*
In the cold, narrow, sparsely furnished dressing room, which had hosted entertainers for half a century, Hope finished putting on his suit and slipped his pistol into a pocket he had enlarged with his own needle and thread.
The Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones emerged in the doorway. ‘You lost.’
Hope glanced at him from the floor dressing-mirror before turning his attention to fixing his tie. ‘Sorry.’
‘Hell, don’t apologise. Oregon Prime might not have appreciated their representative being washed out by a little heavy weather, but Charles Porter has already worked out his angle. A friendly contest with an inconsequential result, for the winner was clearly polio research with the hundreds of dollars in box office takings. And he wouldn’t be half wrong. It was surprisingly friendly. Not just the way you hugged up to Hammer at the end of the fight, but also the way you could have beaten him but didn’t during the fight.’
He leaned against the doorframe though angled slightly away in case he needed to take evasive action.
Hope, however, remained calm and said, ‘Is that so?’
‘It got me thinking, if you’re not interested in fighting the opponent in the ring, who are you interested in fighting? Certainly you wouldn’t be taking a dive for money. That clearly isn’t your style.’
He felt comfortable enough now to take a step into the dressing room. He folded his arms loosely and looked around for somewhere to rest his eyes in between sittings of Hope’s hard stare off the mirror. He chose the tabletop with its scissors, strips of bloody gauze and flattened tubes of liniment for no other reason than it just happened to be in the right spot for eyes uncertainly falling away.
‘I suppose I’m just disappointed that the fight isn’t to be conducted in the confines of the boxing ring, where there was a chance for me to witness it. As it stands, whatever the fight is and wherever it is to be held, it seems I will only hear of it second hand. Probably over a cigar at Underhill with one retired judge or another sunk in his armchair.’ He scratched his chin earnestly, looking very much like an Assistant District Attorney. ‘There’s something you should know,’ he voiced. ‘Just in case you’re of the impression Longworry and his squad will come to your aid if things get too much.’
Hope finished with the tie and looked at him directly.
Jones coughed to clear his throat. ‘We have known each other a while now and we have things in common. We dress in silk suits and smoke Cuban cigars. The cigars are not healthy but growing old is the dirtiest habit of all.’ He coughed again. ‘I’ve never asked you how you made your money and you’ve never asked me how I achieved my position. That is how we’ve managed to be such good friends for each other. But now I must confess it was one of my deals that has put you where you are now.’
‘You mean one of your deals had boxing gloves laced on?’
Jones shook his head. ‘A few years ago there was a smalltime hood named Leon Salviati who Longworry had an eye on. Longworry was certain he had pulled off some major scores right across the state and had only avoided any investigation of significance because he was using a particularly delightful prostitute to put the thumb on the Mayor’s office. The prostitute, one Annabel McLeary, had cut a swath through the office with her impressive charms and in so doing had placed Salviati above the law, which to Longworry’s mind was just another way of saying outlaw. Longworry certainly went at him with a kind of madness. He burnt to cinders Salviati’s house, farm and boat and shot both his feet. He then literally nailed to his cheek a one way ticket to Oklahoma. He threatened to do the same to McLeary if she tried to instigate repercussions.’ Jones snickered. ‘I know you were a bit subtler in the way you dealt with Carter Nelson, but that’s the way Longworry preferred to do things and he had always been great at what he did. It more or less worked. Salviati took the hint and limped onto the Oklahoma bus. The problem, however, was even with Salviati out of the picture, the bank robberies kept coming. Just as they always had. Salviati was not the perpetrator, after all. Annabel McLeary, however, was real alright, and she did have someone she wanted to protect. It seemed the real perpetrator of the bank robberies. And now she was warned. She started pulling strings. And what a puppeteer. Longworry was a sitting duck. Especially when she started whetting the press’s appetite for the kill, using her contacts in the Mayor’s office to convince them that Salviati was a poor, innocent tobacco trader who Longworry had recklessly savaged. The press were all over it and it soon became clear that Longworry had done his dash. The best I could offer him was a demotion to a desk and the pledge that I would do my utmost to one day get him reinstated to active duty. One day, when the noise had subsided. Longworry succumbed. He sat in that desk and bided his time.’
‘Hard luck. I trust he at least had a cushion.’
‘All those long bitter months he spent on his backside in HQ were devoted to plotting the best course back to active duty. He started with the press, trying to win back their favour with any tip offs he could whisper over a telephone. But that was not going to be enough. He needed something else.’
‘I was it?’
‘Longworry needed first class arrests without stepping on anyone’s toes. It meant taking down top notch gangsters on which there were investigations neither underway nor pending. And it also meant that no detailed investigations could be conducted in order to get those arrests, for the streets were all but off limits. It should have been an insurmountable predicament but after eighteen months he had become desperate enough not only to devise this plan, but also to think it worth a shot.’
‘The plan being to insert someone into the underworld.’
‘Someone the crooks would accept without manipulation or coercion on anyone’s part.’
‘Longworry had his eye on a drunken, oversexed fighter pilot of the Spanish War named Bradbury to be the subject, but I knew it had to be you. Even if the plan was destined to turn ugly.’
Hope frowned. ‘Was it destined to turn ugly?’
Jones shrugged. ‘You’ve been used and if there’s to be any way back, you’d better start realising it. Tonight I could see my worst fears coming to fruition. You were presented with a fight under the supervision of a referee and yet passed on the opportunity. Whatever else is on your mind, I can see it has got scant to do with self-preservation. Rather than claiming to be a concerned friend, I have revealed my unscrupulous, opportunistic heart and hope that adds weight to my plea for you to reconsider. Longworry is back on active service, stronger than ever. His plan has proved a roaring success. The demise of Shipton’s empire is the cream on his cake. He has no more need of you and will not be plunging into muddy waters to affect a rescue. With his success my obligations have been met and I am free to warn you that you are just the spit heap to his silver and gold. It is what it is. And my advice is see out the Oregon Prime campaign, enjoy the moment even, and then get out of town until things cool down.’
Hope buttoned up his jacket and stepped away from the mirror. ‘I get it, but like it or not I still think we’re friends.’ He walked up to Jones and punched him to the floor with his best right hook of the night. ‘I can’t say where my next fight is going to be just yet. At this stage I intend to simply start swinging and see where it feels right.’ He rubbed the punch out of his hand and picked up his car keys that had been buried in amongst the bloody gauze. ‘I’ve got to admit that didn’t feel too bad.’
Death of the Extremophile Page 25