Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill by Dane Hartman Page B

between her breasts which swayed slightly in response to the motion of her long legs as she drew them onto the bed. Drops of moisture, like tiny jewels, glimmered on the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
    “Hello, Harry,” she whispered, nestling down under the covers.
    “I don’t think this is such a terrific idea,” was what he started to say, again thinking of Harold, but it wasn’t a sentence he was able to complete.
    She pressed herself against him and in doing so inadvertently prodded some tender patches of flesh. But the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure she brought him. It was better than being fished out of the deep.
    When he awoke again the sun was high enough in the sky to make its presence known inside Harry’s apartment. Shafts of hot July light streamed in through the drawn shades and the pulled curtains.
    Opening his eyes, Harry blinked. Something needed doing today, he was sure, but couldn’t quite remember what it was. The other side of his bed was bare. He thought that maybe Wendy had slipped away during the night. Before he could ascertain this for certain the phone began ringing.
    “Callahan,” he answered in a groggy voice.
    “Did I awake you, Harry?”
    It was Harold. Christ, it was Harold.
    “It’s all right. What time is it?”
    “Eight-thirty. I’ve been up for two hours now.”
    Harry had every reason to believe Harold was going to ask him what had happened to Wendy. Wendy had gone shopping and left the door open for herself or else had found the key and used it to get herself back in because she was right now stepping into the apartment, a big brown bag hugged to her chest, calling, “Harry? Are you up?” in a voice loud enough (Harry was sure) for it to be heard on the other end of the wire.
    “I got us breakfast,” she said before she realized he was on the phone, his hand over the mouthpiece to prevent Harold from hearing anything more incriminating. “Sorry.” She clearly had no idea whom he was talking to.
    “Harry, are you still there?” Either Harold had not heard his wife or else he chose to ignore her.
    “I’m still here.”
    “I know you said you’d call me but frankly, I’m an impatient man, and I’m anxious to learn of what you decided.”
    “What I decided,” Harry repeated dully, then remembered: the boat, the trip down to Mexico, Max. “Shit.” The imprecation came automatically.
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Well, I have to know. Are you with me, Harry?”
    Harry looked over toward Wendy who was obliviously unpacking the goods she’d purchased, putting some of them into the depleted refrigerator and leaving others on the table. Even though she was wearing the clothes she’d had on the night before she still looked incredible, especially early in the morning. Whenever she leaned forward the slit in her white skirt would part to reveal a mesmerizing stretch of trim golden leg; he was getting fixated almost to the point of forgetting about Harold.
    “Harry? Is something wrong with your connection?”
    “No. Everything’s fine with this connection. What the hell, sure.”
    “What the hell sure what?”
    “What the hell, sure, I’ll go to Mexico for you.”
    “That’s great, Harry, that’s marvelous. Come by later this afternoon.”
    Wendy, for the first time realizing who it was, turned to face Harry, then threw her hand over her mouth to keep the laughter from getting out.

C H A P T E R

N i n e
    “S later Bodkin, what kind of a name is Slater Bodkin?”
    Harry turned to the lean, practically emaciated figure who sat beside him on the pier, waiting to see how the man would react.
    “I don’t rightly know. Doesn’t sound Italian, does it? It’s the name my mama gave me. Not my papa. We come from what you’d call a very indeterminate heritage.”
    With his cap tugged down to shadow his gnarled brow and with his unlit pipe dangling between his lips, he looked the picture of the classic sea captain. He could