*
Charles Porter, the President of Oregon Prime, took his whiskey to the window of his penthouse office and admired the view.
‘A view to rival one of yours,’ he said, ‘though I suppose you find it mundane with so much solid floor under you.’
He let Hope have one of his more likable smiles. He was a neatly groomed, stoutly built man in his late fifties. Trim, greying hair; bronzed, tennis tan; clear, attentive blue eyes; an immaculate white silk shirt and navy blue slacks; his jacket was draped over his chair, and his cigarette was petering away in the desk’s heavy opaque glass ashtray.
When Hope did not respond to the smile, it dissipated self-consciously.
Porter returned to his chair, scratched his chin and eyed this menacing looking visitor on the other side of the last of the week’s unsigned papers. His office walls were lined with pictures of subjects ranging from New England landscapes to New York brothels; a talking point for every occasion; however, looking at Hope he could not begin to think what picture might possibly fit this occasion, and so he felt off guard.
‘Now to business,’ he said earnestly. ‘My secretary tells me you have a proposal.’
Hope nodded his head grimly, crossing his legs and pushing back into his seat of royal blue leather. ‘And that’s all she needed to know before she ushered me through your door. For all she knows my proposal involves nothing more than a change of colour of paint. Not something befitting a company president.’
Porter smiled wryly. ‘If that is what you would like, I will have a colour chart brought in. Peach yellow is proving popular this season.’ His eyes mingled a moment with the ice in his glass and then flicked back up at Hope as though now properly chilled. ‘You and your powerful associates have been able to gain access to every roof of consequence in New York City – the greatest rooftops in the world – and so it is without pause that you can gain access to my humble office, even if it is only to discuss colour schemes.’
‘You’re most kind,’ said Hope and idly plucked out an errant thread from his jacket sleeve. ‘What I would like to talk about, in fact, is a boxing match. It will be fought by myself and Hammer Coller, a former heavyweight contender who will be using his fight to announce his professional comeback.’
‘I know Hammer. I read in the newspaper that he was in the slammer for bank robbery. That’s the one?’
‘He’s out now. And he’s been looking for a fight. If he wins, the public will see it as a second chance. If he loses, they will see it as comeuppance.’
Porter went back to his staring, though this time settled on a Sea Biscuit print on his back wall. He finally snapped himself out of it with a nod.
‘And where would this boxing match take place?’
Hope shrugged. ‘One of the local rings would suffice. We could charge a dime a throw and donate the takings to the polio vaccine campaign. That will make you look benevolent even if someone does lose a few teeth.’
‘That might well prove satisfactory, but the one question I still have to put to you is what is in it for you? Your exploits are already highly regarded. Taking on a heavyweight thug seems - how should one put it? - so earthy for someone who has won his fame up with the clouds.’
Hope’s countenance hardened, causing Porter’s voice to quicken. ‘From a strictly business point of view there cannot be much sense to it. Your advertising campaign has raised our company profile to points as high as the flagpoles you have been restoring. Profits have not been so good since before the stock market’s almighty crash. And if a war does eventually break out between America and Fuhrerland, there will be tanks and jeeps and all sorts of hardware that will require painting and there will be no company considered more apple pie than Oregon Prime.
‘I realise conservatism and prudence did not bring us to this point, but on the other hand, if we are to consolidate our position, such things should not be dismissed out of hand.’
Hope smirked. ‘Are you implying my stepping into the ring with Hammer Coller to be neither conservative nor prudent?’
‘Let’s just say he was a hard man before he was incarcerated, and Reikers Island is not known for making a man any the nicer.’
‘It’s walls are hard. But the intention of the place is to make the inmates as soft as the slops on their food trays. So let’s give Hammer his gloves and see if they have succeeded. It will be doing him a favour, I assure you. In fact, having a publicised, high profile fight might be his best and only chance of staying out of Reikers in the future.’
Porter held up his hands in surrender. ‘Ok, then. A fight we shall have. It’s a kind of philanthropy I may not fully comprehend, but I’m sure it will make for quite a show.’
He stopped to think again, but this time his gaze was less indifferent and did not stray beyond his desk.
‘I’ll put our best events coordinator onto it. Arnold Moyhey is the man. I’ll tell him to make it his top priority and to get something set for the early summer. Is that enough time to harden up your punch?’
‘I’ll need some money for training. Not for me. I want Hammer to get everything he needs.’
‘How much are we talking about?’
Hope shrugged. ‘Philanthropy costs. Hammer can write down the price on the contract he signs. If Moyhey doesn’t like it, he can try to talk him down some. But just remind him to put it nicely ‘cause the other fellow still believes in the tooth fairy and not in any way Moyhey would want to find out about.’
Porter smiled timidly as though on Moyhey’s behalf. ‘I’ll pass the message on. You can meet him on the Sunday after next if you’d like. He is organising a birthday party for my niece. At the Yonkers residence. You’ll get to see how good he is at spending vast sums of money. Hammer isn’t the only one who gets to name his own price.’
Hope frowned. ‘Playing pin the tail on the donkey?’
Porter chuckled. ‘She’s not that kind of niece. Now you’re sure you won’t let the weekend’s first whiskey come out of my bottle? I would consider it an honour.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you but the first was in the car on the way here and the second will be in the car away from here - to a rather corrupt bar.’
‘Oh, yes, your moonlighting employment. Well, I shouldn’t interfere. What is the name of the bar? It would be curious to know if I’ve been there.’
‘All I can say,’ murmured Hope as he stood up, ‘is that I haven’t been there myself yet.’
They shook hands.
‘My secretary will give you the details of the party,’ said Porter.
‘Alright. What sort of gift should I bring, a doll or a puzzle?’
‘As I said, she’s not that kind of niece.’
20. ‘I suppose they mightn’t have been her friends, after all.’
Detective Warren Longworry was starting to hate these stairs, for, with muscles groaning, they were starkly reminding him of his age - as though each step was a whole year older. Traversing to the roof thus presented a couple of lifetime’s worth. It was not a reality check he had much been required to deal with in the weeks of stakeouts and busts since being reinstated to the streets: an old man could feel young again with a gun in his hands and clear targets in his sights. And besides, there were elevators. The gradient of these stairs was steep, the stairwell dark and clammy. At the top he threw open the rusted metal door to emphasize that at least there was some strength remaining in his arms.
He stepped out onto the flat, freshly tarred roof, sticky underfoot and ignored the views of Central Park and Grand Central Station to focus on Hope hammering his arms against the steel girders of the building’s tower signage in what appeared to be some kind of brutal ritual. As bizarre as the scene was Longworry had to concede that Hope was giving the tower quite a thump. “Reddings Stockbrokers” was the name on the billboard, written vertically, and with size that suggested it was intended to be the first piece of American ingested by the refugees fleeing Nazi Germany as thei
r boats motored into New York Bay.
The ropeman Bobby Carpets was on the roof as well and with arms folded was looking idly on at Hope’s work, standing amongst ropes, brushes and cans of paint. Longworry walked over to him, lit up a cigarette and let him share it, if only by blowing smoke in his face.
‘What’s he doing?’ he sputtered. ‘Trying to sand down the pylons with his forehead?’
Carpets shrugged. ‘I doubt he knows what sanding even is. Regardless of all the hype he isn’t much of a painter. Unless you find attractive the consistency of oatmeal. But that doesn’t seem to be what he’s trying to do at the moment. I think you’d call it training.’ He gave Longworry a studious looking over. ‘Who are you? This roof is off limits.’
‘I’m a friend of George’s.’
‘Another friend who goes where he likes.’
Longworry spat, and flicked the cigarette ash into the breeze. ‘Let’s just say I’m the kind of person that knows more about you than you me, and that’s the way it’s always gonna’ be.’
‘Is that so? Then what do you know about me?’
‘Robert Sminton Carpets. Mountaineering guide. Adventurer. World traveller. Sure you’ve been getting a different kind of exposure on these rooftops, but you must be pining for the fresh air and freedom on mother nature’s more spectacular rooftops.’
Carpets sternly replied, ‘Bonds do not get much stronger than between a mountaineer and his party. I wouldn’t abandon Hope now just as surely as if he were stranded in a raging blizzard.’
‘How sweet.’ Longworry did not have anything else worth saying so he took two drafts on his cigarette instead of one before flicking it away.
Hope had moved on to hitting his head against the steel support - not as hard as he had been doing with his arms, but hard enough.
‘I better go talk to him before he knocks himself out,’ Longworry murmured as he stepped away from Carpets.
Hope stopped to wipe the perspiration off his forehead as though concerned it might lessen the contact, and as he set himself to start again, Longworry called out, ‘It seems like you are setting my first marriage to mime.’
Hope glanced his way. ‘And you’re still thinking about her then? Maybe you should join in.’
Longworry stopped beside Hope and pocketed his hands. ‘Who are you thinking of, I wonder.’
Hope hit the pole a little harder. ‘Is there something you want to say?’
‘You were noticed at Stacey Gurner’s funeral,’ said Longworry in a measured tone. ‘Stevens was there.’
‘I didn’t see him.’
‘He was in the background, scouting for any remnants of Ario Flinger’s gang. As it turned out, there were none in attendance. But there was you, and that was a puzzle worthy of investigation. In the past few days we talked to the sister and various other characters mostly in order to connect Stacey with Flinger, but your name did come up from time to time, the boyfriend.’
Longworry sighed and looked away, giving up on trying to gain any advantage with the intensity of his glare. ‘The events at Meyer’s ranch did indeed go down as you suggested. We have a survivor in hospital from the Flinger Gang who verifies it. Gurner had told Ario there was a massive cocaine stash at the ranch, lightly guarded and ripe for the taking. What she neglected to add was that the ranch was under surveillance by the police and a raid was imminent. Information Ario would have found useful.
‘There would almost be enough room to place suspicion upon your involvement in the episode. But your girlfriend made her move in the company of her former boyfriend. And the tipoff apparently came from blabber mouth Hammer Coller and not from any idle talk on your part. So, as far as we can make out, you are in the clear.’
‘How nice.’
‘But what I still can’t fathom is the young lady’s motives.’ Longworry chose his words carefully. ‘She must have known it was only going to end badly. She packed all her friends into their cars and headed out into a firestorm.’
Hope stopped his execrise and caught his breath a moment. Perspiration was again streaking down his forehead. ‘I suppose they mightn’t have been her friends, after all.’
‘Really? We did some further back checking and I must say her erratic behaviour is quite consistent. If you considered yourself a friend you can count yourself lucky - very few have survived the experience intact.’ Longworry gestured to the tower. ‘Though I don’t know what I’d call this. I mean, I know it’s a tower, but it’s not usually something a man would beat his head against.’
‘Well, it’s something I’ll get back to doing once you’re done here.’
Longworry smiled. ‘I can’t say I’ve got a point to get to. Suffice to say I’m concerned that you may have been hit by the ugly bullet. Don’t take it the wrong way but the ugly bullet is what I call something or someone that ricochets around making a hell of a mess and no one really knows where it came from or how they managed to get in the way of it, and Stacey Gurner is definitely in the ugly bullet category.’ Although his hands were still hovering around his pockets, he was tensed for what he considered to be the extreme likelihood of a retaliating swing.
Hope, however, remained eerily calm.
‘Are you just upset I haven’t added to your arrest sheet this week?’ he queried. ‘I’ve been going to my share of nightspots, just haven’t been in the mood to talk to anyone over my drink.’
Longworry leaned against tower leg where, amazingly, there were sweat stains but no marks of blood - Hope’s skin must have been as thick as hide. ‘It’s not that. We’ve been flat out this week clearing Coller’s list. And there are a couple of other cases pending. Rose Dovetail has been particularly useful in that regard. And with all that going through the system, we’ve well and truly got our name back in the department; we’ll be able to pick and choose our cases from now on.’
He paused, his eyes finally taking in the view of the downtown railway overpasses and surrounding streets before abruptly springing back to Hope.
‘Some of the boys want to continue working with you. Others feel you are too hot to handle - mostly included in that number are the ones who witnessed you manhandling Doctor Meyer into a raging fire.’
‘Not into it. We kept our distance.’
Longworry smirked and straightened up off the tower; he tapped Hope on the arm as he started to leave. ‘You’ve earned yourself a favour or two to say the least, so don’t hesitate to cash one in. That is unless it involves stepping into the ring with your good friend Hammer. That’s where you’re on your own. And, for your information, when I spoke with him the other day, he wasn’t banging his head against girders like this. If you want to know what he was doing, it involved two big fists and a leather bag getting the absolute stuffing knocked out of it.’ He turned a circle with a parting snicker and continued for the stairs. ‘The boys have been yapping about the fight down at the station,’ he called out, ‘and when it comes to putting down money, do you know what they’re saying? They’re calling the fight the hammer versus the brush.’
21. ‘He doesn’t let you die because he is the pain coursing through your veins.’
The gambrel roofed mansion was named Summit Pines and occupied a large block in an exclusive stretch of Yonkers. Its cream stucco facade was bathed in light as twin floodlights beamed upon it from the garden. The illusion of importance was easy to admire and provided a beguiling backdrop for the garden party in full swing. There was a blue grass band energetically banging out music on the tiny stage to rows of tables sheltered under marques gusting with the stiff breeze that cocktails and wine had fortified the revelers to.
The fashions amongst the drab grey tarpaulins, with their bright colours and ostentatious accessories, most notably extravagant ladies’ hats, all but demanded a racetrack and horses. Nonetheless, what had begun as high society had since well and truly fallen to earth. There was dancing and collisions and staggering and more drinking. There was laughter and shouting
and satchels of cocaine on tin lids waiting for their turn. There was a young woman vomiting into the bushes and there were young men with glazed eyes and disheveled suits hovering behind her in quest of the next dance.
George Hope was quietly sitting at a corner table and his barrier of bottles and glasses had proven effective; that was until, to his surprise, the most ebullient person at the party, the birthday girl herself, showed the inclination to breach it.
‘The way you look on the outside is the way I feel on the inside,’ she laughed swinging into an unstable deckchair.
The polished jade of her irises and the irrepressible intensity with which she focussed them was quite a mood changer and Hope even managed a smirk. ‘I don’t know about any of that,’ he replied. ‘I only know how you look.’
‘Like a birthday girl?’ She poured herself a drink from amongst his battlements, and although the glass she chose still had something in it, she was undeterred. ‘Vodka I presume? Never mind what the hell it is. It’s a birthday party and I’m sure it will mix.’ She drank and smiled, her eyes lighting up dazzlingly upon Hope. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t lay claim you as one of my guests. I hear Uncle Charlie asked you along. Isn’t that sweet of him. He is busy talking fundraising in his office at the moment. The kind of chat that earns him tax breaks. That’s his idea of a party.’ She held out her hand and in greeting. ‘I’m Leslie Porter.’
‘George Hope.’
Leslie Porter placed her fingers in Hope’s reciprocating hand and let them sit there a moment. The energy he saw in her eyes was also simmering upon her skin and he felt it.
‘It appears that everyone is having a good time one way or the other,’ he said.
‘Sure. But it’s not really a birthday party. It’s more like an excuse for a little homosapien observation.’
‘To see which of your friends is the biggest drunk?’
‘No, they’re all drunks. Wine simply sets the proper mood. And I’m not sure I would count many of the people here as friends. My guest list was based on couples and non-couples. Because that is what I am interested in. Shall I explain? You seem like a nice enough man.’
Hope nodded. ‘I always have time for a chat when I do not have to feign my interest. Kindly go on, if you will.’
‘Well, Mr Hope, it is my twenty third birthday. I am told it is, for a woman, a very marriageable age. I am also told that I am marriageable for a number of other reasons. Charm, looks, dress sense, a sense of humour and perhaps most importantly a company president for a guardian. Now, as flattered as I might be, all this talk of marriageability has been making me feel quite ill.’ She flashed her white teeth. ‘It’s the Romeo and Juliet principle of relationships that has me balking. A principle you may or may not be aware of.’
‘Actually, I’m unaware.’
‘Well, it is simply this. The only definition of a successful couple is that they die in each other’s arms. Thus, if a couple live harmoniously together forty years but one walks out the day before the other checks out permanently then the whole thing is tainted. You know what I’m saying? Forty years is a long time to have to go on winning without getting the trophy.’
‘You’ve got a point. It’s a hard trophy to earn.’
‘And for most couples I bet if they are to get it into their hands, it will merely be gold plating upon a bucket of rust. Miserable enough to make you scream and that’s only the half of it.’
‘Really? What’s the other half?’
‘It’s the being labelled. Once you have a ring on your finger, you are no longer someone of potential. Single girls can have a hundred suitors, a hundred possible lives, but a wife can only have one husband and a life of drudgery is already decided.’
Hope laughed. ‘Is that the way I was looking on the outside?’
‘Perhaps not so bad now that you mention it. But we aren’t talking about you anymore.’
A young blond man in a red suit surged up to Leslie with the offer of a flute of champagne. He didn’t seem to remember which of the two glasses he was holding was the one he himself had been drinking out of. She stood up out of her chair and firmly pushed him away and sat back down. She crossed her legs and kneaded her dress fully over her thighs and continued without missing a beat. ‘To put it bluntly, I gathered these people here so I could observe them and muse over whether I could bare to be like them.’ She gazed away at the blonde man’s deflated retreat back into the marquees. ‘Once the pretense is over, how many couples are truly happy? Or do we just keep drinking forever? I’ve seen what happens then. The wine turns sour. Even if the bottles remain new. Mad aunts and fathers were also young once. Don’t you see?’
Hope scratched the back of his head. ‘Yes, I think I get it.’
Leslie swung her legs against his. ‘I’ve been observing you too. The popular caretaker of America’s flagpoles. The girls might be too shy to show it but they would enjoy very much your attention. And yet you have refrained from offering it, not to anyone. I think this is relevant to my quandary. What is it, Mr Hope, in your capacity as the solitary man in the corner, that you have to say about courting? I daresay I will value your thoughts as much as Uncle Charlie’s. He says a happy relationship is one in which you feel you are its biggest flaw. That is romantic, don’t you think?’
Hope laughed. ‘I see that now we are talking about me again. But I have to admit my idea is a whole lot less romantic.’
‘Good, then I’ll probably like it. Out with it.’
‘I can see from your dress sense you know how to shop.’
‘An odd statement. Yes, I am sure I enjoy shopping as much as any girl.’
‘Shopping is what a relationship can’t be. Because if it were, every store would go out of business.’
Leslie smiled and emptied her glass. ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’
‘In relationships you never pay first, you always pay last and you’ll never know the price till you get there.’
‘Ha, you’re right,’ snapped Leslie. ‘You’re not the slightest bit romantic.’
‘But you’ll know it’s love,’ Hope continued, ‘when you’re willing to pay the price no matter.’
Leslie’s eyes lit up again. ‘Is that so?’ She leaned into him and kissed him probingly, confidently on the mouth. It was a light, exhilarating touch.
‘From one non-romantic to another,’ she whispered as she pulled away. ‘I wonder what we’re missing.’
She swung out of her chair and headed back for the party. Hope watched her go and wiped his mouth for traces of the lipstick he could taste. He scowled at his wine and although it had already been tasting like vinegar for some time, he swallowed a large gulp of it.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. My name is Arnold Moyhey.’
The man stopped beside Hope and offered out his hand at an awkward angle and like it were a gift. Hope received it, found the grip lacking pressure and the skin lacking temperature. Moyhey stood over him a moment. He was using his spine the same way a young woman might her high heels, stretching out to accentuate his height. His age was somewhere over forty, which read most clearly in the long tracts of crow’s feet around his eyes. He had straight, neatly parted greying black hair, opaque eyes and thick, pale lips. He sat down in the chair just vacated by Leslie Porter with the confidence that he would be even more welcome.
‘I have as a matter of fact been at the party for quite some time now. But Leslie snatched me aside and made me reveal all that I knew about you. Then she made me promise I’d stay away until she had finished talking with you.’ The thick lips smiled thin. ‘I don’t suppose you minded too much.’
‘A pleasant person,’ said Hope, his voice all business. ‘Charles Porter was saying that you’re the one who organised the party.’ He figured all he had to do was choose the topic and Moyhey would do the complimenting himself.
‘Thank you,’ replied Moyhey. ‘The band, I agree, are particularly good. I ran into them in a d
elightful hovel in Harlem in January and just knew they could murder a party. It’s the complete opposite of Gospel. It’s telling you that Satan’s hell might be hot but at least it isn’t cold.’ He laughed and glanced the way of the mansion. ‘That’s why Charles Porter does not dare make an appearance. If he wants to maintain his belief in his niece’s sweet innocence, he needs to keep his distance and allow the party to blow its course. I organised that aspect of the event as well - his distraction. Knowing who and how to entertain is what my job entails.’ He indicated to Leslie, who was now merrily cavorting with a predominantly male circle of admirers. ‘That’s why a birthday is much easier to prepare than what is in store for you. A birthday girl getting her fill of wine, food, presents and, above all, attention is much more controllable than a boxer who knows he’s turning up to get his head stoved in.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘The ring is ready, the date is set and tickets are selling, but as those come together, it is not uncommon for a boxer to fall apart.’ He glanced down at the row of bottles and glasses at Hope’s elbows. ‘You can tell me that you’re not like that and I can cross my fingers, but in the case of your opponent it’s going to take more than that.’ He smirked wryly. ‘In other words, before you have the pleasure of beating Hammer to pieces, he needs to be put back together.’
‘I see.’
‘It has been my experience. Players are never as straight as the game.’
‘Should I talk to him?’
‘Leave that to me.’ Moyhey was insistent. ‘You are his opponent, not his confidante. Otherwise, I fear, you will be hugging each other during the match rather than after it is decided.’
‘They’re not hugs,’ said Hope irritated, ‘they’re called clinches in boxing. They happen when boxers are too close to belt each other’s brains out.’
‘Still sounds like hugging to me.’ Moyhey chuckled, pleased with himself. He held out a hand placatingly. ‘I’m making Hammer my top priority and I’m going to ensure he’s in the ring and raring to go on fight night. Indeed, I’m going to see to it his every punch is as hard as his name would suppose it.’
‘Good,’ murmured Hope indifferently.
Moyhey patted the table uncomfortably. ‘But I can’t be keeping an eye on both of you. So I need to know you’re alright and that your head is screwed on straight and that, most of all, you’ll be at the Hippodrome right on schedule.’
‘You worried they’ll pull the old heap down before I get there?’
‘To organise an event well, it is essential to have an intimate knowledge of the players, their motivations and their foibles. In a big fat birthday party like this it’s nice and transparent. But this boxing contest of yours is less so. A gentleman of independent means, his picture already in the papers, should not want to venture into a blood sport with a desperado like Hammer. Unless it is perhaps because he subscribes to the rumours on the streets that Hammer was innocent of the crimes he was put away for? Is that it? Sympathy?’
Hope stood up and shrugged indifferently. ‘The boxing ring is a good place to stop wondering if someone is innocent or not.’
Although Moyhey resisted the urge to follow him to his feet, he did straighten up in his chair; he was starting to show the frustration of not getting resolution to the concerns that had been nagging at him since Charles Porter first assigned him the event. ‘You have the company fund Hammer’s training and yet as far as I can gather, you haven’t been doing any training yourself. You are content to just keep painting those flagpoles and autographing kiddies’ posters.’
‘For me the main event is the training,’ said Hope. He moved away then. He did not exude any particular conviction that he had somewhere else to go.
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