the porch looked invitingly escapable. Harry shuffled in that direction for a moment, then stopped. He looked down. He thought about the fact that the porch was mounted about six feet off the ground. He thought about all the empty space between the dirt and the boards he was standing on.
Then he silently lowered the beer keg to the porch floor on its side. He placed the sole of his shoe against it and pushed. The keg slowly rolled toward the right edge of the porch.
Two seconds after it started rolling, bullet holes started appearing from underneath. As it lazily drifted to the right, gun reports would mingle with the sound of lead popping through and inside the oblong cask. As Harry had figured, Thurston was underneath the porch, shooting what he thought was a stalking policeman.
As soon as Thurston thought his stalker was dead, he himself fled. He raced out from under the porch toward the right and headed for the front of the bar and his parked car. Putting his weapon away, Harry ran over to the hole-ridden keg, picked it up, and threw it after the running man.
The fairly heavy metal cask bounced off the back of Thurston’s head with a noise that was reminiscent of the sound the gong made at the beginning of a J. Arthur Rank film or throughout a Chuck Barris TV game show. Thurston’s head jutted forward, then the rest of his body followed. The kickback man did a forward somersault through the air, landed heavily on his back, and lay still.
“I tell you there’s nothing we can do about it,” complained Sheriff Strughold in a voice mixing pride with pleading. “The gun was legally registered, the final arrest was made by a duly authorized officer of the law . . . there’s absolutely nothing we can charge him with.”
“Do you mean to say,” H. A. Striker began, his voice mixing patience with displeasure, “that an out-of-state inspector throws a beer keg on one man’s head, assaults another, kills the third, and shoots up a night spot, and he hasn’t broken the law?”
“The owner isn’t pressing charges,” the Sheriff answered unhappily. “Every single witness backs up Callahan’s plea of self-defense. Besides, its being handled by the homicide and D.A.’s office. There was nothing I could hold him on.”
Hannibal Striker and Mitch Strughold stewed in the company of two bodyguards and two deputies at an outside café along the Paseo del Rio, the river Harry had mentioned to the drunk. It was a two and a half mile section of the San Antonio river dotted with shore-bound shops and eateries as well as floating vehicles for sightseeing and entertainment. The six powerful men sat around a square table right at the water’s edge.
On either side of them were trees that had strung lights reaching from branch to branch. It was a festive location and a beautiful Texas morning. It was a nice day to plan a vengeful counterattack.
The river was only about sixty feet wide and rarely more than twenty feet deep. Across the river from the half-dozen plotters was a walking area, often interrupted by stairways that led to stone bridges that spanned the water. On the bridge closest to the restaurant stood Harry Callahan. He watched as Striker and company talked.
He was wearing a new gray pair of pants which he had bought his first day in. It went well with his light brown jacket, the one he always wore, the light-green, button-down shirt and the maroon tie. Mrs. Nash was nice enough to take his other clothes to the wash today. She said she had to do the kids’ laundry anyway.
Harry stood on the scenic bridge, looking at the lovely city, tranquil waters, and quaint restaurant, and felt depressed. He felt depressed because both Mrs. Nash and Hannibal Striker looked exactly like he thought they would. Mrs. Nash was pretty. She was small, brunette, and looked like Mary Ann on “Gilligan’s Island.” The word to describe her was perky. Striker, on the other hand, was tan-colored and calculatingly handsome. His face
Then he silently lowered the beer keg to the porch floor on its side. He placed the sole of his shoe against it and pushed. The keg slowly rolled toward the right edge of the porch.
Two seconds after it started rolling, bullet holes started appearing from underneath. As it lazily drifted to the right, gun reports would mingle with the sound of lead popping through and inside the oblong cask. As Harry had figured, Thurston was underneath the porch, shooting what he thought was a stalking policeman.
As soon as Thurston thought his stalker was dead, he himself fled. He raced out from under the porch toward the right and headed for the front of the bar and his parked car. Putting his weapon away, Harry ran over to the hole-ridden keg, picked it up, and threw it after the running man.
The fairly heavy metal cask bounced off the back of Thurston’s head with a noise that was reminiscent of the sound the gong made at the beginning of a J. Arthur Rank film or throughout a Chuck Barris TV game show. Thurston’s head jutted forward, then the rest of his body followed. The kickback man did a forward somersault through the air, landed heavily on his back, and lay still.
“I tell you there’s nothing we can do about it,” complained Sheriff Strughold in a voice mixing pride with pleading. “The gun was legally registered, the final arrest was made by a duly authorized officer of the law . . . there’s absolutely nothing we can charge him with.”
“Do you mean to say,” H. A. Striker began, his voice mixing patience with displeasure, “that an out-of-state inspector throws a beer keg on one man’s head, assaults another, kills the third, and shoots up a night spot, and he hasn’t broken the law?”
“The owner isn’t pressing charges,” the Sheriff answered unhappily. “Every single witness backs up Callahan’s plea of self-defense. Besides, its being handled by the homicide and D.A.’s office. There was nothing I could hold him on.”
Hannibal Striker and Mitch Strughold stewed in the company of two bodyguards and two deputies at an outside café along the Paseo del Rio, the river Harry had mentioned to the drunk. It was a two and a half mile section of the San Antonio river dotted with shore-bound shops and eateries as well as floating vehicles for sightseeing and entertainment. The six powerful men sat around a square table right at the water’s edge.
On either side of them were trees that had strung lights reaching from branch to branch. It was a festive location and a beautiful Texas morning. It was a nice day to plan a vengeful counterattack.
The river was only about sixty feet wide and rarely more than twenty feet deep. Across the river from the half-dozen plotters was a walking area, often interrupted by stairways that led to stone bridges that spanned the water. On the bridge closest to the restaurant stood Harry Callahan. He watched as Striker and company talked.
He was wearing a new gray pair of pants which he had bought his first day in. It went well with his light brown jacket, the one he always wore, the light-green, button-down shirt and the maroon tie. Mrs. Nash was nice enough to take his other clothes to the wash today. She said she had to do the kids’ laundry anyway.
Harry stood on the scenic bridge, looking at the lovely city, tranquil waters, and quaint restaurant, and felt depressed. He felt depressed because both Mrs. Nash and Hannibal Striker looked exactly like he thought they would. Mrs. Nash was pretty. She was small, brunette, and looked like Mary Ann on “Gilligan’s Island.” The word to describe her was perky. Striker, on the other hand, was tan-colored and calculatingly handsome. His face
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