Read Online Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online
Authors: Dane Hartman
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dozen blocks or so from the celebrated intersection of Haight and Ashbury, would have been considered a slum. But now, with creeping gentrification, characterized by boutiques and drinking places that favored plants, picture windows, pretentious names, and a tendency to sell great quantities of Perrier and quiche to their clientele, the last thing anyone would call this area was a slum.
“This house for us is like a boat to others,” Owens said. “There’s always more restoration to be done or something to be fixed.”
“That’s where most of my wages go,” Mary Beth added. “Our next objective is to insulate the attic. We can’t afford it until next month.”
“Next month,” Owens scoffed. “You’re a hopeless optimist.” He did not seem to appreciate the contradiction in that last phrase. “My wife has a five-year plan for everything,” he added, gently mocking. “First the attic, then we build more bookcases in the living room . . .”
“Then we have a baby,” Mary Beth put in, smiling mischievously. “In that order.”
Owens laughed. “See if the City of San Francisco gives me a raise. Or if Global gives you one.”
“The only way I’m going to keep working for Global is if I go to L.A. You know what I think of L.A. I wouldn’t want my child conceived there, let alone born and raised there.”
“Well,” Owens said in the manner of a man who has repeated himself many times over, “money is money. And Global does pay well. Maybe there’ll be more work for you in San Francisco. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a job with another production company.”
Mary Beth shrugged, evidently not anxious to continue discussing this subject.
Looking from one to the other, Harry was struck by the utter normalcy of their lives. Whatever financial problems they might be experiencing, whatever schedule they had worked out for bringing a child into the world, they were of little significance when weighed against the air of domestic tranquillity that obtained in this household. For a moment Harry wondered at why such a normal life was a goal that had eluded him. On the other hand, being a good cop, even being a bad one, and maintaining a successful marriage were not always compatible objectives. One had a tendency to cancel out the other. Harry only hoped that Owens and his wife would be able to make it in the future as they seemed to be doing now. Once again, he regretted that Owens had become his partner just because as far as he could see he was not the greatest asset to the institution of marriage—for himself or anyone else.
Before they left the house, Owens announced that he was first going to get into his costume.
“Wait until you see him,” Mary Beth said, delighted that her husband would finally be able to demonstrate to Harry a talent that he had not yet witnessed.
Twenty minutes later Owens appeared, though if Harry had not known in advance it was the same man he would never have been able to identify him.
The man who stood before him no longer resembled a cop or indeed any member of respectable society. Here was a derelict who had undergone the ravages of a life lived entirely on the streets and in men’s shelters. His clothes were naturally ragged, but they were also stained and exuded a powerful odor of alcohol and urine long since dried. The coveralls he wore were loose, precariously held up by a strand of rope, his flannel shirt was alternately patched, and riddled with gaping tears, and generally looked as though it had been worn so continuously that a razor would be required to remove it from Owens’ body. But the pièce de résistance was the face, the way Owens had with makeup and a wig created a creature so pathetic, so lost, and so resigned to scorn and abuse that Harry was practically ready to stuff his grime-coated hands with all the money he had in his pockets.
Owens, Owens the cop at any rate, was maybe thirty-two, thirty-three years old; the man he had transformed himself
“This house for us is like a boat to others,” Owens said. “There’s always more restoration to be done or something to be fixed.”
“That’s where most of my wages go,” Mary Beth added. “Our next objective is to insulate the attic. We can’t afford it until next month.”
“Next month,” Owens scoffed. “You’re a hopeless optimist.” He did not seem to appreciate the contradiction in that last phrase. “My wife has a five-year plan for everything,” he added, gently mocking. “First the attic, then we build more bookcases in the living room . . .”
“Then we have a baby,” Mary Beth put in, smiling mischievously. “In that order.”
Owens laughed. “See if the City of San Francisco gives me a raise. Or if Global gives you one.”
“The only way I’m going to keep working for Global is if I go to L.A. You know what I think of L.A. I wouldn’t want my child conceived there, let alone born and raised there.”
“Well,” Owens said in the manner of a man who has repeated himself many times over, “money is money. And Global does pay well. Maybe there’ll be more work for you in San Francisco. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a job with another production company.”
Mary Beth shrugged, evidently not anxious to continue discussing this subject.
Looking from one to the other, Harry was struck by the utter normalcy of their lives. Whatever financial problems they might be experiencing, whatever schedule they had worked out for bringing a child into the world, they were of little significance when weighed against the air of domestic tranquillity that obtained in this household. For a moment Harry wondered at why such a normal life was a goal that had eluded him. On the other hand, being a good cop, even being a bad one, and maintaining a successful marriage were not always compatible objectives. One had a tendency to cancel out the other. Harry only hoped that Owens and his wife would be able to make it in the future as they seemed to be doing now. Once again, he regretted that Owens had become his partner just because as far as he could see he was not the greatest asset to the institution of marriage—for himself or anyone else.
Before they left the house, Owens announced that he was first going to get into his costume.
“Wait until you see him,” Mary Beth said, delighted that her husband would finally be able to demonstrate to Harry a talent that he had not yet witnessed.
Twenty minutes later Owens appeared, though if Harry had not known in advance it was the same man he would never have been able to identify him.
The man who stood before him no longer resembled a cop or indeed any member of respectable society. Here was a derelict who had undergone the ravages of a life lived entirely on the streets and in men’s shelters. His clothes were naturally ragged, but they were also stained and exuded a powerful odor of alcohol and urine long since dried. The coveralls he wore were loose, precariously held up by a strand of rope, his flannel shirt was alternately patched, and riddled with gaping tears, and generally looked as though it had been worn so continuously that a razor would be required to remove it from Owens’ body. But the pièce de résistance was the face, the way Owens had with makeup and a wig created a creature so pathetic, so lost, and so resigned to scorn and abuse that Harry was practically ready to stuff his grime-coated hands with all the money he had in his pockets.
Owens, Owens the cop at any rate, was maybe thirty-two, thirty-three years old; the man he had transformed himself
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