hail of bullets that blew out his vitals, strewing them all over the stairway.

The blood and viscera made the going slippery, but Harry proceeded with caution. There was still a third man out there . . .

Books by Dane Hartman

Dirty Harry #1: Duel For Cannons
Dirty Harry #2: Death on the Docks
Dirty Harry #3: The Long Death
Dirty Harry #4: The Mexico Kill
Dirty Harry #5: Family Skeletons
Dirty Harry #6: City of Blood
Dirty Harry #7: Massacre at Russian River
Dirty Harry #8: Hatchet Men
Dirty Harry #9: The Killing Connection
Dirty Harry #10: The Blood of Strangers
Dirty Harry #11: Death in the Air
Dirty Harry #12: The Dealer of Death

Published by
WARNER BOOKS

WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright © 1983 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.

Warner Books, Inc., 75 Rockefeller Plaza, New York, N.Y. 10019

A Warner Communications Company

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 0-446-30054-3
First Printing: April, 1983

DIRTY HARRY  #12
THE  DEALER
OF
DEATH

Opening Round

“H
ey, friend, can I give you a lift?”

The vagrant raised his sorrowful eyes toward the man in the Camaro, but because he could not believe these words were addressed to him, he did not stop.

The man in the Camaro trailed him though, and again he called out to him in a voice that was certainly genial enough. “Well, if I can’t give you a lift maybe I could treat you to a drink?”

This time the vagrant did pause. He was a man in his mid-forties. The hardness of his life and the long days and nights of unending intoxication had taken their toll on him, and he appeared older than his years. His body still retained its strength, however, almost in defiance of the abuse he had inflicted on it for so long.

“A drink you say?” He was naturally suspicious. Living on the streets had taught him caution.

“That’s right.” He displayed a full bottle of bourbon for the vagrant to see.

It looked mighty inviting, but having been the victim of so much bad luck in his time, he failed to comprehend that his luck should suddenly have changed.

“Why me?”

“Why you?” The man laughed. “Because I like you.” He laughed again as if to some private little joke. “No, the real reason is that I’ve just had a very good day and I feel like sharing it with somebody.” Anticipating the question that was sure to follow, he went on, “And in any case, you remind me of someone I know, someone who’s very close to me. Let’s just say, it’s my way of showing my appreciation.”

“Philanthropist, are you?” the vagrant said, warily approaching the car.

The owner of the car was surprised by the use of the word. Maybe the man was educated? In the tatters he wore, with the alcohol on his breath, there was no way of telling.

“Something like that.”

What he did not say, was that the man the vagrant reminded him of was himself. That was about as close a relationship as one can get.

At first, they just sat in the car sharing the liter of Jack Daniels, passing it back and forth. It was all the man behind the wheel could do to keep from recoiling at the stench of his guest. But he smiled, he joked. He did his best to reassure the vagrant he had nothing to be afraid of.

The vagrant at first drank greedily from the bottle, but little by little, he began to relax. “This is too good to be true,” he muttered. “Let me introduce myself.” And he did. But his host was barely listening, though he maintained a fixed smile on his face. “And what be your name?”

He should lie, but he thought: Hell, it won’t make any difference in a little while. And besides, it was something of a risk, letting the man know his name, and it was his nature always to take the risk. It had gotten him in a great deal of trouble, to be sure, but it made him feel alive. Nothing was more important, he believed, than to feel one was alive.

“James Gallant,” he replied slowly. “James William Gallant.”

The vagrant didn’t recognize the name and took the hand in his and gave it a vigorous shake. “Pleased to meet you. And what is it you are celebrating?”

Deciding that he had nothing to lose by divulging the truth, Gallant said that morning he had left prison after doing time for six and a half years.

Being on the fringe of society himself, with his share of nights spent behind bars for creating a public nuisance, the vagrant was not dismayed by this information. On the contrary, he congratulated him, but he was interested to learn what James William Gallant’s crime had been.

“Murder.”

“Ah, murder.” This put a whole new perspective on things. “Who did you kill?”

“A cop.”

“A cop.” The vagrant shook his head in bewilderment. “And they let you go after only six and a half years? I thought they put cop-killers away for life. No offense intended.” He was drinking from the bottle with more enthusiasm now.

“And none taken, friend,” said James William Gallant. “Well, let’s just say I let myself out.”

“Oh.” The vagrant wasn’t quite sure how to react to this. He was pretty far gone with all that he’d been consuming throughout the day, and it was with some astonishment that he now realized how dark it was, but he wasn’t so smashed that he was immune from the fear that was gradually mounting inside of him. It wasn’t much initially, the fear, just a small round ball at the pit of his stomach, but it was beginning to expand, and he resolved to get out of the car as soon as he could, no matter how much bourbon was left in the damn bottle.

The thing of it was, this Gallant fellow looked so reasonable, and rather handsome, almost the way he would look, if he got himself cleaned up. “You must be pretty clever to escape like that,” he noted.

“Oh, I am, I am very clever,” said Mr. Gallant.

“And to go and get yourself a nice new car too. People never in jail a day in their lives, they never would be able to get a car nice as this one.”

“That’s right, friend, that’s how it is.”

There was still a goodly portion of bourbon left in the bottle; they’d been drinking it and drinking it, and yet they didn’t seem to be getting close to the bottom.

Finally, the vagrant said he had to be going.

“So soon?”

The block, this close to the Embarcadero, was nearly empty, and the evening darkness was compounded by a mid-spring fog rolling in from the Pacific. Even if there was somebody closeby one wouldn’t have been able to see him.

“It’s getting late . . .”

“Late? You run a tight schedule, is that it?”

There was laughter in his voice, but the laughter was no longer buoyant, a little savage. The vagrant placed a chapped hand on the door. He did not know whether he could stand, let alone run if running proved necessary. But certainly the fog would shroud him. How easy it would be to get lost in the fog. By morning, he knew he would scarcely remember this incident.

“Very tight schedule,” mumbled the vagrant.

“Ok, then, if you have to go you have to go. You can take the bottle with you. It’s all right with me.”

The vagrant nodded and smiled ludicrously and struggled with the door until he managed to get it open. The man who called himself James William Gallant had turned into a blur. He had two heads, not just one. He had two hands on the wheel, and two raised in the air. In these two raised hands were two instruments that very much resembled knitting needles. They were, in any case, silver and long. Very long.

The vagrant leaned to the left, intending to leap out of the car, but his vision was so out of focus, he failed to lean in the appropriate direction. Not that it would have mattered had he been able to see with absolute clarity, for the alcohol had made his movements clumsy and slow. The only beneficial aspect of the alcohol was that it took the edge off the pain as the needle penetrated the back of his neck. There was a sharp sting, a flash of light, a rush of blood to the throat, then a warm darkness.

The wound, fatal as it was, was not very large, nor was there much blood. This was why James Gallant had chosen the instrument he had. He maneuvered the vagrant’s body back onto the seat and shut the door. The fog, he noted, was still dense. The weather could not have been more cooperative.