The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 45

Part V

Chapter 45

'I need time to think, Harry.'

'To think. Time to think.' Her words kept echoing inside his mind as she left the boarding area and walked down the Jetway, getting on a Japan Air Lines 747 bound for Tokyo.

He still didn't know what to say, what 'to think.' He didn't even know if he'd lost her or not.

The ending she'd crafted was so ambiguous and so...unfair. To both of them. Couldn't she see that? Or...was that part of the plan?

When the big Boeing left the gate he went to the end of the concourse and watched it lumber out to the runway, then he just stood there and watched as she disappeared into the early morning sky. With his hands in his pockets and his head hanging down, there was nothing left to say, nothing to do, really, but to get on with getting on.

There was one dangling thread that needed his immediate attention, however, so he left SFO and drove over to the old house in Potrero Hills. Lloyd Callahan was in the front yard, on his knees by the flower bed picking weeds, when Harry drove up in his freshly repaired Range Rover. The old man looked up when he heard the door slam, and then he stood and walked up to the porch and sat in the shade, waiting for had to be the inevitable showdown.

"Well, well, the prodigal son returns. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry sat beside his father, his steepled fingers bundled on his lap. "I just dropped Fujiko at the airport. I think she'd had enough of me after a few days."

"Different life, different expectations. Their culture is based on an enforced harmony; ours on pure, unmitigated chaos. What did you expect?"

"She was always telling me to be patient, to be open-minded and willing to accept change."

"Some changes are simply too much to accept, Harry. How did she leave it? Did she break it off?"

"No," Harry sighed, "she wants some time to think."

"And she's left you dangling. How nice of her."

Harry shrugged, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "I don't know what to do."

"Stand up and dust off your britches, Harry!" Lloyd yelled. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You've lived the life you wanted, the life you chose, and if she can't or won't accept who you really are, then fuck it and get on with your life!"

Harry nodded. "So, how do you like retirement?"

"I fucking hate it. The company called me a few days ago, told me they'd take me back on a part-time basis if I'd just take one or two trips a year."

"You gonna do it?"

"Hell, yes, I'm gonna do it."

"What about the model trains?"

"Oh, I'll have plenty of time for all that. What about you? You're officially retired now?"

"Yeah, but one of the assistant chiefs called Frank a couple of days ago. The department wants us to stay active through the reserves. Minimal pay, but we'd keep our badges, all that jazz."

"Of course you'll do it, right?"

"With Fujiko gone, I reckon so."

"Gone? That's pretty final, Harry. What if she changes her mind, comes back?"

"Well, we'll just have to see what happens, I guess. How's the house doing?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Your contractor took care of everything, though I found some paint splatters on the dining room windows. I was thinking about gutting the kitchen next. New cabinets, appliances, all that crap. Keep it up so after I'm gone you won't have any problem unloading it."

"I doubt I could sell it, Dad."

"Well, whatever you do, don't rent it out. Renters will just trash it up, ruin it."

"Okay."

"How's Frank?"

"Starting his second round of chemo today. I'm picking him up at noon, running him back out to the ranch."

"Your new place finished yet?"

"Yup. Moved in while Fujiko was here."

"I'd like to see it someday. So, how do you like that Rover?"

"It's a tank."

"Great gas mileage, I bet?"

Harry snickered. "Nine in the city, twelve on the highway."

"Ouch. I'm gonna need to get something pretty soon, myself."

"What? After twenty years, you're going to ditch the Ford? That's a travesty, Dad. A few more years and she'll be an antique!"

"Oh, I'll keep her, but I want a pickup now. Something big."

"Another Ford?"

"Nothing but, far as I'm concerned."

An uncomfortable silence followed, then Lloyd stood. "Well, you better go get Frank. Good to see you," he said, holding out his right hand.

Harry took it, though in a way it hurt to do so. "Yeah Pops. You take care."

He drove to the hospital in silence, and Frank was waiting curbside, looking a little irritated.

"I've been out here a half hour, Harry."

"It's not even noon yet, Frank."

"Can we go down to the department, look over those reserve contracts?"

"You feel up to that?"

"No, not really, but if I'm gonna be puking my guts out for the next couple of days I'd like to have something funny to read between heaves."

"Funny, huh?"

"Yeah, same job - for a tenth the pay. Funny, Harry. As hell."

"Yeah. Well, I meet with a bunch of lawyers tomorrow morning about the helicopter thing."

"Really? Can I come along?"

"If you promise not to barf all over the place, sure."

"Cool. I hate kicking around that house all day by myself."

"If you're throwing up, you won't..."

"I gotta question."

"Shoot."

"The girl. In the alley. Dell hasn't got any leads, no witnesses."

"I was wondering when you were gonna ask."

"Well? Should we?"

Callahan took a deep breath, looked at his hands as if they were the guilty ones - because in a way, they were. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure...that's why I'm asking you."

"I don't know, Frank. At some point, a judge is going to ask us under oath how we came up with the evidence, and we may get away with 'an anonymous source' one time..."

"We can swear not to do it again after this one."

"I think we've already used that line once," Callahan smirked.

"Yeah. I hate to see the pricks get away with it, though."

"You think I don't?" Callahan said as he pulled into the department's visitor parking lot. "Man, this really chaps my ass."

"What?"

"Visitor's lot. Man, twenty years and bam! Nothing! It's like we never worked here, ya know?"

"Well, once we're in the reserves..." Frank said as they walked into the main building.

"Yeah," Harry growled, "I know. We'll at least have our feet halfway back in the door."

"I feel fuckin' naked without my 45."

"Tell me about it. What's with Delgetti? I thought he was gonna retire too."

"Couldn't make the numbers work. Five more years and he thinks he'll have enough to live on."

"What about another job. Did he try that?"

"He's like all the other cops I know, Harry. He's blue, through and through, can't see himself doing anything else."

"Hell, he could teach at the Academy, couldn't he?"

"I don't know. I'll mention it, though."

"He's patient, would probably be good at it."

They went into the main personnel office; their papers were ready and just like that they were back on the payroll. As detectives, they had to remain available for calls on weekends and two nights a week, and they had to be available for emergency call-outs, but they were legal again. Their old badge numbers reactivated, their firearms permits renewed, they were real cops again.

"Sorry, Harry, but I'm going to need to stop at the head."

"Gonna puke?"

"Yeah, think so."

They ducked into the patrol division locker room and Bullitt lost a few pounds, then Callahan helped him out to the Rover.

"Man, I'm glad the suspension on this thing is so soft," Frank said as he settled back in the right seat. "Can you give me some A/C?"

Callahan looked at his friend...pale, sweating, his hands trembling a little. "Wish it wasn't so far. Would you rather go to the apartment? I had it cleaned, stem to stern. New sheets on the bed, too."

"No, no way. Let's head to your house, see what we can see. Just drive slow, would you?"

"I may faint."

"What? Why?"

"Frank Bullitt...telling me to drive slow. This has to be a first."

"I'm gonna beat this shit, Callahan. You watch and see. I'm flat-out gonna beat this shit."

"You know, I think you will too. Attitude is everything, right?"

"Damn straight. Callahan, back off...you're following too close..."

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Hell,' he thought, 'who needs a wife...when I got Frank...'

Even driving slow, Callahan made it back to the ranch by half-past three, but Cathy wasn't home yet so they went to his house instead. And the piano was sitting there, waiting, crying out to them like a naked accusation.

"Well," Frank said, "what's the verdict."

Callahan went to the piano, and he stared at the keys for the longest time.

But...it didn't take long for them to have all they needed to take care of the situation.

________________________________

It proved easiest to have Don McCall move into Callahan's old apartment until the service's new helicopters started arriving, while 'Mickey' Rooney and three other ex-military Huey drivers went off to Connecticut to go through a two-month Sikorsky S-76 school. Everyone, including Callahan and Pattison, would have to get current on helicopter IFR operations, as well as upgrade their 'tickets' to FAR airline transport ratings.

The new company's name was Callahan Air Transport, or CAT, and Harry applied for and received an appropriate toll-free 800 number: CAT-CALL. It was easy to remember and made people smile, so a win-win situation as far as Callahan was concerned. Cathy designed the company logo and Harry was surprised at the results: a standing tiger...flashing a huge grin and sporting two fingers held up - making a 'peace sign.' She said it would be perfect for the San Francisco market, and it was.

The Presidio was slated to close soon, so Rooney and Pattison arranged for CAT to take over three helicopter maintenance hangers, as well as an operations building that, as luck would have it, had all the necessary radio antennas they'd ever need. Frank had to take courses to become an FAA certified flight dispatcher, as well as a licensed radio operator, and those two courses occupied almost all his free time for the first two months - at least when he wasn't taking chemo or puking his guts out.

Bell Helicopter offered a great deal on four new 212s if CAT would also buy two low hour Hueys they'd recently taken in on trade, and those six ships were the first to arrive at the CAT House, Frank's chosen name for the Presidio base. One hanger was sealed off and the old helicopters repainted to match the new 212s: silver with deep maroon lowers topped with five pencil-thin stripes in navy blue. Flashy Tiger decals were applied to the undersides and tails, and everyone agreed the Hueys looked pretty good decked out like this.

Callahan arranged to take over a large hanger at Mariposa-Yosemite airport (KMPI), and Cathy designed a small bunkhouse - operations center to house aircrews during the long California fire season. By the time Pattison brought the first S-76 back to San Francisco, Callahan was looking at facilities in South Lake Tahoe and Mammoth Lakes. Cathy thought Silicon Valley would be a prime market and convinced Callahan to look at a small operations center at Palo Alto's small general aviation airport, and that turned out to be the third base in the network.

It was, Callahan thought when he looked back on this period of his life, the busiest and most fulfilling time of his life, and by far the most successful from a financial point of view.

It was also, when he cared to think about such things, the loneliest time of his entire life.

_________________________________

The first letter from Fujiko began with the news that she had decided to go back to school. She wanted, she wrote, to become a certified translator, perhaps work at the United Nations or at an embassy abroad. She made no mention of a future together, and Callahan accepted that at face value; from that point on he assumed the relationship was over.

He heard from Didi every month or so, primarily regarding the state of his investments but he also received a summary of Evelyn's progress at the psychiatric clinic in Davos. What he heard about Evelyn was routinely negative; she had become progressively more disorganized mentally and was exhibiting increasingly violent tendencies. Didi had visited her at the clinic just once; she came away shaken by what she'd seen. Callahan never told Bullitt about this, fearing it might interfere with his treatment and recovery.

Frank did give Delgetti all the information they uncovered about the murder in the alley, but Dell simply would not move on the information without knowing the source. That left Callahan and Bullitt in a quandary; they could tell Delgetti the truth behind the information and risk humiliation, or worse, or he and Frank could simply take care of the matter themselves.

"Yeah, I know," Harry said. "And if we do, what's the difference between us..."

"And the vigilantes. I know, and we've had this conversation before," Frank replied. "But here me out. If we know this is the type of offense that might warrant the death penalty..."

"Don't even go there, Frank. Our system is built on a foundation of due process, and you know that. We circumvent that and what are we left with? We're right back at Lake Shasta, aren't we? It's murder, pure and simple."

"Yeah? Well the death penalty is murder too, isn't it? I mean, once you brush aside all the niceties like 'due process' and 'mandatory appeals' what are you left with? A dead body on a gurney, that's what. You can dress it up any way you want, but the end results are just the same."

"Assuming guilt, yeah, that's right. And - assuming all the appeals go against the perp."

"And how many guilty mobsters have we dealt with who 'got off on a technicality,' Harry? Can you see taking this to court and the defense getting to Delgetti? Asking him about his probable cause for arrest? And he tells the court that Inspectors Callahan and Bullitt have some kind of magic piano that allows them to see into the past. Right! You know what happens then, Harry? They wrap us up in straight jackets and file us away in a little room with no windows and padded walls...!"

"So...the choice is...either we do it - or we let the goons walk."

"Unless you can think of a third option, then yeah."

"We could plant some bogus info with someone inside the Threlkis mob, insinuate..."

"Same outcome, Harry, only our hands would be a little less bloody. Because it would still be murder, pure and simple. Remember the statute? To intentionally or knowingly deprive a person or persons of their life... And we got four people in that car that knew what was going down, right? You want to fade the heat for that if we get some kind of screwball mistrial?"

Callahan sighed.

"And let's not forget, Harry, according to the girl these clowns are gunning for you. Maybe they crawl out of the woodwork when you head into work one morning - and they pick you off on the PCH. You wanna wait around for something like that to happen?"

"Sounds like you've made up my mind, Frank. I still don't like all the moral ambiguity."

"Jesus, Callahan, since when did you grow a fuckin' conscience?"

"After Shasta. That's been burning a hole in my gut ever since."

"Really? I thought that was kind of clear cut to you?"

"It was until I read about the kid finding her dad's body on the porch. That kid is never going to know the reason why her father was killed. She's never going to know about all the bad shit he did. All she's going to remember is seeing her father's shattered face sprayed all over a patio floor. So...what did we do to her, Frank? She's blameless, yet she's going to pay a helluva price for the rest of her life."

"How many murder victims leave behind family in similar circumstances...?"

"You nailed it, Frank, right there. How many murder victims? Murder, Frank. Pure and simple."

"And what did that fucker do to his daughter, Harry? To his own flesh and blood? Murder. Pure and simple. And if he nails you tomorrow? And gets away with it?"

Callahan looked down, shook his head.

"How do you think I'll feel, Harry? Knowing we could have prevented your murder?"

Harry looked up, looked Bullitt in the eye. "Okay," he said. "I don't like it, but okay."

________________________________

Bullitt did what he did best: with the information on hand he located the suspect's vehicle. He photographed all the people coming and going from the suspect's house. Then he tapped the phones and planted bugs in the house. He listened to the phone calls and developed a good idea what the people there were up to, and then...one evening just before an Oakland A's game got underway he picked up a new recording from one of his bugs:

"We located Callahan's place. Up north of here, place called Sea Ranch."

"I heard of that. Bunch of pinko artists live up there."

"When can we hit him?"

"After the next delivery. Benavides don't want nothing to interfere with that, so nothing happens 'til that's out of the way."

"I heard this is gonna be a big one."

"Yeah, it's big alright. No helicopters this time. Morales is gonna use the big boat."

"Sheesh, what are they bringing in? Ten tons again?"

"Bigger, or so I hear. And get this...the stuff is coming up by submarine!"

"No way!"

"Yeah, way. Them fuckin' Colombians think of everything, man."

"So...when's this going down?"

"Next Tuesday, man. We meet up at the place in Sausalito. The boat will pick us up there..."

Bullitt made copies of the tape and then went to meet Callahan at the CatHouse. Rooney was there too when he played the tape.

"So who is this shithead?" Rooney asked.

"The guy gunning for Harry? Name is Raymond Salmi, until recently a resident of San Quentin. He killed his daughter a while back because she put him in Quentin after he beat the living shit out of her. Harry here then proceeded to beat the shit out of Salmi, sending him to Quentin with about seventy stitches on his face."

"Good job, Harry! You say he killed his daughter?"

"Yeah. He's a real model citizen, now into drug running."

"A submarine?" Rooney said. "Man, you guys need to tell the Navy."

"Nope," Callahan said. "This one is strictly off the books."

"So, what are you going to do?"

Bullitt spoke up next. "I say we wait for them to board the boat and hit 'em with some kind of bomb once they get out past the Golden Gate."

Rooney frowned. "No way, Frank. Coast Guard would be all over you in thirty seconds flat."

"So, you got any ideas?" Callahan asked.

"Yeah. Follow me."

Rooney led them across the grounds to a hanger; he took out a key and unlocked a side entry and took them inside.

"What the fuck is that?" Callahan asked, his eyes registering both fear and lust.

"The Agusta-Bell AB-212-ASW variant."

"The what?" Frank asked.

"An Italian built 212 Huey, specifically modified for anti-submarine operations, as well as over-the-water search and rescue ops. The Navy was conducting trials with this one off the coast for a few months. We're keeping it here until reps from Italy come and pick it up."

"What are those?" Callahan asked as he walked up to the port-side weapons pylon.

"ASROC, SUBROC, something like that. Apparently, you launch the thing and it drops a homing torpedo onto the target. The thing is, you got to drop sonobuoys in a pattern around the target for the thing to work."

Callahan stood on the skid and peered into the cockpit. "Looks like any other 212. What gives?"

"Check the back. There's a dual sonar rig where we'd put a flight engineer, and a sonobuoy tech handles the drops. There's also a dipping sonar."

"Man, you're speaking Greek now," Frank said.

Callahan turned to Rooney: "Did you say there's a dipping sonar installed?"

"Yup. And something called MAD gear."

"Then we wouldn't need a sonar operator," Harry said.