Free Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood by Dane Hartman Page A

every vandal, every nickel-and-dime mugger and pickpocket, cleaned up from the Mission and Market Street area. That might be a nice civic accomplishment, but it would annoy the hell out of the overworked night judges who’d keep having to book these clowns and deal with them. And it wouldn’t for a moment stop the murders and mutilations the Knifer was responsible for. About the best it would do would be to keep the Knifer off the streets for a while or induce him to find an area of the city less favored by police decoys.
    For Owens, however, a catch was a catch. Bruised ribs were worth the price of admission. There were times when Owens missed his old acting career. This activity gave him an opportunity to relive those days in Los Angeles when he had been obliged to recite idiotic lines from stupid scripts. Here, at least, all the lines were his.
    Two uneventful hours passed with Owens wandering back and forth along the same dark, mournful streets in an apparent alcoholic daze. Periodically, he would sight Harry but would proceed on his way, completely ignoring him. Now and then he would slump down on a bench of curbstone and pretend to guzzle his pint bottle of Wild Turkey.
    Buses continued to pull out and into the Greyhound depot with monotonous frequency, filling the air with exhaust fumes. People who’d just debarked wandered out onto Market, overburdened with luggage, trying to shake off the trance you get from hours and hours of traveling America’s expressways.
    Then, as though on cue, the activity subsided; fewer buses came and went, and there were many less people to be sighted on the streets in the depot’s vicinity. The October night had become chillier, clouds scudded across a nearly full moon which soon dipped below the horizon, eliminating one very important source of light.
    Way in the distance, Owens detected the sound of voices, boisterous and assertive. Three figures came into view, swaggering, for at this gray desolate hour they knew they had control over the streets, and they were determined to assert that control to anyone with whom they came into contact.
    In keeping with the plan of operation, Owens was alone, a solitary bum who stood revealed in the harsh glare of a parking lot’s solar lights.
    Three black youths this time, jobless probably, bored no question, looking for a thrill to pass the time. Owens realized that he was about to become that thrill.
    This time he was more apprehensive; it was not one-on-one as it had been before. He could not allow these three to gain too much of an advantage or he might be deprived of a chance to get at his gun.
    Of course, it was always possible that they’d simply abuse him verbally and pass him by. But Owens had an instinct for these things, and he didn’t believe there was much likelihood of that.
    “Hey, baby, what’ve we got here?” the middle one asked.
    “Looks to me like we got one unhappy sucker,” another replied.
    “Hey, sport, how you doin’? You gonna do a little jig for us?” the third addressed Owens.
    “Sport, sport, I’m talkin’ to you!” he said when Owens failed to respond. “You gonna give us a drink of your Wild Turkey?”
    They were close to him now, forming a semicircle around him, their eyes mocking, their mouths curled into wide gleaming smiles.
    The tallest of the three—he was maybe six-five—reached out to take hold of the bottle Owens held hugged to his chest. Owens, mumbling to himself, turned away, rebuffing him.
    “Sport,” he said, “that’s not being polite. We all gotta share in this life. Ain’t that right?”
    “That’s right, bro,” his companions agreed.
    The tallest took a step forward, grabbing hold of Owens’ arm in an attempt to force the bottle from his hand. Owens decided to let him have it. But this was obviously not going to satisfy the trio. After taking a long swig of the Wild Turkey, the youth did not then offer it to his companions but rather tipped it upside down so that it