Free Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks by Dane Hartman

do the talking for both men.
    “Something fairly substantial. Something very clean.”
    “Ah yes. Clean.” Jeff seemed to like the sound of the word.
    “Like the Tuber hit a couple of weeks back.”
    Jeff allowed a slight smile to come to his lips. “I see. That kind of clean is going to cost you.”
    “I am ready to pay what’s necessary.”
    Jeff seemed to consider this for a moment. “Necessary, Mr. Kincaid, might be in the neighborhood of two thousand.”
    “Per person?”
    “Just how many did you have in mind?”
    “Five.” It was a figure Harry had pulled out of a hat. What he was doing, more or less, was improvising, playing it by ear.
    At the mention of the number Jeff frowned. Hank’s brow furrowed in sympathetic response with his partner. Killing five people seemed to displease them both.
    “Five,” Jeff repeated unhappily. “Mr. Kincaid, these five individuals, do you want them taken out all at once?”
    “That’s right. It was done with the Tubers.”
    “You keep bringing up the Tubers.” It was Hank who spoke now. He had a gruff hoarse voice that was painful to listen to. “That was something special. You’re talking about extraordinary circumstances when you’re dealing with the Tuber hit.”
    Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair, giving the impression that he hadn’t a care in the world.
    “You’re telling me special is a problem?”
    “Yes, that is what I am saying, Mr. Kincaid.” Jeff was speaking now. “Five is a big problem.”
    “If it’s a question of money . . .”
    “Well, we’re no longer talking five times two thousand, not for the job you want. It would have to be much larger sum. Much larger. But money is not the issue here.”
    “If I understand what you’re saying I’m talking to the wrong people.”
    There was a moment of hesitation before Jeff resumed. “I guess you could say that. In fact, I think I could safely say that for what you want you’d have to look beyond the local boys. I mean the free-lancers.”
    “The hit on the Tubers?”
    “Outside. From what I hear the people they brought in on that were from Chicago, St. Louis. Hardcore folks all down the line.”
    “I see. How do I get in touch with them?”
    Jeff held up his hand. “I’m not the yellow pages, Mr. Kincaid. You have to do that on your own.”
    “Well, can you tell me whether they’re still available in San Francisco or do I have to go all the way to Chicago?”
    “Oh, from what I hear—and it’s just rumors we’re talking about—but from what I hear there are a couple of boys still around the bay area. They’ve got a new assignment the word is.”
    As offhandedly as possible Harry asked whether they had any idea of what it was.
    Jeff seemed to be deliberating as to whether he should release this sort of information. Then he answered, “From what I’m told there’s a contract out on a cop that’s been giving somebody a lot of shit.”
    “A cop?”
    ‘Detective name of Callahan.”

C H A P T E R

S e v e n
    T he way Harry figured it, if what Jeff had told him was true, and he had little reason to think otherwise, he would no longer be obliged to search for the men who’d murdered Tuber and Meltzer. They would be coming to him.
    His problem was in avoiding Tuber’s fate and Meltzer’s. His problem was also in taking at least one of these professional killers alive. Dead, they wouldn’t be of much help to him.
    The assumption that Harry went on was that they would attempt the hit when he was off-duty. To kill him while he was pursuing police business would complicate the situation. Most likely they would make it look like the result of an accident; equally as possible, he would be picked up, taken somewhere far away, and allowed to disappear permanently. Harry Callahan would be turned into a dim fading memory.
    If Harry had suffered from paranoid fears before, if he was edgy, tense, and insomniac, he was worse now. Always on guard, he wouldn’t even get into bed