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

looked lost. A third redcap suddenly decided to see what it was like on the other side of the airport. After that, Callahan decided to chuck his luggage along with the clothes and head into town.
    He walked outside to the waiting cabs and hopped into the back seat of the first one. If he were lucky, he figured, it would be the hitman himself disguised as the driver, waiting to kill him. No such luck. The driver merely said “on call” without turning around. Harry got out and looked at the taxi sign on the car’s roof. It was turned off. He pivoted around to look at the next car in line. As he turned the taxi’s off-duty sign went on.
    Deciding to be a glutton for punishment, Harry checked all six cabs in line. The next to last three were all using variations on the first two cabbies’ excuses. The last cabbie had an original flair. He was out to lunch.
    Harry wasn’t worried. He wasn’t even a little bit pissed. But he did readjust his thinking. All along he had figured that it was some sort of political ramification that got Tucker offed. Callahan couldn’t see the late sheriff getting killed by a jealous husband or vengeful crook. For a sheriff to get croaked in as spectacular a fashion as Tucker did means that the man must have tread on some very tender toes. And the tenderest toes Harry knew belonged to politicians.
    They may have thick skins and fast minds, but they don’t like being crossed. And Tucker was in a position to do a lot of crossing. So Harry had figured that a powerful politico was behind it all along. Now, however, Harry had to amend his reasoning. Anyone powerful enough to mobilize the police, the street gangs, the redcaps, and the cabbies went beyond area politics. Harry admitted to himself that he was dealing with a power beyond that. A power of money. A power of business.
    In San Antonio, power, money, and business meant one of two things: fuel or food. Here, you made your fortune from either black gold or Black Angus. Houston or Dallas were really the major oil centers, so Harry figured that he might be dealing with a cattleman. Or a farmer. Either way, it was probably a self-made man who was used to destroying things with his own two hands.
    And Harry was fixing to face him without jurisdiction, without his Magnum, and without a change of clothes.
    “Hey buddy, need a ride?”
    Harry turned toward the voice. It had come from the other side of the first taxi. The San Francisco cop squinted over the cab’s roof to see a San Antonio cop standing half-in and half-out of his patrol car. Callahan took his time pulling out sunglasses and slipping them on. In the reduced glare he noted the car was devoid of markings like “Property of the Sheriff’s Office.” It was a good old regular San Antonio police car.
    The driver probably wasn’t a good old regular San Antonio police officer, however. No cop in any state was known for offering rides to tall, craggy strangers in airports. Harry’s mind harkened back to the “Vigilante Cop” case for a second, then eliminated the connection from his mind. It was unlikely a uniformed cop could kill a visiting plainclothesman in a cop car without raising interdepartmental ire.
    Naw, it wouldn’t be worth it, Harry thought, and he did have to get into town somehow. He took a moment to look around. Too hot to walk, he decided, then moved over to the passenger side of the patrol vehicle.
    “Heading for the Ramada Inn?” Harry inquired.
    “I can handle it,” replied the uniformed patrolman, getting in. Harry followed his lead and hopped in the back. The first thing he noticed was the back of another cop’s head. The bright Texas sun was reflecting off the windshield, so even with his sunglasses Harry didn’t spot the driver’s partner. The second thing he noticed was that there was no grating between the front and rear seats. Usually they had a cage arrangement separating the arresting officer in the front seat from the “alleged perpetrator” in