Read Online Dirty Harry 08 - Hatchet Men by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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“You must want it badly,” he concluded. “Its very dangerous to be out on the city streets so late at night. Why you not come back later?”
“The streets are dangerous all the time,” Harry said with a conviction born of experience. “I’m here now.”
“So I see,” the Oriental cackled, then suddenly grew serious and brittle. “No fun here, American. Only work. Expensive work.”
“I’m willing to pay for what I get.” Harry reached into his pocket and extracted a wad of bills. The ample roll was supplied by Harry’s own pocket money—which he never kept in his wallet—and by cash the smuggling ship’s captain was willing to lend him after Harry found out the kidnapping van was found in Chinatown.
“So what kind work you want, American?” the codger mused, drinking in the money with his eyes as if he had X-ray vision. “A tall, straight man like you does not want to poison his body. He would want to use it, eh? Follow me.”
The bent old caricature of a Chinaman led Harry through the first room, through a pair of curtains—one cloth, one beaded—and into a classic opium den, looking to be right out of a bad movie or men’s magazine from the 1940’s. Through another double curtain and Harry was standing before a line of painted Oriental Jezebels. The small, delicate-looking girls were done up as a bigot might have expected them to be.
All their faces were masterpieces of makeup; disguising their ages perfectly. In the dim red light, it was even possible that they were wearing extremely realistic masks; not one of their visages expressed anything but a single, flat emotion. One girl was decked out like the Dragon Lady—cigarette holder and all. Another was wearing the latest lingerie from “Victoria’s Secret,” including the garter belt, ultrahigh heels, and frilly, push-up, peek-a-boo bra. Another was outfitted like an Oriental schoolgirl, with pigtails, white shirt, pleated skirt, white socks and bobby-soxer shoes. Finally there was a full-fledged geisha girl—complete with wooden slat sandals.
“You have a preference?” asked the codger.
“I’ll go traditional tonight,” said Harry, pointing at the geisha. She bowed subserviently toward him. The cop figured she would take longer getting out of her uniform, giving him more time to set up his next move.
“Ah, Ling,” the codger named her. “A wise choice. Now please. Enter the first room on your right. She will be in presently.”
The old Chinaman pointed to an ornate, soot-covered white doorway to the right of Ling, the geisha girl. Harry looked down the length of his arm, then at the door, then back at the man’s face. The codger was hunched over so all Harry saw was the top of his white-haired head. The cop nodded and went toward the door.
“Oh,” said the Chinaman just before he reached it. “American.” Harry turned. The codger was smiling and holding out his hand. Callahan walked slowly back and put the wad of cash in the thin, wrinkled, slightly quivering palm. The codger smiled and Harry went back to the door.
“American?” the codger called again, his voice even higher this time, as if he were saying “aren’t you forgetting something?”
Harry stopped and slowly turned. The Chinaman was smiling even wider and humbly. “Your gun?” the codger said.
The old man was not as innocent as he seemed. Harry had to chalk it up to the corduroy jacket. His own clothes were altered so his piece wouldn’t make a crease in his outerwear no matter where he stuck it. Having little choice, he reached back, pulled the Magnum gingerly out and tossed it onto the seat of an overstuffed chair next to the Dragon Lady.
“All set?” he asked patiently, his hands out.
The Chinaman smiled and nodded. Harry entered the room. It was surprisingly big, considering the utility of all the other rooms. It was surprisingly sumptuous as well. It was decorated in the style of turn-of-the-century San Francisco, up to and including the
“The streets are dangerous all the time,” Harry said with a conviction born of experience. “I’m here now.”
“So I see,” the Oriental cackled, then suddenly grew serious and brittle. “No fun here, American. Only work. Expensive work.”
“I’m willing to pay for what I get.” Harry reached into his pocket and extracted a wad of bills. The ample roll was supplied by Harry’s own pocket money—which he never kept in his wallet—and by cash the smuggling ship’s captain was willing to lend him after Harry found out the kidnapping van was found in Chinatown.
“So what kind work you want, American?” the codger mused, drinking in the money with his eyes as if he had X-ray vision. “A tall, straight man like you does not want to poison his body. He would want to use it, eh? Follow me.”
The bent old caricature of a Chinaman led Harry through the first room, through a pair of curtains—one cloth, one beaded—and into a classic opium den, looking to be right out of a bad movie or men’s magazine from the 1940’s. Through another double curtain and Harry was standing before a line of painted Oriental Jezebels. The small, delicate-looking girls were done up as a bigot might have expected them to be.
All their faces were masterpieces of makeup; disguising their ages perfectly. In the dim red light, it was even possible that they were wearing extremely realistic masks; not one of their visages expressed anything but a single, flat emotion. One girl was decked out like the Dragon Lady—cigarette holder and all. Another was wearing the latest lingerie from “Victoria’s Secret,” including the garter belt, ultrahigh heels, and frilly, push-up, peek-a-boo bra. Another was outfitted like an Oriental schoolgirl, with pigtails, white shirt, pleated skirt, white socks and bobby-soxer shoes. Finally there was a full-fledged geisha girl—complete with wooden slat sandals.
“You have a preference?” asked the codger.
“I’ll go traditional tonight,” said Harry, pointing at the geisha. She bowed subserviently toward him. The cop figured she would take longer getting out of her uniform, giving him more time to set up his next move.
“Ah, Ling,” the codger named her. “A wise choice. Now please. Enter the first room on your right. She will be in presently.”
The old Chinaman pointed to an ornate, soot-covered white doorway to the right of Ling, the geisha girl. Harry looked down the length of his arm, then at the door, then back at the man’s face. The codger was hunched over so all Harry saw was the top of his white-haired head. The cop nodded and went toward the door.
“Oh,” said the Chinaman just before he reached it. “American.” Harry turned. The codger was smiling and holding out his hand. Callahan walked slowly back and put the wad of cash in the thin, wrinkled, slightly quivering palm. The codger smiled and Harry went back to the door.
“American?” the codger called again, his voice even higher this time, as if he were saying “aren’t you forgetting something?”
Harry stopped and slowly turned. The Chinaman was smiling even wider and humbly. “Your gun?” the codger said.
The old man was not as innocent as he seemed. Harry had to chalk it up to the corduroy jacket. His own clothes were altered so his piece wouldn’t make a crease in his outerwear no matter where he stuck it. Having little choice, he reached back, pulled the Magnum gingerly out and tossed it onto the seat of an overstuffed chair next to the Dragon Lady.
“All set?” he asked patiently, his hands out.
The Chinaman smiled and nodded. Harry entered the room. It was surprisingly big, considering the utility of all the other rooms. It was surprisingly sumptuous as well. It was decorated in the style of turn-of-the-century San Francisco, up to and including the
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