Read Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death for Free Online

bleached rectangle on the wall where it had been.
    Turner looked much the same, his hair was sparse, but otherwise the six years had been good to him. For someone imminently expecting the end of the world, he appeared happier than any man had a right to be.
    Because he could use the office as he wanted—with so many years on the job, he had his share of privileges and perks—he was able to conduct his illegal operations from it without fear of interruption.
    Raising his eyes, Turner regarded the man who stood before him. He didn’t seem too pleased by what he saw. “You look like shit,” he said in a quiet voice.
    “I’m supposed to be a corpse, remember? Corpses generally don’t look in the peak of health.”
    Turner swivelled about on his revolving chair so that he was no longer facing Gallant. He was instead facing the blank spot on the wall. “What can I do for you?”
    “I told you what I needed over the phone.”
    “Yes, you did. Money you want, is that right?”
    “And a car and papers, a Social Security card, driver’s license, that sort of thing. It shouldn’t be any problem for you.”
    “No, it shouldn’t . . .” Turner agreed, swivelling back around to look into Gallant’s face again. “Here,” he said, tossing over a photograph to the other side of the desk. “You recognize that house?”
    It was a mansion actually, that must contain well over forty rooms. While the photograph was not large enough to show all the grounds, it certainly suggested they were sizable, covering several acres that stretched over a hillside, above a body of bright blue water.
    Gallant gazed admiringly at it for several moments. “I can’t say I’ve ever laid eyes on it before. But it sure looks like a pretty place.” Especially after a stretch in prison, he was about to say.
    “Thirty-six thousand dollars a year in real estate taxes alone,” Turner said. To Turner it wasn’t enough that a residence exuded an aura of wealth, he had to know the exact dollars and cents value of it as well.
    Gallant was suitably impressed and let out a low whistle.
    “Why did you think I might know this?”
    “A man named Jay Silk lives there. It’s in the woods right above Paradise Drive, ten, fifteen miles to the north of Sausalito.”
    “Jay Silk? Should the name mean anything to me?”
    Turner smiled. He delighted in springing surprises, but he abhorred the idea of being on the receiving end of them, which was why he was constantly anticipating the collapse of the economy followed shortly by the obliteration of the world. He didn’t want to ever be surprised.
    “It should, yes. But seeing as it doesn’t, I will take it upon myself to enlighten you.”
    All this while Gallant tried to puzzle out what this house had to do with getting his money and his credentials and his car so he could undertake his mission of vengeance.
    “Go ahead.”
    Turner liked to keep people in suspense which was why he took as long as he did coming to a point. “Jay Silk is the widowed father of a woman named Sheila Richmond.” His smile grew broader. “Now there’s a name I should think would be familiar to you.”
    Gallant was speechless. He needed Turner, but he never really liked him, and now he knew why: Turner was always one step ahead of him.
    “It’s familiar to me, yes,” he said, trying his best, and failing, to keep his voice neutral. But his mounting excitement was too palpable; his face was flushed and he realized his hands were trembling enough for Turner to notice.
    “How would you like to go work for Mr. Silk? He’s retired now, but he lives very comfortably on his investments and still leads a lifestyle that most people would find enviable. I am told he requires a chauffeur with good references. A man who would, from time to time, have to double as a jack of all trades. You could do that, couldn’t you, Jimmy, act as a jack of all trades?”
    It was as if Turner had been reading his mind. Gallant struggled to find the