Death of the Extremophile

  *

  A young man was smoking against George Hope’s office door. Hope had never met him before but knew he was expecting him, for the rounded face and flat nose very much resembled Frederick Bulkhead’s - for that matter, so did the shaggy brown hair, albeit here, against his door, it was in greater abundance. The young man was fashionably dressed in a grey flannel suit and a red and black striped silk tie and he was immaculately clean shaven. As an ambitious, up and coming newspaperman, he looked the part. He immediately straightened up off the door as Hope emerged from the stairwell, apparently having a few clues of his own as to Hope’s appearance. He spat away his cigarette and ground it out with a shoe whose polish just might have seen to the local shoe shiner’s gas and electric.

  ‘George Hope?’ he murmured, less than enthused that his lips were enunciating such sounds.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘More from the paint on your hands than what’s written on your door.’

  The young man pointed at the silver lettering on the door’s blackened maple.

  George Hope

  Gentlemen

  ‘Bit rich, wouldn’t you say? No offense, but I’m here to interview you because you paint on roofs.’

  Hope stepped past him and unlocked the door.

  ‘You’re Donovan Black, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The voice was proud, assured. Black went to step into the office as soon as the door was ajar, only to be stopped flat by a hand against his chest.

  ‘Before you go any further,’ snapped Hope, ‘just get something straight. If you’re going to work for me, you’d better wipe that smart attitude off on the doormat. I’ve got no use for it.’

  Black tried to look aggrieved, but his self-assurance proved to be a bubble easily stretched thin. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Sent here to interview me isn’t quite the whole picture. Sent here to be a journalist is more accurate, and the first thing a journalist should guard against is perceiving things as they seem. So, step into my office with your mouth under control or go back to the typing pool and tell your uncle the man who paints on roofs told you to go take a jump.’

  The reply was wavering. ‘How did you know Frederick Bulkhead is my uncle? I told him to keep it a secret. I want to get by on my own merits.’

  ‘He is your merits. Besides, the good news is you don’t look like the milkman.’

  Hope strode into the office and left the door ajar for Black to follow.

  The office was eye-catching for its museum-like display cabinets and shelves packed with such antique knickknacks as minarets, porcelain figurines, ceramics and silverware. The oak desk at which Hope sat down was plainly arranged in comparison. There was a gunmetal container filled with pens, pencils, an ivory handled letter opener and a Purple Heart that now saw service as a stress-ball. Next to it there was a leather folder with the corners of papers protruding out. The desktop itself was of a superbly polished finish.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Hope said, motioning to the matching wine-red, stud-riddled chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Brandy? Or something stronger?’

  Black took a shine to the crystal decanter set with glasses on one of the cabinets and was apparently starting to feel like he might be in his element after all. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said with his voice considerably softened.

  Hope took the answer to mean something stronger. He went to the Verte absinthe and mixed it with iced gin and sweet berries the way he had been taught by the hard-living, recently deceased Grecian wrestler, Tobas. Black meanwhile gave the office’s ornaments another polite glance. ‘Interesting arrangement.’

  Hope tracked the movement of his eyes and shrugged. ‘They are really nothing but the remnants of failed liaisons. Moments that have come and gone and that seemed so fresh at the time. For a long while I thought I was merely retaining the pieces out of sentimentality. Remembering the woman I was with, the market we were browsing through, the objects that seemed to complement us; but then it occurred to me it might be more a forensic attempt to work out what undid each relationship. Something akin to trying to unravel the cause of a catastrophic crash from the wreckage.’ He gestured with a sweeping hand. ‘Although every object here appears perfect in its own way, there is imperfection lurking underneath. Very fine cracks in the foundation of worthy craftsmanship.’

  He slid one of the reservoir glasses of foggy liquid across the ice-smooth desktop.

  Black took it and a haughty edge returned to his voice as he recited, ‘“Failure is the stage, it is the orchestra, it is the conductor, and now here is the audience.” Herman, 1822.’ He saluted with the glass and took a determined mouthful.

  ‘Now you are sounding like a Bulkhead.’

  ‘I’m only just warming up. I can also quote you a Chinese philosopher, Wang Xu: “One has not failed fully until the fear of failure is lost.”’

  ‘Impressive. And can you say the word in several languages?’

  Black’s cheeks darkened. ‘I don’t appreciate the inference. What’s it to you? Sure I have an education. But no one yet has taught me what it means.’ He went thirstily to his glass.

  ‘Sip,’ murmured Hope. ‘This is a cocktail that’ll give you the shakes even before you even start needing the next.’ He wetted his tongue with his own and reflected on the young man across his desk. He frowned. ‘At the moment, you’re as subtle to read as one of your paper’s headlines. You’re trying to make it at a newspaper as the nephew of the owner. But not so tight in your family bonds you can be guaranteed of success.’

  Black toyed a moment with the stripes of his tie and replied with an uncertain voice, ‘What leads you to presume we’re not close?’

  ‘Mostly because he sent you to me. Now I’m not accusing you of being a failure by any means, but it is understandable that the word features so prominently in your lexicon. You’ve been at the paper a good year and from what I’ve been led to believe all you’ve been assigned to cover are flower shows, bridge openings and state fairs. You fear not being taken seriously and being tasked to interview someone who paints flagpoles would no doubt seem like more of the same. Why would it not?’

  Black eyed the fog contained in his glass and snickered humourlessly. ‘My last assignment involved a dog that savaged a mugger’s backside in Central Park, and that’s as good as it’s been since my internship. I’m a college graduate. I’m not a hack.’

  ‘Bulkhead is giving you your chance and it is here and now. And it’s not wrapped up with a bow. You’re not a son, just a nephew. A nephew who won’t even use the family name. Bulkhead not American enough for you? Think Black will open more doors? That’s strange considering Bulkhead’s door is the one you want to open most.’

  Black pursed his lips, thought the better of saying what came to mind first and instead muttered, ‘So, this is my chance? Okay, I’m listening. What kind of chance is it?’

  ‘Same kind of concept as your last job. Muggers and thieves getting bitten on their posteriors. But this time it won’t be dogs doing the chewing.’

  Black straightened up a tad. ‘Alright. That’s a pitch. I’m listening.’

  Hope left his chair and paced the office floor. He held his hands behind his back as he gathered his words with some degree of care. ‘The problem with law enforcement is that the only way to find out what your average criminal is up to is to get close and personal with them; something that is difficult to do without indulging in criminality yourself. No matter what stories you hear about broken homes or bad breaks, criminality is a calling that the best of crooks live with a passion. You want to play with them, you’ve got to play by their rules. That’s liable to lead your typical undercover cop astray. And that doesn’t do anyone any good. That just leaves informants then and they will never be any more reliable than not. They’re devious liars by nature and you’ll never be sure if they’re lying for you or against you.’

  Black was actually starting to look en
gaged - not that it was a major achievement considering a year spent languishing somewhere in back rooms and back pages. Is there a particular gangster you’re talking about? Our readers have been wondering when the next Dillinger might raise his head.’

  ‘Once criminals have appeared on the surface the soft underbelly is already eaten out and rotten,’ replied Hope, ‘very much like a bug in your fruit. The challenge therefore is to bury in and get them early enough without being sucked into their own criminal ways.’

  Black nodded. ‘A dilemma. Not one I might have thought a gentleman such as yourself would involve himself in.’

  Hope enjoyed the ironical tone in the voice. ‘Only when asked, Mr Black. In this case it was your uncle who has asked me.’

  ‘And you’ve obviously agreed?’

  ‘Sure, your uncle’s proposal interests me. And in case you are wondering, a gentleman is someone who chooses his work for interest’s sake rather than any financial return.’

  ‘I’d be glad to hear what the proposal is.’

  Hope stopped his pacing, folded his arms. ‘Quite simply your uncle’s appraisal of criminals is that they are attracted to the fast life and wild living in all its glory. They like cars that hurry along, pretty movie stars and preening over their reflections in expensive silverware. Now, of those things, befriending a movie star might be the one beyond them and so would be the greatest lure. Not that we have any movie stars to offer. But the next best thing, rubbing shoulders with the limelight, that is something we can manage. We can give the bad guys the same kind of rush they get robbing banks.’

  ‘The limelight? I don’t see much of that around here.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be inviting them to my office for a drink. Rather, your uncle’s ploy is to create a figure in the limelight. One that gangsters and the like will be lining up to associate with. To be of any use though, it needs to be someone dubious enough for them to feel comfortable in sharing their little world with whilst still someone of sufficient standing that they would not expect to join in with their rotten ways.’

  Black smirked. ‘That does sound like the way Uncle Bulkhead thinks. But it narrows down the field somewhat - to a painter?‘

  ‘Today I was on top of the Empire State Building.’ Hope held up his hands. ‘That’s where I got the paint on my fingers. Although it’s not a building particularly in need of painting, it makes for a good publicity shot. And that is just the start. There is a long list of tall buildings being drawn up. All part of an extensive advertising campaign. A true war hero climbing around the roofs of all the city’s skyscrapers, that’s the kind of devil may care stunt a gangster would be attracted to. If such a celebrity happened to turn up in a bar they were drinking at, they would be jumping out of their patterned pumps to fraternise with him.’

  Black took out a cigarette and lit it and murmured with what part of his lips were not gripping it, ‘If you say so. What part do you want me to play in this affair? It must be something of consequence or you wouldn’t risk confiding in me your scheme.’

  ‘You’re right, it is a risk.’ Hope leaned forward on his chair. ‘Only you and I and two other people know the plan - the real plan - one of them being your uncle.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.’ He gestured to the glass. ‘Even if I see double. Still, I suspect you must want me to write something. After all, I am a hack reporter.’

  ‘You’re going to be provided a photograph of me painting a flagpole with the flag magnificently in view. I need you to put words to it. An article that’s rousing and patriotic. So, if the gangsters try to lure me into a criminal enterprise, I’ll have the perfect excuse to decline: the man taking care of the flagpoles on which American flags fly could not be expected to disrespect the nation by bending or breaking the laws of the land.’

  Black sipped some more absinthe and this time seemed to taste it. He put the glass down onto the desk without letting it go - his teeth emerged in a tense overbite.

  ‘An intriguing purpose. What I’d like to know is why my uncle didn’t mention any of this. He sent me to write about you, but how much does he actually know about you?’

  Hope slipped back into his chair. ‘Some questions are better not answered in this case.’

  ‘So a journalist should ask questions, just not the ones you don’t want answered, is that the state of it?’

  ‘Forget questions altogether. If this goes bad, the answers to what Frederick Bulkhead knows and what strings he’s pulled are best not to be found lying around on scraps of paper, or in the Brooklyn Chronicle for that matter. For the time being, just focus on singing the praises of the flagpole patriot.’

  ‘And what if I do? Dogs biting mugger’s backsides, but more?’

  ‘That is the intention. Got a business card? You’ll be my contact in the press when something newsworthy turns up.’

  Black gave Hope a disapproving glance before making up his mind. He pulled out a gold embossed card from where it had been floating free in his jacket’s inner pocket and slapped it down on the desk as though it were the lucky card in the deck. ‘Alright then. Flagpole patriot it is. With the next great war on the way, it will be a worthwhile opportunity to hone my skills in writing propaganda. By the time I’m done it will read like the Star Spangled Banner.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Are there any details you would like woven into the article? Some kind of backstory?’

  Hope extracted a sealed, unaddressed envelope from the smooth sliding top desk drawer. ‘There is some background information I’d like you to include. Place of birth, military service and so on. I’m sure you would be just as adept at conjuring such a blend of fact and fiction as me, but for consistency sake I compelled myself to write out the details twenty times, the way the old grammar teachers besieged my memory. This is one of the copies here.’

  Black opened the envelope, folded out the single sheet contained within and started to read. His absorbed, earnest expression confirmed to Hope he had hooked his man and that it was safe to kick him out: ‘I regret to say, I’m seeing a friend off this evening at Central Station.’ He stood up and gesticulated to the grandfather clock in the corner. ‘I would kindly ask you to keep reading the biography back at your typewriter.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Black with a strained indifference. ‘Despite my reticence at being a pawn in a much larger game, I realise that truth is for the philosopher and facts for the newspaperman, so I will construct the composition as you request it and assume the term gentleman really is worthy of display upon your door.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Hope, strode to the door and opened it for him. ‘And it is printed here too.’ He handed over his own business card and took the opportunity for a final look at the young reporter. And the sense he got was that this was someone else he ought to keep at an arm’s distance: a young man whose ambition and moral high-ground were too high, steep and slippery to risk giving him a nudge - he would simply bounce off the typewriter on the way down. And Hope needed his ink. He watched him out onto the stairs and then closed the door.

  4. ‘If you see me off, you’ll be letting the train take something away from me.’