*
Mervin Stanley never closed his door. Never locked it. They were not effective against what he wanted to block out most: memories and assassins. Assassins, at least, he could scour for from his front door. The apartment was small and sparsely furnished such that hiding spots were virtually non-existent. Even under the bed would not have been possible, for it was so undersized he could sleep with his feet on the floor.
Although the apartment was barely a block away from the Mission Grill, there had been time enough for Kay Devine’s confessions to fully sink in. His hand had moved in under the concealing newspaper to remove the safety catch from the Colt .45. The trigger finger remained ready. After all, if the mysterious woman had been offering Devine employment, it might have been in the expectation of the sudden unexpected demise of her employer. Stanley remained a moment longer in the apartment doorway, peering intently into the empty room and was about to step inside when a voice came at him from behind: ‘Hello, Howard.’
Stanley spun to see a grinning George Hope.
‘Last time I saw you there was a bayonet attached to your gun,’ Hope added. ‘Now there is a newspaper. Times have changed.’
‘It’s you,’ said Stanley. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. But you had better know I’m no longer known as Howard. Not by anyone. And that is the problem with old friends: they have long memories.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You can call me Mervin Stanley or Mister S. Whichever you prefer. I wonder if you already know that. You did something right to track me here.’
Hope interpreted the concealed weapon not yet being trained upon him as a form of hospitality and possibly even contrition and continued his path along the corridor.
‘I remember you used to carry a hip flask as well,’ he added. ‘And you always seemed more likely to unload that on me than the bullet in the chamber.’
Stanley reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the hip flask. He shook it upside down to emphasise that it was empty. ‘I’ve got some stomach burning concoctions inside but I balk at the idea of inviting a genuine American hero into such a base residence as this.’
‘So, you’ve heard about me too?’
‘I’ve spent plenty of time in diners waiting for my girls to return with my cut of their night’s enterprise and there are always sticky old newspapers lying about to help pass the time.’
‘Like the one covering your gun?’
‘You’re picture might be down there somewhere. Being of some use for a change.’
‘With your flag alongside me.’
Stanley’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did you say?’
‘The stars and stripes you left behind when you abandoned the army; in case you hadn’t noticed, it has been flying proudly off New York’s tallest buildings. Even the Empire State.’
Stanley was staring hard, like he was contemplating taking a bite. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said and marched into the apartment and peeled off his floorboard-brown jacket and discarded it with the newspaper onto the bed - the barrel of the Colt became exposed from underneath the paper. Groaning as he bent over, he pulled out a shoebox from under the bed and opened it to two pairs of boxing gloves. One pair he tossed to Hope and a second pair he went about putting on himself. Both pairs were made of cracked, worn out leather and were soggy with sweat. ‘It’s been about twenty years since we last had the pleasure,’ he murmured. ‘So, we’ll make it four minute rounds. To make up for lost time.’
Hope took off his own jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves before slipping his hands into the gloves. ‘You don’t happen to have a mouthguard in that box of yours?’
‘I thought you came here to talk? I won’t understand a word if you jam a piece of plastic in your mouth.’
Gloves in place, Stanley punched them together with intent. ‘So let’s chat.’ He came at Hope with his usual early barrage of jabs intended to draw his opponents’ defense forward and open the gap for the vicious right hook that had put many an opponent flat. Hope had known the strategy since they had grown up together at the Sauk Boxing Club, which had been nothing more than a converted chicken coup. He had experienced enough of those hooks to maintain through the onslaught one glove about where the mouthguard should have been.
‘You still punch like a mean bastard,’ he said.
‘That’s why you came here? To flatter? Then I should give you something to talk about.’
The first right hook was unfurled and thudded jarringly into Hope’s defense - just as hard as he remembered.
‘Nice,’ Hope said. ‘Like a Howitzer going off in my face. You’ve still got it.’
He lent into a few offensive shots of his own. Nothing too loaded, for he had indeed come to talk. Nonetheless, the sound of gloves slapping against gloves reverberated loudly off the bare walls of chipped and cracked plaster.
‘Speaking of which,’ Hope continued, ‘I know it was not a shell exploding in your face that sent you fleeing Belleau Wood. I know the real reason. And it is the same reason you are a pimp now.’
Stanley’s voice became a menacing growl: ‘What reason is that then?’
‘Your sister.’
The retaliatory right hook was quick and loaded with a wall of power and almost fractured Hope’s wrist. He had to forget the pain quicker than what seemed natural and sidestep a volley of blows that were just as weighted. Stanley, however, was starting to over-extend himself in his impatience to land a blow. Hope could see openings through which a hook of his own could easily fit. He did not read much into it: he knew it was only because they were talking.
‘Sure we were all losing buddies. But losing your sister was different. She was the America you were fighting for. You may have gone AWOL, but you were no coward. You merely went and opened a second front. And for you the war is raging still.’
Stanley stopped his punching. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and there was a similar sheen upon the whites of his eyes. He pulled off one of his gloves.
‘That’s it for round one. What’ll you be drinking in your corner? I’ve got whiskey, gin and the Jamaican rum I was talking about.’
‘Two glasses, one bottle,’ replied Hope. ‘Like it always was. The rest is up to you.’
Stanley went to the tiny kitchen bench in the far corner. The alcohol was lined in a row upon the mildewy and cracked white bench tiles. The glasses took longer to access as he had forgotten which cupboard they were in.
‘You’re still in shape,’ he observed as he began to pour. ‘Sorry I don’t have a big enough place that we can really swing. At least this place is all mine. There are three families squashed in next door.’
He took the drinks over to the bedside table and chair where Hope was now sitting. He handed one off.
‘So, you’re not sore I ran off? And I didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘You left your flag on my kitbag. That was message enough.’
Stanley remained on his feet. He drank with a real thirst. ‘I heard about you even before you started turning up in the newspapers. You calling yourself a gentleman and living the good life. Others might have laughed knowing where we came from, but I didn’t. It makes sense to me.’
‘Does it?’
‘Any old foul stench can send the memories of war flooding back. It takes pretty good living to avoid it.’ He looked around the apartment and snarled ruefully, ‘I should know. In this joint I get to relive the war and its foul stenches every single day.’ He broke into a grin despite himself and downed his rum with a snapping back of the neck that Hope could only dream about doing with a fist.
‘But don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘There are no hard feelings. I think it is fine what you are doing, just so long as you don’t think raising my flag up some nice building’s flagpole is somehow going to raise me out of the gutter.’ He skipped back into space upon the threadbare olive green rug in the centre of the floor and worked his glove back on and punched them to
gether. ‘There is somebody you could help out as a favour. Know Hammer Coller? A good fighter but got tossed in the slammer a few years back. Armed robbery. Swore he didn’t do it when I visited him. Not that I asked. Anyway, he’s just out on parole and it’s going to be tough for him. Maybe you could use your influence to get him a fight. A paying fight. Something to put him back on his feet.’
Hope placed his now empty glass on the table and stood up. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen Hammer fight. Same wild hook as you.’
Stanley grinned. ‘Could be why I like him. And maybe why I’d be grateful if you could help him out. I mean, the flag in your possession is marked by shrapnel tears and blood stains. If it doesn’t fly for someone like Hammer, what flag would?’
‘Very well. Tell me where to find him and we’ll have a chat.’
Stanley raised his gloves into a fighting position. ‘Not so fast. I am offended that you have come here out of some pity. Did you hear talk out on the street about a mad pimp and think it sounded familiar? Well, I’m going to imprint a little memento upon your face - so that from now on there is something about you that is familiar. Something I’ll be able to recognise in the papers. And if you still feel like talking, you can explain you went from outcast orphan to upstanding gentleman. I doubt it was half as respectable as the path I took in becoming a pimp.’
Hope dropped onto one knee and sent a vicious punch into his groin. A shrill scream erupted from within Stanley as he keeled over onto the floor. He curled up as tightly as a clamshell.
‘I doubt it too,’ Hope murmured. He went over to the kitchen bench and swigged the gin directly from the bottle. He gazed down at his old friend rendered helpless and said with a sigh, ‘I simply had to do it. A gentleman does not risk marks to the face. It would be unbecoming. In fact, although the blow I just landed upon you might be considered dishonourable in the world of boxing, in high society it would be considered a show of respect. Between gentlemen, all disputes should be handled in such a manner. The pain felt but not seen. That is the way of things in my new world.’
Stanley was squirming, trying to pick himself up, though could barely even get a hand into the air. His face had gone a pale blue.
Hope looked on and attended to the bitter taste developing in his mouth with another swig of rum. As he put the bottle back down, he noticed a pile of newspaper clippings further along the bench. The top one was the photo-article of his exploits atop the Empire State Building, the flag flying grandly from the airship mooring rope with Hope saluting below it. He flicked through the clippings to see they were all of him and Stanley’s battle scarred flag. Some were articles, some Oregon Prime advertisements. More than twenty in all and from a wide variety of newspapers and magazines. Probably Stanley had merely been tearing them out as he leafed through the reading material of whatever diner he happened to be in at the time - the occasional coffee ring and greasy finger mark attested to such a history. Hope, nonetheless, carefully put the clippings back down as he found them. He took the bottle of gin over to Stanley’s empty glass at the table and poured. He left them there and headed to the door, carefully stepping around Stanley.
‘Goodbye, Mister S,’ he said.
15. ‘I want to go fight some brute uglier than myself. It will take my mind off being an ugly brute.’
It was a Saturday evening and the second occasion on which Hope had come to the Gurner household; he was realising that familiarity did not necessarily breed affection: Elsa Gurner, in fact, having answered the door, was boring her eyes into him. Apparently, she had been expecting him.
‘Good evening,’ Hope said, feeling as though he were leaning into a blizzard. ‘I’m here to pick up Stacey.’
‘I know what you’re doing,’ replied Elsa shortly. ‘She’s still preparing herself.’ There was no indication the door would be opening any further for him.
‘Forgive me but you don’t seem particularly thrilled with the circumstances. Could it be something I said?’
‘It might be. Or it might be something you did. What matters is Stacey has been happy since she met you. Excited even. And experience has taught me to worry. I don’t say that flippantly. What gets her excited is usually associated with danger. Usually someone gets hurt. And she’s more than willing to go along for the ride.’
Hope frowned.
‘From what I hear you are adept at making your own entertainment,’ continued Elsa, impatient to speak her mind before her sister came. ‘A gentleman, perhaps, but more importantly a man of means and connections who can afford not to worry about consequences. What, however, happens to those close to you when things go wrong? Is that when they find out there is no one really close to you?’ Her cheek pinched. ‘I won’t let that be my sister’s fate.’
Was she talking herself into fisticuffs? Hope got the feeling that a limp jaw would only become a target. ‘I’ll have her home by midnight,’ he offered meekly.
The look he got in return did not make him feel any the warmer. The kind of look that could replace the ice cubes in whiskey.
‘Only if she wants to be home by midnight,’ said Stacey, slipping in past her sister in the doorway, ‘and she rarely does. Are you two getting along?’
Elsa grunted and left. Stacey used the extra space in the doorway to put her hands on her hips and shake out her luxurious hair. ‘New dress. Are you impressed?’
The dress was a bright emerald blue satin and was accompanied by a necklace of shiny brown beads. She was wearing her hair straight down over her shoulders, the fringe just touching her eyebrows and she was painstakingly made up with a dark eye shadow and sultry red lipstick. Hope told her she looked beautiful and Stacey was satisfied he meant it. He took her hand and pulled her for the stairs. ‘Let’s go.’
They stepped out into the cool dark street. Hope had double-parked right out front of the apartment block; he skipped ahead to open the door for Stacey. She got in, immediately gripping tightly onto the armrest, as though it would be necessary to keep herself in the seat. The dawdling traffic they pulled out into, however, was not receptive to speed, and it only took a couple of slow blocks for her hand to relax.
‘Are you alright?’ she suddenly broke into accusingly. ‘You’re driving like you don’t want your tires to get dirty.’
Hope fought his foot off the accelerator, refusing to be provoked. ‘Your sister had a go at me at the door. Something to do with me stringing you along.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about her. My parents left the parenting to her and for some reason she only became interested in the role after I turned twenty one.’
‘But she’s got a point, I suppose. I’m taking you somewhere pretty dangerous and all I’m hoping is it makes for a fun evening. I do not have any vested interest. If anything goes wrong it’ll be simple for me to wash my hands clean. I know it. You should know it too. You’re a great gal and it would be wrong of me to exploit you.’
‘That’s sweet of you, honey.’ The hand slid across the armrest to his arm. ‘The only thing that does not wash off a hand easily, besides blood, is a well-fitting ring.’
Hope gave the steering wheel an involuntary jerk.
Stacey laughed and pinched him. ‘If you want a vested interest in my welfare, it would do reasonably well. There’s a lot of room on my fingers for a little commitment. Or don’t and quit your fretting. But it’s funny that your commitment wouldn’t be half so appealing if it didn’t come with the promise of danger.’
Hope went on driving quietly for a time and then his foot went hard at the pedal. ‘Okay then.’
Stacey went back to gripping the armrest. With a few sharp turns they found a little space and a new direction before hitting the clogged arteries of downtown Manhattan. Stacey continued to cling on tightly.
Hope double parked outside his apartment building and left Stacey and the engine running and strode inside. He returned moments later with a diamond ring pincered between his fingers.
‘This was my mother’s,’ he said.
Stacey took it and slipped it onto her ring finger. It was a loose enough fit that she was able to hold it to the light and start spinning it.
‘You’re mother passed away?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it that memories fade but the pain remains vivid and unchanged, following us into the present to latch onto whomever and whatever it chooses.’
Hope looked at her, wondering if that was the reason she somehow seemed to remind him of her mother.
Stacey leaned across and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, darling. It’s a lovely gesture.’ She grinned broadly. ‘So, we’re going someplace dangerous to celebrate?’
Death of the Extremophile Page 14
