pumping out blood, trying to get rid of it all before the embalmer had to do it instead.
“That’s right.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Harry. It was my show. I could have handled it. You’re not absolutely indispensible.”
He was still looming over the black man, the Browning poised at the man’s temple.
“I’m awfully sorry about that, Sandy, but if I hadn’t interrupted, this shooting match might have gone on forever.” Sandy scowled and made some unfortunate remark under his breath. Harry ignored him. “Besides, I was rather worried you might hit another innocent bystander.” Noticing Patel’s look of incomprehension, he gestured to the fallen pawnbroker. “The .22s didn’t bring him down, it was your Browning that did it. Don’t believe me? Wait until ballistics checks on that wound in the head.”
Obviously Patel didn’t believe him; he sensed that Harry was playing some sort of a trick on him for motives he couldn’t immediately discern. In any case, he still had his gun on the man lying prostrate on the floor.
“I think you can safely let the suspect stand up.”
Sandy didn’t care to do this, evidently not having abandoned his notion of blowing someone away—intentionally this time.
“How many times you got to be told, Sandy?”
Patel, flushing with anger, raised his gun.
Gratefully, the black dared to look up. For the first time, his eyes met Harry’s. There was immediate recognition.
“Officer Callahan!”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Longlegs!”
Patel’s face was filled with his perplexity and annoyance. He might have suspected that the two were confederates.
Well, they weren’t confederates exactly, but they were old acquaintances you could say. Longlegs was a man with a rap sheet that could compete favorably in length with War and Peace. The guy had done time for cashing fraudulent checks, thieving cars, pickpocketing, sticking up five & dimes, grocery stores, gas stations, and greasy spoons; he’d been served summons for loitering, for drunk and disorderly conduct, for peddling hot watches, for creating a disturbance with a mother of a transistor radio; beyond that, he was suspected of contributing to a variety of scams, con jobs, felonies, and misdemeanors. He couldn’t help it. It was in his nature. He didn’t mean any harm by what he did nor did he ever hurt anyone—their pocketbooks maybe but not their bodies. So it did not surprise Harry when he picked up Longlegs’ gun and found that it was not loaded.
Longlegs was maybe in his forties. He was in any case one of those whose age remains a perpetual enigma; truly he had a lean and hungry face with sad, slitted brown eyes and a mouth that seemed to droop in a state of permanent melancholia. You could tell he never expected anything to go right, was just going through the motions in desperate hope of beating the odds. He’d gained his nickname—his real name was long ago buried beneath a barrage of aliases, so many that even he’d probably forgotten the one he’d started out with—not because his legs were particularly long but rather because he’d once entertained tourists down on Fisherman’s Wharf by parading about on stilts.
Right now Longlegs needed more than stilts to get around: Police sirens, ambulance sirens were shrieking up and down Mission.
Harry turned to Patel. “I’m taking Longlegs into custody myself.”
Patel didn’t like this idea. Without Longlegs he was left with two dead bodies. Dead bodies aren’t particularly articulate when it comes to clarifying how they had arrived in their current condition.
“He’s mine.”
“Not any more.”
Longlegs looked dazedly from one man to the other. “What is this shit? I’m supposed to go to the highest bidder?”
“You’re coming with me, Longlegs.”
Longlegs didn’t seem willing to move without a guarantee that rising to a vertical position wouldn’t jeopardize his health. But Harry was impatient, and he decided he’d
“That’s right.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Harry. It was my show. I could have handled it. You’re not absolutely indispensible.”
He was still looming over the black man, the Browning poised at the man’s temple.
“I’m awfully sorry about that, Sandy, but if I hadn’t interrupted, this shooting match might have gone on forever.” Sandy scowled and made some unfortunate remark under his breath. Harry ignored him. “Besides, I was rather worried you might hit another innocent bystander.” Noticing Patel’s look of incomprehension, he gestured to the fallen pawnbroker. “The .22s didn’t bring him down, it was your Browning that did it. Don’t believe me? Wait until ballistics checks on that wound in the head.”
Obviously Patel didn’t believe him; he sensed that Harry was playing some sort of a trick on him for motives he couldn’t immediately discern. In any case, he still had his gun on the man lying prostrate on the floor.
“I think you can safely let the suspect stand up.”
Sandy didn’t care to do this, evidently not having abandoned his notion of blowing someone away—intentionally this time.
“How many times you got to be told, Sandy?”
Patel, flushing with anger, raised his gun.
Gratefully, the black dared to look up. For the first time, his eyes met Harry’s. There was immediate recognition.
“Officer Callahan!”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Longlegs!”
Patel’s face was filled with his perplexity and annoyance. He might have suspected that the two were confederates.
Well, they weren’t confederates exactly, but they were old acquaintances you could say. Longlegs was a man with a rap sheet that could compete favorably in length with War and Peace. The guy had done time for cashing fraudulent checks, thieving cars, pickpocketing, sticking up five & dimes, grocery stores, gas stations, and greasy spoons; he’d been served summons for loitering, for drunk and disorderly conduct, for peddling hot watches, for creating a disturbance with a mother of a transistor radio; beyond that, he was suspected of contributing to a variety of scams, con jobs, felonies, and misdemeanors. He couldn’t help it. It was in his nature. He didn’t mean any harm by what he did nor did he ever hurt anyone—their pocketbooks maybe but not their bodies. So it did not surprise Harry when he picked up Longlegs’ gun and found that it was not loaded.
Longlegs was maybe in his forties. He was in any case one of those whose age remains a perpetual enigma; truly he had a lean and hungry face with sad, slitted brown eyes and a mouth that seemed to droop in a state of permanent melancholia. You could tell he never expected anything to go right, was just going through the motions in desperate hope of beating the odds. He’d gained his nickname—his real name was long ago buried beneath a barrage of aliases, so many that even he’d probably forgotten the one he’d started out with—not because his legs were particularly long but rather because he’d once entertained tourists down on Fisherman’s Wharf by parading about on stilts.
Right now Longlegs needed more than stilts to get around: Police sirens, ambulance sirens were shrieking up and down Mission.
Harry turned to Patel. “I’m taking Longlegs into custody myself.”
Patel didn’t like this idea. Without Longlegs he was left with two dead bodies. Dead bodies aren’t particularly articulate when it comes to clarifying how they had arrived in their current condition.
“He’s mine.”
“Not any more.”
Longlegs looked dazedly from one man to the other. “What is this shit? I’m supposed to go to the highest bidder?”
“You’re coming with me, Longlegs.”
Longlegs didn’t seem willing to move without a guarantee that rising to a vertical position wouldn’t jeopardize his health. But Harry was impatient, and he decided he’d
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