The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 24

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Walter Chalmers was in the living room when the doorbell chimed, and he listened intently as his valet went for the door. He heard the usual greetings, coats being taken and put in the hall closet, then footsteps approaching.

'More than one, so it seems.'

"Hey, Wally! There you are!" Paddy said, leading another man into the room...

Walter stood, taking his brother's hand, listening as introductions were made...

"And this is Pat Ryan, from Jersey..."

Chalmers took Ryan's hand and when he looked into the man's eyes he very nearly passed out.

The eyes, the set of his eyes, even the grip of his hand...

Bullitt.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryan," Walter Chalmers said genially, his heart now racing at this sudden turn...

'So, you're working undercover. You've penetrated the operation. You know what's going on, or at least you know some of what's going on. Now I've got to get you fully up to speed, and I can't compromise you. But how...'

"Walter," Paddy asked, "you doin' okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I started a new medication yesterday, makes me light-headed when I stand up."

"Oh."

"Mr. Ryan, could I get you something to drink?"

"Scotch, neat."

Walter smiled. "Well, Paddy, what's this big new plan you've come up with?"

________________________________________

Bullitt hadn't known what to expect.

Paddy calling him into the office, telling him they had an important meeting to go to.

He'd excused himself, gone to the men's room and activated the incredibly small hidden microphone the Israelis had kitted him out with.

Then, to Paddy's 911 and the quick ride over to Snob Nob, the nickname for the houses located around Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower...

...but when they pulled up in front of the Senator's house he felt a sudden lump filling his throat.

"This is my brother's house," Paddy told him then. "We're having dinner with him, maybe go over a few things."

"Right."

"Come on..."

And then there he was, Walter Chalmers, the devil incarnate.

Then the sudden flushing, the instant of recognition, and Bullitt was about to go for the little PPK the Israeli's had given him - for just this kind of situation -

...until he saw that the Senator was going to cover for him...

...'What the fuck?'...because all he could think to say was "Scotch, neat..."

And he hated Scotch. Positively hated the shit.

Then, when Chalmers asked Paddy "what's this big new plan you've come up with?" - Bullitt knew he could just sit back and watch these two make their play.

"Look, Walter, one of my guys on the inside just learned that Jerry is going to put a hit on you..."

"What?! You've got to be kidding!"

"No way, man. Look, this is legit information..."

"But why? Why take out me? What have I done to them?"

"I don't think that's it, man. Me? I think they want you out of the way so they can run their own man to take your seat..."

Walter Chalmers looked down at his hands and nodded. "That makes sense."

"Your damn right it does, that's why..."

"Okay, so what's your plan, Paddy."

"Well, see, I was watching that Godfather movie a couple of weeks ago, and I think 'why don't we knock off McKay, then plant a bunch of bogus stories in the Chronicle?' You know, tie the police department to the mob...? It's like two birds with one stone, ya know? Smart, right?"

"You want to take out a police captain?" Walter said, hiding his feelings as best he could while he spoke.

"Yeah, man, and why the fuck not? The guy is as crooked as a cop can get." Then Paddy looked at Ryan/Bullitt: "And I've got the man here that can pull it off."

Walter Chalmers looked at Bullitt: "Oh?"

"Yeah, man. Look, Wally, Ryan here has made a bunch of hits, all of 'em back east, so if the heat gets turned up we just send him down to Mexico for a while, then bring him home after things settle down."

"Uh-huh. And how much for your services, Mr. Ryan?"

"For a hit this big? Fifty."

"Are you serious?" Walter asked, smiling.

"C'mon, Wally. It's reasonable, ya know? You're talking about a cop, a captain even, for Christ's sake."

"And tell me, Paddy, how is this going to help us?"

"First off, it'll get the fuzz off our backs, man. Send them a message, ya know?"

"That would be a message alright. Look, Paddy, I just don't see why we don't keep paying them off, you know? Protection is money well spent, right?"

"Not if they're gonna take you out, Wally. We're payin' and they're gonna do the killin' - and that ain't gonna work out so well for us, ya know? Particularly for you, Wally."

But Walter still looked unconvinced. "Alright, but it seems to me we ought to be worried about the people giving McKay the order to get rid of me."

"Yeah, but I don't know who's pulling his strings, ya know?"

"Okay, but suppose we take out McKay before they can take me out. What or who is going to stop that group from going ahead and making a move on me?"

As Bullitt listened to this exchange it was becoming clear that the Chalmers organization wasn't the real target, they weren't part of the vigilante network, let alone the organization supporting them. The Irish mob still seemed to be a part of the vigilante group, at least as far as he could tell from what little intel he'd picked up so far, but the real question still remained unanswered. Who was the prime mover? Who was calling the shots, and to what end?

"What group are you talking about?" Ryan/Bullitt asked, and Walter Chalmers seemed surprised by the question.

"I don't know," Walter said. "I wish I did, but I just don't know."

"No idea at all?"

Chalmers seemed to hesitate now, like he was afraid of saying too much. "All this started after I helped a South American group secure U.S. financing for a new air carrier. I don't really know who or why they'd want me out of the way..."

"What your brother said isn't enough? To clear the way to take your senate seat?"

"Well, I doubt it, because I've set up the preliminary organization to make a run for the White House."

"What?" Paddy cried. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Walter shrugged. "I'm trying to keep this as low key as possible, at least until I look at some poll numbers."

Bullitt stood and walked over to one of the windows overlooking the bay. "What if you announced your run, and at the same time made it clear that you were going to resign your senate seat so that you could dedicate all your energy to the campaign?"

"Now that's an idea," Paddy said. "What do you think, Wally?"

But before he could reply, Ryan/Bullitt continued: "That's not the point, at least right now. The first thing you could do, Paddy, is get word out to...what's the name of this captain?"

"McKay."

"Yeah, well, so you get word to McKay, then you wait and see what their next move is."

"And then I'm out of work," Senator Walter Chalmers said, finishing his wine.

"Better'n bein' dead, bro."

Chalmers walked over to Bullitt and genially put a hand on his shoulder. "Ready for some dinner, Mr. Ryan?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Good. C'mon Paddy. Let's finish this up while we eat. Mr. Ryan, you like cigars...?"

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Mason/Callahan met up with Danson after his day job working on helicopters, mainly to have dinner before heading over to the chop-shop, but to shoot the shit a little.

"So, how did you get along with Pablo?" Danson asked as Mason climbed in the beat-up Chevy Nova Danson used to avoid scrutiny by law enforcement.

"Escobar? He seems like a good joe. Laidback once you get to know him."

"Yeah. The most important thing to know about him is he rewards loyalty. If you're loyal to him, he'll be there for you in a pinch."

Mason nodded. "I kinda picked up on that."

"You ever been to the Rusty Anchor? It's a Threlkis place, but I hear they make a mean burger."

"Sounds right-on to me."

"Good. I've been wantin' to try it out for a while."

It took just a few minutes in the late afternoon traffic to get there, but finding a parking place was another matter. Five minutes later they found a place and backtracked to the Anchor...

...And the first thing Callahan saw when they walked in was that Threlkis kid on the piano. The same kid he'd fucked up, so he kept his sunglasses on as they passed the bar - and he kept an eye on the kid at the piano. He scanned the room, looked for handy exits...the he noticed that the kid had recognized him...

Danson ordered a pitcher of beer - and, as always Anchor Steam - while they went over the menu, and they ordered hot pastrami sandwiches after their waitress said they were the best thing in the house.

But Callahan was watching the kid as he stopped playing and went to the bar, and then the kid pointed at Callahan and the bartender went to the phone.

Callahan brought his left ankle up and unsnapped the ankle holster, then he slipped the little PPK under his left thigh, and at about that time the kid and two goons started his way.

And the kid walked right up to Callahan.

"You're the fuckin' cop who did this to me, aren't you?" the kid screamed, holding up his scared hand. "You're that Callahan fucker!"

And, with those few words, everything slipped into slow-motion.

Danson pushed away from the table and Callahan saw he was reaching for his waistband; one of the goons was pulling out a knife; the kid was backing away from the table, knocking the other goon off-balance and both fell to the floor...

Just like working Hogan's Alley at the range, Callahan moved by reflexive instinct now, years of training taking hold and coming to bear...

"Assess the targets, prioritize, then shoot..."

For a split second he thought the little Walther might not be up to the challenge, but at this range and loaded with Silver-Tips it was the best he could do...

First shot: Danson, one to the face, one center mass...

Pivot to the goon with the knife, who was now backing away fast: a single shot center mass...

The other goon, on the floor, he was pushing away from the kid, reaching for a shoulder holster: first shot in the neck, the second in the face...

Pivot: once more to the goon with the knife, and one more round in the neck...

The kid was unarmed, so Callahan just dropped him with a hard hit from the Walther's butt, then he turned and walked slowly towards the rear exit.

He started down the alley, releasing the little magazine and pocketing it, pulling one of two spares from his coat pocket and slipping it in.

He turned a corner, saw a bus stop, and a bus just pulling to a stop so he ran for it, hopped on at the last second, then went to the rear so he could see if anyone followed.

Nothing.

'Gotta get to the city. No way my handler on the ferry...they know that one...'

Then he saw a maroon BMW, a little coupe, as it pushed through traffic and slipped in behind the bus. The brights flashed three times so Callahan reached up and pulled the cord, the chime telling the driver to stop at the next corner.

He hopped out of the rear/side door and waited for the Beemer to pull up.

"Get in!" Al Bressler said as the passenger door flew open...

...and moments later the BMW was headed into The City on the Bay Bridge.

"Well Harry, I'd say your cover is blown."

"Ya think?"

"Why didn't you take out the piano player?"

"You were there?"

"Yeah, I've been on you for a couple of days."

"Is Goodman here? I've got some intel we need to go over..."

"No. He's in Japan."

"Japan? What the fuck is he doin' over there?"

Bressler shrugged. "I don't know, man. He pulled us outta Venezuela about a week ago. Sam is shadowing Frank right now, and Stacy is onto some snitch inside the Bureau."

"Anyone following us?"

"I can't tell."

"Remember what Goodman said? When you feel doubt..."

"There is no doubt!" they said in unison, then laughing a little to cut the tension.

"Let's get down to the wharf. We can lose anyone in there."

"Right."

"You got any 380s?"

"Glovebox."

Callahan pulled out the box of cartridges and reloaded his spent clip.

"No doubt," he said in a voice so low he thought Al missed it. "No doubt at all."

"Doubt about what, Harry?"

"Some Columbian. Name is Pablo Escobar..."

"Escobar? Are you sure?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Fuck, are you kidding me? You ought to come work vice for a while. Escobar is pouring cocaine into the country, and I mean tons of the shit..."

"I think that's who's behind all this crap, Al. I mean, it's more than a feeling, ya know?"

"Okay, we got ourselves a tail, the real deal, Amigo."

"Whaddaya got?"

"Looks like a caddy, four men."

"I'd kill for my forty-four right about now."

"Got one of those MP-5s in the trunk."

"Outstanding!"

"What about the parking garage at Ghirardelli Square? We can box 'em in and take 'em out there?"

"Go for it."

"What's the best way?"

Callahan shook his head. "Man alive. A cop here for how many years and you're still asking me for directions?"

"Harry, I'd have never made it through academy if you hadn't been there."

"Well, I did put out that fire comin' out your ass..."

"Not now, Harry."

"Fremont to The Embarcadero."

"Okay, got it."

"And...take North Point."

"Right."

Traffic was, predictably, heavy as they neared Fisherman's Wharf and, as always, there were pedestrians all around Ghirardelli Square but, as they pulled into the parking garage they found it remarkably quiet.

"Go up a few levels."

"Okay."

"There, in those shadows."

"See it."

As the tires screeched to a stop Callahan bailed out and went to the back of the Beemer; Bressler came with the keys and opened it.

"What are you carrying?" he asked Bressler.

"Same as you," Bressler said, pulling an identical Walther. "This little pop-gun."

"Okay, you take the HK, give me your Walther."

"You hear 'em?"

"What?"

"Footsteps. Coming up the ramp."

"Go over there, beside that column. Wait'll they pass you, then open fire from behind."

"Right."

Harry slipped into a low crouching run and went up the ramp about ten yards and there ducked into another shadow.

Then...

Four men. Two with Uzis, two with shotguns...maybe 870 pumps...

They were passing Bressler now...

Assess the targets, prioritize, then shoot...

But Bressler opened up with his MP-5, and - after a brief, blinding roar - Callahan watched as all four dropped to the concrete...dead.

"Well, fuck me!" Al said as he came out of his hide.

"I got to get me one of those," Callahan whispered...

Then someone opened fire, bullets hitting the concrete ceiling overhead, chipped concrete dust filling the air...

Callahan ducked into the shadows again, but he couldn't see Bressler...

...and suddenly everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Because the night was filled with the sounds of approaching sirens. He slipped out into the open and walked over to the Beemer, then he saw Bressler - still hiding and not wounded.

"Come on," Callahan said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They passed several squad cars as they exited the area, and neither he nor Bressler could see a tail as they headed away from downtown.

"Where to?" Callahan asked.

"Ditch the car, grab a taxi, go the Hyatt and wait."

"The Hyatt? You mean..."

"Yeah. The bar. That's my bailout. Every night at eleven. If I'm there it's because I'm blown."

"Nobody gave me that option?"

Bressler nodded. "That's why I've been on your ass, except when you were out in those damn helicopters." Bressler pulled into a grocery store parking lot and started to get out...

"Aren't you going to take the keys?" Harry asked.

"No. That's the point. Let someone steal it, and then the car becomes a decoy. And a convenient dead end."

"Right."

Bressler went to a payphone and called for a taxi, and it appeared a few minutes later. They just made it to the Hyatt in time for the 2300 hrs meet, and a woman walked up to their table a few minutes later.

"You're all over the news tonight," she said to Harry as she pulled up a chair and sat. "Not particularly useful, I suppose you know?"

"Doesn't matter. I need to get in touch with the Colonel."

"Okay, let's go."

They followed her to a bank of elevators, and she pressed the down arrow, then walked off to the emergency stairwell, Bressler and Callahan following. She went down two levels then led them out into the atrium, and from there to a corner room.

Callahan walked in and was almost shocked to see Frank Bullitt curled up on one of the beds, sound asleep. And Senator Walter Chalmers was sitting in an overstuffed chair watching the news on television.

"Get some rest while you can," the woman said. "We'll be leaving in a few hours."

"What the hell is going on?" Callahan said to her, but she just smiled and left the room.

Bressler walked over to the mini-bar and took out a Coke, then rummaged around until he found a Snickers before heading over to the TV.

"And I missed dinner," Callahan snarled, his stomach growling as he sat on the edge of the second bed.

"Try room service," Chalmers said. "It's pretty good here."

"Swell."

Callahan grabbed a pillow and curled up on the bed - now too tired to think of food; he fell off to sleep wondering what else could possibly go wrong...

© 2020 adrian leverkühn | abw | and as always, thanks for stopping by for a look around the memory warehouse...[and last word or two on sources: I typically don't post all a story's acknowledgments until I've finished, if only because I'm not sure how many I'll need until work is finalized. Yet with current circumstances (a little virus, not to mention a certain situation in Washington, D.C. springing first to mind...) so waiting to mention sources might not be the best way to proceed. To begin, the primary source material in this case - so far, at least - derives from two seminal Hollywood 'cop' films: Dirty Harry and Bullitt. The first Harry film was penned by Harry Julian Fink, R.M. Fink, Dean Riesner, John Milius, Terrence Malick, and Jo Heims. Bullitt came primarily from the author of the screenplay for The Thomas Crown Affair, Alan R Trustman, with help from Harry Kleiner, as well Robert L Fish, whose short story Mute Witness formed the basis of Trustman's brilliant screenplay. Steve McQueen's grin was never trade-marked, though perhaps it should have been. John Milius (Red Dawn) penned Magnum Force, and the 'Briggs'/vigilante storyline derives from characters and plot elements originally found in that rich screenplay, as does the Captain McKay character. The Threlkis crime family storyline was first introduced in Sudden Impact, screenplay by Joseph Stinson. The Samantha Walker character derives from the Patricia Clarkson portrayal of the television reporter found in The Dead Pool, screenplay by Steve Sharon, story by Steve Sharon, Durk Pearson, and Sandy Shaw. I have to credit the Jim Parish, M.D., character first seen in the Vietnam segments to John A. Parrish, M.D., author of the most fascinating account of an American physician's tour of duty in Vietnam - and as found in his autobiographical 12, 20, and 5: A Doctor's Year in Vietnam, a book worth noting as one of the most stirring accounts of modern warfare I've ever read (think Richard Hooker's M*A*S*H, only featuring a blazing sense of irony conjoined within a searing non-fiction narrative). Denton Cooley, M.D. founded the Texas Heart Institute, as mentioned. Many of the other figures in this story derive from characters developed within the works cited above, but keep in mind that, as always, this story is in all other respects a work of fiction woven into a pre-existing historical fabric. Using the established characters referenced above, as well as a few new characters I've managed to come up with here and there, I hoped to create something new - perhaps a running commentary on the times we've shared? And the standard disclaimer also here applies: no one mentioned in this tale should be mistaken for persons living or dead. This was just a little walk down a road more or less imagined, and nothing more than that should be inferred, though I'd be remiss not to mention Clint Eastwood's Harry Callahan, and Steve McQueen's Frank Bullitt. Talk about the roles of a lifetime...given life by two actors who will stand tall through the ages.]