Read Online Dirty Harry 08 - Hatchet Men by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dane Hartman
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did a strange thing to Harry. Before he took the sheet off her face, he felt his tensed muscles loosen in fear, his eyes cloud in resignation, and his brain go slightly soggy with regret. As soon as he saw the young Chinese whom he didn’t recognize, however, the adrenaline started throbbing through his veins once again. It wasn’t over yet. Suni was still around somewhere. And hopefully, she was still alive.
Callahan dropped the white cover back down on the face. Requiring no other words, the medicos loaded the two stretchers up in one ambulance, making it look as if the two bodies were best pals staying overnight in bunk beds. As they closed the doors, leaving the pair’s fate in the hands of the coroner, Harry felt an overwhelming desire for a woman.
Another Chinese girl, he decided. One that was a little older and a lot more experienced than the dead girl. A painted, curvaceous Chinese girl, skilled in the art of love-making. That’s what he needed. And he knew just where to get it. He trotted back to his car, his mind set on a new plan of action.
Harry drove through and past the Chinatown that the tourist saw. He left the Americanized sections behind. After the great shake and bake of 1906, much of the Chinatown corruption had been wiped out, but some things always made a lot of money and always would. And no matter how well intentioned the revivalists, the redesigners, and the rebuilders were, vice would always have a comfortable home in San Francisco’s Chinatown.
The pleasures of Grant Avenue were left behind. The dim, dismal back streets of the section had different pleasures to offer. These joys were not lit up by hanging lanterns and were not awash with souvenirs or kindly smiling Buddhas. No neon sign announced the attractions. No eager round-eyed tourists lined the streets, decked out in blue jeans and holding cans of cola.
Harry parked his car at the end of a thin, winding street crammed with tiny shops—one not catering to the tourist trade. Unlike the ornately decorated buildings along Chinatown’s main drags, these stores were hardly more than glass-fronted boxes. And Harry knew that the Chinese characters stating their purposes on their windows—“shoe repair,” “periodicals,” “pharmacy”—were not truly detailing the source of their real income.
The cop found the mouth of an alley halfway down on the right side of the street. It was positioned in such a way that it seemed a permanent optical illusion. You could hardly see it unless you were right on top of it. With a casual look, it seemed to be no more than a regular, thin dead-end alley, ending with a plain, seemingly corroded wooden door on the left side of the far wall.
Harry knew better. He shifted his Magnum from his belt in front to his waistband in the small of his back. Then he moved cautiously down the thin pathway, remaining aware of the black, closed windows above him. He made it to the door without stopping, then knocked three times. When the partition opened a cloud of queasy-smelling smoke came with it. Through the slight crack made by the door opening, Harry could only see an ocean of glowing red light.
He saw nothing human in the crimson sea, but he heard a crackling high-pitched Chinese voice yapping at him. He jammed his foot in the door crack and pushed back with both hands. The door flew inward with very little effort. Its sweep disturbed the billowing clouds of smoke in the scarlet haze. Harry was a tall, glowing silhouette in the open doorway.
Callahan picked out some movement from within the bowels of the smoky room, but most of his attention was focused on the old, bent Chinaman weaving back and forth in front of him. The codger spat a few more sharp words in his native tongue, and then recognized Harry partly for what he was.
“American, eh?” he cackled. “It’s late, American. Go away.”
“I was sent here,” said Harry. “They said I could find some fun.”
The old Chinaman sized Harry up.
Callahan dropped the white cover back down on the face. Requiring no other words, the medicos loaded the two stretchers up in one ambulance, making it look as if the two bodies were best pals staying overnight in bunk beds. As they closed the doors, leaving the pair’s fate in the hands of the coroner, Harry felt an overwhelming desire for a woman.
Another Chinese girl, he decided. One that was a little older and a lot more experienced than the dead girl. A painted, curvaceous Chinese girl, skilled in the art of love-making. That’s what he needed. And he knew just where to get it. He trotted back to his car, his mind set on a new plan of action.
Harry drove through and past the Chinatown that the tourist saw. He left the Americanized sections behind. After the great shake and bake of 1906, much of the Chinatown corruption had been wiped out, but some things always made a lot of money and always would. And no matter how well intentioned the revivalists, the redesigners, and the rebuilders were, vice would always have a comfortable home in San Francisco’s Chinatown.
The pleasures of Grant Avenue were left behind. The dim, dismal back streets of the section had different pleasures to offer. These joys were not lit up by hanging lanterns and were not awash with souvenirs or kindly smiling Buddhas. No neon sign announced the attractions. No eager round-eyed tourists lined the streets, decked out in blue jeans and holding cans of cola.
Harry parked his car at the end of a thin, winding street crammed with tiny shops—one not catering to the tourist trade. Unlike the ornately decorated buildings along Chinatown’s main drags, these stores were hardly more than glass-fronted boxes. And Harry knew that the Chinese characters stating their purposes on their windows—“shoe repair,” “periodicals,” “pharmacy”—were not truly detailing the source of their real income.
The cop found the mouth of an alley halfway down on the right side of the street. It was positioned in such a way that it seemed a permanent optical illusion. You could hardly see it unless you were right on top of it. With a casual look, it seemed to be no more than a regular, thin dead-end alley, ending with a plain, seemingly corroded wooden door on the left side of the far wall.
Harry knew better. He shifted his Magnum from his belt in front to his waistband in the small of his back. Then he moved cautiously down the thin pathway, remaining aware of the black, closed windows above him. He made it to the door without stopping, then knocked three times. When the partition opened a cloud of queasy-smelling smoke came with it. Through the slight crack made by the door opening, Harry could only see an ocean of glowing red light.
He saw nothing human in the crimson sea, but he heard a crackling high-pitched Chinese voice yapping at him. He jammed his foot in the door crack and pushed back with both hands. The door flew inward with very little effort. Its sweep disturbed the billowing clouds of smoke in the scarlet haze. Harry was a tall, glowing silhouette in the open doorway.
Callahan picked out some movement from within the bowels of the smoky room, but most of his attention was focused on the old, bent Chinaman weaving back and forth in front of him. The codger spat a few more sharp words in his native tongue, and then recognized Harry partly for what he was.
“American, eh?” he cackled. “It’s late, American. Go away.”
“I was sent here,” said Harry. “They said I could find some fun.”
The old Chinaman sized Harry up.
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