*
Many a fisherman used their pursuit to hide from the world; this fisherman was perhaps more of this bent than most. He had taken to an inaccessible welt in the river, a thicket of cedars providing a natural barrier to approach from each side; he was braced on the rocky bank in a wide stance, as though the trout in this river might warrant the attention of a Nantucket whaler.
He was a big man, even with the towering trees as his backdrop. He was wearing a check shirt with the sleeves rolled up and faded denim jeans with black patches where holes had worn through. He had short cropped ginger hair and bulging ears. His forehead resembled a steep craggy rock face that culminated in a deep jagged set of caves in which his eyes were perpetually alert and roving.
His massive hands consumed the fishing rod and gave it the appearance of a reed in a crude schoolboy project. The subtleties of fly casting seemed to be beyond him, his lure more likely to take out an eye than to dance to the fancy of a trout. In fact, Hope was of the opinion he would have had a better chance on the river if there had been something he could have jumped in and wrestled. Hope emerged from his vantage point amongst tall grass on the opposite bank of the river feeling that he had gotten his money’s worth from his night of poker, for apart from having something to say about fickleness of the Jack of Clubs, Haggerty Smith had also filled in some details about those on Hope’s list of the Sacksville nefarious and in the case of Walter Levroth it included his favourite fishing spots and the best way these spots could be approached. This particular bend in the river involved wading up to his chest in icy water. Levroth did not notice him straight away as he was abruptly preoccupied by a tug on his line.
Hope got to that side of the bank and stumbled awkwardly up the loose stones. Levroth noticed him then. The eyes, however, were vacant and the voice meek as he asked Hope who he was. Maybe it was just how it was when cops gave up their badge for a fishing rod. Hope knew many a cop who had vowed to retire to this kind of life, but this was the first one he had encountered who had actually made it happen - and the results, it seemed, would have had cops adding years to their careers.
Hope walked up to him and saw that the bucket on the rocks at his feet was empty. ‘What’s the matter? The bribes aren’t biting today? I mean, that’s the only kind of fish you can catch, right?’
Levroth glowered. ‘What did you say?’
‘That’s how you funded your early retirement. You have a very long hook that was particularly adept at snaring large bribes. The department was investigating you, getting close to filing charges and bringing you down. Their best men were on the case. You were looking at a good, long year stretch with plenty of those suckers who hadn’t the resources to pay you off to keep you company.’
Levroth straightened up as though putting his uniform back on. ‘I’ll ask you again, who are you?’
Hope smirked. ‘Your partner’s death was a clever diversion. It’s amazing how clean a dirty cop gets once he’s put in the ground. And the cops investigating the murder get purified as well. You didn’t even need to catch the perpetrator. You could resign disenchanted and try to catch fish instead. Deep down inside you could have a laugh. Unsolved crimes are never more satisfying than when you’re the culprit.’
He could see the fury building up in Levroth and had no intention of backing down or even bracing himself the way Levroth had been against the river. He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘A disappointing example of police lawlessness. And that’s coming from a New Yorker.’
‘Well, what about this?’ snapped Levroth, crashing the fishing rod over Hope’s head and lunging into him; Hope finished up on his back on hard uneven rock with Levroth wedging the fishing rod against his throat, such that the air he was trying to suck in crackled but barely went anywhere.
‘My father was a New York cop,’ Levroth snapped, ‘and this is how he taught me to fish. Firstly, you pin down your catch like this; then it’s time to apply the hook.’ He tapped Hope’s cheek with the back end of his hook and let it dangle menacingly above his eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter if it’s hungry or not. The fisherman tells the fish what it’s going to eat. Doesn’t work with trout, you can fairly say. But my father didn’t know what a fuckin’ trout was.’
He let the hook come to rest on Hope’s forehead. ‘Now, I could ask you again who you are. But if you weren’t talking before, you sure won’t be now.’ His knuckles upon the rod squeezed his windpipe a little further for emphasis. ‘So, let’s see if I can answer it for myself.’ He rifled through Hope’s pockets to the sound of ripping seams only to come up empty handed. His frustration was palpable. ‘Perhaps not. Not even a lousy dollar bill floating around. All that tells me is you’ve got a base in the vicinity. Could be a house, a car or a hole. I would venture to suspect the latter.’ He leaned closer. His breath stank of stale tobacco. ‘A hole would be the best place to put you in as well. With a very big lid on top.’ He loosened his grip. ‘If I was the type to kill my partner as a diversion, you bet I could do you in as a convenience.’ He let go then, springing to his feet with an agility that belied his size. He looked on indifferently as Hope coughed his lungs back into service.
He took out a Smith and Wesson revolver, wanting that to be the first thing Hope saw as he pulled himself together again.
‘A good thing I didn’t find one of these on your persons or else I might be of a mind to take you more seriously. As it is I’m not. And if you’re smart you won’t take yourself seriously either – I mean less seriously than one of those clowns on the radio in comedy hour. You had the advantage of surprise, all your cards to play and still look how you’ve finished up.’ He poked him with the fishing rod. ‘Too easy by a mile.’ He pointed the revolver at his head and pulled back the hammer. ‘I’d put a bullet in your head right now but I fear the noise would scare away the fish. So, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave you to swim along home upstream. If it so happens the current carries you back my way, I’ll feel obliged to waste that bullet after all: not a little fish I should throw back in the stream but a big fish in need of filleting. Got it?’
Hope nodded and coughed some more.
‘Good. But that’s not the end of it. Despite what you might think, I’ve still got plenty of cop friends along the highway. I’m gonna’ distribute your description and make it clear that if you turn up on their turf a most unfriendly reception is owing. What you’ve just experienced will be considered the work of a soft old hand in comparison.’ He tilted the gun away and returned the hammer to safety.
He paused and continued to stare at Hope. For all his dominance and control over the situation, it was not lost on him that he was still completely clueless as to who Hope was and the nature of his purpose. It was with this unease that he gathered up his things and headed down stream.
Hope spent the time sunning himself on the rocks, gazing up at the cumuli nimbus clouds. A bad enough cop, he had to admit. But there had to be someone worse in town to compel him into early retirement and to maintain a revolver at the ready even when he went fishing. He had not done his partner in. Hope had sensed the truth of that even with his windpipe being crushed. It seemed, therefore, somebody else in town held responsibility. Hope kneaded his throat. Somebody else.
Death of the Extremophile Page 28