Free Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood by Dane Hartman

twenties, too handsome and cocky for his own good, with black hair slicked down with an oily lotion that made it glimmer in the pale light from the streetlamp overhead. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans.
    Trouble, Owens concluded.
    The man strode up to him. Roughly, he nudged Owens’ shoulder with his hand, forcing him off the sidewalk.
    “I was talking to you, daddy. Whaddya say?”
    Owens glared at him, muttering, “Fuck outta way,” and continued to walk.
    The young man was not about to let him get away. His mouth was working hard as he chewed his gum. “You got a little scratch on you, whaddya say? You got a little scratch? I know all about you fuckers, you make like you’re poor when you’re rolling in it, right? Am I right or what? Suckers feel sorry for you, they lay all this bread on you.” He pushed Owens harder this time, almost toppling him over. “I know what your game is, I know your little act.”
    While he correctly guessed that it was an act Owens was performing, he had entirely mistaken its nature. Now he positioned himself directly in front of Owens, blocking his way. Owens was by temperament a patient man, so he resisted the impulse to do anything rash. Besides, if he was going to have to make an arrest he wanted the charge to stick. Accosting a police decoy and pushing him off the curb was hardly likely to cause a judge to slap much of a fine on the man. He’d probably be let off with a reprimand. So Owens merely tried to circle around him.
    This strategy did not work. The man, with surprising speed, roughly threw Owens to the ground, kicking him twice in the ribs. Still Owens didn’t do anything. He was waiting until the man stole from him which would add robbery to the assault and battery charges he was already liable for. Despite the pain that the kicks had produced, Owens looked forward with pleasure to making this arrest.
    Now the man, thinking that he had this derelict adequately subdued, bent down and began rummaging through Owens’ jacket pocket, coming up with a few pennies and one dime. He regarded them disdainfully, and flung them to the ground. “Fuckhead, you got more, fuckhead. I know you do.”
    He had just started his search through another pocket, though because it was so shredded it wouldn’t have held anything in the first place, when he felt the cold barrel of a .356 Magnum pressed up against his temple.
    In a voice that was distinctly unlike the boozy wavering voice he’d used a minute ago, Owens said, “Game’s over now. Hands over your head.”
    “Now wait a—” But the would-be robber was too stunned to complete the sentence. Grudgingly but quickly, he did as he was commanded. Owens lifted himself from the gutter, maintaining his gun on his assailant.
    “You are under arrest.”
    “Arrest?”
    Owens dug his badge out of an inside pocket. “Police officer,” he added gratuitously.
    “Aw shit,” the man muttered, aghast that his luck should have turned out so badly tonight.
    Owens, out of the corner of his eye, spotted Harry who now came rushing toward him from up the block.
    “What’ve you got?” he asked.
    “Assault and battery, malicious mischief, robbery,” Owens replied matter-of-factly. “Not the Mission Street Knifer but what the hell?”
    Harry handcuffed the man. “Read him his rights,” he instructed Owens, weary of having to go through the routine again himself. “We’ll lock him up in the car, let him stew in his own juices for a while. Otherwise, we’ll be running a shuttle to the station all night long.”
    Once they had installed the misguided assailant in the back of their car, they returned to the streets. Harry, unlike Owens, did not act remotely pleased by their catch. He had the feeling that this sort of thing was going to keep on happening and that by the end of the night they’d have a vanload’s equivalent of perps but no Mission Street Knifer. And the trend might continue for several weeks’ running until they had