Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  It took a good hour for him to walk home. It was not exactly a stroll in the hills, but it helped clear his head.

  When he finally made it, he found there was someone familiar sitting on his apartment building doorstep. In the darkness of the hour her hair should have been every bit as black and white as the wall portrait he had seen her in, but the pure blonde locks shone out lustrously with what little street lighting there was. The woman had been using the steps as an ashtray and as she saw Hope approach, she stamped out her latest stick.

  ‘George Hope?’ She fanned herself with his calling card. ‘You placed a visit with my sister. I’m Stacey Gurner.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. But my home address is not on that card.’

  She smiled slyly. ‘That just shows I know more about you than you’d care to print. I’m a resourceful girl.’

  Hope stopped at the base of the steps and spent a moment looking at her. It was her eyes that had most his attention. They were the perfect antidote to the darkness of Snap’s, which he had been trying to get out of his head. Clear, zestful and piercingly intelligent.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ he asked.

  Stacey leaned forward on her step. ‘If a gentleman offers a girl a job, he must surely be willing to offer a dinner as well. It does say gentleman on your card. And I am willing to believe it despite the blood on your collar.’

  Hope moved to rub his neck, but then thought the better of it.

  ‘It’s probably in fact just a drop of paint,’ added Stacey. ‘But I wouldn’t go painting the family home in that colour. It’s liable to give little Johnny nightmares.’ She smirked. ‘Yes, I know who you are.’ She held out a calling card of her own. ‘It’s hand written and not of a quality of yours. But the perfume it is dabbed with is French.’

  Hope went to take it, only for her fingers to resist.

  ‘Take the whole hand if you will,’ she said.

  Hope took her hand and aided her upright. The contact did not break there, not in the first instance at any rate. Stacey smiled into his eyes and her hand slowly slipped out of his hold. The card remained behind in his fingers.

  ‘You’re just as my sister described you,’ she said. ‘The blood, she just guessed at. Sorry, paint.’ She walked away with her proud shoulders accentuating her height. ‘Make a reservation. Oh, and I don’t like fish.’

  Hope marvelled at her as she descended into the darkness of the street and realised a change that had not even occurred in the alley brawl: his heartbeat had quickened.

  He stepped over the cigarette butts and through the doors and once inside his apartment poured the best whiskey he had had in a long time. Then he got on the phone and roused Detective Longworry out of bed with a body in an alley to investigate. He said to inform Donovan Black once he had decided on the version of events he wanted to print.

  Longworry said if the dead man turned out to be as bad as Hope claimed, he would take the credit for the killing himself.

  When the call ended, Hope went to the mirror. There were only a few specs of blood on his neck. Stacey Gurner obviously had a sharp pair of eyes.

  12. ‘The more crooked the man, the more he needs a weapon that shoots straight.’

  The customer in front of him walked away with chewing gum, a horse racing weekly and change, which he was counting as though it were the most important part of the transaction. The newsstand was across from Carnegie Hall on 57th Street. It had already replaced the morning papers with the afternoon editions. The last paper he read was days ago. He had been informed from it that Snap’s real name was Cameron Podmore and that Detective Longworry had ended his life in the course of duty - he neglected the fine print.

  George Hope stepped up to the counter then, meeting eyes with the handsome, unshaven seller. Foxlee Smith was his name and he was not looking at Hope like he was just another quarter.

  ‘The Declining Tribune, sir?’ he queried nervously.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Hope, having forgotten the codename and about to ask what he was here for by name: a Colt .45, a Smith and Wesson revolver and ammunition.

  Foxlee had the package under the counter, ready for the sale. It was rectangular in shape, was heavy and sloppily wrapped in brown paper and bound with cord.

  ‘The complete series as requested,’ said Foxlee, still in his code.

  ‘Can I open it? I want to be sure I’m getting what I’m paying for.’

  Foxlee anxiously looked around him. ‘Right here? You serious?’

  Hope chuckled and slapped an envelope on the counter. ‘The more crooked the man, the more he needs a weapon that shoots straight. That’s doubly true for the men who recommended you to me. You know what I’m sayin’?’

  Foxlee stared levelly at him. ‘Wise guy.’ He snapped up the envelope and peeked inside and stuck it under the counter in the same place the package had come from. ‘I’ll trust you too.’

  ‘Well, much appreciated. You’ll actually find more in the envelope than we settled on. Just to start our business dealings off on the right foot.’

  ‘A tip for a gunrunner? Why not?’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Hope pulled from the stand a Brooklyn Chronicle. ‘But I trust it will cover something to read on the way home?’ He walked away, tucking the package and the newspaper under his arm. He hurried across the busy road and climbed into the back of a shiny parked Pontiac that had Detective Longworry in the other seat in the back and his lieutenant, Davenas, studiously erect in the driver’s seat.

  ‘I’ve got something for you to read during the stake out,’ said Hope, passing the newspaper over to Davenas. He opened the package, finding the two firearms and boxes of ammunition.

  ‘Nice pieces,’ observed Longworry. ‘A delinquent selling guns out of a newsstand. I don’t think I’ve heard of such a thing before. And you think he sells drugs as well?’

  ‘I was told it’s a side business.’

  ‘A side business to what?, selling newspapers or selling guns?’

  ‘To selling fascism.’

  ‘I’d like to say you are on the wrong continent for such talk but your source is starting to seem reliable enough.’ Longworry shifted his eyes from the firearms back to the newsstand. ‘Normally we would put the newsstand under surveillance a week or two, identify who was being sold what and at the appropriate moment launch a mass arrest, sucking them all into one big cage. But with our newly charmed existence it doesn’t seem like we have to worry where our next big tipoff is coming from, which means we don’t have to try milking things like this for as much as they’re worth.’ His voice became bitter. ‘Which is just as well ‘cause I don’t think we can get our hands on anyone in this caper other than the kids dealing with the quarters.’ He frowned at Hope. ‘You’d better give Davenas the briefing to go with the newspaper.’

  Hope nodded and turned to Davenas. ‘The operation belongs to a man who goes by the name of Zeal. There is talk Hitler himself is overseeing the conspiracy: to flood the working class of America with guns so that, when the time comes, revolution will be feasible. Hitler, you see, has learnt from the Russia Revolution that when a powerful army places pressure on a country, the first cracks appear at the centre. He would exploit that. So, the guns will come quick and cheaply.’

  Longworry interjected, gazing hard at Davenas. ‘Give it another hour or so and place an order for a Tommy gun. Tell him to wrap it in the Declining Tribune. That’s the password.’

  ‘What should I tell him the Tommy gun is for?’ asked Davenas. ‘Fighting the capitalists?’

  ‘As far as Hitler is concerned, if you squeeze a trigger in America, there will be one less capitalist. If asked, just say you’ve got a large rat needs taking care of. Tell him you want the Tommy gun by tomorrow and you’ll pay extra for the hurry up. Then follow him. If all goes smoothly we’ll make the raid tonight.’

  He turned his attention to Hope. ‘If you ain’t got a roof
to paint, why don’t you join us?’

  ‘In the raid?’

  ‘Yeah, the raid. You’ve got that badge in your pocket the Assistant District Attorney gave you. You might as well put it to good use. After all, you demonstrated from the way you mashed up Podmore in the alley that I need not worry about your sensibilities. You really gave him a work over. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He had a very long, nasty rap that old Snap did. A lot of people came off the worse for meeting him.’

  ‘I did get that impression.’

  ‘I would say Zeal is in line for the same kind of treatment. And if what you did to Snap was the act of a gentleman, I would say that the Buster and the Treatment are in need of a lesson in good manners after all.’

  ‘You’re heading for disappointment if you think Foxlee Smith will lead us straight to Zeal. Zeal might be one person. It might be a whole organisation. No matter which, Smith’ll be more careful than that.’

  ‘Are you sure? The Nazis have been picking a fight with half the world. There’s nothing careful about that, is there? And besides, Davenas is one of the best surveillance agents I’ve seen. If there’s a chain, Davenas can get to the last link. On foot or by wire it won’t matter in the slightest. And he’s nothing if not discrete.’ Longworry returned the two guns to their packaging and handed them to Hope. ‘Compliments of the New York Police Department. We’ll drop by the shooting range to see if you got what you paid for. Then we’ll have dinner. I’m in the mood for stuffed potatoes. Finished up with a game of cards in one of those Harlem dens.’ He clicked the door open and put a hand on Davenas’s shoulder. ‘Now that I’ve sung your praises, make sure you don’t botch it. Zeal is to be our evening’s entertainment.’ He stepped out onto the street and sucked in some air as though this was the kind of New York he liked.