Read Online Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online
Authors: Dane Hartman
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Unquestionably, the man was an avowed enemy of Harry’s, and it seemed to Gallant he had done some time, and that he had managed, even more cunningly than Page had, to evade the machinery of justice. But all the details of Torio’s case had slipped his mind. He wasn’t thinking straight. The gray clouds in the sky might just as well have been in his head. His vision wasn’t much better. When he gazed out his windshield toward the lights of Oakland, which he’d finally located, more by pure chance than following the directions he’d determined from his maps, all he could see was a dull haze of pink and amber.
When he got to Oakland, he found an all-night diner and stopped for some coffee. There were only a few other patrons at the counter, and only one girl behind it. They all stared at him and then quickly averted their eyes in embarrassment. It was only then Gallant realized what a grotesque sight he must be presenting, with so much blood spattered on him. He didn’t care to imagine how he smelled. He decided not to stay, but bolted up and returned to his car.
The sky was smudged gray, but it was finally getting light, signaling the arrival of the new day. Gallant was standing in the middle of an asphalt lot. Towering above him, on every side, were massive apartment buildings, one resembling the other. There was hardly any sound except for an occasional abrasive honk. He had read or been told somewhere that Lake Merritt was a refuge for wild ducks. He reasoned that was what he was hearing. Once in awhile, he’d look up in the sky and see a bird swoop down.
He could find no one to ask for the location of the building he was searching for, so he wandered from one doorway to the other, trying to match the address to what was scrawled on the bloodstained paper he held in his hand. He saw his hand was shaking. How the hell was he going to shoot Marc Torio, assuming he could find him, with his hand shaking?
Eventually, he came upon the building he was hunting for. The apartment number, 8C, indicated that a N. Raphael lived there. It could be his information was erroneous. Either Torio had moved away or else had never lived here to begin with.
Well, he would have to discover for himself. The door to the inside hallway was locked. There was a buzzer to the left.
Gallant rang one apartment after another, avoiding only the apartment marked N. Raphael. As he expected, someone buzzed him in.
He tried to stop shaking, but couldn’t. By the time he stepped out of the elevator on the eighth floor, his whole body was trembling. He was feverish, and his skin was drenched in sweat.
Standing in front of 8C, he put his ear to the door and listened. He thought he could make out a person’s voice, but it was muffled, and indecipherable.
For almost three minutes, he struggled with the lock to get it open. It was a simple lock, and if he was less anxious, he could have had it open in half the time. At last it snapped, and he pushed against the door.
It wouldn’t yield all the way. A brass chain was pulled taut in the gap between the door and wall.
It was a one-room apartment as far as Gallant could tell. The bed was situated along the opposite wall and there was a man and a woman in it, the sheets tangled about their naked bodies. A lamp in the far corner of the room was on, and Gallant had a fairly good view of the woman, though not of the man. The man might have been asleep, for he was partially obscured in darkness. But the woman was awake. It was possible she’d heard him opening the door because she was propped up on her arms, her eyes riveted on him, a very dazed expression on her face.
Gallant noticed she was not very pretty, but her body was a pleasing enough sight. One large breast was visible above the thicket of sheets.
“Marc, Marc, wake up,” she was saying.
This was all that he needed to know. He assumed it was Marc Torio she was attempting to rouse, and not some other.
Swiftly he raised the .44 above the
When he got to Oakland, he found an all-night diner and stopped for some coffee. There were only a few other patrons at the counter, and only one girl behind it. They all stared at him and then quickly averted their eyes in embarrassment. It was only then Gallant realized what a grotesque sight he must be presenting, with so much blood spattered on him. He didn’t care to imagine how he smelled. He decided not to stay, but bolted up and returned to his car.
The sky was smudged gray, but it was finally getting light, signaling the arrival of the new day. Gallant was standing in the middle of an asphalt lot. Towering above him, on every side, were massive apartment buildings, one resembling the other. There was hardly any sound except for an occasional abrasive honk. He had read or been told somewhere that Lake Merritt was a refuge for wild ducks. He reasoned that was what he was hearing. Once in awhile, he’d look up in the sky and see a bird swoop down.
He could find no one to ask for the location of the building he was searching for, so he wandered from one doorway to the other, trying to match the address to what was scrawled on the bloodstained paper he held in his hand. He saw his hand was shaking. How the hell was he going to shoot Marc Torio, assuming he could find him, with his hand shaking?
Eventually, he came upon the building he was hunting for. The apartment number, 8C, indicated that a N. Raphael lived there. It could be his information was erroneous. Either Torio had moved away or else had never lived here to begin with.
Well, he would have to discover for himself. The door to the inside hallway was locked. There was a buzzer to the left.
Gallant rang one apartment after another, avoiding only the apartment marked N. Raphael. As he expected, someone buzzed him in.
He tried to stop shaking, but couldn’t. By the time he stepped out of the elevator on the eighth floor, his whole body was trembling. He was feverish, and his skin was drenched in sweat.
Standing in front of 8C, he put his ear to the door and listened. He thought he could make out a person’s voice, but it was muffled, and indecipherable.
For almost three minutes, he struggled with the lock to get it open. It was a simple lock, and if he was less anxious, he could have had it open in half the time. At last it snapped, and he pushed against the door.
It wouldn’t yield all the way. A brass chain was pulled taut in the gap between the door and wall.
It was a one-room apartment as far as Gallant could tell. The bed was situated along the opposite wall and there was a man and a woman in it, the sheets tangled about their naked bodies. A lamp in the far corner of the room was on, and Gallant had a fairly good view of the woman, though not of the man. The man might have been asleep, for he was partially obscured in darkness. But the woman was awake. It was possible she’d heard him opening the door because she was propped up on her arms, her eyes riveted on him, a very dazed expression on her face.
Gallant noticed she was not very pretty, but her body was a pleasing enough sight. One large breast was visible above the thicket of sheets.
“Marc, Marc, wake up,” she was saying.
This was all that he needed to know. He assumed it was Marc Torio she was attempting to rouse, and not some other.
Swiftly he raised the .44 above the
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