Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  Kay Devine walked into the Mission Grill full of confidence and with the smell of whiskey on her breath. Her hair and clothes were ruffled, her expression pale and there were dark rings around her eyes.

  The man sitting in the far corner of the busy cafe noticed her from the moment she entered and once she had eased up to his table said, ‘It is funny how the moon can so elegantly withdraw into the daytime sky and how the people who have stayed up all night with it are left to the harsh reality of the sun.’

  He chuckled and tapped the newspaper lying on the table with the customary bulge in the middle. She had always wondered what object the newspaper was concealing – being a pimp, with enemies throughout the city, she could only imagine it was a gun. Her eyes were as heavy as lead upon it and the first crack of resolve could be heard in her voice: ‘That is what I owe you.’ She held out her hand in a clenched fist. The man’s thick fingers effortlessly enveloped it and there was an exchange of money. He raised his eyebrows when he realised it was ten dollars.

  ‘Maybe that’s why you look tired. You’ve been busy.’

  ‘It was only one man,’ she defended. ‘And we mostly talked.’

  ‘Talked?’

  ‘He was out of Colorado. Lost everything to the drought. He said the darkness of the human heart could not compare with the dust storms of 35’. I think that’s what he meant when he said he lost everything.’

  The pimp withdrew a packet of cigarettes from his black leather jacket’s inner pocket – so that was one less thing that might have been causing the bulge in the newspaper. He took a box of matches from another pocket. Lit the cigarette. The ten dollars had disappeared somewhere in the process - like a magician using deception and distraction to trick his audience.

  Although he went by the name of Mervin Stanley, it was probably just another one of his tricks. Mostly he was known as Mister S. He sat with a slouch, which had much of his height tucked away under the table. His eyes were a cold grey and they blinked less than other people’s. When he was angry, they didn’t seem to blink at all. There was a scar above his lip, thin and long. He sat impassively, holding back his thoughts to the point where it was a fair question as to whether he was thinking anything at all.

  ‘He seems to be rolling in more than dust now,’ he muttered, his voice faint and bored.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Devine doubtfully. ‘People spend money just to feel normal. Even when they don’t have any. It’s sad as hell.’

  Stanley’s eyes drifted away to his cold coffee. ‘Let me buy you breakfast.’

  Devine stood her ground. ‘There is talk you murdered a farmer or two in your time. And a policeman. And a lawyer.’

  ‘We were talking about breakfast.’

  Devine was undeterred. ‘Safer for us girls to stand on your streets than for others to cross them. They say that. ‘Cause anyone does the wrong thing gets a killing.’

  ‘They?’ Stanley was provoked into taking a mouthful of cold coffee. ‘Do you have a point?’ It was still a mumble though was emanating from deeper within the throat.

  Devine paused. ‘I did the wrong thing.’

  Stanley wasn’t sure whether to take another draft of cigarette smoke or another bitter swallow of coffee. He dropped the cigarette butt into the cup and that was that. ‘Something wrong? That why you’re talking ‘bout murder?’

  ‘A woman asked me about you tonight. Said her name was Stacey. She wasn’t a working girl. Don’t think she was police either. Anyway I told her where you live.’

  Stanley frowned. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘She offered me a job in return. Or an interview at least. A real job in an office. I know it’s probably all too good to be true but that’s the only chance a girl like me is ever going to get.’

  ‘Did she say whose office?’

  ‘Mathew Coape’s.’

  Stanley’s expression did not betray whether or not the name was familiar. He reached into his pocket for the ten dollars she had given him and handed it back. ‘Get yourself a new dress. Something for the interview. And some shoes that haven’t been standing on these streets. What you’re wearing now looks good but it will mess with your head.’

  Devine held the money against her stomach. ‘Thanks boss. I’ll hide myself in a new outfit and that’ll be good. It’s not that I went with fellas that I don’t want em’ to see. It’s the ungodly black dust that blew over the farm day after day – I get certain there are dirty smudges on my neck and I start scratching. I scratch till it’s red raw. I suppose that’s why I can do what I do. Compared to that damned black dust, lying with a fella I don’t know seems altogether natural.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘You seem to have your own soft spot for the folks of the dust bowl. Did you come through those parts yourself?’

  ‘Nah. Maybe it was the war that does it. The skies of France could get pretty dark too. 1917 France had a dark sky.’

  ‘You look too young for the Great War.’

  ‘I was young then. You ask me if I murdered police and farmers and lawyers and I’ll just say that the talents imparted by the greatest army in the world put quite a powerful engine under the hood of your pimp.’ His lips went oddly crooked in the flicker of a smirk. He stood up and jangled through the coins in his pocket.

  ‘You not stayin’?’ she asked.

  ‘You were the last gal I was waiting for. Now everyone is accounted for. If I got a visitor at my home, there’s no point keeping ‘im waiting. Would be bad manners.’

  Her face showed repentance. ‘If it helps any, the woman had an honest look about her.’

  He tipped two coins out onto the table and frowned and did not meet her eyes. ‘Someone could shoot me down dead and still preserve their honest face. That’s the life I’ve led. The eggs and bacon are good here if you’re hungry after all.’

  He really was tall on his feet. Every doorway a potential injury. He would have to walk with that stoop, for the good city of New York had not been built with the likes of him in mind.