Free Dirty Harry 08 - Hatchet Men by Dane Hartman Page A

Harry raised his arms and met the man halfway. He felt the nunchaku slam into his side and snake around across his back as his fingers sunk into the last man’s face.
    As burly as the Chinaman was, he was no match for the weight and strength of Harry’s brawny, tightly muscled frame. Even though the Chinese was jumping forward, Harry’s thrust lifted him up and back. Harry’s weight broke the chair as he fell across it, but his straight arms and clawlike fingers sent the last man’s head and shoulders into the fireplace.
    The nunchakus were all but forgotten as the man’s oily black hair burst into flames like a pile of hay hit by a meteor. He reared up, screaming, as the fire crawled across his clothes. Harry jumped up too, grabbing the flaming man by the shirt front and throwing him onto the bed. The cop then ripped all the bed covers out and flung them over the third Chinese to suffocate the flames. He wrapped the screaming man up like an egg roll and threw him back to the floor. He pushed the writhing body back and forth until his hair and flesh was smoldering.
    At that moment, the door burst open again, and in came another Chinese with a fire extinguisher, followed by the codger who had sent him into the trap. The younger man doused the smoking hulk of sheets and blankets as Harry rose ominously toward the codger.
    “Unh, unh, uh,” said the old man, pointing Harry’s .44 at the cop’s chest. “What do you really want, American?”
    “I want to see Cheh,” Harry said between deep breaths. “Huang Cheh.”
    “Why didn’t you say that before?” the codger demanded, his voice cracking.
    “Would it have done any good?”
    The codger shrugged. “Probably not. We would have sent these men after you in any case.” The Chinese lowered the gun. “Follow me,” he concluded.
    Once more Harry followed the wizened old man as he was led out of the prostitution section, through some narrow, bulb-lit hallways and into an elevator at the end of the line. The codger accompanied him as they rose several floors. Finally the small, weathered elevator stopped, and the door creaked open to reveal one of the grandest, plushest, most ultramodern offices Harry had ever seen.
    There was a thick white carpet on the floor with glorious rugs on one wall and a breathtakingly beautiful metal sculpture of a dragon taking up most of the opposite wall. A long curtain covered the far wall, and in front of that was a large, shining desk. The high-backed chair behind the desk was empty.
    The old codger entered first, wandering off to the left, and Harry followed, impressed by the obvious wealth of the inner office. He looked to his right to see the wall next to the elevator crammed full of the latest electronic equipment. There was a stereo outfit, a projection TV, rows of video screens, several videotape machines, a video disc system, a home computer linkup, and every other imaginable gadget, many not yet available in this country on the retail market.
    Many of the screens were on, revealing what was going on in all the den’s rooms. Harry saw gambling, whoring, and drug taking. His eyes settled on the row of prostitutes plying their wares. The sets were in color and it was like watching all the triple-X movies ever made all at once. Harry shook his head in amazement. He just didn’t get out enough, he told himself, just like he always did when situations like this cropped up.
    Not wanting to look away particularly, Harry asked, “Where’s Cheh?”
    “Right here, Harry,” came the Chinatown crime lord’s voice.
    The cop spun around to see that the left section of the wall next to the elevator had been pushed back to reveal a combination bar and bathroom—minus the toilet. The old codger had straightened up, removed his false set of teeth, pulled off the wisps of hair under his nose and chin, then tugged off the white wig. Although hunks of spirit gum and latex makeup still hung onto his face, the caricature Chinaman had