Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks (5 page)

Well that wasn’t exactly true. That body, lithe but with just enough flesh to hold onto, no
Vogue
-like emaciation, full breasts, fuller ass, that body was why he kept coming back. And that face, always saying: I want, I want, I want, but always implying: You’re the only one who can give it to me the way I like. That face, too, kept him coming back. It was like a goddamn addiction.

Worse than the compulsion were the doubts Darlene constantly aroused in him; he was sure she was screwing around on the side, that any number of men in his organization had balled her at one time or another, but the bitch of it was he couldn’t prove a thing. The detectives he hired to spy on her could come up with only the most fragile evidence of any infidelity. He had the feeling that she knew when he suspected her and made certain that her behavior was irreproachable at those times. Braxton’s temper she knew was a thing to be feared.

But even threats, veiled or explicit, were not enough to assure Braxton of her loyalty. He lavished her with jewelry and clothes—designer wear purchased at exorbitant Beverly Hills boutiques. He gave her a cream-color Cadillac Seville and a chauffeur to drive her around in it. But how could he stop her from admiring young men or at least from thinking of them and the day she would be free of Matt Braxton?

She was twenty-eight, Braxton was more than thirty years beyond that. Not that he was in bad condition for someone his age; the formidable muscular frame of his body, built up after years of labor on the docks, had suffered only minor erosion. Matt Braxton was a man on the move, no sedentary existence for him. Arthritic aches, neuralgic irritation he ignored. If he went out, he wanted it to be all at once—light, then darkness—no gradual withering away of the body and spirit by illness and senility.

But he did not contemplate departing this earth any time soon. On the contrary, he was convinced that he was going to be around for many years to come. And so long as he was around, he wanted Darlene to be around for him—when it was convenient.

“Darlene, get up, I’m telling you for the last time.”

Darlene, still refusing to open her eyes, protested. “Why should I have to get up? You’re the one who has to go somewhere. I don’t.”

“I don’t have to explain to you.”

He threw her bathrobe at her. It landed across her belly.

“Come here, Matt, love, come here.”

He stepped closer to the bed. Eyes popping open, she sat up, snaring Braxton with her arms. She attempted to pull him down on the bed with her.

“I don’t have time for this. Don’t mess my jacket, would you?”

Extricating himself from her embrace, he strode from the room, slamming the door definitively behind him. Not that he was angry or even annoyed. He just liked to slam doors.

Grumbling still, Darlene addressed her absent lover.

“All right, my lord and master, you son of a bitch, I’m getting up.”

Although no formal announcement had been made, the members of the press who turned out to cover the luncheon in honor of retiring Senator Camden Halloway were not expecting either Matt Braxton or John Bull Ryan to show up. After all, only three days had passed since the Tuber slayings and people generally assumed that the Brotherhood leaders would stay away out of deference to the deceased.

This did not turn out to be the case. Bull arrived first, accompanied by a retinue of advisers and bodyguards, distinguishable by the dark glasses that kept their eyes from view.

Bull had earlier leaked rumors to the press asserting that he, too, might be a target of some dark conspiracy directed at the union itself.

But it was not Bull who elicited the most attention but Braxton, whose creased weather-beaten face seemed to reflect concern and solemnity in keeping with his public condemnation of the dissident union activist’s death. No sooner had he stepped into the lobby of the Fairmont than photographers and TV cameramen clustered around him, showering him with brilliant light. Try as he might, Braxton could not resist smiling for all of them. It was too much of a habit for him to give up all at once. However, when he was asked for a statement he refused to give out one. “We are here today to honor our great senator, Camden Halloway. I don’t want to spoil this occasion by discussing the sad events of recent days. Thank you, gentlemen.” There were women present among the press corps, but Braxton did not acknowledge them, might not even have noticed them.

Like Bull, Braxton was accompanied by a small army of cohorts; telltale bulges in their jackets afforded ample evidence that they were all armed.

The luncheon was a huge success; the roast beef was tasty and had not turned lukewarm during its long journey from the kitchen, the drinks were strong and plentiful, the conversation affable and sporadically informative, the mood festive, more so because of the brevity of the speeches.

Braxton uncharacteristically rejected all efforts to get him to speak, averring that it was John Bull Ryan who was president of the Brotherhood and who should therefore be the one to deliver the necessary laudatory remarks. An aide to Braxton whispered in his ear that Bull was not yet president since the union elections had been postponed. This reminder drew an uproarious laugh from Braxton. “Oh?” he asked the aide, “do you know anyone who’s going to oppose him?”

So Bull gave the encomium, reading from the speech prepared for him and given him only a few minutes ago. Not having bothered to read the speech before, his delivery was halting. No one minded. After all, no one was really listening.

In conclusion, Bull warmly praised the senator, who beamed proudly from the dias, and expressed his union’s gratitude for all the political favors Camden Halloway had done for it while in Washington. At the same time he hoped that Halloway’s successor, Senator Lex Lewis, would keep in mind the union’s needs in the future. From the benign expression on Lex Lewis’ face, you sensed that the Brotherhood was already on his mind; he didn’t need to get to Capitol Hill to start becoming aware of its power.

Close to three in the afternoon the sated diners emerged from the banquet hall, drifting out through the lobby. The press had already gone home. There were no flashbulbs popping in the faces of the dignitaries and the honored guests. As a result, the security was not quite so rigorous; the men surrounding Matt Braxton didn’t quite box him in the way they had when he’d entered the lobby at noon. In any case, Braxton wouldn’t let them; there were friends to chat with and he didn’t like having bodyguards looming over his shoulders. Braxton did not think he feared death.

As he was engaging in conversation with Frank Telso, Halloway’s press secretary, he suddenly realized that another party, an uninvited party, had decided to join in on the discussion.

Braxton studied the intruder not with anger so much as with surprise.

“Excuse me, sir, but if you don’t mind I am talking to this gentleman.”

The offending presence refused to move. Instead he drew from his pocket his wallet and opened it up to display a badge.

“Inspector Harry Callahan,” Braxton said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“I’d like to speak to you a minute,” Harry said politely as possible.

“In regard to what?”

“The death of Bernard Tuber.”

“I’ve told the police what I know. But if you’d like, you can make an appointment with my secretary. I’ll be happy to talk to you next week. I am always delighted to cooperate with the police.”

“I’m afraid your secretary hasn’t been very helpful.”

Braxton exchanged a knowing look with Telso.

“Well, let me speak to her. I guarantee you an appointment. Early next week, what do you say to that?”

Braxton obviously did not expect Harry to object. Braxton wasn’t a man accustomed to opposition.

“I have this problem,” said Harry. “I don’t like waiting.”

Braxton shrugged, still maintaining his composure, his smile seemingly permanently affixed to his lips.

“That’s unfortunate,
Mr.
Callahan. I don’t especially like waiting either. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to be on my way. I am a very busy man.”

“That may very well be, but I am going to have to delay you.”

Braxton’s face became flushed. Annoyance was turning into anger. He was about to reprove Harry, but decided that the detective was only bluffing. Instead of arguing further, he started to move away from Harry. Meanwhile, a number of his aides and bodyguards milling in the vicinity, their attention drawn to the stranger confronting their boss, stepped in close to Braxton, pretty much surrounding Harry.

Undeterred by their presence, Harry simply shifted to the right, effectively blocking Braxton’s passage.

“I am not about to ask you again, Callahan, would you please get out of my way? I am not used to being abused in this way.” Braxton looked pointedly at his security people and then back to Harry in tacit warning.

The prospect of an imminent confrontation was observed by several people in the lobby. Curious, they, too, began to gravitate toward Braxton and Harry.

With more and more onlookers congregating about, Braxton only felt more confident. He doubted that this one detective would attempt anything provocative under so much public scrutiny. So once again he began to move around Harry. And once again Harry refused to let him pass.

Without waiting for a word or a signal from Braxton, one of the bodyguards reached forward, gripping Harry’s right arm decisively to pull him back. Without hesitation, Harry swung his free arm around, slapping the side of his hand against the bodyguard’s neck while simultaneously stabbing him in the ribs with his right elbow. The bodyguard, astonished, found himself suddenly off-balance. He stumbled and fell and in doing so, nearly knocked Braxton off his feet as well.

Another bodyguard was about to attack Harry when Braxton held up his hand to stop him. While the groaning man at his feet slowly picked himself up off the floor, Braxton addressed Harry. The smile was back on his face. “You are a most determined man, Callahan. If you’re so anxious to ask me whatever questions you have on your mind, ask away. I’m at your disposal.”

“I’d prefer a little more privacy. Send your clowns back to the circus.”

Braxton chose to overlook the insult. The fact was that he didn’t think much of the men who guarded him either. He nodded at his men, and they quietly withdrew, taking up positions several yards away, like a battalion digging in.

“So what do you want to know?” Braxton asked, feigning a convivial attitude.

Harry knew that Braxton, failing to humiliate him by ignoring him, had switched to another tack. He was now trying to humor him. It was all Harry could do to restrain himself.

“How long has it been since you fired Clay Meltzer?”

“I didn’t fire—” Braxton began, then stopped himself. “What’s this about Clay? I thought you wanted to talk about Tuber.”

“I do. I am. I think you’re aware they’re related, Mr. Braxton. What did Clay Meltzer do for you?”

“I don’t know. Meltzer was one of Bull’s boys. I hardly knew the man.”

“Why do you think he was murdered?”

“Frankly, I have no idea. I know only what I read in the papers. I suppose it was some private dispute. Some members of our union, as I’m sure you know, well, they get drunk, pick a fight—” His voice trailed off.

“You couldn’t have been reading too carefully. Clay Meltzer was killed by a gunman while he was walking down the street.”

“It’s unfortunate, regrettable.”

“I assume then that you wouldn’t mind me looking at the files your organization has on Meltzer.”

“That will probably require a court order. But I’m not at liberty to say. After all, I’m no longer in charge of the day-to-day affairs of the Brotherhood. For that sort of information you’re going to have to speak to Bull.”

“If he’s the best ventriloquist you can come up with,” Harry said, walking away, “then you got problems.”

Braxton wasn’t certain that he had triumphed in this confrontation. Actually he felt that somehow he had given out information that he shouldn’t have had. And why was Callahan concentrating so much on Meltzer? Meltzer was nothing. Nothing in life, nothing in death. Matt Braxton wasn’t about to see the empire he had so arduously constructed over so many years collapse merely because of a fuckup like Clay Meltzer and a prying cop named Harry Callahan.

“It was nothing,” Braxton told his aides as he rejoined them. “The cop’s on a fishing expedition is all.”

Within minutes Braxton had virtually forgotten about Harry. He and his companions piled into the awaiting limousines whose windows were blackened so that no one could peer in. But you could see out of them with no problem.

Braxton’s limo was partway down Mason when one of the bodyguards with a sharper eye than most happened to notice that they were being followed.

“Who is it?” Braxton asked, his buoyant mood in danger of being shaken yet again.

“The cop. The goddamn cop. He’s making no effort to cover himself. He wants us to know he’s there.”

“I have a feeling that this bastard’s going to get on my nerves and soon.”

The last people to have gotten on Braxton’s nerves had had cause to regret it.

C H A P T E R
F i v e

H
arry was a desperate man. Basically, in the Tuber case he had nothing, not a shred of evidence that would tie any suspect in with the killings, let alone Braxton or any members of his union. There was nothing new from Redhorn or the Palo Alto police. Nor were any of the leads provided by Redhorn’s favorite computer system—PATRIC—proving to be of help.

About the only strategy that he had adopted was to hang close to Braxton. Close, admittedly, wasn’t close enough. He could seldom even get to see the man. His car, yes, his bodyguards and aides, yes, but Braxton himself just twice from across the street; Braxton lived and moved in such splendid isolation that Harry began wondering whether he didn’t have somebody who ate his food for him to save him the trouble.

Harry knew that Braxton was behind Tuber’s death and behind Meltzer’s, and yet he could not justify his persistent surveillance to Bressler.