Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

Hope had exaggerated the pressing nature of his engagement, and his reward for expediting Black from his office was time enough for another drink; this time he made it a Wyoming bourbon – one he hadn’t tried before but it looked like something he could drink in a hurry – and it hit him hard: he figured the only reason it had come into his possession here in New York was that it had been distilled close to a railroad. Another sizzling swallow. With his vocal chords barely in a state to utter an address, Hope caught a cab to the Chesterville Inn off Grand Central Station.

  Alice Fontaine was already seated and waiting for him. She was dressed in a woolen green jacket over a white cotton blouse. Her hair was pinned in a bun. She was drinking white wine. A well-thumbed menu was lying beside it. Her elbows were on the table and her chin was resting on her hands. Her suitcase and handbag were left with a degree of bravery on the floor beside her.

  Despite the Fedora peaked low over his eyes, Fontaine recognised Hope as soon as he stepped into the bar and she signaled to him with a flap of hand. Hope liked the way a light had come into her eyes when she saw him - he liked it a lot.

  ‘You don’t have a suitcase of your own,’ she commented as he approached the table. ‘I had hoped I convinced you to come and meet mother.’

  Hope reached over and kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the table’s other chair. ‘I had hoped I convinced you to unpack yours.’

  ‘Well, there you go. I suppose Grand Central is full of disappointed people. For us, as in every other case, the train will come and wipe the sleight clean.’ She smiled and sipped her wine. ‘I blame you for leaving it till now to hear my final answer.’

  ‘My strategy relied on you nearing the point of departure and not being able to go through with it.’

  ‘Hmm. That might have been more likely if the part of the escapade you were offering me was the paint work on all those New York landmarks. To be on top of the world might have been a reason to stay. More compelling by far than accompanying you to grotty restaurants and bars to rub shoulders with the grime that dwells in the cracks in the city.’

  ‘Are you sure? All I do on top of buildings is paint. Back on the ground it will be all about restaurants, bars and fine drinking.’ He glanced analytically at Fontaine’s glass and scouted out a waitress to make his own order – the waitress arrived before he could even make his gesture and seemed to enjoy his look of surprise.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Most of our customers have trains to catch. We need eyes in the back of our heads.’

  ‘My thirst also has a train to catch. Bourbon with an ice-cube to lubricate it. And nothing out of Wyoming. Well, the ice maybe.’

  The waitress smiled and withdrew.

  Fontaine’s eyes had remained on Hope. ‘I know you’ve tried to explain what you’ll be doing in those restaurants and bars but I can’t yet put a word to it. Consorting with criminals. Fighting crime from the inside out. The one word it isn’t is policing.’

  ‘Things that haven’t been done before don’t come with words.’

  ‘And you’d obviously like to live in a world with a very small dictionary.’

  ‘That would be something.’

  The waitress returned quickly with the drink resting on the flat of her hand: she slid it down onto the table and hurried away, eyes on another table requiring her attention.

  Hope and Fontaine tapped their glasses together and drank. Fontaine took her wine all the way to the bottom.

  ‘If the word turns out to be something old and familiar like trouble,’ she said, sticking with their theme, ‘you should take a train of your own. You’ll find enough things to do in Kentucky to keep your restless spirit occupied. Apart from meeting mother.’

  ‘Horses?’ murmured Hope doubtfully.

  ‘Horses. And what comes with them when you train them to go fast. Bets, bribes and double crosses. There’s always something like that.’ Fontaine left her chair and gathered up her luggage. ‘Getting yourself written about in the papers might mean you’ll need to get away from your name just as fast as you need to get away from the city. Kentucky has deep countryside. People’s sins and history seem to dissolve into it like a sprinkle of salt in a barrel full of lemonade. That’s what it did for me.’

  As Hope went to stand, she held him down by the shoulder: then she kissed him with a quick peck on the cheek.

  ‘Stay here,’ she whispered and collected up her bags. ‘If you see me off, you’ll be letting the train take something away from me.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Hope tried to stay dispassionate; he did not even look back as she left the bar. Instead, he downed the remnants of his drink, which was mostly just the melting of the ice. And the waitress was back again, anticipating that such a flavour would never do. Hope ordered the same again and she fetched it with her customary pace. This time, however, she did not immediately run off.

  ‘We have our fair share of famous travelers stop in here,’ she said. ‘I’ve made it something of an occupation spotting them out, from under their hat brims and from behind their dark glasses. Or some will just park right in front of you and not budge until you let them know how easily recognized their fame is.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘You’re the Oregon Prime man, aren’t you? Painting the tallest buildings in town. You’re in the posters. A rope all that’s between you and certain death.’ She smiled endearingly. ‘And I heard on the radio that you were on top of the Empire State. I think it’s all terribly exciting. You are more real than any of those sports players that come in here kissing air.’ She paused and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’d get fired if I asked you for an autograph. Besides, my husband is the jealous type.’

  Hope watched her leave again and nodded to himself: it was working, he was getting to be just about famous enough.

  5. ‘New York is the heart of our country and the blood it is pumping out is poisoned.’

  ‘Some people will say it’s the best job in the city, others would faint just thinking about it. This evening we have the opportunity to ask the man himself. He’s been up on our finest buildings giving the flagpoles a fresh lick of paint and he’s come down for his first full radio interview. So let’s give a big welcome to Oregon Prime’s George Hope.’

  The studio audience broke into applause until the producer cut them short – in awe at being in the WABC radio studios, they were as malleable as dough in the hands of a baker.

  Hope walked onto the stage and sat in the other chair. He smiled dashingly and waved to the audience. He was perspiring to a sheen in his dark suit, under the heat of the stage lights. There was a microphone at chin level and across the desk there was the presenter, Hugh McGovern, whose deep radio voice bellowed out from a remarkably thin, prune-like neck.

  ‘It’s very humbling to be here,’ Hope said.

  ‘We’ve just had the good Detective Warren Longworry on the air to assure our listeners that despite the recent upsurge in violence on our streets, there is still no such thing as a free lunch for criminals; now, with the incredible views you have over us, you must surely hold a unique insight into this question. Have you seen evidence of unabated crime on the streets you work above?’

  ‘I am too busy holding onto the roofs I paint to ever look down,’ quipped Hope. ‘But if Detective Longworry says there isn’t, that’s all the view I need.’

  Having moved to the studio side door to be positioned alongside Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones, Longworry was impressed with what he heard. And he showed it not so much by smiling as by merely clenching his jaw muscles. ‘He can flatter alright. The criminals he consorts with will be all the more starstruck if he can keep that up.’ His voice was hard and rough and perfectly matched his appearance as the quintessential New York City cop. There were battle scars on his face and hands that he wore just as unaffectedly as he did his resplendent navy blue suit and black and gold diamond-patterned tie
. He had thick black hair, sharp green eyes, a broad Gaelic nose and a stubbled jaw that could take a punch far better than it could hold a smile.

  Jones folded his arms with a hint of unease - he could not help feeling small in the presence of the toughest cop he had ever known.

  ‘You would consider him a worthy opponent?’ he queried earnestly.

  Longworry shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘I couldn’t rightly say. I mean, sure he can do nice. But that doesn’t mean anything when the flattery stops.’

  On the stage flattery was continuing.

  ‘Is mine the best job in New York?’ Hope was musing into the microphone. ‘I’d say anyone serving the Stars and Stripes has the best job in the city. And putting a coat of paint on the poles on which the world’s greatest flag flies isn’t so bad.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed McGovern in his smoothest announcer’s voice. ‘Now, perhaps you could kindly explain to our listeners something of why you choose Oregon Prime as the paint worthy of your patriotic work.’

  ‘I’d be happy to, Hugh. On the highest buildings in this amazing city the weather can be harsh and unforgiving. Blizzards in winter and scorching summer days. We have it all. Only a paint with the wherewithal to handle mother nature in all her moods will do.’

  ‘And it certainly does that, while retaining its clear, rich, milky colour.’

  Detective Warren Longworry offered Jones a cigarette; it was turned down. Undeterred Longworry lit a cigarette for himself. He took in a deep draft and sighed. ‘The way they’re talking about that paint, they’ll wind up bathing in it. And they’ll have the women in the audience applying it as facial cream.’

  Jones liked the smell of the cigarette, though did not regret refusing his. He would only go for one of his own cigars and only once he had the opportunity to savour it. In the meantime there was his hip flask. Whiskey could never get too bitter for him and this brand he was now swilling was unequivocal proof of it.

  ‘What’s your case load like these days?’ he murmured as he twisted the cap back on.

  ‘New York is my case load, and under those shiny white flagpoles it gets pretty rough.’

  The Assistant District Attorney sighed. ‘You’re not far wrong. New York is the heart of our country and the blood it is pumping out is poisoned. Detective Longworry, we are the purifiers. How we do that is by standing our ground and not letting any of the dirt slip passed us. Not any of it.’

  ‘Stirring. Mind if I grab one of those microphones and get you to relay what you just said to the whole world?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m sure McGovern would bite any hand that dared touch them.’

  As though to emphasise the point, McGovern leaned even further into his, strengthening his voice for one of his trademark rousing finishes: ‘If there is one thing I have learnt in my years doing this program, when it comes to American heroes, you know them when you see them. And we’ve seen a couple here tonight. So, let’s give a big thank you to George Hope and Detective Longworry, and if you see Hope atop one of our grand modern buildings doing his bit for the American flag, be sure to give him a shout and a wave. Ladies and Gentleman, a big cheer for George Hope.’

  The audience applauded on cue, though there seemed more affection than a bouncing producer alone could conjure. Hope waved a hand and stepped off the stage and shook outreaching hands from the audience all the way to Jones and Longworry, who were looking on impassively.

  ‘They like you more than me,’ muttered Longworry. ‘That’s the first round to you. An easy round. And not a single bruise.’

  Jones introduced the two men to each other and the subsequent handshakes were strong and meant something.

  ‘I arranged for you to be both on the same program so we could meet up like this without creating any suspicion,’ continued Jones. ‘Kalternborn would have been nice but McGovern was the best I could do. Anyway, I’ve obtained the use of Studio 3a. It’s sound proof. So let’s go chat.’

  He led the way, moving quickly and did not look back. Studio 3a was located where a closet might have been, down a flight of stairs and along a dimly lit corridor. The studio itself, however, was surprisingly large, almost as large as the one they had just come from, and immaculately clean; it smelt of disinfectant.

  ‘They call this showbiz? grumbled Longworry unimpressed nonetheless and spat out his cigarette as he trudged inside. ‘If this is a race to see who is the thirstiest, I’ve already won.’

  Jones remained by the door, waiting to close it – Hope was a step or two behind.

  ‘You two have already done your fair share of talking for the day,’ said Jones once the door was closed; he sat down on the stool of the grand piano in the corner. ‘Now it’s my turn.’

  The other two instruments in the studio – a cello and a violin – did not come with seats, so Hope and Longworry remained standing. Longworry was the taller of the two, though with the stoop in his shoulders only just.

  ‘Detective Longworry has already been informed of who you really are,’ said Jones to Hope in his most officious tone, ‘so let me help balance out the situation. Longworry is very well known both in law enforcement circles and amongst criminal elements as one of the best worst police officers in New York. And yes, you heard me right. He has been cooling his heels in a desk job for the past two years as a result of some indiscretions that are best left unmentioned. Sure the public still think he is cutting the crime stats in half just by crossing the streets, ‘cause he looks so damned big and mean, but really he isn’t doing much more than sharing chatter in the typing pool. To get back out on the street he has accepted the only job we are offering.’

  Longworry was still looking at Hope disapprovingly. Hope said, ‘Not issuing parking tickets I hope. I am a double parked out front.’

  ‘We’re putting him out on the streets to be your foil,’ continued Longworry, hurriedly. ‘The conventional policing methods to your unconventional. Any arrests to be made or action to be taken will be done through him. He is universally considered a loose cannon. Highly unpredictable. So, whether it be small or large, he will be able to mop up a mess for you without creating any undue suspicion. Curiosity, perhaps, but not suspicion.’

  Hope wondered if that explained the glowering: a man like Longworry would not like the idea of being somebody’s wet nurse.

  Jones looked to one and then the other. ‘Consider yourselves partners but keep your distance. This scheme is like nothing that has been tried in the history of law enforcement: a targeted combination of the conventional and unconventional. Keep to your allotted side of this and work independently of each other or else we’ll have a hybrid and the results of the experiment will be near impossible to measure.’ He smirked wryly. ‘I really do have affection for this city, and yet with me unleashing you two upon it, some would dispute the suggestion.’ He struck a hard D major on the piano and went to the door. ‘I will leave you two to get further acquainted and to confirm your lines of communication. With the fame that has now been established, I would say we are ready to begin. Good luck, gentlemen.’

  Longworry and Hope remained behind in the studio. They eyed each other pointedly.

  ‘Unconventional?’ Longworry finally murmured. ‘As far as I can tell, you are just a glorified snitch.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  ‘Or maybe a spy. Whatever you are, I’ll tell you this. It will be the Assistant District Attorney who is keeping his distance, in case anything goes wrong, anything that could muddy his career. People like that use people like us as play things. It has always been that way. He’ll play with us until something goes wrong and then he’ll put us in the thrift store and look for his next toy. Skills he honed in the sandbox of his youth.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  ‘That being said, it is my only way of getting back onto the streets away from that damned desk of mine, so I’m all in.’ Longworry managed to darken his gaze still further. ‘I can’t imagine why
you’d be doing this over smoking cigars in your members-only lounge chair.’

  Hope headed for the door with a sly smirk, patting Longworry on the arm on the way. ‘You’re just jealous ‘cause I get to be the unconventional one. I’ll be in touch.’ He felt the silence on his back. And all the way out the 485 Madison Avenue building into the cool, breezy night, his fingers were remembering the way Longworry’s bicep had locked to his touch like one of those steel cables suspending Brooklyn Bridge.

  6. ‘We bury them in six feet of ground, but there is not that much dirt in our heads. So we remember.’

  ‘One more?’ slurred the intoxicated old man with his uncooperative tongue.

  ‘Nah, friend, I’ll hold onto this one,’ replied Hope. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to be painting on the Waldorf Astonia, not the straightest of roofs, so I’ll need my balance. But your next one is on me all the same.’

  Hope leaned across the corner of the bar and got the bartender to temporarily replace his wiping rag for a bottle of whiskey and a glass – just long enough to put them together, and, as reluctant as he seemed, the bartender proved that rare sort that poured the way a carpenter hammered and the result was a single that wouldn’t leave a double much room to move. Hope’s new-found acquaintance at the bar was very happy to get it.

  ‘Cheers,’ the man said, bouncing the glass off Hope’s to his eagerly awaiting lips.

  Hope had pegged him for a regular from the moment the man had stepped into the bar. It was in the way he slid into the barstool without looking and the way his elbows seemed intimately connected to the bar top, like one of those cuddly couples that had been married forty years. A short, jovial man, albeit one who mistook kindness for another glass of whiskey, he had introduced himself as a Pollack first and as Burney second, and he had proven good company, or at least good cover, for, despite a rather interesting Turkish mustache, he was not the type to attract much attention beyond the odd silent pledge of a patron never to turn out like that.

  ‘You’re a brave man climbing up all those roofs,’ he managed to enunciate with an exaggerated gesture that almost sent him off his stool - he conceded his compromised capacity for movement and replanted his elbows on the bar. ‘I once went up my roof to clear out some dead rodents, damned near fell through the hole the fiends had eaten out.’

  The Jolly Whaler on 72nd Street was the bar they were in: it was one of those places that had managed to drown out the entire Depression with noise and bluster and if there was going to be a war then it would drown that out as well. And this was another night of it. There was a cacophony of drunken, carefree laughter and chatter throughout the overcrowded tables. There were men groping at their female companions and receiving in return everything from firm slaps across the ear to full sets of lips. There was a fiddler playing zealously in amongst the throng, playing like the arms of a drowning man flailing in the water. And there was residue beer dampening the floors, bar-top and chairs as pervasively as the midnight dew forming outside.

  ‘Brave, you say?’ said Hope. ‘I’m sure you don’t consider me the toughest amongst this lot.’

  The Pollack named Burney twirled the end of his moustache to ensure it was continuing to defy the laws of gravity. After a moment of pondering he said, ‘I’m sure you are able to distinguish tough from brave, so I will not risk offending you. No, you would not be the toughest in this bar. Not by a long shot. There are some here that would do anything, anything at all to get what they wanted, and it wouldn’t even matter if they wanted it or not.’ He cackled and his shoulders hunched up.

  ‘No, I am not offended to hear that.’

  Burney swigged some more whiskey as though just checking that it was still there. ‘The toughest though is not a hard choice.’ His voice became inexplicably sober. ‘I spend most my nights staring at her.’ He gestured with his glass to the tall red head busy at the other end of the bar. ‘Rose Dovetail. The essence of tough. She knows well enough that everything worth having must be wrested from somebody else and she’s a true artist at it.’

  Hope leaned across the bar for a closer look. He was able to do so quite blatantly as it was just one more stare amongst many. Even through the haze of cigarette smoke the sheen in her hair and the green of her eyes were impressive. The way men were gravitating to her end of the bar it apparently only got better on approach - many were staying long after their drink had been poured.

  Hope turned back to Barney. ‘She’s popular. What makes her so bad? Does she water down the drinks?’

  ‘It is what she serves up with her drinks. And on the contrary, it’s so damned concentrated that when suckers get a taste they are hooked. Extreme lust. There’s no better way to say it, is there? Poor suckers who come here to drown their sorrows wind up drowning in their sorrows. Bank managers, politicians, police officers, she’s had a little nibble of them all.’

  ‘She can’t just settle for holding onto one?’

  ‘Who knows? But why would she when it’s clear she doesn’t have to. And it ain’t about the riches. She cuts them loose, throws their carcasses out on the street even when they are still clamoring to give more.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor girl might have had the kind of jilting that dislocates a jaw. Pray not literally. But that’s the only way to account for it. She’s paid for it alright and just like hard currency it gets passed around and around and only gets grubbier.’

  ‘And you? Have you had a touch?’

  ‘I daresay I would have. If only I had something to offer her. I’d give it to her even now, regardless of what I think I know.’

  ‘She must be something.’

  Burney saluted with his glass and finished off the whiskey and the accompanying grimace set itself upon the cracks of his face. ‘So that’s what you get for a round from me: a story. Step up to her end of the bar for the next round and she might just grant you one of your own - a double heartbreak with ice.’

  ‘Tempting, but don’t sell yourself short. Why would I want to talk with anyone else? This is just the stuff to take my mind off all those freezing roofs of New York.’ Hope looked away from the effervescent redhead grinning as she poured another customer his beer. ‘So, tell me, for curiosity’s sake, who is the second toughest in the bar?’