Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  ‘How’s the beer?’ asked the waitress, tucking the empty serving tray under her arm and putting a hand on her hip.

  Hope noted that despite her confidently snappy demeanor, there was fatigue in her yellowy brown eyes; not that it was easy picking up nuances with six colourfully dressed women erotically dancing the cancan on the club’s small stage behind her.

  Hope flicked the beer glass indifferently. ‘It’s luke warm.’

  ‘Not like the blood flowing through your veins. I can see the way you’ve been looking at the girls.’

  ‘I’ve got my own girl .’

  ‘A man sitting alone in a place like this dies from a thousand cuts. Don’t tell me you’ve got a girl. Maybe someone. Maybe you’re like a car tearing down a highway, and all you’ve done is gone and picked up a hitchhiker.’

  ‘Really? So that’s why I love her?’

  ‘Love is when you pull over. The one thing I don’t see in your eyes is brakes.’ The waitress smiled teasingly and put a hand on his knee - it was not far to reach as she was quite short. ‘Not that we encourage that kind of thing here, sweetheart. But you’re right, the beer here is pretty lousy. It’s got more water in it than Hoover Dam. Being in denial and all I’d better fetch you a real drink.’

  ‘How real?’

  ‘Drink enough of it and you won’t know the hell which way is up. That real.’

  As she moved away, Hope traced the outline of her curves in her tight light blue skirt, perhaps searching for confirmation as to whether or not what she had said was true - it was inconclusive. He turned away and scanned the bar for any sign of the Buster and the Treatment. They had called him here in an appointment that should have transpired a good hour ago. Whether they were here in some other capacity was difficult to know, for the light from the stage was not encroaching much beyond his table, making it difficult to see what was going on at the tables around him, which he assumed was the way the occupants preferred it. He turned his attention back to the dancers and noticed that the next wave of girls, mulling at the back of the stage, looked bored and cold. The Palm Grove Cabaret was the venue and Hope wondered if he was here because it was linked to Hammer’s underworld list or because Longworry wanted him preoccupied while his squad was off taking care of the bust list.

  Then there was a gunshot backstage - just behind the pink papered backdrop. Although the pandemonium that followed was predictable enough, Hope was surprised that the terrified screams and panicked rushing for the exit doors was restricted to those at the tables: the dancers may have stopped what they were doing and cowered to some extent, but they remained in exposed positions onstage, even when there was a further quick volley of deafening shots. What kind of control would hold them to the stage through that? What kind of fear?

  Perhaps, it was this puzzle that kept Hope riveted to his seat, and with the nightclub’s tables clearing out, he was the cabaret’s only remaining audience. He folded his arms and observed. The house lights came on in a blinding eruption. An old woman walked bent backed onto the stage with a message for the dancers, which she said with a visibly trembling body and was asked to repeat it by the dancers moving closer to placate disbelieving ears. As they heard it for a second time, the dancers put hands to mouths in shock and broke into ecstatic embraces. Tears of joy were sparkling in their eyes. Hope got the feeling that the gunshots had cut down someone very unpleasant.

  The waitress returned to his table with quick strides bearing a silver serving tray laden with bottles of whiskey and gin and accompanying glasses.

  ‘An ice bucket is on the way,’ she said as she lowered the tray onto the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hope.

  ‘Your friends will be with you in a moment.’

  ‘I get the feeling they may have been responsible for that little disturbance.’

  The waitress’s expression remained carefully composed. ‘It’s fair to say they were on the right side of events. This is courtesy of the house.’

  She splashed out two portions of gin and passed one to Hope. ‘Cheers.’ She tapped his glass with hers and let her measure of gin bounce off the back of her throat. She then walked away in the direction of the stage. Hope had not even had time to taste his.

  ‘Been waiting long?’ The voice belonged to Longworry. He was moving with very much the same assurance and speed as had the waitress; however, instead of a drinks tray in his fingers, it was a large Smith and Wesson revolver. He put it down on the table and poured himself a gin. He tapped his glass with the revolver and gulped. He nodded approvingly at the way the gin burnt his tonsils. He dropped into a seat and retrieved his voice to add: ‘We tried to take him alive, but some people just don’t like being arrested.’

  ‘He was on the list?’ Hope queried.

  ‘He has been on a lot of lists and those names are no less than the sewer of the language. I can’t say I mind turning them into headstones. Now how was your visit to Doctor Cyanide’s little farm?’

  Hope pressed a finger onto the gun barrel. ‘Maybe you should let your gun go cold before we start talking about another job.’

  ‘In this job there isn’t that kind of luxury. The boys are out back cleaning up things. When they get here we can start hatching a plan. That’s if you think Cyanide is worth going after.’

  Hope nodded. ‘The ranch stank from a lot more than animal manure.’

  ‘You pull enough weight with the boys now that you won’t need to say anything more. We’ll hit Dr Cyanide first before we close the net on the remaining New York City element.’ He poured himself another drink, managing to keep his eyes on Hope all the while. ‘The workload is not an issue. Compared with what we’ve done tonight, Dr Cyanide will be a just a yawn and a stretch.’

  ‘I daresay it won’t be as easy as that. His house guests tend to be well armed.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Dr Cyanide and his minions are just good old fashioned thugs. They’re in it for the money. And when there is money involved, everything seems to make sense.’

  Hope pointed a thumb toward the backstage. ‘So, what about this guy?’

  Longworry’s face twisted with revulsion. ‘Vandergilt had tastes that didn’t sit well. Bad tastes. Money could buy them, but money couldn’t hide him, couldn’t protect him. Not in a place like this.

  ‘We had lost track of him over the past year or so, though his victims would turn up from time to time, or rather wash up to be more precise. So, when Hammer gave us this lead, we downed some of the house vodka and went to work. Linde’s girlfriend, Penelope, was the star. She got into Vandergilt’s office posing as a prospective dancer who wanted him to persuade her father that her virtue would be assured here. We were sure that would appeal to Vandergilt’s oil-black cruel streak. He would have enjoyed nothing more than gaining the father’s blessing and then setting about turning the daughter into a whore. Anyway, that explains how I was able to get past his henchmen into his office.’

  ‘You played the father?’

  Longworry nodded bitterly. ‘The unfortunate aspect of it was I didn’t need to wear a disguise.’

  Hope smirked and the ice bucket finally arrived. He got both their glasses cold and portioned with whiskey.

  ‘We’ll need the whole team to take Oslo Meyer,’ he declared. ‘What I saw at the ranch were another few rather well-armed guests who wouldn’t take too well to being arrested.’

  Longworry nodded reflectively. ‘You’re sure you’d rather get involved with that than stay in New York painting flagpoles?’

  Hope nodded adamantly. ‘This is a higher calling, wouldn’t you say? This is cleaning up the flag itself.’

  Longworry smiled and drank. ‘My friend, that’s quite a good way to put it.’

  Excluding Linde, the remainder of the Buster and the Treatment came to the table then. They patted Hope on the back, pulled out chairs and sat themselves down.

  Stevens set about pouring the drinks
for his comrades, saying, ‘The first toast will be clear - another obituary.’

  ‘We’ve got a new job to plan,’ said Longworry. ‘This will be old school. No deception. No girlfriends as bait.’ He looked to Hope. ‘You’ve got some layouts on paper?’

  ‘In the car.’

  ‘We’ll get them on the way to somewhere else. A bar that stays open late.’ Longworry noticed some pouting to the side, turned to see that it was Randy. ‘Would you like to make that toast?’

  ‘Forget the toast,’ replied Randy. ‘It’s a conversation I want.’ His eyes locked onto Hope. ‘You can start by talking about Hammer Coller one more time. You say you found him brooding in a bar. Just released from prison. On a search and destroy mission instigated by the corrupt policeman who framed him in the first place. He lends you the list to expedite the process. And here we all are. I only bring it up because while you are scratching names off the list, I am wiping brain matter of my hands.’

  Hope nodded. ‘It’s that kind of list.’

  ‘We have our targets,’ interjected Longworry shortly. He eyed Randy. ‘I know you are worried about surprises.’

  ‘Expecting them,’ gnarled Randy.

  ‘Then brace yourself.’ Longworry swivelled further on his chair to fully face him. ‘I have seen you wash your hands five whole minutes before eating. And to pull away from your wife’s kiss and wipe your lips. You do not eat from restaurant plates. And you do not drink from nightclub glasses. I get the feeling you are trying to keep yourself clean. Well, I can offer you my old desk job. I have never been so clean as I was there, but I would drown in a swamp before I return to it.’ He chuckled and swatted Randy on the arm. ‘Now, if you did get Vandergilt’s brain slops on your hands you are more than justified in giving them a good wash. So go do it and we’ll see you back here in five minutes.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Randy and slunk away.

  ‘Don’t forget to lather,’ Longworry called out, condescendingly.

  He turned to Hope and looked him hard in the eye and then to the rest of his men. ‘Anyone else need a wash?’

  18. ‘If anyone’s on the ground, you’ve got to trust it’s for a good reason.’

  It was a clear, cool night; moonlight was gleaming upon the black glazed tiles of the homestead’s Mission-style roof. The double storied dwelling was casting long shadows across the gardens and intermingling with those from the stables. Although it was after midnight, many lights were still on.

  Longworry was crouched in the bushes like a wild animal set to pounce. A flare gun was poised in his hand. He was craving a cigarette, but would have to light up the flare gun first. And that would be soon. By this time all the approaches should have been covered by his men. They had had their ten minutes. All the Buster and the Treatment were out there in the darkness, as were some willing lieutenants from headquarters, the chance to be in amongst the hottest squad in the whole of New York too good to pass up on.

  ‘Soon,’ whispered Longworry as much to himself as to Hope who was just behind his shoulder. ‘A minute longer for luck. There is nothing we have neglected to consider? Nothing we have overlooked?’

  Hope was also crouching, using his Tommy gun for support, and, as was Longworry, was dressed in black; he whispered in return, ‘We go in there, put him down on the floor, and take out anyone who wants to make a stand. As far as plans go, we can’t make it any more straight forward than that.’

  Longworry checked his watch again and then his persons for the weapons and handcuffs he would need. He ensured they were firmly fixed in their holsters and pouches. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And if I wanted to control the elements, I’d stay home and read a book. I wouldn’t pick on people like Oslo Meyer.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But is he really what’s got you jumpy?’

  ‘No, you’re right, he isn’t. I get a flare gun in my hand and I’m back in the trenches in Belgium.’ Longworry’s voice strained. ‘The smell of mud and destroyed flesh has fused itself upon me.’

  ‘I can recommend a brand or two of aftershave,’ Hope quipped.

  A snarl was just starting to break out on Longworry’s face, when the roar of car engine broke the silence. There was more than one and they were coming fast, the thin wisp of moonlight on the road was overcome by brash headlights. Longworry and Hope sunk lower into their positions.

  ‘Expecting any more reinforcements?’ queried Hope.

  ‘No, they’re not mine. What about your friends in the press? Tell me it’s not the Brooklyn Chronicle after their front page.’

  The cars had already reached the mouth of the driveway only feet away and made the turn with a surprising degree of care, giving Hope and Longworry time to spot out the sinister dark shapes of the occupants in the front and back seats.

  ‘They’re not reporters,’ said Hope. ‘What it does look like is more opposition to deal with. And more risk. The bigger the numbers the braver they get. Two cars full of them and you can be sure no one is going quietly.’

  ‘Let’s just watch them out the cars,’ said Longworry warily.

  The cars pulled up right by the ranch house patio, which if Longworry’s memory served him correctly, meant that some well-tended flower beds had just gotten crushed. The lights went out and doors opened. Longworry strained in to the darkness to count the murky figures getting out, but then he suddenly found himself counting firearm discharges and that became even more difficult - it was as though the whole house was bursting with Chinese firecrackers.

  Longworry swore. ‘You’d better sit this one out,’ he said to Hope and raised the flare gun. ‘I would too myself. Gladly. Gangsters shooting gangsters is my favourite spectator sport. But my boys might be in the thick of it.’

  He pulled the trigger and the flare spat high in to the air and exploded into red light.

  Hope was already on his way down the slope. ‘Take a seat? This isn’t a chair I’m holding.’

  He crossed the road in a low stoop, his finger rubbing the trigger of the Tommy gun like it were a muscle requiring limbering. The firefight was raging furiously ahead, the odd stray bullet cracking by. Hope had a clean shot at a couple of shooters shielding behind their Pontiac and it occurred to him that such battles bore similarities with a game of billiards: playing the most exposed balls first and going for progressively tighter shots, anticipating the opponent’s likely move and endeavouring to block the shot, and, most importantly, striking the right balance between boldness and caution - added to that, in the case of Dr. Cyanide’s Ranch, the lush green grass was of a similar texture to the luxurious velvet of the finest billiard tables.

  As Hope opened fire on the two near men blasting shotguns into the homestead from behind their car, so did Longworry and Stevens - and the doomed targets fell. It had not been coordinated, just that Longworry and Stevens were of a similar thought process. Easy shots were always the most uncomfortable, but barely a split second into the feeling the three encroachers were no longer on the fringe of the gunfight and it was all about angles - the ranch house’s patio and windows were full of them. Hope raked the window, making the most noise, not stopping until the magazine ran dry. He thrust his back into the relative shelter of a bullet riddled Cord 810 and reloaded.

  There was no further sign of life from the window, but it meant there was no one to put out the flames that had taken to the curtains. Hope cocked his weapon, aware that the gunfight had to be ended quickly in order to clear the house of innocent parties. He straightened up and fired over the roof, ripping into a shooter leaning too far out the doorway. The man crawled back inside, leaving his gun behind.

  Longworry meanwhile announced his arrival beside Hope with a burst of shotgun.

  ‘We’ve got to hold our ground,’ he said. ‘Any one of those yeggs we’ve put down could still have enough strength to put a bullet in our backs.’

  ‘You don’t want to dig another trench,’ Hope replied. ‘If anyone’s on the ground, you’
ve got to trust it’s for a good reason.’

  Longworry eyed him grimly. ‘Obviously you’ve never been the leader of men. Alright, we’ll move in. But let’s see what’s happening at the back of the house first. You up for it?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Keep low. And be careful. Friendly fire is going to hurt twice as much when it’s a friend as valuable as you.’

  Hope tapped him affectionately on the arm and ran from his cover. He ran wide, reaching the road and across to the stables before beginning to round the ranch house. He’s eyes were stinging from the gunsmoke and his ears were ringing, making the course more difficult than it should have been. And then suddenly he was tripped up. He landed with the Tommy gun squashing between his chest and the cold wet grass. He rolled to one side, striving to get upright and balanced with the Tommy gun again so that he could begin to understand what had put him down in the first place. The obstacle was coming at him still and kicked him hard, knocking the Tommy gun out of his hands altogether. He shook his hands with the pain of it. And he gazed hard that way. It came to him in increments in the fading red light of the flare: the long, slim leg that had kicked him, the body lying flat on its back and finally the face: gaunt and deathly pale, but a face he could put a name to: Stacey Gurner. The shock gripped him in a ghastly jolt.

  She was looking back at him and seemed to be recognising him too, though not with the same degree of surprise: her face was in fact eerily calm – or, perhaps, it was just blank.

  ‘Stacey, what the hell?’ Hope gasped, regaining movement after what seemed an eternity. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The reply was weak. Not her usual voice. Jarringly so. ‘If you mean this particular -’ she began, but it was too painful, so she got to the point: ‘Ario Flinger dragged me here. I’m shot. And you better watch it ‘cause he won’t be far away.’ Her head dropped to earth, too hard to have meant it.

  Hope reflexively started the other way just as a knee slammed into his ribs; he was knocked clean over and a foot stomped down on the Tommy gun. He spotted the thin shadow of a pistol coming at his forehead and slapped it away, just as the muzzle unleashed a thunderbolt. He grimaced as his fingers were burnt by the muzzle; nonetheless, he took tight hold. His other hand abandoned the Tommy gun, drawing the Colt .45 from his hip holster and fired up into his assailant’s chest and head in a furious burst. As the man collapsed forward, Hope caught splashes of warm blood on his face; he steered the fall to the side and by that time the body was emptied of life just as the magazine was empty of bullets.

  Hope stood up, carefully looked the dead man over and returned his attention to Stacey. His shock was abruptly surpassed by anger. ‘So that’s your other boss? That’s Flinger? We both seem to shoot first and ask questions later. Makes for a short conversation.’ He kicked the body repugnantly and crouched back beside Stacey. ‘Where have you been hit?’

  ‘In my heart.’ Stacey murmured.

  Hope lifted her head onto his lap. ‘Be serious.’

  ‘You want to know where, you can find it. But if it’s my life you’re looking for it’s mostly leaked to the ground now.’ She lifted her head towards him, straining to look him in the eye.

  Hope was aghast to see her cheeks were paler even than the moonlight. And as inanimate as a death mask.

  ‘Although I appreciate I do not deserve one,’ whispered Stacey, ‘I would like to ask a favour.’

  ‘Sure, what is it?’ replied Hope, his voice wavering.

  ‘While you are looking for it, a kiss would be nice.’

  ‘Alright.’ Hope leaned into a kiss and kept his lips tightly against hers with the kind of compression he would have applied to the bullet wound if he could only feel it out through the blood sodden clothes. Her body went limp with the search still in progress. He slid his fingers across for a pulse; his senses focussed such that his fingertips had never been so sensitive, and yet there was not the slightest beat upon them. His own heart was pounding enough for both of them, if only such things could be shared between lovers. He scrunched her up into him and held her until he could not take it anymore and then he lifted her to the side, so that no one else would trip over her. He sucked in a breath like he was dragging it out of a cigar and he carried on running as before, though now he was neglecting to stay low.

  Reaching the rear of the ranch house, he found the scene to be in stark contrast to the bloodbath at the front: women and children were tearfully watching as the men, down on their stomachs, were being handcuffed without resistance. Oslo Meyer, his glistening white hair unmistakable, was amongst them.

  Hope slowed to a walk as he headed that way. Linde, who had been supervising the arrests, responded to his approach with a step forward.

  ‘What the hell has been going on out front?’

  Seemingly attracted to the gunfire like a moth to light he was quivering with the effort it had taken to stick to Longworry’s orders and secure the back of the ranch house.

  The diminishing gunfire from the front, however, was suggesting that law enforcement was getting on top now on all sides of the building.

  ‘It got hot,’ said Hope. ‘I get the feeling that just as we were about to make an assault on the house a rival crew to Dr Cyanide turned up with not particularly peaceful intentions in mind.’

  ‘That seems like a remarkable coincidence.’

  ‘Probably it’s not, but the best way to find out is to get our hands on a survivor or two and ask them pointedly – it’s likely they would be well softened up by this experience already and wouldn’t hold back too long.’ Hope glanced at the fast spreading fire now engulfing the entire upper floor and roof. ‘If they do attempt to resist, we could lock them in the house and see if obstinate crooks combust well.’ Hope nodded sternly to himself. ‘In fact, that is too good an option to sit on. He pushed aside a uniformed officer and manhandled Meyer to his feet. ‘You and me, Doctor,’ he spat. ‘Let’s go get what I want.’

  Meyer tried to resist but was powerless against Hope’s charged grip.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ he cried, looking around desperately for someone to intervene. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Home sweet home.’ Hope pushed him onto the back steps, tripping him up and, catching him by the collar, and continued to drive him forward, wrenching open the back door to a gushing plume of grey acrid smoke.

  ‘If it’s the cocaine you want, forget it,’ said Meyer, trying to throw himself back down the steps. ‘It’s on the second floor.’

  ‘Move.’ Hope dragged him into the house and booted him along the floor, looking for somewhere to cuff him to: he finally settled for the steel handle of the kitchen cooker. Pieces of ceiling were beginning to fall and smoke and flaming embers rear out through the gaps.

  ‘I was only after whiskey myself,’ said Hope, ‘but you’re offering cocaine as well? That is true hospitality. No wonder you have a house full of friends. But just in case your recollections of the stash’s exact location is a little foggy, you should know that I am the only one with the key to your handcuffs, so you’re not going to want to me to spend too much time upstairs looking for it.’

  ‘You’re not going up there? You’ll burn.’

  Hope grabbed him and shook him hard. ‘Can’t let Dr Cyanide’s prized cocaine go to waste.’

  ‘Hope, what are you doing?’ called out Linde from the backdoor steps.

  Hope ignored him, stepping away from Meyer. ‘Wish me luck.’

  Meyer squinted against the smoke and roasting heat and cried, ‘It’s in a steel box in the master bedroom’s ensuite. In the crystal cabinet. But you’ll die trying.’

  ‘It might hurt at any rate,’ replied Hope, pulling out his black bandana handkerchief. ‘Now, where is the whiskey?’

  Meyer shook his head as he pointed toward one of the cupboards of purple stained glass. ‘You really have lost your mind.’

  Hope strode to the cupboard doors and pulled them open to a dive
rse range of spirits and went for a bourbon whiskey labelled Miller’s Sour Mash. ‘I’m just thirsty,’ he said as he saluted with the bottle and swallowed a large gulp; he then doused the handkerchief profusely and tied it over his nose and mouth and bounded fearlessly up the stairs.

  Meyer yanked furiously at the handcuffs. ‘You can’t do this. I’m going to suffocate.’ His voice descended into a rasping cough.

  Linde, shotgun in hand, stepped right up to the open backdoor and called out halfheartedly, ‘George, have you thought this through? I’m getting worried. Whatever you’re doing, it’s not called police work.’

  From above there was a smashing of glass.

  ‘Sergeant!’ shouted someone in warning. Linde was still turning when a metal box came tumbling from the second floor, thudding into the ground perilously close.

  Hope emerged from the same shattered window; he skidded down the roof on his backside and heels and jumped from the guttering, landing in a light roll to finish up alongside the box. He turned back to the house, releasing the black handkerchief from his face before employing it to wipe sweat from his brow.

  Linde looked on bewildered.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Hope as he brushed past him on his way back into the house.

  There was a loud crack from above and another large section of roof collapsed. Linde hurried down off the steps, tripping on the last, for his attention remained fixed upon the backdoor.

  Hope remerged a short time later, holding the Miller’s Sour Mash in one hand and Meyer by the arm in the other; he carelessly took Meyer down the steps and let him collapse in a heap; then he looked back to see the ranch house now completely ablaze. He held up the bottle to Meyer and shouted, ‘I forgot to ask if you’ve got any ice.’

  19. ‘I want to draw out the ugliness I’m feeling so that I can see it.’

  At fourteen floors, the Ivy Palace Towers was hardly among the most imposing structures they had worked upon, but it was a drop nonetheless, and the steeply sloping iron rutted skillion roof offered a slippery slide to the edge. As Bobby Carpets moved in to apply a guide rope, however, Hope emphatically pushed him away.

  ‘No more ropes,’ Hope said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘They don’t work for me. I can’t feel how high I am anymore.’

  Carpets frowned. ‘Have you gone mad? You might be attending a funeral this afternoon, but yours could come right here and now.’ He pointed at the guttered edge ahead. ‘Don’t mess with that. We’re painters, not circus clowns.’

  Hope strode closer to the edge and gazed at the New York skyline. ‘This whole world is a mess. But it looks kind of straight from here. And all it takes is a little balance.’

  He tested the hold of the paint and brushes on his heavy leather utility belt and stepped across to the flagpole - the same one they had painted on the Chanin Building: its thirty feet of cold steel would take him well over the precipice, over the heads of the brass band belting out marching music and the fluttering posters and flags announcing Hope’s presence and the crowds being lured to stay and look upward at the American hero at work. It seemed people were being conned into standing to attention and saluting as though Hope himself were the Star Spangled Banner being raised proud and sure. It was nothing less than a circus to be sure, and it meant to Hope that looking down really might make him dizzy.

  ‘Anyway, you needn’t worry,’ he called back at Carpets. ‘I’m going to warm up before I climb out there.’

  He proceeded to hit his wrists hard against the hard steel base of the pole, inside and out, up and down, ten times per set with three sets and then he worked on his head, pounding it against the flagpole with a force that had Carpets cringing as he looked away.