Free Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons by Dane Hartman Page A

lanky, angular kid in front wearing a T-shirt, ten-gallon hat, and a tattoo of a bull on his upper arm inscribed with the word “beef.” “Can’t a guy watch?” he continued.
    “It’s a free country,” said Harry, picking up the shirt, rolling it into a ball and throwing it at his open suitcase.
    “Hey, guys, is this what we call Texas hospitality?” said another kid in the back of the group. He was wearing a short-sleeved military-cut shirt and chinos. “Why don’t we help the dude?”
    “Yeah,” said the kid with the tattoo, like it was some kind of brilliant idea. “Want some help, mister?”
    “Don’t tire yourself,” Harry answered offhandedly, scooping up his wallet.
    “No, it’s OK,” said tattoo, leading the rest of the gang into the waiting room, “we can handle it.”
    The group began to spread out to all four corners of the enclosure. Without making it obvious, Harry counted eight guys altogether.
    “Yeah,” said a Mexican kid in a rose-colored tank top, “I can get your pants.” Harry leaned over to pick up a pair that rested on a plastic chair. The Mexican sat heavily on them. Harry let go, straightened, and turned toward tattoo.
    The lead kid was smiling much in the same way the sheriff had been smiling previously. Another kid standing to the left scooped up a pair of cotton briefs. “Yeah, and I can get your shorts.”
    Harry stood rooted to the spot, not taking his eyes off tattoo. Tattoo just kept smiling.
    All around them, the gang started collecting Harry’s clothes in earnest. Some threw them around, others ripped them up, the Mexican pulled out a switchblade and cut neat lines in the pant legs, and the kid to the left stuffed the underwear down his own pant front.
    Harry continued to stare at the tattooed kid. The longer he stared, the less sure tattoo’s smile became. Finally, the kid felt forced to speak.
    “Hey, don’t even think about slugging me, man, because if you do, you’ll spend your vacation in jail.” Tattoo’s declaration was higher pitched than his earlier conversation, and he hit the word “vacation” a little too hard. To make up for his faux pas he continued in a forcibly lower voice. “And don’t go looking for a cop. By the time you find one, we’ll be long gone.” Tattoo hit the “you” hard in that sentence.
    Harry just stared.
    “OK, guys, let’s go,” Tattoo hastily ordered, waving his arm, but keeping one eye on Harry. When Harry didn’t move, even after everybody but Tattoo left, the kid felt inclined to give the cop some unasked-for advice.
    “Hey, man, you’re crazy. If I were you, I’d get right back on that plane and go back where you came from.”
    Harry didn’t move, but he said, “Thanks.”
    The kid’s eyes widened, he shook his head quickly, then disappeared from the waiting room door. Harry waited a few seconds, collected his key chain and cash, and left the rest for the airport custodians.
    While walking down the shiny hallways of the airport toward the taxi stand, Harry whistled “Deep in the Heart of Texas” and flipped his key chain over and over in the air. When he wasn’t whistling, he was grinning. Grinning like a wolf who smelled dinner. In spite of his welcoming committee’s lack of warmth, Harry felt good. He now knew he was in the right place.
    He walked up to the first redcap, tapped him on the shoulder, pointed back to the arrival room, and started giving instructions. He was halfway through the part about getting the suitcase repaired when he noticed the redcap wasn’t listening. The redcap was not only disinterested, but he was making a point of being disinterested. He was looking at the ceiling and leaning on his cart as if Harry wasn’t there.
    “Hey, I’m talking to you,” said Harry.
    The redcap took that as a cue to walk away, pulling his cart with him. Harry looked to the next redcap in sight. As soon as that one saw Harry looking at him, he suddenly became very busy helping an old lady who