

Death of the Extremophile

Stuart Parker

Copyright 2013 Stuart Parker

Published by Flat-out Publications at Smashwords

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1939

1. _'Eyes have a tendency to adjust.'_

'I apologise for not having asked your name,' said the woman, 'especially as we are already so far advanced in our encounter. It is not, however, an oversight. I would like, if you have no objection, to address you as David. For want of a better word, it would seem more loyal.'

'Is David the name of your husband?' asked the tall man at her side.  
'Yes, my husband.'

They were talking softly, not wanting to share their conversation with any ears that might be lurking behind the doors of this dingy east side Chicago hotel. The loudly creaking stairs would be drawing attention to their presence, and perhaps even their purpose, for there could be little doubt as to their purpose in a hotel like this, a hotel in which the register was filled with aliases and its cleaner was well paid and overworked due to her uncanny ability to remove bodily fluids: no matter what, no matter where. The dust, however, was left heavy in the air and thick on the surfaces, for it was not part of the cleaner's brief, was not a remnant of passion, was not what the old grimy doors numbered 1.1 to 3.18 were rented to conceal.

The man was holding a stained wooden keychain numbered 2.7. One more flight of stairs. The man walked behind the woman and marveled at her shapely figure in her cotton floral summer dress. It was something. The man was tall enough that despite being two steps lower, his shoulders were almost level with hers. And the way he filled out his suit smacked of great physical brawn: strong hands that could snap a cat's spine without effort - that was the image the woman had had when she first laid eyes on him. She was not a cat person, did not pay much mind to any creatures other than horses, so she struggled to account for the thought. But there was no doubt this was a violent man living a violent life. It was plainly seen in his arrogantly loping gait and cruel grey eyes, not to mention his willingness to accompany her to a hotel like this - not the act of a gentleman to say the least. The briefcase handcuffed to his wrist was only the final proof. The woman felt a tremor of excitement whenever she looked at it, whenever the bracelet and chain poked out from the jacket sleeve stretched long. It suggested the man had been good enough in his own particular craft to have something of significant value secured to his very flesh and bone. Yes, she found that intriguing. She liked being here with him.  
'What name shall I be permitted to use with you?' the man asked.

'Margaret, if you would be so kind.'

'Is that the name your husband uses?'

'Please, do not speak of such things.'

'Alright. But am I the first?'

'The first?'

'To accompany you in such a way.'

'If you cared to recall my purpose you would not ask such a question.'

The man did not say anything more. He had a habit of needling people, sometimes to the point of confrontation, but he could see he had a vested interest in holding his tongue: with her blonde hair, blue eyes and creamy pale skin, she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever been with, even when he had had a wad of money to spend, and so far the only expense he had incurred was the price of a cheap hotel room. Luck never came to those who couldn't shut up, and he was feeling particularly lucky this afternoon.

Off the stairs, into the dank corridor of the Sooner Or Later Tavern's third floor, the air reeked of stale cigarettes. A radio was blaring in Room 2.6. A baseball game. No doubt it was masking something - no one checked into a dump like this to listen to the Yankees.

The man dubbed David unlocked 2.7, and the woman calling herself Margaret released her handbag from her shoulder and moved in beside him, her back stiffly straight. When the door opened, she entered first; she nervously checked about the room and turned back, her attention settling with most concern not on the bed or the man but on the lock on the door. No sooner had the man switched on the light than she flicked it off again.

'Darkness, please,' she said.

'So that I will feel more like your husband?' The man chuckled arrogantly. 'I was a First Division boxing champ and represented Utah in the National Football Championships. I have a suspicion I will not feel like your husband.'

'Try not to see this for more than it is. A child is important for both my husband and me.' The curtains were not repelling so much daylight that she could not see the table to put her purse down on or the bed to undress beside. 'As important as this.' Down to her underwear she stopped dressing. She shook out her hair over her shoulders. Her look of vulnerability was exquisite.  
'I understand.' The man took as much pains to ensure the door was securely locked as had the woman - his reason, however, was the briefcase at his wrist, and rummaging through a pocket full of change, he found the key and unlocked it; he carefully placed it down on the table next to the purse.

There was a Colt .45 automatic pistol in a shoulder holster below his armpit; he was not ready to relieve himself of it, not just yet

'Why did you choose me from that subway train or from anywhere else in the world for that matter?' He tapped the briefcase with his fingertips and shot her a hard look. 'Was it because of this?'

'Maybe.' The woman self-consciously folded her arms to cover her breasts. 'You seemed important and handsome. And not dissimilar to my husband. Or the way he was. To answer that question you asked of me on the stairs, this is not the first time. I will keep trying until I have a child. It is something I truly crave and unfortunately it does not seem my husband can help. Except perhaps by going away on business on weekends. So, I must act without his knowledge and without his permission but perhaps with his blessing.'

The man sneered. 'Very well. Wait for me on the bed. And close your eyes and think of what you will.' He watched her obey and felt a thrill run up his body. Once she was on her back on the unflinching mattress in a position of surrender, he started to undress. He meticulously laid his clothes out on the grimy floor, in case he needed to dress in a hurry and, checking that her eyes were still closed, he tucked the pistol under the jacket - he took pride in a woman knowing a pistol was close at hand, especially so when they were making love.

'Look now,' he said once naked, sure of what affect his powerful physique would have on her.

Her head lifted off the pillow and she studied him for a time. 'Can you fix the curtains? There is too much light.'

The man frowned. 'Eyes have a tendency to adjust. There is always too much light.'

Nonetheless, he went to the curtains and fixed the gap between them; he caught a view as he worked on them of a brick back wall and a rusted out fire-escape that would no doubt have been as hazardous as the average fire. Then he strode to the bed. He dropped beside her and the bed springs groaned. He swept her into his arms. His kiss was rough, squeezing her lips hard against his.

'Be gentle, David,' she whispered. 'Our son should be conceived out of love. We should be tender.'

The man did not adjust. 'That's probably where you've been going wrong.' He tore away her brasserie; he sucked and licked her breasts like a newborn calf.

The woman remained gazing straight up at the ceiling with barely a blink.

'It is only when it is dark and I am making love with another man that my husband comes to me. He's dead, you see. He's looking at you now Carter Nelson.'

The man shot up erect. She knew his name. Two hands ferociously grabbed him from behind.

2. _'I can confirm your funds are not in dispute.'_

The Assistant District Attorney, Errol Jones, was as much gnawing at his cigar as smoking it. George Hope was turned off by it. 'You know, Jones, chewing tobacco should not have one end lit.'

Jones's reply was to blow smoke in his face; the act barely registered as the air of the Underhill Cigar Club was already heavy with an intoxicating stew of exotic tobacco.

The club had been founded fifteen years earlier, in the midst of Prohibition, by one Bart Bartholomew, a Texas oilman whose sole intention in the project was to have somewhere homely to spend his evenings during his New York business forays. The address was exclusive and breathtakingly expensive with Brooklyn Bridge and the Empire State Building picturesque backdrops outside the gold framed windows. The club's four rooms were the height of opulence with Persian carpets, Chinese jade, Indian tapestries, Swiss wall clocks, Italian sculptures and African precious metals displayed behind glass. The assault of colours, designs and textures would have been jarring if not for the relief of the dimming misty air. The four rooms included the Poker Room, the Bridge Room, the Reading Room and the Conversation Room. They were adjoining a central foyer and cloakroom; and there were other unnamed chambers down the corridors when other purposes were required - Bart Bartholomew knew well the laws that the earth had made for the oil locked in the ground, but had no such appreciation of the laws society had imposed on itself, and to a great extent could now afford to circumvent them. There was only one requirement for people to gain membership to his club: they had to be serious. For those found wanting, it was easy to shrug off the rejection as a crackpot's indulgence; on the other hand, those who were successful rarely spent their evenings anywhere else. "Reasonable prices for what money can't buy" was the mantra in gold and ivory on the foyer wall.

Hope's cigar remained close to his nostrils; reputedly from British Cameroon, it reminded him of the burning spice rooms in Bombay, which remained the most beautiful fragrances he had ever experienced. Somewhere in his late thirties, Hope's hair was thick, black and neatly trimmed and he was clean shaven - his grooming was mostly to do his superbly tailored evening suit justice - imported from Budapest by a notorious trader who was required to smuggle everything else in his inventory. Hope liked the best in suits because they could endure the worst without betraying their wear; friends were the same, and Errol Jones was not far away from being a good one.

Hope picked up the briefcase beside his wine-red, timber-facing sofa chair in the corner of the Reading Room and slid it on its front across the intricately patterned red and white Persian rug between Jones and him.

Jones caught it with his foot and laughed from the pit of his throat. 'Poor Carter, waking up with a splitting headache and nothing else: no beautiful stranger, no ghost of a dead husband and, most importantly, no briefcase full of other people's private correspondence.'

'He did wake up with something else,' corrected Hope, 'the handcuffs from the briefcase. I used them to restrain him to the bed head. He was just lucky I could find the key on his persons; otherwise, he might have awoken to find his hand already checked out.'

Jones, a trim, handsome man of late forties vintage, scratched his salt and pepper beard and shook his head, running a hand along the nearest of leather bound first editions in the bookcase beside him. 'It is a pity that with such master works there to be digested, it is still the solicitous and the trivial that preoccupies society and the scandal mongering rags that feed on them.'

'I suppose so.'

Jones's eyes narrowed. 'Has the briefcase been opened? Have the contents been confirmed?'

'To confirm the contents would be to know them, and I do not think that is what your third party would want.'

'I appreciate your discretion. I will not mention his name still, suffice to reassure you he is a good man who fell into love - and I must stress fell is the appropriate word on this occasion. Love is a skill like any other, it seems to me, and it is one parents and teachers rarely feel inclined to teach except through the recitation of poetry; sometimes, however, sandpaper would be a more accurate texture for the printing.'

Hope nodded and puffed on his cigar. 'Sometimes.'

'I apologise for getting you involved in the situation. I had reason to believe Carter Nelson would have been a much harder nut to crack. If I had known it would be so easy to catch him off guard I could have hired a private investigation firm to handle the retrieval.'

'I doubt the result would have been the same.' Hope dropped some ash into the crystal ashtray. 'You see, although the scheme was simple, it was the quality of woman that pulled it off. There is one kind of woman a man simply cannot resist: a true lady. Beautiful, kind, caring, sincere, amiable and any other pleasant words you care to throw up, and she is the epitome of that, then you have a lady and Carter Nelson had probably not received so much as a sideways glance from one until that moment he was approached on the subway. No offense to your private detective agency, or the police department for that matter, but I doubt they know anyone to match the gravitas of Alice Fontaine.'

'I trust you refrained from putting her in any undue risk. A true lady, I fear, would not have had much exposure to the violence the likes of Nelson is capable of.'

'The room was paid for in advance and I was hiding in the closet. I was armed. So the risk was minimal.'

Errol Jones nodded, satisfied and bent over stiffly to the briefcase and brought it up onto his lap. He ran his fingers along its metal reinforced corners. 'The man whose career you have undoubtedly spared by retrieving the compromising letters in Nelson's possession is more than willing to pay a fee for the service, to you and Mrs Fontaine. In fact, you could name your price as this is not a circumstance where haggling would be appropriate.'

Hope shook his head indifferently. 'As you are aware, I am a man of independent means.'

'Yes, of course, a self-proclaimed gentleman by profession: meaning someone unwilling to be paid for his services.'

'That's about the size of it.'

'And Mrs Fontaine? She is not willing to be compensated for her exceptional work?'

'She is a philanthropist and only became involved in this matter when I assured her an entire family's future was at stake. I assume that was not an overstated aspect of the predicament.'

'Likely not, no.'

'She used to be a ballerina, Mrs Fontaine. A great one. Now she will do things on occasion that remind her of a perfect pirouette. That's all the satisfaction she craves. So, let's leave it at that.'

Jones tapped some ash of his own into his ashtray, his elbow resting by it on the exquisitely varnished table, next to a large illustrated book on the Great White Fleet's circumnavigation of the world.

'Very well,' he said. 'It's a shame in a way though. The people motivated by money are the most reliable to the people who have it. You see, I have another offer for you. It is something perhaps as tailor made for you as that suit you are wearing.'

'I will refrain from accepting that as a compliment until I have heard the nature of the task, although I must point out from the outset I am thinking of traveling. I would like to stay high up upon a mountain that will make me truly cold. The kind of air that breathes like a knife chilled in an icebox. Once a year, such a thing is good for the constitution.'

'It is funny you should say that. What is to be proposed to you features such mountains, right here in New York.'

'Mountains in New York?'

Jones took a final draft of cigar and abandoned the remains to the ashtray. 'My friend, a late supper to discuss it?'

Hope was sufficiently intrigued to agree. He delicately placed his cigar alongside Jones's in the ashtray, as though they were incense sticks, and the two men departed the club to the sincere bows of the loyal staff and in particular the maitre de Kenneth Connolly, who had been at the club since its founding and whom Bart Bartholomew had mentioned during a speech to Congress as the best steward outside of Texas. It was a chilly, early spring evening that met them outside. The air carried a faint scent of the sea. The two men took Jones's chauffeur driven Series 61 Cadillac to a small restaurant near the World Fair: "The Fisherman's Banquet" glowed brightly in glass tubing on its front - though one or two letters were sputtering on their last legs.

'You'll find the best spaghetti alta carbonara in New York here,' enthused Jones as the waitress seated them. 'The chef is named Tony, but that's all you'll get on him. He won't leave the kitchen to put a name to the face. He says what he says with his cooking. Leaving his customers to say what they want to say by the eating, I suppose.'

Hope glanced around the restaurant. 'It is crowded for this time of night. He will hear that no doubt.'

Their dishes arrived without delay and just as a young violin soloist began to play in amongst the tables. The pasta was truly delicious, as was the accompanying Anglianico wine, and they quietened the diners' idle talk of finance, which had only been killing time until the mystery third dining companion finally arrived. It had just turned eleven.

'Good evening, sirs.'

The balding, slightly overweight man coming to the table wore thick spectacles and a deeply engrained frown that made his smile appear more forced than it actually was. He stopped behind one of the two spare chairs at the check-clothed table, unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. He did not look at the food on the table, not even when Jones pointed that way.

'Good evening, Frederick. Would you like to order?' Jones said.

'No, I do not eat post lunch.' The man's eyes settled on Hope, forcing Jones to make the introduction without further a due: 'George Hope, this is Frederick Bulkhead.'

Hope wiped his fingers on his dove-white napkin and shook hands with the man: it was a soft, cold, damp sensation, like lips after a meal of pasta, and correspondingly, Hope wanted to dab his hand on the napkin once more.

'What do you think of my musician?' asked Bulkhead, finally peeling his eyes off Hope to look the way of the violinist.

'Your musician?'

'That's right. I like to know what I am going to listen to when I go to a restaurant, so I always have my own musicians accompany me. I will only go to restaurants that permit them to play. Antonio Campese is one of my favourites. I've instructed him to play with some particular oomph tonight. It will minimise the chance we will be overheard.'

He summoned the waitress to the table and ordered a dry martini; he let his two dining companions continue with their spaghetti dishes unbothered until he had the martini in hand; then he shot a glance at his violinist to ramp up the volume, before he got to business. 'I have a proposition for you, Mr Hope,' he said. 'Errol knows what it is but has kindly allowed me the opportunity to articulate it. Let me begin by introducing myself. I am the owner of the Brooklyn Chronicle. Regrettably, I would be less than surprised if you had not heard of it, let alone partaken in an edition.'

'I have indeed heard of it,' replied Hope. 'I can't actually recall ever having read it though.'

'This, unfortunately, is not an isolated occurrence. Subscriptions have been flat since the paper's inception five years ago.'

'Carter Nelson has read it,' chimed in Jones through a mouthful of spaghetti.

Bulkhead cringed at the thought but begrudgingly nodded. 'That seems to be a fair assertion. You see, Mr Hope, Carter Nelson approached my newspaper in regards to his blackmail scheme. He claimed to have some dirt on a congressman in a story that he guaranteed would boost circulation. Obviously he felt the Chronicle had the most need and the least scruples about getting involved with something like that. I formed the clear impression Nelson would have sold us the dirt for publication whether or not the congressman concerned agreed to the blackmail terms.

'Not the kind of proposal I would entertain. That is why I approached my good friend, Assistant District Attorney Jones. I have a sense of fair play and honesty, at least to the extent that someone should get what they pay for.'

Bulkhead savored his first sip of martini, looking very much like on this occasion at least he was getting his money's worth.

Jones, meanwhile, gently surrendered his cutlery to his emptied plate and patted down his sauce stained lips with the napkin he swept up off his lap. Hope could tell from the easy silence between the two men that they knew each other well. A powerful figure in news reporting and a powerful figure in the justice department, he was intrigued at what proposal might be coming his way: something that brought him deeper into New York, beyond street level, to crack level, or at least that was the expectation that had his curiosity acuminated.

'I went to Assistant District Attorney Jones thinking that an over-greedy blackmailer was a matter for discreet police investigation,' recommenced Bulkhead, 'and was undeniably surprised when he instead suggested the services of a gentleman. I thought he was talking about someone who held his knife and fork the right way.'

Jones chuckled with a hoarse voice despite the amount of wine and whiskey he had consumed to lubricate it. 'I had to explain that gentlemen, and their lady equivalents, are those not motivated by financial gain in their actions and yet possess skills and talents that are highly valued. My nephew's comic book hero Superman, I would propose, is modeled on this very concept.'

Hope shrugged. 'Admittedly, I have gained a lifelong income through means that were not particularly genteel.'

Jones smirked wryly. 'But as an Assistant District Attorney, I can confirm your funds are not in dispute. At the very least not in this country in any current investigation. And with this job, you have successfully bested a devious and dangerous criminal. You took him down cold and clean.'

'I didn't do anything more than hide in a closet. Next time I'll take a flashlight because the darkness was worrying me quite significantly.'

Bulkhead became distracted by the violinist's passionate venture into Mozart's Jupiter Symphony. But then he had had enough and he turned abruptly back to Hope. 'Mr Hope, the proposal is this.'

3. _'But she'll see this. Me atop the unnatural word.'_

'The weather is moving in. Can't you see? A fine example of cumulonimbi form. Not sure what I'm talking about? Well, how about this? If you don't get off that damned pole you're more than likely going to get fried. That's what.'

There was urgency in the grumpiness that had not been there five minutes earlier. The man was named Bobby Sminton Carpets and he was considered by many a mountaineer as the most fearless guide America had produced. He had led expeditions to every corner of the world, including an honorably aborted attempt at the Matterhorn, and he rarely shied away from danger. Reaching the top of a mountain was the best feeling he knew, and the taste of triumph was even sweeter when the elements conspired to try and keep him off it. A deft hand when it came to ropes with perilous drops beneath, he had mastered every knot there was, from those holding the rigging of the junks upon China's waterways to those transporting out the buckets of coal in the mines of Siberia, and he could do a surprising number of them with just one hand and his teeth.

He was a short, stocky man in his early thirties; ginger hair; a flat, broad, crooked nose that removed any symmetry from his face; and glassy blue eyes. He had grown up in the mountain country of Montana, and he had vowed never to leave, primarily earning his living from walking tours for the well-healed \- nice enough people who wanted mostly just to breathe fresh air and hear tales of exciting deeds - but then one day a client was so impressed by his skills and entranced by his stories that he offered him work as rigger in New York; the offer was only accepted when it came with the assurance he would only be working on New York's tallest buildings. Randolph Skellanti was the man doing the hiring: one of the kings of the New York construction boom, his overriding passion was his quest to conquer the skies from the ground up, and he treated well those with the talent to help him accomplish it; including allowing them leave to climb their own mountains when circumstances required it - even if it were for the spring and summer, and that was what Carpets was taking. It was Carpets's rope holding George Hope to an airship mooring mast upon the Empire State Building. As Hope leaned back to take in a glimpse of the oncoming storm, the knot was tested more than ever. The storm clouds were an ominous grey and looming beyond the afternoon haze to the east, dwarfing him still, despite being atop the world's tallest building.

'Another ten minutes,' Hopes exclaimed back into the noticeably strengthening wind. 'We've got to wait.'

'Sure it's worth the risk? The camera might have enough flash to take your picture, but a lightning bolt has the energy to crisp you like bacon.'

Hope grinned at his guide, who remained squatting at the base of the enormous spire. With one being paid to take risks and the other to reduce them, such conversations were inevitable.

'Worth the risk, Carpets,' he assured. 'If you hadn't noticed by now, I'll do anything to get my picture in the papers.'

Carpets grumbled something, only for the winds common to such heights to shred the words as soon as they left his mouth. Hope returned his attention to what he was doing, dipping his brush into the can of grey paint attached to his heavy leather utility belt and reaching further up the mast in long strokes. He had started from the top two hours earlier and had progressed to well over halfway down, not that he was in any rush and he would not go any lower now so as to not diminish the photographs to come; and, at any rate, he was more than keen to draw the job out for another day or two. The views across New York were superlative. When Frederick Bulkhead and Errol Jones had first offered him the job, he had readily agreed, albeit quite sure the idea too farfetched ever to come to fruition, and yet barely a week later here he was, looking down on the biggest fall in New York City.

'I see it!' Carpets excitedly announced.

He was pointing up into the sky to the north with a hand he had taken off the rope bound to his waist. Hope could not yet see the plane as, like a nefarious dogfighter, it was hidden within the sun, but the emerging dull drone was clear enough. He had met the pilot, Donald Scott, that morning to discuss logistics. Scott was a WWI fighter ace with a drunk's shake and that odd bent of many a pilot of only knowing which way was up in the midst of a neck wrenching aerobatic maneuver.

Hope caught a glint of wing tips at last and then the whole plane was in view: a red-bellied, grey-bodied de Havilland DH 82 Tiger Moth - the proof machinery could be something worth putting a seat on. The plane dived steeply past the building's spire and banked hard to come again. In front was Joseph Malone, the Brooklyn Chronicle's senior photographer, poised with a Cantax II rangefinder camera, specifically modified for aerial reconnaissance work that Bulkhead had somehow wrangled from the navy.

Hope unfurled his well-worn Star Spangled Banner from his rucksack and fastened it tightly to the mooring pole. With the wind upon it, it immediately sprung to life and looked young again - well, at least, no longer a candidate for a Flag Day burning. The Tiger Moth leveled out and began to circle, Malone leaning out with the camera in aim. Hope smiled and waved for the first pass and then as the plane settled into its circling pattern, he went back to work, accentuating his movements so that the brush and paint were clearly visible. Oregon Prime, the name on the can, was somewhat streaky and slow drying for this kind of work, but that was of no consequence. What mattered was the company's readiness to splash around more than just its paint; they had signed up to a sponsorship deal and were embarking on a nationwide advertising campaign, for which these shots atop the Empire State Building would form an integral part. So the streaks and splotches on the mooring pole, which had just become the highest flagpole in America, were nothing to worry about - no one could see them this high up.

'They're really going to put our picture in the paper?' called out Bobby Carpets with a child-like enthusiasm having melted away his reticence to the weather.

'Yes, they are,' Hope called back. 'In newspapers across the country.'

'My kids are going to be knocked out. Seeing their old man in the paper.' The pride in his voice was unmistakable and Hope made a mental note not to involve him beyond this particular aspect of the venture cooked up by the newspaper chief and the Assistant District Attorney, for despite being on a roof buffeted by a freezing wind and with perilous thunderstorms moments away, this was still the safest element of the entire scheme; it was where this contrived publicity was intended to lead, however, that the occupation was liable to get skewed: places where the stoutest knots a rope had to offer would be of no use whatsoever. So, no invitation for after-work beer. No matter what. Because that was where someone really could get hurt.

The plane completed a few more circuits of the spire, Malone leaning further and further out the cockpit until he appeared in danger of falling out; then, with a parting dip of the wings, the plane banked away westward.

Carpets watched it heading fast for the horizon and his no nonsense demeanor was back with a vengeance. 'Good. Now will you get the hell off this damned building?'

Hope replaced the lid onto the paint can and hooked the brush onto his utility belt and started untying the restraints of the flag. 'Sure,' he said. 'No point getting wet.' Once the flag was folded and bagged, he abseiled down to Carpets's position. He laughed and slapped his guide playfully on the shoulder. 'If you enjoy the publicity, I've got an interview with the Brooklyn Chronicle waiting to go when we get down from here. You could join in, if you'd like. Set a few words to complement the pictures. Or if you are press-shy, I would be happy to convey a message on your behalf.'

'Thanks, but no,' replied Carpets after a moment's thought. 'It's never been for a love of words that I've climbed my mountains. And besides, my wife doesn't read so good, so there's not much point. But she'll see this. Me atop the unnatural word. She'll like that alright.'

*

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 engaged - 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.'_

Hope had exaggerated the pressing nature of his engagement, and his reward for expediting Black from his office was time enough for another drink; this time he made it a Wyoming bourbon – one he hadn't tried before but it looked like something he could drink in a hurry – and it hit him hard: he figured the only reason it had come into his possession here in New York was that it had been distilled close to a railroad. Another sizzling swallow. With his vocal chords barely in a state to utter an address, Hope caught a cab to the Chesterville Inn off Grand Central Station.

Alice Fontaine was already seated and waiting for him. She was dressed in a woolen green jacket over a white cotton blouse. Her hair was pinned in a bun. She was drinking white wine. A well-thumbed menu was lying beside it. Her elbows were on the table and her chin was resting on her hands. Her suitcase and handbag were left with a degree of bravery on the floor beside her.

Despite the Fedora peaked low over his eyes, Fontaine recognised Hope as soon as he stepped into the bar and she signaled to him with a flap of hand. Hope liked the way a light had come into her eyes when she saw him - he liked it a lot.

'You don't have a suitcase of your own,' she commented as he approached the table. 'I had hoped I convinced you to come and meet mother.'

Hope reached over and kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the table's other chair. 'I had hoped I convinced you to unpack yours.'

'Well, there you go. I suppose Grand Central is full of disappointed people. For us, as in every other case, the train will come and wipe the sleight clean.' She smiled and sipped her wine. 'I blame you for leaving it till now to hear my final answer.'

'My strategy relied on you nearing the point of departure and not being able to go through with it.'

'Hmm. That might have been more likely if the part of the escapade you were offering me was the paint work on all those New York landmarks. To be on top of the world might have been a reason to stay. More compelling by far than accompanying you to grotty restaurants and bars to rub shoulders with the grime that dwells in the cracks in the city.'

'Are you sure? All I do on top of buildings is paint. Back on the ground it will be all about restaurants, bars and fine drinking.' He glanced analytically at Fontaine's glass and scouted out a waitress to make his own order – the waitress arrived before he could even make his gesture and seemed to enjoy his look of surprise.

'Yes, sir?'

'That was quick.'

'Most of our customers have trains to catch. We need eyes in the back of our heads.'

'My thirst also has a train to catch. Bourbon with an ice-cube to lubricate it. And nothing out of Wyoming. Well, the ice maybe.'

The waitress smiled and withdrew.

Fontaine's eyes had remained on Hope. 'I know you've tried to explain what you'll be doing in those restaurants and bars but I can't yet put a word to it. Consorting with criminals. Fighting crime from the inside out. The one word it isn't is policing.'

'Things that haven't been done before don't come with words.'

'And you'd obviously like to live in a world with a very small dictionary.'

'That would be something.'

The waitress returned quickly with the drink resting on the flat of her hand: she slid it down onto the table and hurried away, eyes on another table requiring her attention.

Hope and Fontaine tapped their glasses together and drank. Fontaine took her wine all the way to the bottom.

'If the word turns out to be something old and familiar like trouble,' she said, sticking with their theme, 'you should take a train of your own. You'll find enough things to do in Kentucky to keep your restless spirit occupied. Apart from meeting mother.'

'Horses?' murmured Hope doubtfully.

'Horses. And what comes with them when you train them to go fast. Bets, bribes and double crosses. There's always something like that.' Fontaine left her chair and gathered up her luggage. 'Getting yourself written about in the papers might mean you'll need to get away from your name just as fast as you need to get away from the city. Kentucky has deep countryside. People's sins and history seem to dissolve into it like a sprinkle of salt in a barrel full of lemonade. That's what it did for me.'

As Hope went to stand, she held him down by the shoulder: then she kissed him with a quick peck on the cheek.

'Stay here,' she whispered and collected up her bags. 'If you see me off, you'll be letting the train take something away from me.'

'As you wish.' Hope tried to stay dispassionate; he did not even look back as she left the bar. Instead, he downed the remnants of his drink, which was mostly just the melting of the ice. And the waitress was back again, anticipating that such a flavour would never do. Hope ordered the same again and she fetched it with her customary pace. This time, however, she did not immediately run off.

'We have our fair share of famous travelers stop in here,' she said. 'I've made it something of an occupation spotting them out, from under their hat brims and from behind their dark glasses. Or some will just park right in front of you and not budge until you let them know how easily recognized their fame is.'

'Is that so?'

'You're the Oregon Prime man, aren't you? Painting the tallest buildings in town. You're in the posters. A rope all that's between you and certain death.' She smiled endearingly. 'And I heard on the radio that you were on top of the Empire State. I think it's all terribly exciting. You are more real than any of those sports players that come in here kissing air.' She paused and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. 'I'd get fired if I asked you for an autograph. Besides, my husband is the jealous type.'

Hope watched her leave again and nodded to himself: it was working, he was getting to be just about famous enough.

5. _'New York is the heart of our country and the blood it is pumping out is poisoned.'_

'Some people will say it's the best job in the city, others would faint just thinking about it. This evening we have the opportunity to ask the man himself. He's been up on our finest buildings giving the flagpoles a fresh lick of paint and he's come down for his first full radio interview. So let's give a big welcome to Oregon Prime's George Hope.'

The studio audience broke into applause until the producer cut them short – in awe at being in the WABC radio studios, they were as malleable as dough in the hands of a baker.

Hope walked onto the stage and sat in the other chair. He smiled dashingly and waved to the audience. He was perspiring to a sheen in his dark suit, under the heat of the stage lights. There was a microphone at chin level and across the desk there was the presenter, Hugh McGovern, whose deep radio voice bellowed out from a remarkably thin, prune-like neck.

'It's very humbling to be here,' Hope said.

'We've just had the good Detective Warren Longworry on the air to assure our listeners that despite the recent upsurge in violence on our streets, there is still no such thing as a free lunch for criminals; now, with the incredible views you have over us, you must surely hold a unique insight into this question. Have you seen evidence of unabated crime on the streets you work above?'

'I am too busy holding onto the roofs I paint to ever look down,' quipped Hope. 'But if Detective Longworry says there isn't, that's all the view I need.'

Having moved to the studio side door to be positioned alongside Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones, Longworry was impressed with what he heard. And he showed it not so much by smiling as by merely clenching his jaw muscles. 'He can flatter alright. The criminals he consorts with will be all the more starstruck if he can keep that up.' His voice was hard and rough and perfectly matched his appearance as the quintessential New York City cop. There were battle scars on his face and hands that he wore just as unaffectedly as he did his resplendent navy blue suit and black and gold diamond-patterned tie. He had thick black hair, sharp green eyes, a broad Gaelic nose and a stubbled jaw that could take a punch far better than it could hold a smile.

Jones folded his arms with a hint of unease - he could not help feeling small in the presence of the toughest cop he had ever known.

'You would consider him a worthy opponent?' he queried earnestly.

Longworry shrugged his heavy shoulders. 'I couldn't rightly say. I mean, sure he can do nice. But that doesn't mean anything when the flattery stops.'

On the stage flattery was continuing.

'Is mine the best job in New York?' Hope was musing into the microphone. 'I'd say anyone serving the Stars and Stripes has the best job in the city. And putting a coat of paint on the poles on which the world's greatest flag flies isn't so bad.'

'No, it isn't,' agreed McGovern in his smoothest announcer's voice. 'Now, perhaps you could kindly explain to our listeners something of why you choose Oregon Prime as the paint worthy of your patriotic work.'

'I'd be happy to, Hugh. On the highest buildings in this amazing city the weather can be harsh and unforgiving. Blizzards in winter and scorching summer days. We have it all. Only a paint with the wherewithal to handle mother nature in all her moods will do.'

'And it certainly does that, while retaining its clear, rich, milky colour.'

Detective Warren Longworry offered Jones a cigarette; it was turned down. Undeterred Longworry lit a cigarette for himself. He took in a deep draft and sighed. 'The way they're talking about that paint, they'll wind up bathing in it. And they'll have the women in the audience applying it as facial cream.'

Jones liked the smell of the cigarette, though did not regret refusing his. He would only go for one of his own cigars and only once he had the opportunity to savour it. In the meantime there was his hip flask. Whiskey could never get too bitter for him and this brand he was now swilling was unequivocal proof of it.

'What's your case load like these days?' he murmured as he twisted the cap back on.

'New York is my case load, and under those shiny white flagpoles it gets pretty rough.'

The Assistant District Attorney sighed. 'You're not far wrong. New York is the heart of our country and the blood it is pumping out is poisoned. Detective Longworry, we are the purifiers. How we do that is by standing our ground and not letting any of the dirt slip passed us. Not any of it.'

'Stirring. Mind if I grab one of those microphones and get you to relay what you just said to the whole world?'

'Thanks, but I'm sure McGovern would bite any hand that dared touch them.'

As though to emphasise the point, McGovern leaned even further into his, strengthening his voice for one of his trademark rousing finishes: 'If there is one thing I have learnt in my years doing this program, when it comes to American heroes, you know them when you see them. And we've seen a couple here tonight. So, let's give a big thank you to George Hope and Detective Longworry, and if you see Hope atop one of our grand modern buildings doing his bit for the American flag, be sure to give him a shout and a wave. Ladies and Gentleman, a big cheer for George Hope.'

The audience applauded on cue, though there seemed more affection than a bouncing producer alone could conjure. Hope waved a hand and stepped off the stage and shook outreaching hands from the audience all the way to Jones and Longworry, who were looking on impassively.

'They like you more than me,' muttered Longworry. 'That's the first round to you. An easy round. And not a single bruise.'

Jones introduced the two men to each other and the subsequent handshakes were strong and meant something.

'I arranged for you to be both on the same program so we could meet up like this without creating any suspicion,' continued Jones. 'Kalternborn would have been nice but McGovern was the best I could do. Anyway, I've obtained the use of Studio 3a. It's sound proof. So let's go chat.'

He led the way, moving quickly and did not look back. Studio 3a was located where a closet might have been, down a flight of stairs and along a dimly lit corridor. The studio itself, however, was surprisingly large, almost as large as the one they had just come from, and immaculately clean; it smelt of disinfectant.

'They call this showbiz? grumbled Longworry unimpressed nonetheless and spat out his cigarette as he trudged inside. 'If this is a race to see who is the thirstiest, I've already won.'

Jones remained by the door, waiting to close it – Hope was a step or two behind.

'You two have already done your fair share of talking for the day,' said Jones once the door was closed; he sat down on the stool of the grand piano in the corner. 'Now it's my turn.'

The other two instruments in the studio – a cello and a violin – did not come with seats, so Hope and Longworry remained standing. Longworry was the taller of the two, though with the stoop in his shoulders only just.

'Detective Longworry has already been informed of who you really are,' said Jones to Hope in his most officious tone, 'so let me help balance out the situation. Longworry is very well known both in law enforcement circles and amongst criminal elements as one of the best worst police officers in New York. And yes, you heard me right. He has been cooling his heels in a desk job for the past two years as a result of some indiscretions that are best left unmentioned. Sure the public still think he is cutting the crime stats in half just by crossing the streets, 'cause he looks so damned big and mean, but really he isn't doing much more than sharing chatter in the typing pool. To get back out on the street he has accepted the only job we are offering.'

Longworry was still looking at Hope disapprovingly. Hope said, 'Not issuing parking tickets I hope. I am a double parked out front.'

'We're putting him out on the streets to be your foil,' continued Longworry, hurriedly. 'The conventional policing methods to your unconventional. Any arrests to be made or action to be taken will be done through him. He is universally considered a loose cannon. Highly unpredictable. So, whether it be small or large, he will be able to mop up a mess for you without creating any undue suspicion. Curiosity, perhaps, but not suspicion.'

Hope wondered if that explained the glowering: a man like Longworry would not like the idea of being somebody's wet nurse.

Jones looked to one and then the other. 'Consider yourselves partners but keep your distance. This scheme is like nothing that has been tried in the history of law enforcement: a targeted combination of the conventional and unconventional. Keep to your allotted side of this and work independently of each other or else we'll have a hybrid and the results of the experiment will be near impossible to measure.' He smirked wryly. 'I really do have affection for this city, and yet with me unleashing you two upon it, some would dispute the suggestion.' He struck a hard D major on the piano and went to the door. 'I will leave you two to get further acquainted and to confirm your lines of communication. With the fame that has now been established, I would say we are ready to begin. Good luck, gentlemen.'

Longworry and Hope remained behind in the studio. They eyed each other pointedly.

'Unconventional?' Longworry finally murmured. 'As far as I can tell, you are just a glorified snitch.'

'Maybe I am.'

'Or maybe a spy. Whatever you are, I'll tell you this. It will be the Assistant District Attorney who is keeping his distance, in case anything goes wrong, anything that could muddy his career. People like that use people like us as play things. It has always been that way. He'll play with us until something goes wrong and then he'll put us in the thrift store and look for his next toy. Skills he honed in the sandbox of his youth.'

'You might be right.'

'That being said, it is my only way of getting back onto the streets away from that damned desk of mine, so I'm all in.' Longworry managed to darken his gaze still further. 'I can't imagine why you'd be doing this over smoking cigars in your members-only lounge chair.'

Hope headed for the door with a sly smirk, patting Longworry on the arm on the way. 'You're just jealous 'cause I get to be the unconventional one. I'll be in touch.' He felt the silence on his back. And all the way out the 485 Madison Avenue building into the cool, breezy night, his fingers were remembering the way Longworry's bicep had locked to his touch like one of those steel cables suspending Brooklyn Bridge.

6. _'We bury them in six feet of ground, but there is not that much dirt in our heads. So we remember.'_

'One more?' slurred the intoxicated old man with his uncooperative tongue.

'Nah, friend, I'll hold onto this one,' replied Hope. 'Tomorrow I'm going to be painting on the Waldorf Astonia, not the straightest of roofs, so I'll need my balance. But your next one is on me all the same.'

Hope leaned across the corner of the bar and got the bartender to temporarily replace his wiping rag for a bottle of whiskey and a glass – just long enough to put them together, and, as reluctant as he seemed, the bartender proved that rare sort that poured the way a carpenter hammered and the result was a single that wouldn't leave a double much room to move. Hope's new-found acquaintance at the bar was very happy to get it.

'Cheers,' the man said, bouncing the glass off Hope's to his eagerly awaiting lips.

Hope had pegged him for a regular from the moment the man had stepped into the bar. It was in the way he slid into the barstool without looking and the way his elbows seemed intimately connected to the bar top, like one of those cuddly couples that had been married forty years. A short, jovial man, albeit one who mistook kindness for another glass of whiskey, he had introduced himself as a Pollack first and as Burney second, and he had proven good company, or at least good cover, for, despite a rather interesting Turkish mustache, he was not the type to attract much attention beyond the odd silent pledge of a patron never to turn out like that.

'You're a brave man climbing up all those roofs,' he managed to enunciate with an exaggerated gesture that almost sent him off his stool - he conceded his compromised capacity for movement and replanted his elbows on the bar. 'I once went up my roof to clear out some dead rodents, damned near fell through the hole the fiends had eaten out.'

The Jolly Whaler on 72nd Street was the bar they were in: it was one of those places that had managed to drown out the entire Depression with noise and bluster and if there was going to be a war then it would drown that out as well. And this was another night of it. There was a cacophony of drunken, carefree laughter and chatter throughout the overcrowded tables. There were men groping at their female companions and receiving in return everything from firm slaps across the ear to full sets of lips. There was a fiddler playing zealously in amongst the throng, playing like the arms of a drowning man flailing in the water. And there was residue beer dampening the floors, bar-top and chairs as pervasively as the midnight dew forming outside.

'Brave, you say?' said Hope. 'I'm sure you don't consider me the toughest amongst this lot.'

The Pollack named Burney twirled the end of his moustache to ensure it was continuing to defy the laws of gravity. After a moment of pondering he said, 'I'm sure you are able to distinguish tough from brave, so I will not risk offending you. No, you would not be the toughest in this bar. Not by a long shot. There are some here that would do anything, anything at all to get what they wanted, and it wouldn't even matter if they wanted it or not.' He cackled and his shoulders hunched up.

'No, I am not offended to hear that.'

Burney swigged some more whiskey as though just checking that it was still there. 'The toughest though is not a hard choice.' His voice became inexplicably sober. 'I spend most my nights staring at her.' He gestured with his glass to the tall red head busy at the other end of the bar. 'Rose Dovetail. The essence of tough. She knows well enough that everything worth having must be wrested from somebody else and she's a true artist at it.'

Hope leaned across the bar for a closer look. He was able to do so quite blatantly as it was just one more stare amongst many. Even through the haze of cigarette smoke the sheen in her hair and the green of her eyes were impressive. The way men were gravitating to her end of the bar it apparently only got better on approach - many were staying long after their drink had been poured.

Hope turned back to Barney. 'She's popular. What makes her so bad? Does she water down the drinks?'

'It is what she serves up with her drinks. And on the contrary, it's so damned concentrated that when suckers get a taste they are hooked. Extreme lust. There's no better way to say it, is there? Poor suckers who come here to drown their sorrows wind up drowning _in_ their sorrows. Bank managers, politicians, police officers, she's had a little nibble of them all.'

'She can't just settle for holding onto one?'

'Who knows? But why would she when it's clear she doesn't have to. And it ain't about the riches. She cuts them loose, throws their carcasses out on the street even when they are still clamoring to give more.' He shook his head. 'Poor girl might have had the kind of jilting that dislocates a jaw. Pray not literally. But that's the only way to account for it. She's paid for it alright and just like hard currency it gets passed around and around and only gets grubbier.'

'And you? Have you had a touch?'

'I daresay I would have. If only I had something to offer her. I'd give it to her even now, regardless of what I think I know.'

'She must be something.'

Burney saluted with his glass and finished off the whiskey and the accompanying grimace set itself upon the cracks of his face. 'So that's what you get for a round from me: a story. Step up to her end of the bar for the next round and she might just grant you one of your own - a double heartbreak with ice.'

'Tempting, but don't sell yourself short. Why would I want to talk with anyone else? This is just the stuff to take my mind off all those freezing roofs of New York.' Hope looked away from the effervescent redhead grinning as she poured another customer his beer. 'So, tell me, for curiosity's sake, who is the second toughest in the bar?'

*

Faldon Rainey was nearing his black Beawich sedan parked around the corner from the Jolly Whaler. He was a big man. Six foot three, or even more when he cared to look up. He was laughing and teasing, happy with the fresh-faced brunette he had managed to coax out of the Jolly Whaler for a night cap in his apartment. It had required a lot of smooth talking and frequent time checks to show off the glittering gold of his Pour Hermes wristwatch and the silver of his rings.

Her name was Sally and she was a secretary in a transport company out in Queens. She didn't have much of a laugh to Rainey's ear. It sounded forced and fake and demeaned anything funny he might have said. But it was not laughter that warmed his bed warm and he did not want it cold tonight. 'We're almost there, doll.' He cusped a hand on the small of her back for no other reason than he wanted to get into the habit of touching her. She did not resist.

For all the posturing with his watch he still had no idea what time it was, but even in the world's busiest city the flow of people and cars was starting to recede. And there was a distinct chill in the air. It knocked down the good reasons to be outdoors to virtually zero.

And yet Rainey realised there was someone leaning back against his car. The street lights were so dim he had needed to be closer to ensure it wasn't simply a trick of moonlight shadows.

A wave of anger surged through him. Whoever it was, he couldn't be a friend or acquaintance, for no one he knew would be so stupid. Rainey had broken numerous jaws, hospitalised many a man so that he was more known as a body wrecker than the bodyguard he purported to be.

'What damned business do you have leaning against my car?' he spat, striding ahead of Sally.

The man at the car straightened up. It was George Hope and he was wearing his black bandana handkerchief as a mask. 'Your car is my bank and I've been waiting patiently for the teller.' He sprung forward, lifting a sharp knee into Rainey's abdomen.

Amidst a sickening groan Rainey crumpled to the ground. Sally might not have had much of a laugh but she certainly knew how to scream. Ears ringing Hope found himself drawing his Colt .45 in self-defense.

'Get out of here,' he barked at her. 'Find a better way home.'

She turned and shuffled as fast as her high heels would take her.

'Don't kill me,' pleaded Rainey, squirming on the ground.

Hope took it as a sign he had not hit him hard enough and gave him another boot. After Sally's deafening scream, the subsequent muted grunt came as a pleasant relief. He put the gun to Rainey's head and cocked it. 'Why should I listen? You don't even say please.' He reached into Rainey's jacket and removed his wallet and a small caliber revolver. He straightened up and fished out the money from the wallet. There was a few hundred dollars. 'Impressive. Enough paper for a novel.' He tucked the notes into a trouser pocket and dropped the wallet back onto Rainey.

'I'll kill you when I get the chance,' gasped Rainey, looking all but demonic in the darkness.

'Good for you I don't feel that way 'cause I have the opportunity right here. I'm taking your money and leaving your gun. I'll put it in the car next to that big old stash of cocaine you have.' Hope opened the car door and threw it in. 'Selling that shit you know you're going to need it. Why don't you take up robbing banks? There's only a certain type of folk that goes into a bank so at least the bank robber knows he's going to be the craziest person in the room. Same can't be said when you're commerce is drugs. In fact, it's often the other way around.' He started to edge away. 'If your head ain't too sore for thinking, why don't you think about _that_?'

*

After a few blocks, confident he was not being followed, Hope hailed a cab. He rode it to his apartment building just around the corner of Third Avenue and East 19 Street. The driver was a nervous type, his lips puckered and his head perpetually swinging to a fro like a pendulum. Perhaps he was a victim of shell-shock. He was the right age. And there was no doubt the heavy artillery of the trenches was still reverberating in the heads of many a veteran. Possibly it was that. But then New York could take credit for well enough conjuring its own brand of shell-shock. Hope did not care to pry, merely added a little extra to the tip and left it at that.

He waved his way past Max, the night concierge, who always seemed too wide awake to blink no matter what hour it happened to be, and there were three flights of stairs to his apartment floor. His door was 32, but as was the custom, when he heard music in 31, he gently knocked on the door and entered without delay - before his neighbour could be put to the trouble of opening it.

The neighbour was a seventy year old widower named John Badami. At night, Badami would sit in his black leather reclining chair and reflect over the lights of New York, smoking and listening to jazz. During the days he would read. A simple life but his walls were crammed with books that deserved to be read – like years that deserved to be lived, or in the case of an old man, days were of value enough. The coffee table before the old man was stacked with records and pipes. No evidence of food. Not so much as a single crumb.

'Good evening, George,' said Badami. 'Have you been out? It was pleasant, I trust.'

Hope poured himself a port and sat down in one of the silver framed settees. 'This is pleasant.'

'That's why it's dull.' Badami tapped away some ash into his enameled, jade encrusted ashtray. He was bright in his red satin pajama jacket and trousers. His brush-over white hair was a tad off-centre on his bald scalp. But this was not an apartment of mirrors.

'Been on one of your trips down memory lane?' queried Hope.

Badami seemed half there still and replied only after a time. 'I've been thinking about the family of young Davey James. I don't believe I have mentioned them to you.'

'No, the name is not familiar.'

Badami sucked in some cigar smoke, listened to a moment of Billie Holiday on the turntable and exhaled and began to explain. 'Young Davey was born into a wealthy family. Real silver spooner. His parents had set out his life ready to live even before he was born. His name was on the lists of the best schools and societies in New York. He even had a real estate portfolio. It was a life destined for privilege and success. Meningitis, however, cut in early on this particular moment of life and Davey was gone on the very week of his fifth birthday.'

He sipped his port and continued.

'Sometimes through heartbreaking tragedy people become repulsed by any sense of a tomorrow. That is what happened to Davey's parents. They had another child, a daughter, Suzanna, and this time they did not plan anything regarding her future, only they made sure they were there every night when she closed her eyes and every morning when she opened them again. They kept her warm. Kept her safe.' He looked at Hope. 'I learned all this when Suzanna engaged me to bury them, many years later. And I could see in her kindness how successful they had been. They had given her their future, and it was the way the future should be.' He put a finger to his temple and sighed. 'We bury them in six feet of ground, but there is not that much dirt in our heads. So we remember.' He picked up the newspaper that had been lying on the coffee table and flashed it at Hope: it was the Brooklyn Chronicle evening edition, a few days old, with Hope on the front page. 'I never saw anyone shed a tear over a newspaper. People might be amused by this kind of thing, but it's only a real relationship that makes a lifelong impact. The kind that crushes people when it's over, yet gives them the strength to carry on as well.' He glanced again at the picture accompanying the article: Hope, brush in hand, leaning proudly upon the City Hall's flagpole like he were a deep sea fisherman with his latest giant catch. 'Up on all those roofs, you might be getting a nice view of things but the distance between you and the rest of New York is only getting bigger. Forgive the sentimentality, but that is the concern of the tired, old undertaker living next door.' He put the paper back down. 'All I'm saying is you need to burn bright when you're young, for there will only be the embers afterwards to keep you warm. And the closer people get to each other, the hotter they burn. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.'

'Sure thing, old man,' smirked Hope. 'So, what did you think of the article? Did you read it?'

'Yeah, I read it. If you were paying this Donovan Black to write about you, I'd say you owe him more than the retainer. It read like he is trying to have you canonised as a saint. Or possibly to one day turn you into a war bond.'

'I'm not paying him,' muttered Hope, 'but I do owe him a tip or two.'

The needle slowly lifted off the record and Hope took it as his cue to stand, leaving the sediment of the glass of sherry behind. 'Well, I've got another building to climb tomorrow.'

'Yes, there will always be another flagpole. Good night, young man.'

Hope headed into his apartment, pulling out the bundle of money he had taken off Faldon Rainey. He clenched the bundle into in a fist and massaged the knuckles he had bruised in punching Rainey, and he pondered which charity he might donate the money to. Perhaps, an orphanage. Badami would like that. Hope tucked the money between two volumes of a series on African wildlife, figuring it as safe a place from burglars as any. He went to the living room phone and called Detective Warren Longworry.

'You know what time it is?' Longworry was soon barking down the other end.

'Well, this is me being unconventional.'

'Give me something better than sleep and we won't have a problem.'

'Her name is Rose Dovetail. Apparently she's been getting a lot of men into trouble by being better than sleep. The kind of men you might want to get something on.'

There was a pause on the other end of the line. 'What did you say her name was?'

'Dovetail?'

'Never heard of her.'

'And she wouldn't mind that at all.'

'Alright, tell me about her.'

Longworry listened silently to what followed. Hope did not stop to check if the line had gone dead. When he finished there was a pause before Longworry finally said, 'You are a policeman's friend to be sure. You're getting me cases and I've been specifically ordered by the Assistant District Attorney not to keep any paperwork. Good for me, but if something goes awry, it probably won't be so good for you. You'll be on your own, just like you are on those rooftops. And it will be a long way down.' He laughed hoarsely. 'But no paperwork and no desk. I really do hope you manage to last a while longer yet, my friend.' More laughter. It ebbed into static and the line went dead.

7 _. 'It would be unpatriotic to see you dead in my premises.'_

Hope had found a bar near the Waldorf Astonia. It was called the Salvation and he liked the look of it. There was no reason for it other than the mix of bright light and imposing steel door and the name suiting his mood after a long afternoon on the Waldorf's bleak, windswept roof.

Hope pulled open the door to a flight of dark stairs that needed to be negotiated with a well-judged stoop as he descended under a low roof to the basement level bar. The bar warm was warm and cosy and not so brightly lit as the evening on the outside.

Hope ordered a bourbon whiskey from the tall, solidly built bartender and looked around for someone to share it with. There was a woman sitting alone at a near table. Hope could see little more than her back even though her chair was facing his way. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun, her shoulders hunched over her drink, and her back was as bent as a question mark. Hope strategically placed himself at a table near to hers and was able to make out the bruising high on her cheek. It was a faded black and probably a few days old. If not for her long brown hair being caught on her shoulder, it would have been concealed.

Hope sipped his bourbon and tried to make eye contact with her; her head, however, remained down over her glass like it were an exam. A cold, languid expression was on her face. Tears were streaking down her cheeks.

A gentleman should not impose himself too quickly, Hope thought, so he put down his glass on the table and idly stirred it with a finger, waiting for her cue, primed like an athlete crouched over the starting line. And finally it came: her eyes flicked up to him with a pain both bloodshot and raw. It was over in an instant, but for Hope it was invitation enough.

'I would be honoured if you dried your eyes with this,' he said, swinging out his chair towards her and offering up his black bandana handkerchief.

After a moment of surprise, the woman accepted it. 'Thank you.' There was a dignity about her voice.

'Not at all.' Hope moved into an empty chair at her table. 'It's hard for me to enjoy a drink when I see someone feeling so down.'

The woman patted at her tears sparingly, careful of her make up. She looked at him. 'You're not a cop, are you?'

'No, I'm not. I'm a gentleman by profession.'

'Gentleman?'

'Any work I do is not for money.'

'Is that so? I haven't met too many of that sort. It certainly rules you out as being a cop then. But that's a good thing. You see, Harold does not take kindly to cops.'

Hope frowned ever so slightly. 'Who's Harold?'

'My husband.' The woman glanced at the entrance stairs. 'He's just on his way here now.'

Hope turned and there he was. With his sheer forehead and a nose like a runny egg, the approaching man might not have been much of a romantic rival, but with his height and broad shoulders, he would have made a more than adequate physical match.

'No, Harold,' said the woman sternly, springing up from her chair. 'I'll handle this.' The sad indifference in her gaze was long gone now, life flooding back.

The man glared at Hope a moment before doing what he was told, murmuring under his breath as he moved away. 'At the door then.'

The woman planted her hands on the table and bent forward at Hope as though contemplating a bite. 'A gentleman may help a gal with a handkerchief when there are a few tears spilt. But what else is he good for? Is he there when a gal is bedridden for weeks at a time? Will he sit in the same old chair year after year listening to the same radio shows? Will he hold a crying baby when the noise is too much for her to bear? A gentleman won't do ugly. And that's all that's on offer here.' She looked across to her husband who had stopped at the base of the stairs. She lightly prodded her bruised cheek. 'I've wounded him too. In other ways. I say things. It's all I can do in this crummy world. Say things. I do my worst.' She dropped Hope's handkerchief onto the table and walked away. 'A gentleman wouldn't approve.'

The bartender quickly stepped in to fill the void the woman left behind at the table. 'Brave, my friend. Very brave. I thought you were a goner. A beast treats his wife like that, what's he gonna' do to you?'

Hope folded up his handkerchief and put it back into his pocket. 'He could only do his worst. And since he didn't even try, I'd have to say the night is still young.' He gulped the last of his drink and slammed down the glass. 'I'm rich and famous and I want to meet bad people.' He enjoyed the look of disapproval the bartender gave him.

'Famous you say? What movie you been in then?'

'Wrong idea. It's what roof I've been on.'

'What roof?' Then it twigged. 'Oh, you're that paint guy.'

'Yeah, now you got it.'

'You were in the newspaper.'

'Sure was.'

The bartender frowned. 'It would be unpatriotic to have you dead in my premises. Bad for business what's more. But you come in here asking dangerous questions about the clientele and I tell you to buzz off 'cause I've seen enough mad things in this joint that I don't need to see any more.' He leaned furtively closer. His breath was stale. 'This is different, isn't it? Now that I know who you are. You look like someone who will be taking a lot of secrets to the grave and I'd be chuffed knowing one of them was mine. So, I'll give you something. Wanna' meet someone with a gun or three?'

8. _'If you can crack a few skulls during the working day, I'm sure you'll go home as content as a kitten.'_

'Gotten rusty, Captain?' came a taunt from a few steps lower on the stairwell. 'You ain't got that same spring in your step.'

It was true that Longworry had lost much of his conditioning with his desk job. At least he still had enough wind in his lungs to be able to fire back at his taunter. 'For that, Stevens, you're going first through the door.'

'Will be a pleasure, Cap,' was the self-assured reply. The uniformed police officer, Bo Stevens, was short of breath too, though for him it was due more to the excitement of the impending bust than the exertion up the stairs. The Buster and the Treatment were back on the job. Once the holders of the most commendations on the force, the unit had been disbanded with Longworry's demotion to a desk, its members siphoned away to other precincts, other duties, and a lot fewer arrests. What Longworry had done in knuckle-jawing a businessman cum hoodlum outside the Mayor's office was to find out how deep the roots of rotten fruit really went descended into the office, and how quick the city rags were to sing the tunes blowing from that direction, and he suddenly found his career gathering dust, like one of those boxes in archives; so it seemed to defy comprehension how he could have got back enough clout to reform his crew and put them back out to work. No matter the wherefores, two long years in purgatory and it would be the criminal element paying the price as the Buster and the Treatment set about making up for lost time. And it would all start in this ransacking of a downtrodden Queen's apartment.

The ever agile Davenas was the third member on the stairs, while the more solidly built Randi and Linde were a few steps further back. Pistols were drawn, hands were steady and eyes were wildly alive.

'Good to be off a desk anyway, isn't it, Captain?' remarked Randi. 'If you can crack a few skulls during the working day, I'm sure you'll go home as content as a kitten.'

'What are you talking about?' snapped Longworry. 'Shut the hell up, damn it.'

'Safety's off, isn't it, Captain?' chimed in Linde.

'You shut the help up too.'

Longworry led his squad off the stairs onto the fourth floor landing. Someone down the corridor was cooking sausages. Maybe the Bavarian kind that Longworry had known as a kid. The truly delicious smells filled the air and he suddenly found himself standing flat-footed salivating over the musings of how good the sausages would taste and what beer would best accompany them: it was the kind of food that had filled the void left behind by his demotion and its scent had brought with it the whispers of a malaise that he had sometimes succumbed to as he found respite from his mind numbing office work with crowded lunches that stretched deep into the afternoons. On this occasion, however, a gun wielding Stevens was unceremoniously pushing past him to get at the target door, and his mind was drawn back on the job: he filed in with the unit as they assumed their customary positions around the door for a forced entry assault, and it was time to see if they could still do the things that had earned them their name all those years ago.

Randi holstered his pistol in order to apply two hands to his tire-iron - the way he could rip a door from its hinges the squad never wanted to knock.

Whatever odor was emanating from apartment 403, it was not fine dining. More like one part cabbage, one part old tennis shoes.

Randi wedged the tire-iron into the door crack and sucked in air between his teeth. Then the door was opening like it were made of Japanese paper.

'Freeze!' cried out Stevens as he ran inside. 'This is the police!'

There was a deafening pop in reply. Someone was welcoming them with potshots. Longworry pushed his way into the apartment, uncertain if the tumbling Stevens was hit or just scrambling for cover. The perpetrator was in a far doorway, brandishing a revolver: to Longworry he was just an overweight slob in a grimy white singlet and probably his greatest crime was the amount of chest and back hair spilling out over it. Somehow it seemed appropriate to Longworry that this man be taken down by someone in a well-tailored suit, and that's what happened: a shot right in the gut, not a pretty place for it and he had been aiming higher - he wondered if the bullet had been following his train of thought regarding those sausages - or maybe that tomato sauce stain on the singlet had formed the shape of a target. Longworry considered putting another bullet into him to finish him off, but the way the fat man dropped so helplessly managed to inspire sympathy, so he resolved to let the doctors do their best.

There were another three occupants in the entry living room who had been standing there like furniture and they threw up their hands in surrender. There was nowhere for them to run anyway as their exit was now blocked by the fallen man and the rest of the apartment including the windows was stacked with stolen department store merchandise. Radios, lighting and kitchenware were piled high and every inch of furniture was crammed with suits, dresses, furs and hats. Rolled carpets and rugs were wedged between the cracks.

Longworry took in the scene with an air of satisfaction. 'This is my kind of place. Macy's without the crowds. Cuff em' boys. And call an ambulance for our fast draining friend.' He backed out of the apartment, holstering his gun. 'Don't put your sticky fingers on anything until I get back.'

He strode out the apartment, noticing doors slightly ajar as frightened neighbours tried to peak a look at the disturbance and he had to fight himself not to go at them. His blood was up such that every fibre was tingling with a desperate thirst for action. He had never been able to holster that feeling as easily as he could his gun but it seemed worse now than ever. As painful as it had been, his desk job had purged him of the addiction. The grotesque, incomparable excitement of gunplay. And the first taste of his relapse was pure, intoxicating adrenalin. Yes, this was what he used to gorge himself on.

He corralled himself onto the stairs and down onto the street. George Hope was parked in his race-modified Ford - his version of being a gentleman was that adrenalin could be taken with just as much candor as a high tea, and he would never need to kick the habit. He leaned out the window as Longworry approached.

'How did it go? I thought I heard shots.'

'One of the gang was not willing to come quietly. I'd say a nasty little bunch one and all. You actually wasted a night drinking with them?'

'Wasted is the right word. Listening to them brag about their version of shopping. Shopping from shoppers. Pulverising people out on the streets for the sin of carrying a shopping bag.'

Longworry nodded. 'Well, now it's their turn to pay. A whole different kind of layaway scheme.'

Hope smiled and started the engine. 'I told them the next round would be on me.'

'There's quite a toy shop upstairs,' yelled Longworry over the roar of engine. 'If there's anything you want, a radio or a suit, I can put aside a good one.'

Hope shot him an incredulous look from the corner of his eye.

Longworry shrugged. 'At least I offered.' He patted the roof affectionately. 'Keep up the good work. Rose Dovetail is keeping us amused with all her friends in high places but we've always got time for dirty busts like this one.'

Hope put his hands on the steering wheel and paused a moment. 'Actually, if there's a decent phonograph player in there, I've got a neighbour who might appreciate it.'

'That's more like it. I'll see what I can come up with.'

'The reporter from the Brooklyn Chronicle, Donovan Black, is on his way. Tell him whatever version of events you think would make a good read.'

'Always do.'

'Probably something about sweet old-timers being robbed as soon as they leave the department stores. That will make you look good.'

Longworry smirked. 'Won't it just.'

Hope removed the handbrake and let the car slowly roll. 'When you're done with Black, send him to the Chrysler Building. They've got me painting fenders where a roof should be and it would be a shame not to make a feature of it.'

He hit the accelerator and sped away.

9. _'The simple truth is, darling, if I can't do it, nobody can. Control me, I mean.'_

It was a week or so later and Hope was sitting alone at a table at the Chesterville in Soho, drinking ice cold gin. There was a band to listen to and a frolicking dance floor to look at. The atmosphere was so effervescent in fact that even sitting alone on the edge of it felt like activity.

A young man came from nowhere and announced himself with a tap on his arm. He did not immediately speak. He just stood there. He had a baby-smile and a meticulously thin mustache that had no doubt seen its fair share of tweezers. He leaned closer to get his voice out above the music.

'Miss Sophia Allworthy would like to invite you for a drink at her table.'

He pointed away into the darkness and Hope had no idea where. Hope, nevertheless, accepted without hesitation, for he was curious to know whether this was the proof he was now famous enough that strangers came looking for him.

'Lead on,' he said.

The tables in the club were arranged like a traffic jam, making passage awkward and potentially bruising - especially as there was more than one reveler who had drunk the dance floor all the way to them.

The course set by the stranger eventually came to a table towards the back of the club and there was a pretty brunette sitting there, nursing two empty glasses under her arms as she swayed to the music. The young woman's cheeks were heavily powdered, her eyes an intense blue and her jaw was quite pronounced, to the point of being jutting. She was wearing a sparkling black sequin dress complemented by gold earrings and pearl necklace. She looked up at Hope with a rather tipsy gaze and gave the glasses a rest.

'See,' she said with a shake of her shoulders. 'That's what happens when I'm provided a chaperone. I use him to fetch a strange man to my table. How dastardly of me.' Her voice was cheerful but sounded very much like both glasses in her hand had once been very full. She stared at Hope a protracted moment, seemingly amused merely by his presence. 'And you are strange in so many ways,' she finally said. 'You climb skyscrapers for no other reason than to point them out. And you sit alone in a club when plenty of girls would allow you to buy them a drink.'

Hope took that as a hint and asked the chaperone to fetch from the bar a gin and whatever they were having. Then he sat down.

'I believe your name is Sophie Allworthy. If I heard your friend correctly.'

'Indeed it is. And I have had my fair share of pictures in newspapers and magazines. You don't have anything on me in that respect.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes, Mr Hope. I have worked as a petticoat model, you see. I am told I have quite the figure.' She leaned closer, allowing a little more cleavage to swell up from her dress. 'I'll let you know a secret that I wouldn't tell any of my other boyfriends.'

'What's that?'

'I'm married.' She giggled and recoiled back almost out of the chair. 'Poor old Michael thought he had snared himself the wife of the century. Or at least of the Depression. I cooked and cleaned prodigiously. Our little apartment was a Manhattan oasis. But I was working so hard because the reality I was trying to hide from was really that bad. I was not a housewife at all.' She extended her arms out to the club. 'I was this. So the dream wife has become a nightmare. Poor David gets plenty upset, but there's no use trying to control me. The simple truth is, darling, if I can't do it, nobody can. Control me, I mean.' She laughed heartily. Laughed so loud it could be mistaken for funny. 'Wedding vows don't sound anything like that, do they, Mr George?'

Hope shrugged. 'I can't say I've ever listened to the finer details.'

'So, you're not married? You climb all those skyscrapers and yet you still know your limits. Good for you.' She laughed again and put a hand on his. 'Very respectable limits. And, to be honest, I asked you over here on the hope that you might be able to extend mine.'

'Which direction?'

Allworthy pointed upwards. 'I'm tired of being afraid of heights. When I saw you on those buildings in the damned colourless rag, I wanted to join you.' She started tracing circles on his hand with a sharp, highly varnished red fingernail. 'That would make you my cure.'

Hope looked into her eyes. 'What about your chaperone over there?'

'I'm offering you the job. How high are you going to take me?'

Hope stood up and offered a hand to escort her upright. Allworthy's nails dug into his wrist like the claws of a monitor lizard climbing a tree. Once she was standing up in his arms, Hope said, 'We'll start small and work our way up.'

'How small is small?'

'Third floor.'

Allworthy started swinging her hips to the music. 'We'll just have to see how scary that is.'

The chaperone was still over at the bar, trying to catch the bartender's eye. They left him and the Chesterville without another word. It was a cold, dark night awaiting them outside. Although Hope liked the way Allworthy continued to hold his hand as they walked, he was not so sure he liked the way she did not let go. They were heading for his car parked a block away in a quiet, sleepy neighbourhood: the silence that had emerged between them since they had left the bar was beginning to fester, but restarting the conversation without the booming band as backing seemed a daunting prospect.

'Give us your money,' barked a voice suddenly and the initial relief that this was some kind of circuit breaker was lost in an instant as the meaning and tone fully sank in. Allworthy gasped as a blade flashed in front of her with what little street light there was. The mugger was short, stocky and twitchy and was using a wide-brimmed sombrero to cover the top of his face. 'I said, give it.'

'I don't have any money,' urged Allworthy.

'Shit, I'm not surprised at that,' spat the mugger, lifting his eyes just a fraction. 'A cute broad in a bar doesn't need money to get a drink. Plenty of suckers to take care of that.' He turned at Hope. 'And here he is. I'm cynical enough to reckon the guy that escorts a dame like this out of a bar like the Chesterville is gonna' be loaded. It's your wallet I want. If you don't give it, I can't say what I'm going to take from you.'

'Alight,' said Hope, extracting his wallet, having concluded that taking a lunge at the man in such darkness was fraught with unlikelihoods. He removed its paper dollars and held them out.

'Who wants the book without its cover,' scoffed the mugger. 'Put the fruit back in the basket and hand the whole thing over.'

Hope complied without resistance. The mugger snatched it up greedily and turned his attention back to Allworthy. 'Give me those pearls too, lady. Hurry up about it. Don't make me have to cut em' from your neck.'

'Not my necklace,' pleaded Allworthy, her hands gripping them in a panic, fingers as pale as the pearls themselves. 'Please.'

'Shut up.' The knife flashed closer. 'Which do you really want to lose most?' He said it like he meant it.

Breaking into a sob, Allworthy unclipped the necklace and handed it over.

'And that's how you survived,' said the mugger as he backed away and bolted into a nearby alley.

'Wait here,' said Hope, squeezing Allworthy's arm and starting after the mugger.

'What are you doing?' she said called out.

Hope ran back to her, grinned and kissed her on the cheek. 'Not waiting.'

He was off running again. The alley lay between ailing fences, its grimy dirt floor crackling with broken glass. The mugger had slowed down into it, not wanting to sprain an ankle. Hope, however, was moving fast: he was not sure if it was his eyes or his body that had done the most adjusting but he could see the mugger more clearly now even though the alley was darker.

The mugger thrust his knife with some purpose as he realised he was being pursued; that, however, merely allowed Hope to apply a wrist lock and hurl him down onto his back. Hope stomped on his chest and twisted the wrist within a breath of snapping. The knife dropped amidst an agonising cry.

'The wallet,' said Hope, 'was my father's. And it's all I've got left of him. So, it's worth a lot more to me than your life.'

'I didn't know,' grimaced the mugger.

'If you give it back we can still be friends.' Hope lent a foot on his face. The shards of glass stuck by mud to the sole of his shoe were starting to cut. 'And everything else in your pockets as well. It's like slicing open the belly of a great white shark. It's always interesting to see what it has been digesting.'

'Okay!' The mugger used his free hand to empty his pockets. He had soon made a pile of wallets, watches and jewelry.

Hope stabbed a knee into his ribs while he gathered it all up and then kicked him hard in the stomach to ensure an unimpeded departure. He found Allworthy to be standing where he had left her.

'Are you alright? she asked.

'Fine.' He handed back her pearl necklace. 'He said he was sorry.'

They were walking again, quicker now than before and with the occasional glance over their shoulders, but, nonetheless, still only walking.

'I hope you didn't risk your life for me,' Allworthy said. 'To be honest the necklace doesn't really mean that much to me at all. It's imitation.' She giggled. 'I was just taking the opportunity for a bit of acting practice. One can't model petticoats forever.'

Hope smiled. 'You did a fine job. I'm sure you convinced him he had scored a necklace to retire on.'

'Thank you.'

Allworthy was holding his hand again. This time Hope liked it more than before.

10. _'I get the feeling you two haven't been introduced yet.'_

Hope was standing at street level to the Chanin Building, swaying from side to side like a flagpole in a gale as he gazed far up to the crenellated top. He was pale and haggard and was on the verge of tumbling over. Bobby Senton Carpets strode forward and grabbed him.

'You alright?' he railed. 'You look like dog-droppings. Did you even sleep last night?'

'Sort of.'

'This ain't the type of job where you can catch up on a few winks on the company's time.' Before letting him go, Carpets gave him a hard shake. 'I've spent much of my life high above the ground and if there's one thing I've learnt is that gravity is an unforgiving son of a bitch. I mean it. Watching good people fall makes a bigger impression on you than it does on the ground.'

Hope looked at him through bloodshot eyes and scratched the stubble where a razor might usually have passed. 'I'm really alright. You bring the paint?'

'It's over by the entrance. And the rope, which I'll be tempted to tie around your neck.'

Hope sighed. 'And you went to bed early last night?'

'By your standards excruciatingly early.'

'Well, why would I want to sleep if it's going to make me as grumpy as you?'

Carpets pushed him away. 'The rarefied air of skyscrapers has been starving your brain of oxygen. Now you're sure you want to go up today? They've installed a flagpole just so we can paint it and they have it sitting way over the edge of the observatory. And believe me, you won't hit the pavement any less hard just because your picture is in the paper. In fact, it would merely be something to mop up the mess with.'

Hope rubbed his forehead. He had been managing to separate the words from his headache, but not anymore.

'Let's go up,' he said. He spotted out the paints, ropes and other supplies and headed that way. The entrance was hectic with the last of the rush hour office crowd scampering to not be late, far removed from the artistry of terra-cotta frieze above them. One portly man, however, exquisitely dressed in an auburn tweed suit, was in no rush. He ambled over to Hope with dead eyes and a sneer leaking a glimpse of pearly white teeth.

'If I'm not mistaken, you're the roof painter,' he said in a voice of studied formality. 'You're here to do the Chanin?'

Hope squinted. He looked at the man but did not say anything. With a shrill laugh the man added: 'Well, if that's what it takes these days for the great American hero to make ends meet, the least I can do is chip in.' He plucked twenty dollars out of his over-sized wallet and stuffed it into Hope's breast pocket. 'Buy yourself a new brush, my friend.'

Hope watched him walk away into the building. He did not even notice that Carpets had returned beside him.

'So you're taking tips now?' Carpets murmured. He was holding a can of Oregon Prime paint and brushes and utility belts, and coiled ropes were hanging off his shoulders.

'You're right, I might not quite be in a condition for painting roofs just yet,' said Hope with a taut voice. 'Get yourself a late breakfast or an early lunch or whatever you want to call it.'

'A gentleman would know it's called brunch.'

'And I suppose a gentleman _wouldn't_ know who he was?'

'But you do?'

'His name is Ario Flinger. A bad sort. He married a wealthy socialite and she married into an early grave. Murdered in an alley. And Flinger could never explain why they had wandered that way in the first place. But the cops didn't have enough to ask him to spell it out in front of a judge and jury. And so that's how it is for him. A life of giving tips.'

'What are you going to do about it?' Carpets was suspicious.

Hope took the twenty dollars out of his pocket and looked it over. 'Just a drop in the ocean. But it's the kind of drop that gives a fish a taste.' He stuffed the money into Carpets's pocket in turn. 'For your brunch. I'll meet you back here in an hour.'

He started for the Chanin Building lobby. Carpets followed. 'Twenty dollars is not lunch, it's dinner for the whole family. I'll keep it for that. I'll be on the roof.'

'Suit yourself.' Hope hastened his steps away, getting the feeling Carpets would be trying to tie the safety rope around his waist right now given half the chance. He entered the skyscraper and Carpets did not follow. The lobby was busy, particularly around the elevators. Ario Flinger was nowhere to be seen. Not surprising, for he was not the type for the back of queues. Hope, however, was unphased, having already decided upon his course of action: to know what went on in the streets there was no better source than a taxi driver, and for a building it was the elevator jockeys. He pulled out the police badge Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones had provided him for emergencies and stepped in amongst the throng of office workers jostling to go up.

*

Carpets was leaning back against a railing upon the Chanin Building observatory, arms tightly folded, trying not to look like he was sweating that the roped off spectators were starting to get impatient in their wait for Hope. Some of them had been waiting for over an hour. Carpets had contemplated going up the temporary flagpole himself. But he was not the advertised great American hero. It wouldn't be the same. He had set up slowly, at least giving them something to look at. Now there was nothing left to do and he was just trying to look like he was thinking about something important. He was next to the makeshift flagpole that stretched out high above the street. With the flag draped over his shoulders, Hope would climb out onto it and paint it. That was the show and the observation deck was the right place for it.

Hope appeared at last. He was wearing an auburn tweed jacket.

'That looks familiar,' said Carpets, both angry and amused at the same time.

Hope ran his fingers along the lapels. 'It's comfortable and warm too. Such a big benefactor of the work we do, I thought I would honour him by wearing it while we were up on his building.'

'Very thoughtful of you. Can I ask how you got your hands on it? I don't suppose it was by asking nicely.'

Hope grabbed the base of the flagpole, clearly pleased with himself. 'As it turns out he's got an office on the twenty eight floor and is universally disliked on every floor there under. Elevator jockeys included. Made it easy. As to his popularity on the floors above, I didn't stop to ask.'

'Well, stay still until I've got your harness on,' replied Carpets, going to work on him. 'If you slip over the edge, he won't at all be happy with the state of the jacket as it is returned to him.'

'Sure. You've still got that dinner courtesy of Flinger to enjoy. So, let's not dawdle.'

Carpets applied the harness tightly around his waist and laughed at the sight of Hope set to paint in the absurd combination of tweed and denim.

'I'll take the wife and kids to a nice restaurant. We don't eat out much at all. By all means come along and join us. We would be happy to have you.'

'Thank you, but I have plans,' said Hope.

Carpets was hurt despite himself. 'I'm sure you've got something else to do, but should you really call them plans?'

Hope leapt up onto the railing of the observatory and straddled the flagpole. The crowd gasped and the flagpole started to bend and creak with his weight as he pushed upward and outward.

'Did you say something?' murmured Hope as he continued on for the top. 'Lord knows I've only one colour of paint in my can but I'm in the mood for a masterpiece.'

*

The first thing Hope did once he arrived home was draw a hot bath. He added bath spice left behind by an old girlfriend – it had been over a year ago now: she had left him before the water could even get cold. And it had been months before he could smell lavender again. Sometimes it was like that. Now he was fine and he even lit candles to set the mood. Steam filled the room and he stood there a moment. It was a good feeling.

Ario Flinger's jacket was still with him, having survived the afternoon's session on the Chanin Building unscathed bar a few small splotches of paint on the sleeves; before returning it in the morning, he was considering giving it one more wear, letting it experience whatever sleazy bar he happened to find himself at in the evening – not that it wouldn't have been exposed to similar fare on the back of Flinger. As he slipped off the jacket he noticed something in its inner pocket: something of paper. He had been too worked up to notice it until now. He removed it to find it was a letter written on light pink paper. He took it with him into the bath. He read and found it was exactly the kind of letter someone like Flinger would keep in the pocket closest to his heart: a painful apology. The writer had spurned Flinger's advances during a job interview and was giving assurances that it was more the tension of the moment than any disdain on her part. The letter ended with a promise that given another opportunity the result would be much more favourable. The letter bore the address and signature of one Stacey Gurner.

Hope spent the rest of the bath thinking about what he could do with such a tawdry situation, and by the time he left the bath he had decided to go pay her a visit without delay. He would not wear Flinger's jacket, however. He had enough of his own.

*

The apartment was a typical Brooklyn firetrap. Hope was holding his cop badge and revolver down in the pockets of his cashmere coat in order to feel better about being there. But then his rap on the door was answered and his eyes widened with the beauty before him. Long glistening black hair, emerald green eyes, long thick eyelashes, soft pink lips and a clear, milky complexion. In her loose white blouse and brown pants she might not have been going out for the evening, but then again she was looking so good she could have gatecrashed a New York Yacht Club function and had the door held open for her in the process.

'Hello?' Her eyes narrowed and Hope realised he had already gone too long without explaining himself.

'Stacey Turner?'

'That's my sister. I'm Elsa.'

'Is she home?'

'Not right now. She's working. She won't be back till late.'

'Working? May I inquire in what? I only ask as I have come here to offer her a job.'

Elsa Gurner stared at him a long moment. 'You'd better come in,' she finally said.

Hope stepped inside and she closed the door. The apartment was clean and smelt of jasmine.

'Would you like to sit?' asked Elsa. 'Tea or coffee? I'm sorry but we do not drink anything stronger.'

'Coffee would be lovely.'

'Make yourself comfortable.'

Hope was left alone to a worn white vinyl sofa. It was cold until his body slowly warmed it up. The coffee that came was a jet black under a light brown scum. A matching pair of cups. Sugar cubes had been placed on the saucers. Hope sipped his coffee hot and complimented its bitterness.

Elsa left hers untouched on a side table. She sat down at another of the vinyl sofas. 'Being the elder sister with our parents gone, I do take an interest,' she said. 'So may I ask what job you had in mind?'

Hope leaned forward, his seat already angling him that way. Before he could speak there emanated the ecstatic groans of hefty love making from the apartment above.

Elsa shuddered and went to the record player with as much dignity as she could muster. The record she put on was a Beethoven requiem. It was loud enough to drown out upstairs. Hope smirked. 'At such times I prefer jazz.'

Elsa returned to her spot, moving so lithely it was unlikely she had worn out a pair of shoes in her whole life. 'What job are you offering?' she repeated.

'It's a good question, but I'm not entirely sure. What is she interested in?'

'Interested in?'

'You haven't told me what job she is doing now.'

Elsa's voice hardened, starting to perceive Hope as some kind of twisted suitor. 'No, I haven't.'

'Well, she must be looking to branch out, otherwise she wouldn't be talking to Ario Flinger.' Hope returned to his coffee cup and his fingers struggled with the small handle. He persevered, nonetheless, wanting something to do while Elsa continued to stare at him.

'When Stacey was younger,' Elsa finally said, 'she was always bringing home wounded animals she found out in the streets and alleyways. Now it seems to be men.'

'I'm not wounded.'

'Perhaps not, but then I get the feeling you two haven't been introduced yet.'

Hope had his little finger wedged in the handle of the coffee cup and was slurping off the last of the scum. 'Has she mentioned Ario Flinger at all?'

'Who? She isn't big on names. All I know is Stacey lives a different kind of life to mine, and it brings her into conflict with a different kind of man. And to answer your other query, she works in a hat factory.'

'Well, the good news is he doesn't make hats, so there is a chance she isn't working for him yet.' He handed her his calling card; the exchange was made from the very tips of their fingers.

Elsa read carefully the gold inscription. 'A gentleman it says? It sounds more like a boast than a profession.'

'It doesn't mean much, only that I do things for ends other than the financial. This case is no exception. I would like to sit down with your sister and see if there is a position of employment she would consider suitable. I have friends in City Hall, law enforcement and private enterprise. So there might well be something.'

'She may or may not have mentioned this Ario Flinger you refer to. But I take it he counts as unsuitable?'

'You would have to turn up your Mozart a little louder still for me to reveal what I think of him. Suffice to say he is a gangster. Devoid of the human condition.'

'I see.' Elsa rested her hands on her lap, her fingers closed around the card. 'I will let her know of your visit and your offer. I cannot predict how she will respond. I certainly cannot promise anything. The Haves of this world often get the shock of their lives when they realise the Have Nots are in actual fact the Don't Wants. The power they thought they wielded turns out to be an illusion.'

Hope gently nudged his cup back into the centre of its saucer. 'Thank you. The offer is not an illusion. Anyway, that's my card if she wants to contact me.'

Elsa stood up too. 'How did you say you came to know my sister?'

'You were right that I haven't met her before. To be frank, it's Flinger I know. Or should I say know of. That is why I'm here.'

Hope's eyes strayed to the wall where among the framed photographs was Elsa posing with a younger woman, perhaps in her early twenties, similar to Elsa Gurner but with lighter, longer hair; broader, happier eyes; a button nose; and a slightly sharper chin. In the background was a Ferris Wheel. Perhaps, the State Fair.

'Is that Stacey? I detect a certain family resemblance.'

'Yes, that's her. The camera does not well capture her pigheadedness; otherwise, the family resemblance would not be so apparent.'

Hope smiled. He also noted that the other photographs on the wall, of the two sisters and a couple who he could only assume were their parents, were all very much older. But he kept this observation to himself.

11 _. 'I am willing to believe it despite the blood on your collar.'_

Hope was starting to wonder if this really was the baddest man in the bar. He looked bad enough with his shaved head and bulging neck muscles, but as Hope got him talking into his beer, it was all about union rights and congressional inquiries. Railing against the establishment. Quoting snippets of radio speeches. Hope really had to question the judgment of the bartender who had directed him to this table. It seemed he had confused the amount of saliva discharged in a rant with actual menace. This man who went by the name of Debrew, simply had too many opinions to ever need to put himself on the line to defend just one.

And then, as Hope gulped passed the second beer in his company, there were the sounds of gasps and bottles being knocked over. All eyes in the Queller off 72nd Avenue were drawn to the bar, where a short, broad shouldered man in an old brown leather jacket had locked a fearsome handhold on the bartender's throat and was shaking him about as though he were washing just unpegged off the line.

The short man was hissing something into the bartender's ear. He then threw him disdainfully backwards into the wall and set about pouring himself a drink from the nearest bottle. He gulped it and slammed down the glass.

He strode to Hope's table and pulled up a chair.

'Hello,' he said. He smiled with too much mouth and with dark eyes that were not set right. 'You really the guy that paints all those buildings?'

His breath smelt awful and Hope wondered what a dentist would have made of the teethwork. A grove of yellowy brown stumps.

'That's right,' Hope replied indifferently.

'I saw you in the paper. What's your name?'

'George.'

'They call me Snap. On account of my temper.' He pointed back at the bartender, who was shakily righting toppled bottles. 'I wasn't losing my temper just then. He had it coming. Tells me about you and these funny questions you've been asking and how you wanna' meet the toughest man in the joint. He should've told about me. I know I wasn't around at the time but you see I'm worth the wait.'

He glanced disdainfully at Hope's table companion. 'Why you letting yourself be bored by this leach? Debrew moans about the Government like someone wants to know and he doesn't even realise it is his old lady and mother-in-law who pull his leash. Well, I slap harder than those fine, attractive women, so he can keep his mouth shut from now on.'

He held out his hand for Hope; Hope shook it: the skin was rough, riddled with scars.

'Out of respect for you, I'll let him stay at our table,' Snap said.

'Forget it,' muttered Debrew, climbing out of his chair. 'I've got to be somewhere else anyway.'

'You've got to be somewhere that won't kick your sorry butt.' Snap glanced at him until he was all the way out the bar, then proceeded to stare at the door he had departed from.

Hope took the opportunity for a closer look at the man and was intrigued by what he saw: the dull black unresponsive eye smacked of mental illness and drug abuse and the battered face showed as much evidence of a violent past as the surface of the moon - just the kind of person Hope had come here wanting to meet.

The eyes finally drifted erratically back to Hope and locked on him in an unblinking stare.

'You've now got the baddest son of a bitch without question. But if it ends in tears, you don't get your money back.' He laughed and his lips got stuck to his teeth like he needed the next size up.

'That's all I want. A bit of danger,' said Hope.

'You really sure about that? You're a paint salesman. Real danger might come as a nasty revelation.'

'I think I can handle it.'

'Well, we'll never find out in a lifeless dump like this. If you'd like to know for sure how bad I am, come with me.'

'Sure. If you've got the time.'

'Let's go.' Snap belligerently threw back his chair and headed for the door. Hope stood up, feeling more sober than when he had first entered the bar and it was not for a lack of drinking. This man who called himself Snap was dangerously unpredictable, the impulses he acted upon entirely violent. Whatever was about to happen it would not be so easy as calling Longworry to make an arrest.

Once on street lever, with an unseasonably icy wind blowing, Snap looked edgily about. He spotted an alley on the opposite side of the street and veered that way, pointing his finger at it. 'That'll be the quickest way to get where we want to go.'

'Want to go?' Hope doubted the alley went anywhere much at all but skipped ahead regardless. He fancied his chances more there than in the cramped confines of a car. He could imagine how much easier those in the bar were breathing now that Snap had left - it was time for all the world to share in that feeling.

He let the alley's thick darkness envelope him and then he made his move, spinning and landing a vicious punch upon Snap's jaw. The blow was enough to stun the man and render his retracting-knife thrust ineffectively slow. Hope caught the wrist and twisted it until it snapped sickeningly. The agony was voiced in an animal-like high pitched squeal. Hope was not at all sympathetic, the knife had already been drawn, the alley set to be bloodied one way or another, and the first rule of the street fight dictated that the one who missed first rarely hit last.

Hope had his man pinned against the alley wall and lay into him with a flurry of brutal blows, employing hands hardened and callused by the three different sized punching bags hanging in his apartment; when he felt his fingers getting inundated with a warm sticky liquid he knew it was not his own skin being breached. He continued to punch, however. He would do so until he could no longer feel Snap against his knuckles but rather the wall he had pushed through to.

But then Snap had gone limp and there was a bitter taste in Hope's mouth that he tried to spit out and he let Snap drop to the ground. He peered down at the limp body and took a moment to wipe off his hands with his black handkerchief.

There might have been blood on his clothes too but he had taken the precaution of wearing black for the night, and it occurred to him that it might have been the reason the villains always wore black in the cowboy films: they were the ones most expecting to get stained in red.

*

It took a good hour for him to walk home. It was not exactly a stroll in the hills, but it helped clear his head.

When he finally made it, he found there was someone familiar sitting on his apartment building doorstep. In the darkness of the hour her hair should have been every bit as black and white as the wall portrait he had seen her in, but the pure blonde locks shone out lustrously with what little street lighting there was. The woman had been using the steps as an ashtray and as she saw Hope approach, she stamped out her latest stick.

'George Hope?' She fanned herself with his calling card. 'You placed a visit with my sister. I'm Stacey Gurner.'

'Nice to meet you. But my home address is not on that card.'

She smiled slyly. 'That just shows I know more about you than you'd care to print. I'm a resourceful girl.'

Hope stopped at the base of the steps and spent a moment looking at her. It was her eyes that had most his attention. They were the perfect antidote to the darkness of Snap's, which he had been trying to get out of his head. Clear, zestful and piercingly intelligent.

'Would you like to come in?' he asked.

Stacey leaned forward on her step. 'If a gentleman offers a girl a job, he must surely be willing to offer a dinner as well. It _does_ say gentleman on your card. And I am willing to believe it despite the blood on your collar.'

Hope moved to rub his neck, but then thought the better of it.

'It's probably in fact just a drop of paint,' added Stacey. 'But I wouldn't go painting the family home in that colour. It's liable to give little Johnny nightmares.' She smirked. 'Yes, I know who you are.' She held out a calling card of her own. 'It's hand written and not of a quality of yours. But the perfume it is dabbed with is French.'

Hope went to take it, only for her fingers to resist.

'Take the whole hand if you will,' she said.

Hope took her hand and aided her upright. The contact did not break there, not in the first instance at any rate. Stacey smiled into his eyes and her hand slowly slipped out of his hold. The card remained behind in his fingers.

'You're just as my sister described you,' she said. 'The blood, she just guessed at. Sorry, paint.' She walked away with her proud shoulders accentuating her height. 'Make a reservation. Oh, and I don't like fish.'

Hope marvelled at her as she descended into the darkness of the street and realised a change that had not even occurred in the alley brawl: his heartbeat had quickened.

He stepped over the cigarette butts and through the doors and once inside his apartment poured the best whiskey he had had in a long time. Then he got on the phone and roused Detective Longworry out of bed with a body in an alley to investigate. He said to inform Donovan Black once he had decided on the version of events he wanted to print.

Longworry said if the dead man turned out to be as bad as Hope claimed, he would take the credit for the killing himself.

When the call ended, Hope went to the mirror. There were only a few specs of blood on his neck. Stacey Gurner obviously had a sharp pair of eyes.

12. _'The more crooked the man, the more he needs a weapon that shoots straight.'_

The customer in front of him walked away with chewing gum, a horse racing weekly and change, which he was counting as though it were the most important part of the transaction. The newsstand was across from Carnegie Hall on 57th Street. It had already replaced the morning papers with the afternoon editions. The last paper he read was days ago. He had been informed from it that Snap's real name was Cameron Podmore and that Detective Longworry had ended his life in the course of duty - he neglected the fine print.

George Hope stepped up to the counter then, meeting eyes with the handsome, unshaven seller. Foxlee Smith was his name and he was not looking at Hope like he was just another quarter.

'The Declining Tribune, sir?' he queried nervously.

'Oh, yes,' replied Hope, having forgotten the codename and about to ask what he was here for by name: a Colt .45, a Smith and Wesson revolver and ammunition.

Foxlee had the package under the counter, ready for the sale. It was rectangular in shape, was heavy and sloppily wrapped in brown paper and bound with cord.

'The complete series as requested,' said Foxlee, still in his code.

'Can I open it? I want to be sure I'm getting what I'm paying for.'

Foxlee anxiously looked around him. 'Right here? You serious?'

Hope chuckled and slapped an envelope on the counter. 'The more crooked the man, the more he needs a weapon that shoots straight. That's doubly true for the men who recommended you to me. You know what I'm sayin'?'

Foxlee stared levelly at him. 'Wise guy.' He snapped up the envelope and peeked inside and stuck it under the counter in the same place the package had come from. 'I'll trust you too.'

'Well, much appreciated. You'll actually find more in the envelope than we settled on. Just to start our business dealings off on the right foot.'

'A tip for a gunrunner? Why not?'

'Don't mention it.' Hope pulled from the stand a Brooklyn Chronicle. 'But I trust it will cover something to read on the way home?' He walked away, tucking the package and the newspaper under his arm. He hurried across the busy road and climbed into the back of a shiny parked Pontiac that had Detective Longworry in the other seat in the back and his lieutenant, Davenas, studiously erect in the driver's seat.

'I've got something for you to read during the stake out,' said Hope, passing the newspaper over to Davenas. He opened the package, finding the two firearms and boxes of ammunition.

'Nice pieces,' observed Longworry. 'A delinquent selling guns out of a newsstand. I don't think I've heard of such a thing before. And you think he sells drugs as well?'

'I was told it's a side business.'

'A side business to what?, selling newspapers or selling guns?'

'To selling fascism.'

'I'd like to say you are on the wrong continent for such talk but your source is starting to seem reliable enough.' Longworry shifted his eyes from the firearms back to the newsstand. 'Normally we would put the newsstand under surveillance a week or two, identify who was being sold what and at the appropriate moment launch a mass arrest, sucking them all into one big cage. But with our newly charmed existence it doesn't seem like we have to worry where our next big tipoff is coming from, which means we don't have to try milking things like this for as much as they're worth.' His voice became bitter. 'Which is just as well 'cause I don't think we can get our hands on anyone in this caper other than the kids dealing with the quarters.' He frowned at Hope. 'You'd better give Davenas the briefing to go with the newspaper.'

Hope nodded and turned to Davenas. 'The operation belongs to a man who goes by the name of Zeal. There is talk Hitler himself is overseeing the conspiracy: to flood the working class of America with guns so that, when the time comes, revolution will be feasible. Hitler, you see, has learnt from the Russia Revolution that when a powerful army places pressure on a country, the first cracks appear at the centre. He would exploit that. So, the guns will come quick and cheaply.'

Longworry interjected, gazing hard at Davenas. 'Give it another hour or so and place an order for a Tommy gun. Tell him to wrap it in the Declining Tribune. That's the password.'

'What should I tell him the Tommy gun is for?' asked Davenas. 'Fighting the capitalists?'

'As far as Hitler is concerned, if you squeeze a trigger in America, there will be one less capitalist. If asked, just say you've got a large rat needs taking care of. Tell him you want the Tommy gun by tomorrow and you'll pay extra for the hurry up. Then follow him. If all goes smoothly we'll make the raid tonight.'

He turned his attention to Hope. 'If you ain't got a roof to paint, why don't you join us?'

'In the raid?'

'Yeah, the raid. You've got that badge in your pocket the Assistant District Attorney gave you. You might as well put it to good use. After all, you demonstrated from the way you mashed up Podmore in the alley that I need not worry about your sensibilities. You really gave him a work over. Not that he didn't deserve it. He had a very long, nasty rap that old Snap did. A lot of people came off the worse for meeting him.'

'I did get that impression.'

'I would say Zeal is in line for the same kind of treatment. And if what you did to Snap was the act of a gentleman, I would say that the Buster and the Treatment are in need of a lesson in good manners after all.'

'You're heading for disappointment if you think Foxlee Smith will lead us straight to Zeal. Zeal might be one person. It might be a whole organisation. No matter which, Smith'll be more careful than that.'

'Are you sure? The Nazis have been picking a fight with half the world. There's nothing careful about that, is there? And besides, Davenas is one of the best surveillance agents I've seen. If there's a chain, Davenas can get to the last link. On foot or by wire it won't matter in the slightest. And he's nothing if not discrete.' Longworry returned the two guns to their packaging and handed them to Hope. 'Compliments of the New York Police Department. We'll drop by the shooting range to see if you got what you paid for. Then we'll have dinner. I'm in the mood for stuffed potatoes. Finished up with a game of cards in one of those Harlem dens.' He clicked the door open and put a hand on Davenas's shoulder. 'Now that I've sung your praises, make sure you don't botch it. Zeal is to be our evening's entertainment.' He stepped out onto the street and sucked in some air as though this was the kind of New York he liked.

*

The Buster and the Treatment were gathered outside the dark, decrepit Harlem warehouse, smoking cigarettes and talking fights. Beneath their long woolen coats were a small arsenal of pistols and Tommy guns. Fedora hats cast long shadows over their faces and tight leather gloves covered their hands. They were standing on the street corner for no discernible reason and were the kind of group the average person would cross the street to avoid.

Longworry and Hope arrived last, pulling in behind the line of Fords. Bodies straightened and the idle conversation dissipated. It was game time.

Longworry entered the circle with a Browning rifle inside his coat and a cigarette pinched between his teeth. 'Davenas, why exactly are we here?'

'Followed our man here, Captain. About an hour ago.'

'He still in there?'

'Nah, left after around ten minutes ago, carrying a cargo bag.'

'With weapons inside?'

'Could have been. I got the feeling it wasn't his weekly laundry.'

'Anyone else in there?'

'Someone opened the door for him. Didn't get a look at him but he cast a pretty big shadow.'

Longworry stared at the warehouse a protracted moment. Metal door, barred windows running across two floors, it was an imposing target for a raid.

'Let's add to the pot, boys.'

Longworry went to the boot and extracted a heavy black canvas bag. He opened it and went to each member of the squad like he was taking donations and bundles of money were promptly tossed in by all.

'As an honorary member, you are eligible for the pot,' Longworry said to Hope as he zipped the bag closed again. 'Before every raid we add to it. It's the proceeds of our gambling. We all have our specialties. Stevens does the horses. Randi the dogs. Linde craps. Davenas the fights. Me, anything and everything, including cards. These raids are the one gamble we all have in common and we keep the pot to help out the family of whoever buys it in the line of duty. It hasn't been claimed for a long time, but you seem to be doing your best to change all that.' He tossed the bag back into the boot.

'Stevens, you've got five minutes to take position at the back entrance. Then we're going in.'

'Sure, Captain.' Stevens hurried away as though he were more interested in being there in one.

Hope meanwhile pulled out his black silk handkerchief and tied it over his mouth. It drew the attention of the remaining squad.

'Your friend coming with us?' murmured Linde with a distinct sourness.

Longworry replied perfunctorily, 'If you're a chef with a guest in your kitchen you let him taste a dish off the spoon. That's how it is here.' He slammed shut the boot. 'He gets hit, he gets the pot. Just the same as anyone else. But I tell you, I'll be more interested in preserving his life than any of you sorry no hopers. Now shut up so we can go get this done.' He winked at Hope. 'So, here's your chance at getting your money back - the hard way.'

'Very kind of you,' replied Hope through the fastened handkerchief.

The five minutes nominated by Longworry was seeming more and more like an arbitrary number, for everyone was too wired to wait.

'Ok, let's go,' said Longworry, realising he would not be able to hold them off any longer.

Linde, jemmy in hand, led the way through a sagging rusted gate onto the property. Oiled stained cracked concrete lay between them and the corrugated iron walls and doors of the warehouse. It was an approach that left the party dangerously exposed to gunfire from any of the innumerable windows and gaps in the hull of the two level structure; nothing to do but keep advancing. And when a dog began to threaten with wild agitated growls, its snout poking through a gap in the near wall, Randi rushed alongside Linde, untying the cord from a bag of powder: inside was a secret mix, acquired from his days of Alabama farming, that would send the most fearsome of dogs scampering with its tail between its legs.

Behind the frontrunners were two Tommy guns in the hands of their colleagues and the Colt .45 and Smith and Wesson revolver purchased earlier that day in the hands of a very satisfied customer.

With the yapping dog, there was even more urgency in the advance, for the warehouse was surely being alerted to the presence of the intruders. Light was penetrating the wide cracks in the door and Linde wedged the jemmy into one, sucked in a great lungful of air and in a ferocious explosion of energy ripped the door off its dead bolt, wide enough in the initial assault for the dog to get its snapping jaws through the gap, its incisors resembling a sharks. It was a russet-brown American pit bull terrier baying viciously and Randi hurriedly emptied his grey powder onto it. There followed an instantaneous yelping retreat. Randi smirked triumphantly at Linde only to be hit with the caustic reply: 'The gap is big enough for a mad dog's chops but not a man, so give me a bloody hand, will you?' The two men went to the jemmy and dragged the door open to a margin that would accommodate both man and gun.

There was a surge of restless men from behind. The first few steps into the warehouse were particularly perilous: a large, exposed space, an arrival hardly unannounced, and illicit weapons stockpiled to the rafters - the Buster and the Treatment were aware that the great pot in Longworry's boot could very likely end up being split six ways. They kept low and diverged away from the entrance, their guns poised to turn the warehouse into a war zone with the slightest provocation; no such invitation, however, was forthcoming and in the eerily silent moments that followed, the squad pole-hugged and crawled their way through the vast interior, edging amongst the rows of shelves and crates, a desperado's gunshot an ever present threat. It took a tense, twenty minute sweep of the warehouse to dispel that fear. It was then Longworry straightened up from his low squat to declare frustratedly, 'Fuck, even the dog has fled.'

'There are more side doors than a colander,' said Linde, moving in to join his position.

Longworry turned on his flashlight and surveyed the scene in colour, turning a wide circle, paying particular attention to the rows of wooden crates, many of which were open, their contents lying upon beds of straw. 'There are plenty of guns in all these boxes,' he voiced, clearly impressed. 'And so much marijuana and cocaine you can smell it through the plastic. Knives, knuckle dusters and machine parts to do who the hell knows what. A fine collection. But why would they abandon playthings like these without a fight? We didn't even identify ourselves as the law.'

'Born-again pacifists, perhaps, Captain.'

'You might be right at that.' Longworry lowered his Tommy gun by his side and waited for the remainder of the squad to assemble around him. He studied their faces and it was not hard to see they were still as wired as he. Maybe it was the risks they had taken. Maybe it was the abundance of weaponry now in their possession. Probably it was both in equal measure.

'Alright,' his voice just as calm and collected as he wanted it to be and with a slight trace or remonstration, 'we've made a nice little score here but no arrests and no gunplay, and that might leave some of you gnashing your teeth at night while trying to sleep, which believe me your horizontal squeezes won't find attractive, so everyone will get tickets. It will be something cultural and uplifting.' His eyes hardened into a glowering stare, which he made sure everyone had an equal share of. 'Double passes for everyone. This work we do pulls us away from the people we love. So, we gotta' work at bringing ourselves back to them like it's part of the job. And besides, because the pot went miraculously unclaimed tonight, I'll feel free to dip into it to cover expenses - so you might as well get your money's worth.'

He searched about for the merest hint of a protest, causing his charges to cling tightly onto their poker faces. He eventually nodded his head, satisfied. 'Alright, lads, get the inventory started while I call the raid in. If you find anything useful to our own needs, put it to one side. And that doesn't mean cocaine or the like.' He marched away, screaming, 'But I would take anything that can open a fucking door before the whole neighbourhood knows we're here. Who knows, then, we might even manage one stinking, measly arrest?'

The huddle did not immediately disperse after Longworry departed the warehouse. The men were looking at each other disconsolately and Davenas said with a sigh, 'Call it what he wants, there's only one word for those tickets: punishment.' He turned to Hope. 'He's pulled this stunt before. Last time I lost three hours of my life to the Manhattan Abstinence Society Choir.' He winced with the memory, before at last snickering. 'It achieved the desired effect, I must say. The next raid we went on we were literally flinging ourselves through windows to get in.'

'On this occasion though,' said Randi, 'I'll gladly take the tickets and enjoy the show. Even though we crawled around the floor for twenty minutes without shooting anyone, I gotta' say I'm relieved 'cause so many guns as this could only be coming from a big hole in the military and we wouldn't want to be making enemies there with anything less than a tank.' He smirked wryly. 'Better to let this Zeal off with a warning.'

'You're right,' said Linde. 'I wouldn't call it in at all. Or at the very least I would make it anonymous.' He glanced at Hope. 'He might listen to you if you put it to him. Your suits won't look as fetching if you're having to wear a bulletproof jacket underneath.'

'Forget it,' affirmed Stevens. 'Longworry had enough of being anonymous during his years marooned at HQ. Now he's going to shout his name from the rooftops. Trying to stop him would be just another way to get a slap. Best we just get the hell out of here.'

Randi looked around the warehouse floor. 'First, I want to see which crate is going to be my date for the evening. One full of guns and drugs and hopefully one that looks very nice in a dress.'

Stevens slapped Hope on the shoulder. 'If you don't mind we would like a private moment here. In other words, a moment without witnesses. Don't take it hard. You kept nice and low during the raid, but not the kind of low that would see you become one of us.'

'You could go see if there's another dog that needs feeding,' added Linde tartly.

'I get it,' said Hope, turning for the door. 'And you're right for wanting to get out of here in a hurry. But if you hadn't noticed, I'm the only one wearing a mask.'

13. _'It's not a tragedy unless you stay to the end.'_

The New York Temperance League had chosen one of the rougher patches of Brooklyn to stage its production of Macbeth. The play was into its final act, the trees of Birnam Wood moving across the stage in the form of flimsy paper machete. The actors were working hard to make it real.

The Buster and the Treatment did not think it was real but they were comfortable. Their intermission beverage had been vodka fixed with just enough orange juice to turn it orange. They were occupying the back row of the small theatre. They had arrived late, for although they had once shot a felon on its steps, they had trouble finding it. They were wearing their cleanest suits and their dates' elegant dresses.

Longworry was sitting in the middle of his squad and was regularly looking to his sides to ensure nothing more physical was occurring than the way he was holding hands with his good wife Carol. Hope and his date, Stacey Gurner, however, were hidden behind the large Randi and friend at the end: it was Stacey who took advantage of it first, pressing her head against Hope's shoulder and nibbling at his neck. Hope felt it like a stab of electricity – the kind of shock that fried away anything that might have been going around in his head prior to it. He had assumed such emotions to be long extinct victims of experience and so to find them reawakened in the midst of a temperance society morality tale would be worth a standing ovation.

Stacey took his rapid heartbeat as an invitation to snuggle ever further against him. As good as it felt, Hope knew the thrill running through his body was a kind of alarm bell to the fact that, like it or not, events were taking a sharp turn. He was not sure exactly what he was wanting from her, but he knew when he asked her out on the pretext of simply requiring a friendly companion for the night, all he was really doing was lifting a lid off a box.

She took his fingers and ran them along her upper lip as though tracing out an invisible mustache and then kissed each finger individually.

'The funny thing is,' she whispered, 'I have to leave.'

Hope, felt more deflated than he would have liked. 'You sure? It's not a tragedy unless you stay to the end.'

'That's alright. I know how it ends already.' She rested his hand down on the armrest and left her seat.

Hope followed close behind and once they were out in the foyer he said, 'Will you allow me to drive you home?'

'Thanks all the same, but I'm happy taking a cab. I'm working early tomorrow, so my sister will be waiting up for me. She's a worrier that one. A real worrier.'

'I see.'

'You could escort me to the taxi if you like.'

They did not have far to walk, three cabs sitting in the darkness of the street and upon Stacey's call the first screeched across the street, all but mounting her toes. Stacey kissed Hope's cheek and got into the back seat.

She wound down the window and said, 'Goodbye, Mr Hope.' She turned to the driver and said loudly, '99 Avenue C. You know it?'

The taxi promptly accelerated away. Hope stood a moment longer and nodded to himself. She had given the address of his office.

*

Hope got into his car and drove. There was one gun in the glovebox and another gun and a bulletproof vest in the boot. It somehow seemed to make traffic jams less dense. After all, how many battleships were lost to storms?

When Hope arrived at his office building, he left his weapons where they were, but made an effort to straighten his tie. He got out the car and paced through the security entrance to the elevators, his senses on alert, not entirely ready to trust the shadows in this new world.

At such an hour the elevators lay dormant and ready to serve. Hope rode one to the third floor and stepped out to the sight of Stacey Gurner standing by his office door. Her arms were folded and her gaze focussed. She had been expecting him. She looked good in her green blouse and ashen grey skirt - at the theatre he had not quite been able to realise how much. As he approached, she indicated to the sign on the blackened maple door.

' _Gentleman_ , it says. Can you prove it?' She smiled and stepped into him.

14. _'People spend money just to feel normal. Even when they don't have any.'_

It was drizzling in the Brooklyn slums. It was the kind of night when there was no doubting the nature of the woman standing out on the roadside in her long black coat and bright red stilettos. A lonely figure. George Hope and Stacey Gurner were watching her from Hope's Ford parked across the street.

'Slow night,' sighed Stacey. 'She's already been there twenty minutes. Not even an umbrella to keep the rain off.' She shook her head. 'Is this what you normally take a date to do, to go hooker watching? It's all very entertaining, but I'm getting hungry.'

'It's not her we're here for. Her pimp will be lurking somewhere off the street. His name is Mervin Stanley. He keeps a closer watch on his girls than your average pimp.'

'And you're so impressed you want to invite dear Mervin to dinner?'

Hope smirked. 'Three's a crowd.'

The drizzle was getting thicker on the windows. The girl on the street was hunching over, starting to feel it.

Stacey was not taking her eyes off her. 'How do you know she's one of his girls anyway? You know your way around the prostitutes of Brooklyn?'

'It's the street she's standing on. And the yellow scarf around her neck. It was a gift from a wealthy real estate mogul to his mistress.'

'She being the mistress?'

'No, the mistress was her mother. The mogul chose not to acknowledge the mistress or the child in any official sense. Not even by providing for them in his will. It took years for this result to play itself out, but here we are. The sad story of Lace Devine and her daughter Kay.'

Stacey took a cigarette out of her silver Dunhill case and lit it, sucking in the smoke and almost enough oxygen to put out the light at the other end. Then she exhaled. 'Swell. It's not a real estate mogul you've set me up with tomorrow, but he seems close enough. He's in paper.'

'The job description is secretary, not mistress,' muttered Hope. 'Mather Coape is alright. I don't mean just reputable, because they're all reputable. I mean, he's alright. He's offering a good steady job, and that's the sort of thing that makes for a good steady life.'

Stacey leaned into him and said teasingly, 'That's something you'd want for me?'

Hope shrugged. 'There are worse things.'

'Yeah, like being hungry. And right now I'm starving.' Stacey straightened up and opened her door.

'Where are you going?'

'To try the direct approach. Maybe she'll just tell us which crack her man is hiding in, spare us from her shivering in the rain.'

'No way,' said Hope adamantly. 'Mervin Stanley wouldn't be worth his weight in salt if he weren't able to put the fear of the devil into his workers.'

'She wouldn't talk to a cop, sure enough. And she wouldn't talk to someone who even looked like he used the same aftershave as cops. But when two sisters get to talking it ain't snitching, it's good wholesome gossip.' She was out of the car and smiled confidently back at Hope. 'We'll just see what we see.'

She walked a straight line to Kay Devine and immediately got her talking. The conversation went for only a few minutes but by the end of it Devine's spirits had clearly been lifted, waving Stacey farewell with the slump lost from her shoulders and a card in her hand that Stacey had handed her.

Stacey marched straight back to the Ford and swung in. 'Okay, let's go eat.'

'Really? You got something?'

'I got his home address. And I'm not telling you it till after dessert. Keeping you in suspense will be good for your appetite. And a nice little guarantee it isn't boiled eggs on the menu.'

Hope was staring at her. 'She just came out and blurted the address of her fugitive pimp? That's what passes for girly talk these days?'

'Actually I made her a straight forward offer. Girl to girl. She lets me take care of her pimp and we help her get a real job. Charity is what I called it.'

Hope's gaze narrowed. 'What's this real job you've got in mind?'

'A steady job for a steady life. You said Mathew Coape needs a secretary; well, she'll be at the interview tomorrow afternoon. I told her to make sure she wore her yellow scarf. I think it really suits her.'

Hope scratched his check, paused and scratched some more. 'What are you going to do then? That job was for you. The most considerate, generous boss I know of.'

Stacey punched him on the arm. 'I hope not. Don't you see what's happening? I've got a job. With a man who has a bed in his office but not a secretary. I'm working for you.'

*

Kay Devine walked into the Mission Grill full of confidence and with the smell of whiskey on her breath. Her hair and clothes were ruffled, her expression pale and there were dark rings around her eyes.

The man sitting in the far corner of the busy cafe noticed her from the moment she entered and once she had eased up to his table said, 'It is funny how the moon can so elegantly withdraw into the daytime sky and how the people who have stayed up all night with it are left to the harsh reality of the sun.'

He chuckled and tapped the newspaper lying on the table with the customary bulge in the middle. She had always wondered what object the newspaper was concealing – being a pimp, with enemies throughout the city, she could only imagine it was a gun. Her eyes were as heavy as lead upon it and the first crack of resolve could be heard in her voice: 'That is what I owe you.' She held out her hand in a clenched fist. The man's thick fingers effortlessly enveloped it and there was an exchange of money. He raised his eyebrows when he realised it was ten dollars.

'Maybe that's why you look tired. You've been busy.'

'It was only one man,' she defended. 'And we mostly talked.'

'Talked?'

'He was out of Colorado. Lost everything to the drought. He said the darkness of the human heart could not compare with the dust storms of 35'. I think that's what he meant when he said he lost everything.'

The pimp withdrew a packet of cigarettes from his black leather jacket's inner pocket – so that was one less thing that might have been causing the bulge in the newspaper. He took a box of matches from another pocket. Lit the cigarette. The ten dollars had disappeared somewhere in the process - like a magician using deception and distraction to trick his audience.

Although he went by the name of Mervin Stanley, it was probably just another one of his tricks. Mostly he was known as Mister S. He sat with a slouch, which had much of his height tucked away under the table. His eyes were a cold grey and they blinked less than other people's. When he was angry, they didn't seem to blink at all. There was a scar above his lip, thin and long. He sat impassively, holding back his thoughts to the point where it was a fair question as to whether he was thinking anything at all.

'He seems to be rolling in more than dust now,' he muttered, his voice faint and bored.

'I don't know,' said Devine doubtfully. 'People spend money just to feel normal. Even when they don't have any. It's sad as hell.'

Stanley's eyes drifted away to his cold coffee. 'Let me buy you breakfast.'

Devine stood her ground. 'There is talk you murdered a farmer or two in your time. And a policeman. And a lawyer.'

'We were talking about breakfast.'

Devine was undeterred. 'Safer for us girls to stand on your streets than for others to cross them. They say that. 'Cause anyone does the wrong thing gets a killing.'

'They?' Stanley was provoked into taking a mouthful of cold coffee. 'Do you have a point?' It was still a mumble though was emanating from deeper within the throat.

Devine paused. 'I did the wrong thing.'

Stanley wasn't sure whether to take another draft of cigarette smoke or another bitter swallow of coffee. He dropped the cigarette butt into the cup and that was that. 'Something wrong? That why you're talking 'bout murder?'

'A woman asked me about you tonight. Said her name was Stacey. She wasn't a working girl. Don't think she was police either. Anyway I told her where you live.'

Stanley frowned. 'Why would you do that?'

'She offered me a job in return. Or an interview at least. A real job in an office. I know it's probably all too good to be true but that's the only chance a girl like me is ever going to get.'

'Did she say whose office?'

'Mathew Coape's.'

Stanley's expression did not betray whether or not the name was familiar. He reached into his pocket for the ten dollars she had given him and handed it back. 'Get yourself a new dress. Something for the interview. And some shoes that haven't been standing on these streets. What you're wearing now looks good but it will mess with your head.'

Devine held the money against her stomach. 'Thanks boss. I'll hide myself in a new outfit and that'll be good. It's not that I went with fellas that I don't want em' to see. It's the ungodly black dust that blew over the farm day after day – I get certain there are dirty smudges on my neck and I start scratching. I scratch till it's red raw. I suppose that's why I can do what I do. Compared to that damned black dust, lying with a fella I don't know seems altogether natural.'

'Alright.'

'You seem to have your own soft spot for the folks of the dust bowl. Did you come through those parts yourself?'

'Nah. Maybe it was the war that does it. The skies of France could get pretty dark too. 1917 France had a dark sky.'

'You look too young for the Great War.'

'I was young then. You ask me if I murdered police and farmers and lawyers and I'll just say that the talents imparted by the greatest army in the world put quite a powerful engine under the hood of your pimp.' His lips went oddly crooked in the flicker of a smirk. He stood up and jangled through the coins in his pocket.

'You not stayin'?' she asked.

'You were the last gal I was waiting for. Now everyone is accounted for. If I got a visitor at my home, there's no point keeping 'im waiting. Would be bad manners.'

Her face showed repentance. 'If it helps any, the woman had an honest look about her.'

He tipped two coins out onto the table and frowned and did not meet her eyes. 'Someone could shoot me down dead and still preserve their honest face. That's the life I've led. The eggs and bacon are good here if you're hungry after all.'

He really was tall on his feet. Every doorway a potential injury. He would have to walk with that stoop, for the good city of New York had not been built with the likes of him in mind.

*

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 together. '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?'

*

The nightclub was called The Miami and the man was Hammer Coller; both the club and the man were damp and sticky in their symbiotic relationship although it was Hammer more so: there was beer down his shirtfront and perspiration matting his hair. He was a large, heavily muscled, overly intoxicated ex-boxer who seemed to be perpetually underestimating his own strength, lifting his glass too high for his mouth.

The effects of his thirty three years of life were largely hidden beneath his thick black beard though his nose, flat and wide, appeared to have been sculpted by a boxing glove. He leaned back against the bar and drank some more, spilling about as much onto the floor and it was barely an instant before his mouth was free to talk again.

'There I was,' he marveled, 'wasting away in the slammer, thinking life had passed me by, destined to be forgotten, but now look at me, in my second week of parole, drinking it up with a star of the newspapers.'

'You were not going to be forgotten so quickly,' replied Hope, lapping the whiskey in his glass up against its ice, 'not with so many of your own newspaper moments.'

Hammer grinned with his broken teeth. 'From the sports page, to the society columns, to the crime blotter, I only hope that is not my life in a nutshell.' He turned to Stacey, sitting beside Hope and looked her up and down. 'Well, just the first lap at least.' He hauled himself off his stool. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to go fight some brute uglier than myself. It will take my mind off being an ugly brute.'

'You sure that's a good idea?' said Hope. 'Your parole officer won't like it.'

Hammer shrugged dismissively. 'The one thing I've learnt is that life should always hurt. The suckers in the slammer who don't make it are the ones who go numb. Same goes for the suckers on the outside. They come to places like this trying to bring numbness to their numbness but what they really need is a good sorting out.' He slammed his glass down on the bar top and grinned some more. 'Besides, the penal system should've known what to expect when it let me out, 'cause it wasn't for a lack of fighting. Join in if you like. There are plenty of mugs in a New York bar that would look just fine at the end of a fist.'

He wandered away through the chattering crowd, very much resembling a potential suitor looking for a dance partner. In this instance, however, the kind of attraction he was seeking was altogether different. When he found the right person for his mood, he grabbed him by the throat and clumped together a mass of bone, knuckles and calluses in the form of a well-worn fist. Why this man had been singled out among all the others was hard to fathom as his suit and demeanor merely suggested that he was trying to look like everyone else. Fortunately for him, it seemed a good number of those in the bar were in fact his friends and sprung to his aid in an irresistible surge, holding back Hammer's cocked fist before a swing could be made and prizing away the hand from the throat.

Hammer stood his ground, arguing some point or another before finally withdrawing back to the bar. Hope and Stacey had remained there, watching events unfold.

'He should have just let me do it,' Hammer grumbled. 'I wouldn't have hurt him too bad. Would have done him some good.'

Hope had bought him another beer and slid it across the bar-top. 'Seems like you're ready to get back into the fight game.'

Hammer shook his head bleakly. 'My trainer, Iganov, died in a car crash while I was inside. Crashed trying to avoid a cow. Stupid idiot, dying so a steak could live. I don't think I could do a fight without him.' He slurped the head off his beer. 'He made me believe in the tooth fairy.' He grinned with a memory. 'If ever I knocked out someone's teeth, didn't matter if it was in the ring or anywhere, he would put them in a glass at the gym and the next morning there would be some money waiting.' He scratched. 'I don't know why he did it, but it was a nice thought. Even a fighter has gotta' believe in something.' He shrugged it off and wet himself some more in beer. 'Anyway I'm into a different sort of fight game now.' He looked away, feeling something hard. 'Want to see the reason I was thrown into the slammer?'

Stacey leaned into the conversation. 'Yes, please.'

*

An hour later Stacey and Hope were talking into coffees at a cafe called the Molly Sands.

'This is the first beverage we've shared that wouldn't cause a hangover,' observed Stacey, stirring in a good dose of sugar into hers. 'If you're intending to make the conversation bourgeois you'd better look under the table.'

Hope saw that underneath the silk white tablecloth her bare foot was rising between his legs and it didn't stop there. He scolded his tongue on his coffee as he neglected to blow. 'You can pick the topic,' he murmured.

'We've just been served by a woman that someone was willing to go to jail for. That's a topic.'

Hope sought out the cafe's solitary waitress from across the cleanly presented tables of white cloth and dark wood. She was taking the order of a newly arrived dour looking couple. She was attractive in a homely fashion with an endearing smile and kindly manner. A man would feel at ease in her presence: in Hammer Coller's case, it was so much so a world class knockout blow was able to breach his defence.

'It is a worthy topic of conversation,' Hope agreed, 'not that I have anything to say about it.'

'Well, I do,' replied Stacey, using that foot to give him a kick. 'It pains me the way men let love overwhelm them.' She shook her head. 'It always starts out as a game. When it turns into a war, do you know who wins? The ones who still play it as a game.'

She lurched forward, grabbing his wrist. 'I've put on your ring for a reason, but that doesn't mean I'll get to turn as shiny or last as long, and whatever happens you've got to promise you won't get yourself thrown into any kind of jail over me. Not like the lost champion out there waiting in your car.'

Hope pushed away his bitter black coffee. 'Is this what the bourgeois talk about? I'd rather do it with hard liquor.'

'Sorry.' Stacey sprung up. 'Let's go tell your friend his ex-fiance still looks the same as in his jailbird photograph. And that she serves an overpriced cup of coffee. Best not to delay 'cause your car has become his latest prison cell.'

Hope went with her and her fingers entwined with his.

Hammer Coller was lounging with a tense idleness in the Ford's back seat, smoking on one of the two cigarettes he was holding. He met Stacey and Hope's return with a suspicious gaze. 'She was there? You didn't stay very long.'

'She was there,' said Hope. 'We didn't trust ourselves not to spill the beans about her ex-fiancé being out of the cage and parked across the street. 'Who knows, she might even want to hear it from the man himself.'

'She'll hear from me alright,' gnarled Hammer. He exhaled a long snaking stream of smoke towards Hope. 'You know I was framed for the robbery that put me in prison? But when the jury declared me guilty, I didn't complain. I was like a boxer taking directions from a coach. They want guilty, they're going to get it. And for the next few days even more so. You still up for another drink?'

'Sure, why not. But I get the feeling it won't be Happy Hour.'

Hammer shock his head. 'Putting me in prison was Lance Shipton's way of showing he didn't approve of the match. One week before the wedding the cops came crashing down my door with their trumped up charges. Ten years I got. Probably all the cop witnesses asked for in return for their testimony was a suit and fittings.'

That helped jog Hope's memory. Lance Shipton the tailor: Shipton's Suits was the store name and there were branches scattered across the city. Boston and Washington too. Hope had seen the man himself once or twice, sunken in the luxurious leather sofa chairs of the Underhill Cigar Club. Usually preferring the poker room. Handsomely middle aged, impeccably well groomed and, of course, resplendently attired. Old money. Which was not necessarily the cleanest.

'That's his daughter?' said Hope, pointing towards the café with Molly Sands painted onto its glass in red.

'They're estranged. She gave me that honour.'

'But you're free now,' said Stacey. 'To be with her again would be the best revenge.'

'It's not as simple as that.' Hammer clenched his teeth. 'I was not released for good behaviour, and certainly not to show good behaviour. The Police Commissioner's nephew has a gambling problem, you see. He has racked up a serious debt at Shipton's illegal gambling dens. Debts which Shipton has refused to annul; not for the nephew of a mere cop. So, I was released early as a threat. Annul the debt and I'll be thrown back into the slammer nice and easy. Don't annul the debt and I will be breaking my parole by destroying everything he owns and probably by killing him on top of that.' He glared at his spare cigarette as though trying to light it with his eyes. 'During my first parole hearing I was taken aside by one of the Commissioner's cronies and told to make a list of all the things in the Lance Shipton empire I would be a able to wreck. A week later I was granted a parole appeal hearing and it was on the strength of that list I was granted my release.' He flicked his cigarette out onto the wet street. 'You can say I still have a choice not to do this thing, but they're going to throw me back into jail no matter which way I turn, so I want my revenge to take back with me.'

Hope nodded coolly. 'Can I see the list?'

Hammer patted his shirt pocket protectively. 'Not a chance. But you can come along if you'd like. I'd appreciate a bit of company. Jail can get so lonesome sometimes.'

Hope looked to Stacey and saw that she was keen.

'Okay,' he said. 'We'll come along.'

*

With a Navy Gun Boat newly docked and its crew at liberty after four months at sea, Hammer Coller had chosen a busy time to declare war on the dockside brothel. The joint was called Daffy's and there were three floors of rooms. Brawny sailors were pouring out into the passageways, well used to being called to battle stations at unexpected moments. Hammer was tearing through the brothel with a sledge hammer, smashing up furniture and anything else in his sights and knocking out makeshift doors in the walls as he moved from room to room. It was not the aggrieved sailors, however, with their pants down who were brandishing arms: Lance Shipton's house security were fully clothed with plenty of pockets for their knuckledusters and knives. Hammer was using the beds to block their access before proceeding to smash the rooms to smithereens and flooring anyone foolhardy enough to step into his path with ring-worthy left hooks. He had never worked so hard, not even with Iganov in his most anti-Bolshevik moods. When Hammer found himself in the girls' dressing room, he smashed every bottle of perfume he could see and ignited an intense, sickly fragrant fire. The flames spread quickly and commandeered the attention of his pursuers away from him as he jumped out a second floor window.

He limped away on jarred knees. He still had the sledge hammer in hand but tossed it away. At the end of the block he looked back to see scantily clad prostitutes and sailors spilling out onto the street while smoke and flames bellowed from the girl's dressing room. The flames were lighting up the building's dull brown brickwork in an eerie orange glow. Hammer continued on to Hope's parked Ford.

Hope emerged from street-side darkness with a pistol in hand. He looked Hammer over a moment before plunging a hand into his breast pocket and removing the Shipton target list. Hammer was too exhausted to resist.

'Let's see what we've got here,' murmured Hope as he opened up the list and flicked over the names. He nodded his head, impressed. 'It's a long list. A lot of work. But you're already bloodied and bruised; do you really think you can get to the bottom of it?'

'I'm going to try,' gnarled Hammer.

Hope checked that they were not being chased. 'First time is the easiest. They weren't expecting you, and they'll put your rampage down to an aggrieved bout of the clap. Or some such complaint.' Hope helped Hammer into the passenger seat of the Ford and hurried around to the driver's side, swinging in behind the steering wheel. A press of the ignition sent the engine roaring powerfully to life.

'The second time, however,' he said as he screeched out a neck wrenching turn into traffic, 'they will know it's war. Then they'll take measures.' He shook his head doubtfully. 'Your only chance is to make the second time count. Hit them hard and hit them everywhere.'

'How am I going to do that?' Hammer used his spent cigarette to light the replacement and then flicked it out the window.

Stacey leaned over the front passenger seat, displaying her new ring on one finger and a knuckleduster on the other. 'With friends, of course.'

'I don't have any friends,' said Hammer. 'Not the kind that stick around once the prize money has stopped flowing. Or are you talking about _your_ friends? Have you got some rotten eggs to throw up against my wall?'

Hope smirked. 'We've got a basket of them.'

16. _'Where there might be convoluted dossiers, we have a shopping list.'_

'The Police Commissioner?' Detective Longworry shook his head at the notion. 'To the best of my knowledge his son is twelve years old - somewhat too young to have a gambling addiction.' His brow furrowed. 'Deputy Commissioner Orter Haven, however, has nurtured a more likely candidate. Indeed, he lost out on the top job thanks to the murky dealings of his offspring. You can't help the family you're born into but at least you don't have the same guilt as when it is something _you've_ given birth to.'

Hope and Longworry were strolling through Central Park. The afternoon sun was occasionally breaking through the congestion of cloud to tease with a taste of the new season's warmth. There were others about, taking their recreation circumspectly, seemingly still rediscovering the Great Lawn after the long bleak days of the Hooverville. Woolen coats that would soon be consigned to cupboards altogether, were currently draped over wrists or shoulders.

Longworry was one of the few still wearing his, though mostly just for the purpose of buttoning up over his Smith and Wesson revolver; his dark brown tie pulled down low off his neck was his alternative acknowledgement of the mild weather. The deep flush of his freshly-shaven cheeks suggested that far more heat needed to be released still. It was difficult for Hope to ascertain, however, what worries truly lurked beneath the deep lines riddling his uncharacteristically cleaned up face. His standoffish nature suggested there was something dark at work within his core. It might have only taken a shave to expose it, but Hope had the distinct impression it would take far more for it to truly articulate itself. And all Hope could really conclude about such intrigues was that he looked better with a beard.

'A top cop with a criminal in the family,' murmured Hope, 'you stick your toe in the water to test the temperature of that and you might find a shark waiting to take the whole foot.'

'You're right. That is one pond we should stay away from. And besides, Hammer has given us plenty of even more interesting things to consider.'

'Are you talking about his list?' said Hope. 'You've had the chance to look at it?

'That's why we're here,' said Longworry. 'It could be the most priceless piece of barely legible intelligence I've ever seen. A whole criminal empire laid out on paper. Where there might be convoluted dossiers, we have a shopping list.'

'So, you're going to act on it?'

Longworry nodded with a cruel smirk. 'And soon. Just because it's written on paper doesn't mean it will stay true for long. But right now it's true enough for my liking. The entire Buster and the Treatment are out confirming targets. Sharpening knives for the oncoming feast.' He gave Hope a lingering glance. 'But there was something about my interview with Hammer that puzzled me. For some reason he doesn't seem to think we're the law. Even when I flashed my badge so close under his nose he could see the reflection of his nasal hair he just laughed and called me comrade. Who did you tell him we were?'

'My friends.'

Longworry's gaze was thick with a policeman's suspicion. 'Is that all you said we were? He seems a tad too keen to tell us everything he knows.'

Hope shrugged. 'His trainer, Curtains Iganov, knew firsthand the power of revolution, having lost his father and uncles to one. Iganov indoctrinated the socialist doctrine into his charges. Once they really believed it, he could begin training them with the pent up hatred for a murderous enemy. That is how he went about producing such tough fighters.'

Longworry fetched a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it up. 'Interesting. He turned his boxers into Bolsheviks so he'd want to hurt them?'

'That's what I'm saying. And Hammer took to the ideology with the same gusto as he did his right hook.' Hope chuckled. 'Which meant Iganov trained him with a truly devoted cruelty.'

Longworry blew his first draft of smoke the way of an attractive middle aged woman passing along the walking track with a well-groomed poodle pulling at its lead. He offered out his scrunched up packet of cigarettes to Hope on an afterthought.

'No thanks,' said Hope, patting the thick Cuban cigar just poking out of his jacket's breast pocket. 'I'm keeping my sinuses clear for the evening.'

Lost in his own thoughts, Longworry scrunched the packet a little more as he returned it into his pocket. 'The first time he called me a commie I was about to hit him with the chair and probably the table as well. I only held off because he is a friend of yours. And I'm glad I did. He's really spilling the beans. It seems making love to his girl involved finding out everything about her, including every little dirty piece of her father's secret world. Maybe he had some grand design of marrying into the family and being an integral part of the operation. Whether it be sewing a comfy suit or hacking off limbs. Lance Shipton is going to wish that's what happened 'cause the Buster and the Treatment make a particularly nasty embodiment of justice.'

'I don't want to be left out,' said Hope. 'I want to be part of the show.'

Longworry pondered a moment. 'Fair enough. There's one item on the list that is particularly compelling: Doctor Cyanide's Cocaine Ranch. The boys were still talking about that one when I kicked them out of the office. You can take that, if you like.' He released a blast of smoke out of his nostrils. 'That's if you can spare the time away from your flagpoles. You can do the scouting work on it. Hell, I'd trust you more than one of those Orten Haven cronies who have started crawling out from the woodwork, trying to be my new best friend. But you're getting involved is only on the proviso you can keep Coller out of it. A hothead like that will quickly turn things into a bloodbath. And just as likely get himself killed. There are no two minute rounds in this game, and no ref to break up the clinches.'

'He won't like being caged.'

Longworry snarled. 'I'll do my best to keep him out of prison, even sniff through the records for any trace of bent cops and their errant sons, but only if he keeps his nose clean. Tell him that. He'd better understand I'm his only chance of staying out of prison long enough to reunite with his sweetheart.'

'That will put you in the same league of influence over him as Iganov,' replied Hope. 'But I should warn you his rampages are impressive.' He chuckled and sniffed the cigar in his pocket like it were a carnation adorning a lapel buttonhole.

*

The stout tar-black cigar was mounted reverentially in a bottle bearing the plaque _The Mad Cigar_. Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones was handling it carefully by its wooden base. 'Of all the artifacts on display in the club, this is the only one that truly belongs to the Underhill. It is the remaining member of twins concocted in a backroom over a week of intense experimentation. Doctor Marco Santino had just returned from an expedition to the Borneo jungles and was seeking to blend the finest tobacco with a swath of the herbs he had gathered in his forays. He knew what he was doing bore risk and so stuffed his clothes in every crack in the room through which smoke might escape. That is why he was naked when the insanity struck.'

George Hope smirked and dropped some ash into the brackish brown crystal ashtray and with a similar flick, this time from the chin murmured, 'The man who ran naked into the Hudson?'

'Never to be seen again.'

'The search found nothing but his meticulously kept notebook. It had become snared in a fallen branch.'

'So you have heard the story?'

'Yes, I believe I have.'

'The widow has the notebook now. And it is said the recipe for the Mad Cigar is clearly laid out on its final page. Remarkable, I would say.' Jones carefully put the bottled exhibit down on the settee table and both men took a draft of their own cigars. Hope held his smoke a little longer and he realised he had been missing the place. The luxurious chairs, the air of power and high living, the conversation with the city's heavy hitters, the Underhill Cigar Club did not permit itself to be easily replaced in an evening.

Jones seemed to read his mind and said in a voice as silky as the cigar smoke, 'It's been a couple of months into our own little experiment and the results I would say are clearly in. You have got more arrests to your name than any cop on the force. Big arrests. And I hear there is more to come.' He exhaled slowly and deeply. 'Which warrants the question, is there anything left to be achieved? Sure you could go on battling crime from the inside out, but this was just a testing ground. A social experiment. A carefully concocted treatment for the scourge of crime – one too delicate and fragile to be mass produced, but at least we succeeded once. That in itself is something of a miracle. A triumph among gentlemen. I wonder though if now might not be the right time to cash in our chips and move on to other things. Despite all the successes, you cannot keep courting danger and remain unscathed. If you lose your head, get sucked into the dark world like a ship foundering on rocks, it would recast the whole episode as a tragedy.' Jones frowned as smoke leaked out of his nostrils. 'I'd suggest we just put a frame around this work we have created and hang it up with all the other cocktail yarns.'

'The Buster and the Treatment wouldn't be pleased. Smoking their cigars and talking about putting an end to their gravy train.'

Jones shrugged. 'If they take Lance Shipton down right, they'll be able to write their own meal ticket for a long while to come.'

One of the club's regulars, a banker nearing retirement age - whatever age that might be when it came to overindulged bankers - approached them enthusiastically, complimenting the flavour of the smoke drifting his way; Jones, with the thin veil of politeness just barely clinging to the rough edges of his voice, recommended he return to his seat and settle for whatever smoke drifted his way. He then looked to Hope, waiting for a response.

What he received was a shrug of indifference.

'I'll give it some thought,' Hope murmured.

Jones nodded earnestly. 'I'm not going to try manipulating the result of the experiment by shutting it down prematurely. If you have become so hooked on the thrill that you cannot pry yourself away from your own downfall, it is clearly a result.' He smirked and looked away and back. 'Not that you, my friend, would much notice the difference between success and failure. From all our long evening's spent over scotch whiskey and ashtrays, I've realised you are blessed with an inability to regret or concede. No matter how deep or murky, with the absence of a qualm the light seems to always come back on. I don't know the word for someone like that, but you make a better friend than an enemy.' He inspected the remaining chunk of his cigar and nodded to himself. 'If there isn't a word for it, maybe it's because it doesn't happen often enough. The only officers in my department who might qualify, you have working overtime.' He returned to puffing on the cigar. 'Although I have used such people to break this city wide open, it certainly doesn't mean I include myself in that number. That's why I am warning you now, despite myself. I can certainly foresee feelings of regret in the future – every time I light up a cigar alone.'

He had not made eye contact with Hope for some time, but as he moved to do that now, he was distracted by a flustered steward in from the side.

'Maxwell, are you perspiring?'

The steward, a short, thin faced, grey haired man, who had gambled away a club of his own, nervously addressed Hope: 'Sir, there is a young woman, a non-member, asking for you in the foyer. I enquired as to her name but all she was willing to give me was this.' He carefully unfolded a napkin with a kiss of lipstick upon it. The hand was trembling. 'She said this was the message she wanted to leave.'

*

As soon as Hope set foot in the foyer, Stacey Gurner sprung into his arms. She kissed him shamelessly and there was the faint taste of sweet apricot on her lips. Hope was going to compliment her on the taste, but she beat him to it: 'You taste like tobacco and whiskey.' She said it as a compliment.

She slid down off him and modelled her dress with hands on hips. 'This is how I wasted my afternoon. What do you think?'

The dress was of a light cream cotton fabric and was decorated in pink and red butterflies. A black belt held it tightly to her hips.

'Fetching,' said Hope.

'It's a gift I would have given my mother.' Stacey hooked her arm around his and gestured at the velvet green door that led further into the club. 'So, is this what happens when a man puts on his best suit? He winds up in a stuffy old club?' She tugged and smirked. 'With a residue like that on your lips I can allow you to come here at least from time to time.'

Hope pulled her arm into his side. 'Let's go somewhere else.'

They left the Underhill behind and walked away into the Bronx until the streets had grown pointedly more crowded and dangerous and then they looked for a place to drink.

The bar they chose did not have a name, or at least not one anyone had bothered to put to signage. What drew them to it was the sight of four separate drunks throwing up against its walls; it might not have been as auspicious as a four leaf clover, but it was eye catching.

The bar was a smoky dive, but no one seemed to mind, least of all the bartender, who was leaning over his own glass of beer as though it were whispering to him, and he didn't much appreciate the interruption.

'What do you want?'

'Beer,' said Hope, sensing from the tone of voice that he would not be exerted far beyond that.

The man straightened to a considerable height and his eyes fell into a stare. His fingers idly rummaged through his thick black beard. 'Do I know you?' he said. 'You look familiar.'

'He's famous,' said Stacey. 'He paints New York's VIP flagpoles – the ones that hold highest the Star Spangled Banner.'

The bartender nodded. 'Okay, that's it. Well, you deserve a clean glass.' He grabbed one close at hand, spat into it and wiped it clean with a brown tinged towel. Then he poured.

'It's not the quality of your glassware that's brought us here,' said Hope.

'That a fact?'

'Just as high as I go up to keep the flag flying right is just as low as I want to go to drink with the kind of customers who will have to defend it one of these days when the Nazis come calling.'

The bartender finished his pouring and wiped the outside lip dry with his rag. He grabbed another glass and returned to the tap. 'So, what are you saying, my friends?'

'We want to drink with the right kind of crowd.'

'Right?'

'Eggs so rotten they float.'

'I get you but it depends on what kind of bad you are looking for. Out on those tables there's bad with women, bad with cops, bad with drink and just plain bad to the bone.'

Stacey leaned across the bar. 'Just as well we didn't come here looking for good. Got a phone?'

The bartender pointed to a corner.

'Thank you.'

Hope caught her wrist as she headed that way. 'Who are you calling?'

Stacey smirked. 'I get the feeling Hammer will fit right in here.'

'You sure that's a good idea?'

'Can't say that I am. But I do know you won't have to concern yourself about mixing business with pleasure. For a gentleman like yourself, they are indistinguishable, aren't they?' She continued steadfastly on for the phone.

The bartender was amused. 'Looks like you're being called to arms, my friend. Hope you're up for the challenge.'

'I hope this bar is up for the challenge,' said Hope.

The bartender poured the beers down the plughole. 'It sure is. So what will you really have?'

17. _'The unfortunate aspect of it was I didn't need to wear a disguise.'_

Stacey Gurner and Hammer Coller had matched each other for the quality of their hangovers. Watching them lolling about in the back of his Ford in the throes of sleep, Hope was mulling over the thought that no matter how expensive the champagne or how cheap the vodka, the hangover was the same. He was racing through the traffic to get to his office before this particular brand of socialism irreparably messed up his car.

A tight corner stirred Stacey from her snoring. She looked at the morning in progress outside the car and yawned.

'After a night of drinking,' she murmured, 'New York looks to me like a woman does to a man after they've just made love: all the beauty has inexplicably drained away.' She rested her head against the glass, belched and giggled. 'And ugliness is a hell of a thing.'

Hope did not have anything to say about that. And he did not want to risk waking up Hammer for nothing. He was close enough to his office that he could start looking for a park, or at least the chance to manufacture one: he squeezed the Ford into what space existed between a Pontiac and a Chrysler, nudging the Chrysler along to create some more.

Once parked, he set about getting his two passengers up to his fourth floor office. It was Stacey Gurner who he took first and who offered the most resistance, and it was not because she was the six foot tall, muscle-bound and unconscious.

'I'm not going home,' she snapped, her fingers digging into him as he carried her to the elevators. 'No matter what. I'll even go with you.'

'I'm taking you to my office,' said Hope. 'Remember, you're working for me as an assistant? So, that's what I want you to do: assist.'

'Like what?'

'I need you to keep an eye on Hammer while I go stake out a location. If Shipton finds out Hammer has been spilling the beans to the cops, he'll send out every single gun wielding crazy at his disposal. Hammer would be a dead man. And he's way too valuable to let that happen to.'

'Can't we just tie him up?'

Hope got her into the elevator where he propped her against the back wall and slid closed the door. 'He's on our side, remember. That's no way to treat a friend.'

Stacey nestled her head onto his shoulder. 'If you want me to stand watch over him, you had better tie _me_ up then.'

Hope smirked. 'I won't be long. And then I'll thank you with dinner. Somewhere so nice you'll be able to see your reflection in the cutlery.'

'What, not someone else's leftovers adhered tight?'

They rode the elevator up to his office and he carried her through the door. He tucked her into the fold out bed where they had spent their first night together. He kissed her on the lips and her eyes closed. 'I really won't be long. Sweet dreams.' He then went and collected Hammer. A monstrous weight upon his shoulder, his knees threatened to buckle with every step. By the time he got him into the elevator, perspiration was streaming down his forehead and his back was aching. At the fourth floor the elevator doors opened with a bell and Hammer took a swing from deep within his unconsciousness - a boxer wired for a fight.

Hope laboriously positioned him at the foot of the longest sofa chair in his office and rolled him out. His shoulders and back sighed with relief when it was done. He spent some time then ensuring there were plenty of provisions of water, cold soup and boiled toffee on the coffee table between the two sleepers and left the office in a hurry.

Down on the street he nudged the Chrysler further out of his way and climbed into his Ford. He launched it for the next destination with a harsh acceleration; the directions Hammer had given to Dr Cyanide's Cocaine Ranch were on the seat beside him - which might have further explained why his two passengers had been riding in the back. He perused the scribblings once again: they included mention of a left turn at a dilapidated roofless farm with a headless blue letter box post, a right after an old box iron bridge traversing a dry river bed and a long stretch through barley fields. And as the journey unfolded, Hope became more and more impressed that more or less the directions were playing out on the back roads two hundred kilometres out of New York as they did in the memory of a drunk if not punch drunk boxer.

Sunset Ranch in Suffolk County was the actual name and it was a sprawling property with a large, modern ranch house set amidst corrals and out buildings and barns on luxuriously lush green fields and with a stream of easy white smoke placidly rising from its black stone chimney. Hope invested a good hour in parking his car out of view and finding a vantage point where he could carry out the kind of recce the Buster and the Treatment would make a move on – it was from a thicket of trees on a rise across the unsealed road running by its north corner that he sketched the ranch's layout and jotted down number plates of cars that came and went and the descriptions of anyone that side of the whitewashed fences from the jockeys exercising the dozen or so racehorses in stable to the fashionably dressed men and women who came congregating on the ranch house's patio, smoking and sipping drinks in tall glasses with wide wicker chairs to sit on.

It was all very idyllic and wholesome until suddenly, with the emergence of a tall, slim white haired, leathery skinned man, the atmosphere changed dramatically. A fading Hope perked up at that point, certain that he was seeing the Doctor Cyanide Hammer had described. Oslo Meyer was the doctor's real name. A doctor who had grown sick of the blood on his hands in the operating theatre and hired thugs to get blood on their hands in eking out an immensely profitable alternative livelihood: a business in all those kinds of drugs hospitals refused to entertain but that had driven him to.

Meyer was smartly dressed in a white silk shirt, darker cream trousers and polished black shoes. The gold on his fingers and wrists was shimmering. He circulated about the patio, acknowledging each of its occupants in turn. The way his amiable chitchat was greeted with stiff backs and nervous nods was testimony to a man feared. He took out a pipe from his pocket and there were matchboxes produced in almost every hand. Before he could make his choice he was summoned back into his house by a man in a white singlet and black trousers at the doorway – muscular and dangerous looking with the flash of a gun in the holster under his armpit, the man was the final proof Hope needed that he had not been wasting his time. This was not a farm that need worry about spring rainfalls or the land paying its way.

Hope returned to his car and drove a lap of the ranch, taking note of possible entry points and blind spots and then he accelerated away back on the road to New York, satisfied with the day's work.

When he got back to his office, however, the door was wide open and he couldn't help get the feeling something was wrong. He rushed in to find Hammer Coller slurping cold soup at his desk with a sick and sorry expression on his face. Hammer's pajama top was streaked with it, or worse. Hammer's forehead was buried in a hand trying to shore up the cracks with the strength of its grip.

All the doors to the office were just as ajar as the front door, allowing Hope to realise in an instant that Hammer was having a meal for one.

'Where is Ms Gurner?' he queried.

Hammer took a while to answer, the voice sounding like it had slipped through one of the cracks in his throbbing head.

'She's gone,' he said.

'Did she say where?'

Hammer slurped some more soup. Some of it didn't stay. 'I got the impression she was going to go find you,' he said, wiping his chin. 'She didn't much like being here. And I must say, hearing the fact wasn't doing much for my headache either.'

Hope frowned. 'How would she know where to find me? I made the point of not telling her anything specific.' His gaze narrowed. 'What about you?'

Hammer shrugged, continuing to evade Hope's eyes. 'Might have told her something. The past few days I've gotten pretty good at spilling the beans, haven't I? Just ask and I'll spew it all out.'

Hope went to the phone and called Elsa Gurner. No her sister had not come home yet. No she had not heard from her either. The voice was becoming concerned. Hope hung up agitated. He did not like loose ends and this was starting to feel like one. But there was nothing he could do about it for the time being. He had a meeting scheduled with the Buster and the Treatment in less than an hour and he would have to leave now if he was going to make it.

He stepped up to the desk beside Hammer and pulled out a silver key from the top of the drawer. He put it down on the desktop beside the bowl of cold soup.

'What's that for?' Hammer queried.

'It's the key to the bottom drawer,' said Hope, stepping away. 'You might have been starting to get the impression my office was not much different to the prison cells you called home, but open that drawer and you'll think differently.'

'Will it cure a hangover?'

'No, and you'd better not even go there until you're prepared for another one.'

Hammer replaced the spoon in his hand with the key, looking upon it wistfully – for all the locks in his life he had rarely been given a key to hold.

'I need you to stay here another day or two,' urged Hope. 'Keep your head down and give us a chance and we can give you your life back. Alright?'

Hammer nodded. 'I trust you. And trust me. The Cyanide Ranch was there as promised, wasn't it?'

Hope reached the front door and wrapped his hand around the handle. 'And keep this shut.'

Hammer exhaled between his teeth. 'If I see another door, I'm liable to put my foot through it. I don't care if it's made of nice wood and has got your name on it.' He threw his soup bowl down onto the floor to emphasise the point – even the sound it made breaking was cold.

Hope left the door as it was and headed for the lift. He could give him his life back but wouldn't take responsibility for how it turned out.

*

'How's the beer?' asked the waitress, tucking the empty serving tray under her arm and putting a hand on her hip.

Hope noted that despite her confidently snappy demeanor, there was fatigue in her yellowy brown eyes; not that it was easy picking up nuances with six colourfully dressed women erotically dancing the cancan on the club's small stage behind her.

Hope flicked the beer glass indifferently. 'It's luke warm.'

'Not like the blood flowing through your veins. I can see the way you've been looking at the girls.'

'I've got my own girl .'

'A man sitting alone in a place like this dies from a thousand cuts. Don't tell me you've got a girl. Maybe someone. Maybe you're like a car tearing down a highway, and all you've done is gone and picked up a hitchhiker.'

'Really? So that's why I love her?'

'Love is when you pull over. The one thing I don't see in your eyes is brakes.' The waitress smiled teasingly and put a hand on his knee - it was not far to reach as she was quite short. 'Not that we encourage that kind of thing here, sweetheart. But you're right, the beer here is pretty lousy. It's got more water in it than Hoover Dam. Being in denial and all I'd better fetch you a real drink.'

'How real?'

'Drink enough of it and you won't know the hell which way is up. That real.'

As she moved away, Hope traced the outline of her curves in her tight light blue skirt, perhaps searching for confirmation as to whether or not what she had said was true - it was inconclusive. He turned away and scanned the bar for any sign of the Buster and the Treatment. They had called him here in an appointment that should have transpired a good hour ago. Whether they were here in some other capacity was difficult to know, for the light from the stage was not encroaching much beyond his table, making it difficult to see what was going on at the tables around him, which he assumed was the way the occupants preferred it. He turned his attention back to the dancers and noticed that the next wave of girls, mulling at the back of the stage, looked bored and cold. The Palm Grove Cabaret was the venue and Hope wondered if he was here because it was linked to Hammer's underworld list or because Longworry wanted him preoccupied while his squad was off taking care of the bust list.

Then there was a gunshot backstage - just behind the pink papered backdrop. Although the pandemonium that followed was predictable enough, Hope was surprised that the terrified screams and panicked rushing for the exit doors was restricted to those at the tables: the dancers may have stopped what they were doing and cowered to some extent, but they remained in exposed positions onstage, even when there was a further quick volley of deafening shots. What kind of control would hold them to the stage through that? What kind of fear?

Perhaps, it was this puzzle that kept Hope riveted to his seat, and with the nightclub's tables clearing out, he was the cabaret's only remaining audience. He folded his arms and observed. The house lights came on in a blinding eruption. An old woman walked bent backed onto the stage with a message for the dancers, which she said with a visibly trembling body and was asked to repeat it by the dancers moving closer to placate disbelieving ears. As they heard it for a second time, the dancers put hands to mouths in shock and broke into ecstatic embraces. Tears of joy were sparkling in their eyes. Hope got the feeling that the gunshots had cut down someone very unpleasant.

The waitress returned to his table with quick strides bearing a silver serving tray laden with bottles of whiskey and gin and accompanying glasses.

'An ice bucket is on the way,' she said as she lowered the tray onto the table.

'Thank you,' said Hope.

'Your friends will be with you in a moment.'

'I get the feeling they may have been responsible for that little disturbance.'

The waitress's expression remained carefully composed. 'It's fair to say they were on the right side of events. This is courtesy of the house.'

She splashed out two portions of gin and passed one to Hope. 'Cheers.' She tapped his glass with hers and let her measure of gin bounce off the back of her throat. She then walked away in the direction of the stage. Hope had not even had time to taste his.

'Been waiting long?' The voice belonged to Longworry. He was moving with very much the same assurance and speed as had the waitress; however, instead of a drinks tray in his fingers, it was a large Smith and Wesson revolver. He put it down on the table and poured himself a gin. He tapped his glass with the revolver and gulped. He nodded approvingly at the way the gin burnt his tonsils. He dropped into a seat and retrieved his voice to add: 'We tried to take him alive, but some people just don't like being arrested.'

'He was on the list?' Hope queried.

'He has been on a lot of lists and those names are no less than the sewer of the language. I can't say I mind turning them into headstones. Now how was your visit to Doctor Cyanide's little farm?'

Hope pressed a finger onto the gun barrel. 'Maybe you should let your gun go cold before we start talking about another job.'

'In this job there isn't that kind of luxury. The boys are out back cleaning up things. When they get here we can start hatching a plan. That's if you think Cyanide is worth going after.'

Hope nodded. 'The ranch stank from a lot more than animal manure.'

'You pull enough weight with the boys now that you won't need to say anything more. We'll hit Dr Cyanide first before we close the net on the remaining New York City element.' He poured himself another drink, managing to keep his eyes on Hope all the while. 'The workload is not an issue. Compared with what we've done tonight, Dr Cyanide will be a just a yawn and a stretch.'

'I daresay it won't be as easy as that. His house guests tend to be well armed.'

'That's not what I meant. Dr Cyanide and his minions are just good old fashioned thugs. They're in it for the money. And when there is money involved, everything seems to make sense.'

Hope pointed a thumb toward the backstage. 'So, what about this guy?'

Longworry's face twisted with revulsion. 'Vandergilt had tastes that didn't sit well. Bad tastes. Money could buy them, but money couldn't hide him, couldn't protect him. Not in a place like this.

'We had lost track of him over the past year or so, though his victims would turn up from time to time, or rather wash up to be more precise. So, when Hammer gave us this lead, we downed some of the house vodka and went to work. Linde's girlfriend, Penelope, was the star. She got into Vandergilt's office posing as a prospective dancer who wanted him to persuade her father that her virtue would be assured here. We were sure that would appeal to Vandergilt's oil-black cruel streak. He would have enjoyed nothing more than gaining the father's blessing and then setting about turning the daughter into a whore. Anyway, that explains how I was able to get past his henchmen into his office.'

'You played the father?'

Longworry nodded bitterly. 'The unfortunate aspect of it was I didn't need to wear a disguise.'

Hope smirked and the ice bucket finally arrived. He got both their glasses cold and portioned with whiskey.

'We'll need the whole team to take Oslo Meyer,' he declared. 'What I saw at the ranch were another few rather well-armed guests who wouldn't take too well to being arrested.'

Longworry nodded reflectively. 'You're sure you'd rather get involved with that than stay in New York painting flagpoles?'

Hope nodded adamantly. 'This is a higher calling, wouldn't you say? This is cleaning up the flag itself.'

Longworry smiled and drank. 'My friend, that's quite a good way to put it.'

Excluding Linde, the remainder of the Buster and the Treatment came to the table then. They patted Hope on the back, pulled out chairs and sat themselves down.

Stevens set about pouring the drinks for his comrades, saying, 'The first toast will be clear - another obituary.'

'We've got a new job to plan,' said Longworry. 'This will be old school. No deception. No girlfriends as bait.' He looked to Hope. 'You've got some layouts on paper?'

'In the car.'

'We'll get them on the way to somewhere else. A bar that stays open late.' Longworry noticed some pouting to the side, turned to see that it was Randy. 'Would you like to make that toast?'

'Forget the toast,' replied Randy. 'It's a conversation I want.' His eyes locked onto Hope. 'You can start by talking about Hammer Coller one more time. You say you found him brooding in a bar. Just released from prison. On a search and destroy mission instigated by the corrupt policeman who framed him in the first place. He lends you the list to expedite the process. And here we all are. I only bring it up because while you are scratching names off the list, I am wiping brain matter of my hands.'

Hope nodded. 'It's that kind of list.'

'We have our targets,' interjected Longworry shortly. He eyed Randy. 'I know you are worried about surprises.'

'Expecting them,' gnarled Randy.

'Then brace yourself.' Longworry swivelled further on his chair to fully face him. 'I have seen you wash your hands five whole minutes before eating. And to pull away from your wife's kiss and wipe your lips. You do not eat from restaurant plates. And you do not drink from nightclub glasses. I get the feeling you are trying to keep yourself clean. Well, I can offer you my old desk job. I have never been so clean as I was there, but I would drown in a swamp before I return to it.' He chuckled and swatted Randy on the arm. 'Now, if you did get Vandergilt's brain slops on your hands you are more than justified in giving them a good wash. So go do it and we'll see you back here in five minutes.'

'Yes, boss,' said Randy and slunk away.

'Don't forget to lather,' Longworry called out, condescendingly.

He turned to Hope and looked him hard in the eye and then to the rest of his men. 'Anyone else need a wash?'

18. _'If anyone's on the ground, you've got to trust it's for a good reason.'_

It was a clear, cool night; moonlight was gleaming upon the black glazed tiles of the homestead's Mission-style roof. The double storied dwelling was casting long shadows across the gardens and intermingling with those from the stables. Although it was after midnight, many lights were still on.

Longworry was crouched in the bushes like a wild animal set to pounce. A flare gun was poised in his hand. He was craving a cigarette, but would have to light up the flare gun first. And that would be soon. By this time all the approaches should have been covered by his men. They had had their ten minutes. All the Buster and the Treatment were out there in the darkness, as were some willing lieutenants from headquarters, the chance to be in amongst the hottest squad in the whole of New York too good to pass up on.

'Soon,' whispered Longworry as much to himself as to Hope who was just behind his shoulder. 'A minute longer for luck. There is nothing we have neglected to consider? Nothing we have overlooked?'

Hope was also crouching, using his Tommy gun for support, and, as was Longworry, was dressed in black; he whispered in return, 'We go in there, put him down on the floor, and take out anyone who wants to make a stand. As far as plans go, we can't make it any more straight forward than that.'

Longworry checked his watch again and then his persons for the weapons and handcuffs he would need. He ensured they were firmly fixed in their holsters and pouches. 'You're right,' he said. 'And if I wanted to control the elements, I'd stay home and read a book. I wouldn't pick on people like Oslo Meyer.'

'No, I suppose not. But is he really what's got you jumpy?'

'No, you're right, he isn't. I get a flare gun in my hand and I'm back in the trenches in Belgium.' Longworry's voice strained. 'The smell of mud and destroyed flesh has fused itself upon me.'

'I can recommend a brand or two of aftershave,' Hope quipped.

A snarl was just starting to break out on Longworry's face, when the roar of car engine broke the silence. There was more than one and they were coming fast, the thin wisp of moonlight on the road was overcome by brash headlights. Longworry and Hope sunk lower into their positions.

'Expecting any more reinforcements?' queried Hope.

'No, they're not mine. What about your friends in the press? Tell me it's not the Brooklyn Chronicle after their front page.'

The cars had already reached the mouth of the driveway only feet away and made the turn with a surprising degree of care, giving Hope and Longworry time to spot out the sinister dark shapes of the occupants in the front and back seats.

'They're not reporters,' said Hope. 'What it does look like is more opposition to deal with. And more risk. The bigger the numbers the braver they get. Two cars full of them and you can be sure no one is going quietly.'

'Let's just watch them out the cars,' said Longworry warily.

The cars pulled up right by the ranch house patio, which if Longworry's memory served him correctly, meant that some well-tended flower beds had just gotten crushed. The lights went out and doors opened. Longworry strained in to the darkness to count the murky figures getting out, but then he suddenly found himself counting firearm discharges and that became even more difficult - it was as though the whole house was bursting with Chinese firecrackers.

Longworry swore. 'You'd better sit this one out,' he said to Hope and raised the flare gun. 'I would too myself. Gladly. Gangsters shooting gangsters is my favourite spectator sport. But my boys might be in the thick of it.'

He pulled the trigger and the flare spat high in to the air and exploded into red light.

Hope was already on his way down the slope. 'Take a seat? This isn't a chair I'm holding.'

He crossed the road in a low stoop, his finger rubbing the trigger of the Tommy gun like it were a muscle requiring limbering. The firefight was raging furiously ahead, the odd stray bullet cracking by. Hope had a clean shot at a couple of shooters shielding behind their Pontiac and it occurred to him that such battles bore similarities with a game of billiards: playing the most exposed balls first and going for progressively tighter shots, anticipating the opponent's likely move and endeavouring to block the shot, and, most importantly, striking the right balance between boldness and caution - added to that, in the case of Dr. Cyanide's Ranch, the lush green grass was of a similar texture to the luxurious velvet of the finest billiard tables.

As Hope opened fire on the two near men blasting shotguns into the homestead from behind their car, so did Longworry and Stevens - and the doomed targets fell. It had not been coordinated, just that Longworry and Stevens were of a similar thought process. Easy shots were always the most uncomfortable, but barely a split second into the feeling the three encroachers were no longer on the fringe of the gunfight and it was all about angles \- the ranch house's patio and windows were full of them. Hope raked the window, making the most noise, not stopping until the magazine ran dry. He thrust his back into the relative shelter of a bullet riddled Cord 810 and reloaded.

There was no further sign of life from the window, but it meant there was no one to put out the flames that had taken to the curtains. Hope cocked his weapon, aware that the gunfight had to be ended quickly in order to clear the house of innocent parties. He straightened up and fired over the roof, ripping into a shooter leaning too far out the doorway. The man crawled back inside, leaving his gun behind.

Longworry meanwhile announced his arrival beside Hope with a burst of shotgun.

'We've got to hold our ground,' he said. 'Any one of those yeggs we've put down could still have enough strength to put a bullet in our backs.'

'You don't want to dig another trench,' Hope replied. 'If anyone's on the ground, you've got to trust it's for a good reason.'

Longworry eyed him grimly. 'Obviously you've never been the leader of men. Alright, we'll move in. But let's see what's happening at the back of the house first. You up for it?'

'Okay.'

'Keep low. And be careful. Friendly fire is going to hurt twice as much when it's a friend as valuable as you.'

Hope tapped him affectionately on the arm and ran from his cover. He ran wide, reaching the road and across to the stables before beginning to round the ranch house. He's eyes were stinging from the gunsmoke and his ears were ringing, making the course more difficult than it should have been. And then suddenly he was tripped up. He landed with the Tommy gun squashing between his chest and the cold wet grass. He rolled to one side, striving to get upright and balanced with the Tommy gun again so that he could begin to understand what had put him down in the first place. The obstacle was coming at him still and kicked him hard, knocking the Tommy gun out of his hands altogether. He shook his hands with the pain of it. And he gazed hard that way. It came to him in increments in the fading red light of the flare: the long, slim leg that had kicked him, the body lying flat on its back and finally the face: gaunt and deathly pale, but a face he could put a name to: Stacey Gurner. The shock gripped him in a ghastly jolt.

She was looking back at him and seemed to be recognising him too, though not with the same degree of surprise: her face was in fact eerily calm – or, perhaps, it was just blank.

'Stacey, what the hell?' Hope gasped, regaining movement after what seemed an eternity. 'What are you doing here?'

The reply was weak. Not her usual voice. Jarringly so. 'If you mean this particular -' she began, but it was too painful, so she got to the point: 'Ario Flinger dragged me here. I'm shot. And you better watch it 'cause he won't be far away.' Her head dropped to earth, too hard to have meant it.

Hope reflexively started the other way just as a knee slammed into his ribs; he was knocked clean over and a foot stomped down on the Tommy gun. He spotted the thin shadow of a pistol coming at his forehead and slapped it away, just as the muzzle unleashed a thunderbolt. He grimaced as his fingers were burnt by the muzzle; nonetheless, he took tight hold. His other hand abandoned the Tommy gun, drawing the Colt .45 from his hip holster and fired up into his assailant's chest and head in a furious burst. As the man collapsed forward, Hope caught splashes of warm blood on his face; he steered the fall to the side and by that time the body was emptied of life just as the magazine was empty of bullets.

Hope stood up, carefully looked the dead man over and returned his attention to Stacey. His shock was abruptly surpassed by anger. 'So that's your other boss? That's Flinger? We both seem to shoot first and ask questions later. Makes for a short conversation.' He kicked the body repugnantly and crouched back beside Stacey. 'Where have you been hit?'

'In my heart.' Stacey murmured.

Hope lifted her head onto his lap. 'Be serious.'

'You want to know where, you can find it. But if it's my life you're looking for it's mostly leaked to the ground now.' She lifted her head towards him, straining to look him in the eye.

Hope was aghast to see her cheeks were paler even than the moonlight. And as inanimate as a death mask.

'Although I appreciate I do not deserve one,' whispered Stacey, 'I would like to ask a favour.'

'Sure, what is it?' replied Hope, his voice wavering.

'While you are looking for it, a kiss would be nice.'

'Alright.' Hope leaned into a kiss and kept his lips tightly against hers with the kind of compression he would have applied to the bullet wound if he could only feel it out through the blood sodden clothes. Her body went limp with the search still in progress. He slid his fingers across for a pulse; his senses focussed such that his fingertips had never been so sensitive, and yet there was not the slightest beat upon them. His own heart was pounding enough for both of them, if only such things could be shared between lovers. He scrunched her up into him and held her until he could not take it anymore and then he lifted her to the side, so that no one else would trip over her. He sucked in a breath like he was dragging it out of a cigar and he carried on running as before, though now he was neglecting to stay low.

Reaching the rear of the ranch house, he found the scene to be in stark contrast to the bloodbath at the front: women and children were tearfully watching as the men, down on their stomachs, were being handcuffed without resistance. Oslo Meyer, his glistening white hair unmistakable, was amongst them.

Hope slowed to a walk as he headed that way. Linde, who had been supervising the arrests, responded to his approach with a step forward.

'What the hell has been going on out front?'

Seemingly attracted to the gunfire like a moth to light he was quivering with the effort it had taken to stick to Longworry's orders and secure the back of the ranch house.

The diminishing gunfire from the front, however, was suggesting that law enforcement was getting on top now on all sides of the building.

'It got hot,' said Hope. 'I get the feeling that just as we were about to make an assault on the house a rival crew to Dr Cyanide turned up with not particularly peaceful intentions in mind.'

'That seems like a remarkable coincidence.'

'Probably it's not, but the best way to find out is to get our hands on a survivor or two and ask them pointedly – it's likely they would be well softened up by this experience already and wouldn't hold back too long.' Hope glanced at the fast spreading fire now engulfing the entire upper floor and roof. 'If they do attempt to resist, we could lock them in the house and see if obstinate crooks combust well.' Hope nodded sternly to himself. 'In fact, that is too good an option to sit on. He pushed aside a uniformed officer and manhandled Meyer to his feet. 'You and me, Doctor,' he spat. 'Let's go get what I want.'

Meyer tried to resist but was powerless against Hope's charged grip.

'You're crazy,' he cried, looking around desperately for someone to intervene. 'Where are you taking me?'

'Home sweet home.' Hope pushed him onto the back steps, tripping him up and, catching him by the collar, and continued to drive him forward, wrenching open the back door to a gushing plume of grey acrid smoke.

'If it's the cocaine you want, forget it,' said Meyer, trying to throw himself back down the steps. 'It's on the second floor.'

'Move.' Hope dragged him into the house and booted him along the floor, looking for somewhere to cuff him to: he finally settled for the steel handle of the kitchen cooker. Pieces of ceiling were beginning to fall and smoke and flaming embers rear out through the gaps.

'I was only after whiskey myself,' said Hope, 'but you're offering cocaine as well? That is true hospitality. No wonder you have a house full of friends. But just in case your recollections of the stash's exact location is a little foggy, you should know that I am the only one with the key to your handcuffs, so you're not going to want to me to spend too much time upstairs looking for it.'

'You're not going up there? You'll burn.'

Hope grabbed him and shook him hard. 'Can't let Dr Cyanide's prized cocaine go to waste.'

'Hope, what are you doing?' called out Linde from the backdoor steps.

Hope ignored him, stepping away from Meyer. 'Wish me luck.'

Meyer squinted against the smoke and roasting heat and cried, 'It's in a steel box in the master bedroom's ensuite. In the crystal cabinet. But you'll die trying.'

'It might hurt at any rate,' replied Hope, pulling out his black bandana handkerchief. 'Now, where is the whiskey?'

Meyer shook his head as he pointed toward one of the cupboards of purple stained glass. 'You really have lost your mind.'

Hope strode to the cupboard doors and pulled them open to a diverse range of spirits and went for a bourbon whiskey labelled Miller's Sour Mash. 'I'm just thirsty,' he said as he saluted with the bottle and swallowed a large gulp; he then doused the handkerchief profusely and tied it over his nose and mouth and bounded fearlessly up the stairs.

Meyer yanked furiously at the handcuffs. 'You can't do this. I'm going to suffocate.' His voice descended into a rasping cough.

Linde, shotgun in hand, stepped right up to the open backdoor and called out halfheartedly, 'George, have you thought this through? I'm getting worried. Whatever you're doing, it's not called police work.'

From above there was a smashing of glass.

'Sergeant!' shouted someone in warning. Linde was still turning when a metal box came tumbling from the second floor, thudding into the ground perilously close.

Hope emerged from the same shattered window; he skidded down the roof on his backside and heels and jumped from the guttering, landing in a light roll to finish up alongside the box. He turned back to the house, releasing the black handkerchief from his face before employing it to wipe sweat from his brow.

Linde looked on bewildered.

'Excuse me,' said Hope as he brushed past him on his way back into the house.

There was a loud crack from above and another large section of roof collapsed. Linde hurried down off the steps, tripping on the last, for his attention remained fixed upon the backdoor.

Hope remerged a short time later, holding the Miller's Sour Mash in one hand and Meyer by the arm in the other; he carelessly took Meyer down the steps and let him collapse in a heap; then he looked back to see the ranch house now completely ablaze. He held up the bottle to Meyer and shouted, 'I forgot to ask if you've got any ice.'

19. _'I want to draw out the ugliness I'm feeling so that I can see it.'_

At fourteen floors, the Ivy Palace Towers was hardly among the most imposing structures they had worked upon, but it was a drop nonetheless, and the steeply sloping iron rutted skillion roof offered a slippery slide to the edge. As Bobby Carpets moved in to apply a guide rope, however, Hope emphatically pushed him away.

'No more ropes,' Hope said.

'What are you talking about?'

'They don't work for me. I can't feel how high I am anymore.'

Carpets frowned. 'Have you gone mad? You might be attending a funeral this afternoon, but yours could come right here and now.' He pointed at the guttered edge ahead. 'Don't mess with that. We're painters, not circus clowns.'

Hope strode closer to the edge and gazed at the New York skyline. 'This whole world is a mess. But it looks kind of straight from here. And all it takes is a little balance.'

He tested the hold of the paint and brushes on his heavy leather utility belt and stepped across to the flagpole - the same one they had painted on the Chanin Building: its thirty feet of cold steel would take him well over the precipice, over the heads of the brass band belting out marching music and the fluttering posters and flags announcing Hope's presence and the crowds being lured to stay and look upward at the American hero at work. It seemed people were being conned into standing to attention and saluting as though Hope himself were the Star Spangled Banner being raised proud and sure. It was nothing less than a circus to be sure, and it meant to Hope that looking down really might make him dizzy.

'Anyway, you needn't worry,' he called back at Carpets. 'I'm going to warm up before I climb out there.'

He proceeded to hit his wrists hard against the hard steel base of the pole, inside and out, up and down, ten times per set with three sets and then he worked on his head, pounding it against the flagpole with a force that had Carpets cringing as he looked away.

*

The pain of his wrists was starting to fade, leaving Hope with the numbness underneath that was far worse; a numbness that drinking could not reach or even exacerbate, for it was a numbness of the soul. Hope would have preferred it happen after the funeral rather than during it, but with Stacey Gurner's coffin being lowered into the grave, the pain had simply drained away from his bruised muscles along with every last drop of strength.

The priest, a large, pale man with a pink eczema rash about his neck and hands, had been flicking through passages from his leather bound Old Testament as though taking the opportunity to search out his next Sunday sermon. He bent his head now to deliver the last prayer. It was a deep, penetrating voice seemingly incongruous with his thin neck.

Elsa Gurner was the closest mourner to the priest and followed his lead quickly, though it was a tissue she bowed into. Hope glanced her way far more than he did the priest: seeing her pallid skin so contrast with her black garb was the image that made most sense. Hammer Coller was the only other mourner Hope knew. His head had been bowed from the start.

The others in the circle around the grave were handsome young men and women who did not fit their dour expressions very well or give the impression they would hold them much longer. Hope supposed they were Stacey's friends. He did not like the look of them, but he could not accuse them of having driven her to this – he despised them their innocence.

The priest sprinkled dirt into the grave. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Elsa shed more tears into her tissue as she followed his lead. The other mourners lined behind her to have their turn at this parting gesture. Hope was last and his hand had more than dirt to offer: Elsa had returned through the post his grandmother's engagement ring a day earlier; and he dropped it down onto the coffin of dark oak. He was not entirely sure why he wanted to do this. He had not known Stacey Gurner for very long at all. Perhaps, he would have preferred to leave it in his mother's grave, but he had been too young. Perhaps, it was simply a ring that had been destined for a grave.

The funeral service was over then. Two gravediggers with sleeves rolled up moved in with shovels in hand to finish the job. The priest walked away without further ado, the prized old bible tucked under his arm and his hands clasping solemnly together.

The young and handsome scattered with less purpose. They all knew how they would put this episode behind them; but it would be disrespectful to discuss it until they were out of earshot.

It was only Hope who maintained his ground – the gravediggers could work around him. Elsa broke away from the priest and returned to him, the tissue gone from her hands.

'I saw you throw in your ring,' she said. 'If that is your way of wedding to a grave, I will have the workmen widen it to accommodate you. But really, I had your ring returned so it would be of use elsewhere.'

Hope shrugged. His voice was as dark as the varnished oak being inundated by dirt. 'There is a question I need to ask about your sister.'

'What's that?'

Hope grimly shook his head. 'I'm sorry, but I'm not ready for the answer.'

Elsa slapped him hard across the cheek. She glared at him a protracted and then marched away.

Hope rubbed his cheek, glad to get some feeling back.

Hammer Coller had been looking on and tried to console Elsa only to be perfunctorily pushed aside; he went for Hope instead.

'It was me that deserved that,' he bleated. 'I know I shouldn't have told her about the ranch. I just couldn't say no to her.'

Hope shoved him back, almost tripping him up on one of the piles of dirt the gravediggers had to work with. 'Don't worry, you've got more than a slap coming your way. And you're not going to say no to me either. You owe me.'

Hammer's eyes widened. 'What do you mean?'

'When I hurt you, which is what I'm intending to do, I want more than a couple of gravediggers to have the chance of seeing it. I want paying customers who will call it entertainment.'

Hammer shook his head blankly.

Hope pushed him again. 'If you don't know what I'm talking about, you better get a manager to explain the rules. And you definitely better get a trainer. I want to draw out the ugliness I'm feeling so that I can see it and it's not going to be on my face it gets stamped upon.'

He pushed Hammer one more time for emphasis - though now Hammer was bracing himself and barely shifted - and he headed for his car down one of the narrow lanes lining the many rows of graves. Hope's eyes flicked amongst the names and dates on the headstones and it occurred to him that the headstones were just like plugs in a basin as they attempted to prevent memories draining away; but there was no plug that could contain something so delicate as a memory; thus, drip by drip, they would be gone – and this leakage was as intangible as could be the connection between the living and the dead.

Hope knew the memory of Stacey dying in his arms was the one he would have till last. It was still resonating through his body so vividly he could not shake the sensation from his skin. If he was going to be a boxer, it would add two divisions to his weight: that would help.

He took out his black handkerchief and caught a tear like he was milking venom from the fangs of a snake; he stopped and sat back against one of those plugs.

*

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 their 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 delightful 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 i _s_ the training,' said Hope. He moved away then. He did not exude any particular conviction that he had somewhere else to go.

*

Hope drove back into New York and made a stop at Grand Central Station. He found the platform from which he would have seen off Alice Fontaine on her journey back to Kentucky - if she had wanted it that way. He watched the train at rest taking up the last of its passengers. The smell of burning coal was heavy in the air.

With whistles from the station attendant and the locomotive's powerful reply, the heavy wheels inched into movement. Those people remaining behind on the platform waved and blew kisses. Although Hope wished he could have joined in waving and blowing kisses to his parting memories of Fontaine, he knew he would need to do better if he was to see them on a similar journey out of town.

After the train was gone he returned to his car; on the way he relieved a newspaper stand of its last, rather tired looking copy of the Brooklyn Chronicle. The Buster and the Treatment had all but acquired a permanent column in the crime section and Hope enjoyed the way in which Donovan Black wrote it up with all the dignity of a car crash.

The paper got tossed into the backseat where there may have been one or two just like it. He drove for a solid hour, enjoying the lack of company on the roads, which was exactly what he would have been seeking in whatever bar he might have wandered into if not for being here.

The roads he finished upon were jarringly uneven. His Ford, however, had taken the journey intact often enough in the past, so he had faith it could handle it now just as long the holes were part of the road proper and not a straying into the ditches alongside it. The occasional light flickering amongst distant farmhouses were the only signs of life. The air inside the Ford was invigorated by the salty sea breeze, telling him how close he was to his destination. He greedily filled his lungs and went harder at the accelerator. The headlights came upon the grove of sycamore trees which marked the end and he braked and killed the engine and listened to the sounds of waves thumping ashore. After a time he took to hand his flashlight and went that way: he entered onto a sandy dirt track and directed the light at a crooked sign that had been hammered into the ground with all the care of a stray rake. The sign read "Featherton Boat Builders". Behind it was a house and workshops, their shadows thick and dense like a hand being held up to conceal a face.

The dirt path passed them with a gradual hardening from damp soil into gravel; then it came to a flight of wooden steps that plunged through prickly foliage into darkness and the thumping shoreline.

Hope clutched onto the handrail as his path continued. The stairs reached a wooden walkway that wound a course around and over the rocky outcrops of the shore line until it culminated in a wooden jetty. A small dingy was tied to it and small waves were restfully lapping against its hull. The jetty's floorboards creaked as Hope walked out to its end. He shone the torch out to where a thirty foot schooner lay moored. He stayed the beam there. The schooner was a beautiful craft in immaculate condition. A proud red hull, sitting light in the water. Polished oak decks aglow. Superbly sleek contours from bow to stern. Athenia was emblazoned in bold gold lettering.

'Sleep walking, Mr Hope?'

The voice caught Hope off guard. He had been entranced by the vessel to the exclusion of the rest of his surroundings. He turned sharply to see that the new arrival onto the jetty was moving freely without a flashlight. A tall, confident shadowy figure.

'Sorry to startle you,' the voice added. 'It's Alistair Plonker. The assistant boat builder.'

Hope restricted the temptation to put the flashlight onto his face: on a dark night such as this it would require minutes for his vision to uncloud again.

'Oh, hello there,' he replied evenly. 'Not at all. But how could you possibly know it was me?'

'Actually, I couldn't make out your face. The way you were looking out at the Athenia was what gave you away. Too wistful to be a burglar. Much more like a proud owner contemplating a long journey.'

Hope let the torchlight beam rest down at their feet. 'You might be right. Did I get you out of bed?'

He looked for any traces of sleepiness in the young man's face but what he found on the contrary was a fresh active gaze and an easy smile. In fact, he looked no different than when he normally dropped in this way for a weekend afternoon sail.

Despite his youth, Alistair had journeyed around the world more than once on one vessel or another and had imparted on Hope a good many lessons on the art of sailing and how to get the most out of the Athenia.

Hope liked how he transformed from a somewhat gangly, awkward soul on land to supremely assured and agile from his very first step onto anything with a hull and rudder.

'I always sleep with one ear to the sounds outside the cabin,' said Alistair. 'A habit of the sail. It is true, however, that there are not many cars in these parts so late at night. It's different in New York, right? The city that never sleeps.'

'Never sleeps. That describes a lot of the residents. Maybe that's why they have been known to get somewhat cranky from time to time.'

'Is that what has brought you here? Have you had enough?'

Hope paused. 'I was wondering that myself.'

'There are folks from the city who never set foot on their yachts. Just knowing they have something moored in some picturesque bay ready to take them away when life gets too hard is all the peace of mind they need. Not that I'm assuming that's you. But I always have the Athenia prepared. Just on the off chance your life really might get too hard.'

'Are you talking about a certain boxing match?'

Alistair replied warily. 'I keep in touch, Mr Hope. New York is like a storm on the horizon, and you know how transfixed sailors are by the weather.'

'Well, if you've got anything left in the bottle of your stiffest winter whiskey, you might loosen my tongue.'

Hope's eyes had become accustomed enough to the light now that the reticence in Alistair's eyes was easily discernible.

'You know I would invite you in, it's just that the Captain is asleep and it wouldn't be a pleasant experience to disturb him.'

Hope studied his eyes for anything more than reticence and replied, 'It's funny that I have never met the Captain in all the times I've been here. You call yourself the assistant yet it seems to me you have complete control of all that happens in the ship building yard.'

'Except when it comes to deciding how late is too late to pull the cork off a whiskey bottle.'

His reply was somehow less than convincing and his eyes were shying away; Hope, nevertheless, was not about to harp on the subject. There may have been a drunk captain on the floor, or a secret love behind the door; no matter what, all Hope and Alistair had ever needed for their friendship was this jetty and the yachts around it.

'Never mind,' said Hope. 'For you now at least, I'm just another New Yorker getting by on the glimpse of a boat. And I'd better be getting back. No time to weigh anchor just yet. I've got an early start tomorrow.'

'Then I'll walk you to your car.'

'It's quiet in these parts at night, isn't it?' said Hope as they walked slowly together up the creaking steps of the boardwalk.

The considered reply was a long time coming. 'The whole world is quiet at night. It is man who messes it up with noise. His most noble creation was the sound of wind against sails. He should have left it at that.'

'But he didn't. He used those sails to seek out and conquer new worlds like this one.'

'And now the human screams can be heard in every corner. And I have heard it. Though I haven't heard it here. To be honest, however, I see it in your face.'

Hope was startled. 'Is that so?'

'Yes. Screams of yours mixed with those of people who have wronged you.'

'I have not screamed.'

'Well, they have turned into lines upon your face. And until they are erased, the sound of wind on sail will never do.' Alistair turned quickly back. 'The Amazon is upon my face.'

'What are you talking about?'

'My first trip into the Congo with an expedition looking for gold. Deep into the jungle. Upon the banks of the Amazon we stumbled into a tribe. They seemed friendly and with their fragments of English and Spanish they had acquired from missionaries they offered to take us in for the night and feed and shelter us. They did as they promised and we feasted on snakes and wild berries. It was, however, to be our last meal.

'As it turned out, our guide had recently lost his brother to a gunshot wound inflicted by a European and he was intent on revenge. The tribe he had delivered us to took the white-man to be the earthly form of their gods and by ingesting them was the only respectable means of prayer.'

If not for the gravitas in his voice, Hope would have been certain he was telling a tall story. 'So they started eating you?'

Alistair waited until they were at the top of the stairs before he spoke again.

'They took four of the party on the first night. The sounds and smells of the feast I will never forget.' He shuddered. 'They left us survivors bound, blindfolded and gagged in a filthy stinking hut. The fiendish tour guide would come in and taunt us, saying that our fate would be sealed in the same manner in the next night. Of course, with our blindfolds we would not know what time of day it would be. Long, agonising torture.' He took in a long steadying breath. 'I started praying to God for a helping hand. In fact, I must have done it for many hours before it occurred to me it was wrong and selfish of me to try calling God into such a heathenish place as the one I was in. It was no place for Him. No place at all.' He slapped and folded his arms. 'There was only one entity I could call, one entity who was at home and would thrive amidst such grotesqueness: The devil himself. I called him and called him.' His voice turned to ice. 'And then he came. The hand slips from its bindings in a manner only the devil himself could achieve. And the devil does not release its hold with that. It is their as the guards outside the hut are taken and killed. But you welcome him. Because their gods would claim your soul on their behalf. You hold him close as you flee through the jungle. He is comfortable with the taste of schnapps and the sting of swarming bugs. He enjoys the illness tearing your insides apart. He does not let you die because he is the pain coursing through your veins.'

'I think I understand,' said Hope.

'I was the only one to make it back to the coast. I suppose the devil was particularly comfortable in my skin.'

'Is that why you live out here as a recluse?'

Alistair paused. 'The devil is like malaria, but so much worse. And a relapse could happen at any moment.'

Hope walked the remaining distance to his car and looked back.

Alistair had stopped a few steps short. He was staring out from the darkness and he said, 'I learnt that God is not omnipresent. There are places He will not go. But there are friends.'

22. _'You are just like her: an extremophile.'_

Upon this very stage Harry Houdini had once thrilled the crowd by making a ten thousand pound elephant disappear. Boxing, it occurred to Hope, was a similar exercise in illusion: in moving left when the feet were sliding right, in punching forward when the body was retreating backwards, in taking a blow without acknowledging its effect. Deception and victory were tight bedfellows, and Hope knew it, and could have boxed for a living. Although he was smaller in stature than the hulking Hammer, he was on top from the outset: it was part of the illusion.

The crowd was vocal, but they seemed just as confused as Hammer, cheering blows that missed and barely seeing the ones that hit. With the misses so near it was impossible to know how the final points might tally - especially with the average judge's scoring card as straight as a punch drunk roundhouse. Not that Hope would ever let it come to that. If the fight went the distance, it would have already been lost.

He waited until the sixth round, when the bout had fallen into a routine exhibition, before he began his taunts.

'The hundreds in the crowd are for me. They'll watch you go down and they'll tell all their friends. The newsmen are for me too. They'll write their stories, take their pictures and tell the whole world about your beating with rip roaring adjectives. That will turn the hundreds into thousands.'

Hammer pushed him away and took a wild swing. Hope sidestepped and lunged into a clinch.

'But the one is for you,' Hope spat into his ear. 'The girlfriend. Alison Shipton. I got her ringside seats. She'll see your ugly mug getting even worse and she'll hear your whimpers.' He held on tight a moment longer, despite the referee's best efforts to pry them apart. 'Any affection in her distant memories of you will be spat out like a bloody mouthguard.'

Hammer really pushed him this time. The blazing lights overhead caught the toxic cocktail of fear and fury upon his face, the perspiration sitting heavy like a basting of cooking oil.

Instead of raising his guard, Hope smiled. 'The stupid bitch.'

The punch coming at him was a moon covering the sun in a total eclipse. In the blackness he thought he was still on his feet. but the floor pressing hard against his back forced him to reconsider.

The crowd was roaring rapturously. Although they were not in the vip seats, they were not too far away. One punch was all it had taken. The Hammer still had his name.

And then the eclipse was passed; a blurred image of the referee waving a hand at him as he counted slowly took form. The numbers were not clearly audible, but while they were still in single digits, Hope had to decide if he was satisfied with his training. He started to pick himself up, for the answer was a resounding no.

The crowd roared some more, urging him to his feet in a boxing equivalent of an encore call. The referee stepped away and kept his counting to himself. Hammer replaced him in a flurry of blows.

Hope's knees were too straight and his back too bent, but his guard was up, not letting the blows land at his head this time. His senses were rebounding quickly and he summoned them to know how the rest of his body was traveling.

Hammer's flurry was diverted down to his ribs. Immensely powerful shots, desiring of damage. The anger and hatred of crooked cops and Reikers prison was being unleashed in a frenzied moment. Hope took it until satisfied and moved his arms to block the heat - the slaps against his biceps were echoing off the back walls. Hammer was punching his way out of prison, out of a failed life and at long last he was winning.

The bell rang to end the sixth. The referee had to step in to pull Hammer away. Hope stood his ground, gathering himself. The air he was breathing was a hot steam. He moved shakily to his corner stool where Bobby Carpets was waiting anxiously with a bucket of ice.

'I've climbed my share of mountains,' murmured Carpets, 'but never one that punches back like that.' He pressed a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel against the swelling on Hope's cheek. 'It's the same as being caught in an avalanche.'

'Yeah, right,' Hope gnarled, shaking his body loose as best he could. 'It's not as bad as it looks but I've had enough. Once you've finished bothering me with your towel, I want you to throw it in.'

Carpets paused and his voice grew quiet. 'You mean quit? Are you sure? You were doing quite well at the beginning. And you never know, he might get tired from hitting you.'

'I'm sure. I've got other plans for the evening.'

Carpets chuckled despite himself. 'You are a crazy son of a bitch. If I can't talk you out of climbing the flagpoles of skyscrapers without a safety harness then I'm not even going to try here. In fact, I'd have probably pulled you out myself while your head is still planted on your shoulders.'

The pretty girl in a silver blouse and shorts was back strutting the ring, as usual with a beaming smile and the next round placated in the same glittering silver. Carpets pulled the icepack off Hope's face, patted his own forehead before letting the ice drop into the steel bucket.

'Sorry, darling,' he called out as he tossed the towel at her stilettoed feet.

With so many eyes ogling her, the signal did not go unnoticed. Gasps and roars erupted though the hall. The referee hurried over to confirm the decision to concede.

'Yeah, we've had enough of this fucking place,' Carpets yelled.

The referee went to a confused looking Hammer and raised his arm into the air. There was a mixture of applause and jeers from a crowd that was now in no doubt as to what had transpired.

Hope met Hammer in the centre of the ring with a congratulatory embrace. He noticed that Hammer's attention was lost to the crowd, his eyes flittering about rapidly.

'Relax,' said Hope. 'Ms Shipton is not in the audience. At least not on my account. I'm no matchmaker, although I must admit I've arranged for a manager or two to come take a look at you.' He let go of him but for a hand on his shoulder that tightened its grip. 'Whatever happens next, just remember you don't owe me. You get dead trying to pay back debts. I mean it. It's always too late to know when you've been overcharged.' His remaining contact slipped away. 'The girl you are looking for, go find her for real. Her father won't be in any position to stop you.' He rubbed his bruised and swollen cheek. 'If the way you want to look after her is the way you throw a punch, she is going to feel very special indeed.'

The announcer was in the ring now, microphone in hand. As he begun to thank the sponsors and the crowd for their support of the polio campaign, Hope leant towards Carpets. 'Go climb something real for a while,' he murmured. 'A mountain with clear views.'

'What will you be doing?' Carpets sounded concerned.

Hope smirked cruelly. 'Mountains with clear views.'

*

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.'

*

Elsa Gurner had a bag of groceries squeezed under her arm. She always dropped into a store after work. Always the same ones. Always the same days. On a weekly cycle so as to not become too familiar with the clerks, for she was uncomfortable with their chitchat, never knowing what to say and never knowing how to get away quickly enough. Nevertheless, these shopping expeditions were as close as she came to a social life.

At her front door she rattled through her keys. Most of them were no longer functional other than as mementos of what they used to open - things that in hindsight had done nothing other than bring her to this moment right here: a ratty apartment in a ratty part of town. It was only living her life that had helped her not realise it in the past, but now she was realising it with every moment and every single breath.

She found the right key and was skirting around the keyhole with it, waiting for it to drop, when she noticed a shadowy figure approaching from the side. Aware of how many muggings occurred on any given night, she always held on to enough air to release an ear screeching scream. About to let launch, she just managed to catch it halfway up her throat as she noticed something familiar in the approaching man's gait and in the shape of his body. To get a look at the face under the Fedora hat, however, she had to let him get right up close. And when she realised it was Hope, she still had an inclination to scream. She noticed that some of the shadows under the hat brim were in fact bruises.

'Rough night?'

'Not too bad,' replied Hope, 'though there are people out there who slap harder than you.'

'Really? Well, I'd certainly enjoy another go at it.'

'To be honest, I was thinking of something more resembling a conversation.'

Elsa slotted the key into the door with a newfound sense of purpose. 'We can start out that way but there's no guarantee that's how it will finish.'

She stepped inside the apartment and held the door open for Hope. He took up the offer a little too eagerly and was a little too blatant in the way he was sniffing out the apartment for traces of Stacey - Elsa closed the door and hugged her groceries and tried to put up with it but when she saw the sadness in his face at not finding anything in the apartment other than her, she snapped. 'You're not the only one who cared about Stacey.'

Hope stopped his wandering eyes. 'You talking about her big sister?'

'I'm talking about all the other lowlife hoodlums she was attracted to.'

'The way Ario Flinger reacted to rivals I wouldn't have thought there would be too many around at all.'

'Until he met you. Then it all changed for him. All ended for him.' She put her groceries down on the table and pulled out a bottle of red wine from the bag. She took it to the kitchen bench where she uncorked it and filled two glasses.

'That's a big bottle,' observed Hope. 'Were you expecting company?'

She handed him one of the glasses. 'This is what my life has become.' She waved her glass at the room as though in a toast. 'Photographs and labels. It's what I've got left.' The way she drank she left no doubt she was in practice. 'It seems unfair,' she continued on the other side of her gulp, keeping the glass close, ' that I wasn't playing a game and yet I still lost. I lost big.'

She picked up the bottle and gazed into it. 'So, that's what I've got keeping me company. Photographs and labels.' She fired a hard look at Hope. 'There is of course the occasional policeman who comes with his own unique version of the death of my sister, telling it like a pick up line.'

Hope leaned against the kitchen bench. 'What cops?'

'There's one who's attached to the hospital.'

'Attached?'

'Engaged to one of the nurses. There were others. Asking questions and offering condolences. And apologising for not being able to do anything more on account of the man who had dragged her into her demise already being dead. That's when your name comes up.'

'I see.' Hope sipped his wine but didn't taste it. He had never seen the point of decorating alcohol with fruit.

'Is that why you're here? You want to tell me how you shot off Ario Flinger's face?' She hurriedly gulped some more wine just in case she was right.

Hope, however, shook his head. 'I haven't come to tell you anything. I've got a question.'

'Alright, let's do it standing up. What do you want to know?'

'Flinger deserved what he got, but it wasn't he that turned Stacey bad. She was rotting long before he came into her life. How she got messed up in the first place, that's what I want to know.'

Elsa went to refill her glass only for Hope to grab her wrist.

'I get the feeling that's a story that hasn't been told in a while,' he said.

'What story?'

'How she got damaged.' His grip tightened. 'You're the last person in the know who isn't just a photograph on the wall. That's why I'm here.'

The heat in the eyes that turned on him was in stark contrast to the ice in the voice.

'Our father was shot to death in the town of Sacksville.'

Hope felt her hand gripping the bottle to the point where he let go for fear of being cut by broken glass.

'Sacksville?'

'Sacksville, New York.'

'I'm sorry. How did it happen?'

Elsa seemed to be aware of the bottle's plight herself and put it down and dug her fingers into a straightened elbow.

'No one has ever said what happened. He was out with his best friend for a night on the town. All I know is he never came home.'

Hope nodded grimly. 'On young girls it must have made a deep impression. One day you have a father, the next day you don't. Did Stacey talk about it?'

'She told me once how she thought about it every day. What more could she say.'

'And the best friend had nothing to say? Not even to the police?'

'He was too scared. And nothing could be said to make him change his mind.'

'Which means there were some very bad people involved. Probably gangsters. Was your father into something?'

'He was a school teacher,' snapped Elsa. 'So was his best friend.'

Hope looked at his glass of wine, wishing it was something he found more agreeable. 'Is the friend still alive? It might be time he was asked by someone who really wants the answers.'

Elsa stared at him a long moment. 'What are you talking about? It happened twenty years ago.'

'All the more reason then. Better than fresh flowers on her grave is bringing answers for the questions that haunted her.'

'You would kneel by her gravestone and whisper the bloody truth?'

'Yes, I would. I would make truth my prayer.'

'Very noble. But you would be more than likely talking to stone from the outset. After so many years, he is more than likely long dead himself. Which means Stacey is now closer to the truth than you.'

Hope shook his head. 'Many of this world's truths would not be befitting where Stacey is now. If I'm only talking to stone, it will be the stone with her name etched into it.'

'So, you're serious?'

'I'll leave tonight.'

Elsa looked at him wondrously. 'You are just like her. An extremophile.'

'Excuse me?'

'That's the word I came up with, to help me understand her. Because that's how she did things. Always to extremes. Never taking risks into account. Or more exactly, only feeling good when the risks were outlandishly high. I mean, here you are, both eyes blackened and looking for a fight. Stacey would approve.'

'I'm going to pay Sacksville a visit with or without your help.'

'Amit Henton.' Elsa recoiled as she said it, as though it were a foul taste in her mouth. 'I would appreciate it if you find your answers not to just tell stone. I would like to hear about them too.'

23. _'Your indigestion has arrived.'_

The Sacksville cemetery was off Route 66 on the way to Pontiac. The surrounding fields of blooming Sunflowers added colour to the reverential grimness of the loosely rowed headstones. According to the chiseled dates, Amit Henton had been interred here six years ago. The name and dates, however, were all that were revealed. Not even a parting line of poetry or prayer to accompany them. And certainly nothing about being sadly missed. The headstone marked the site of Henton's resting place without taking much credence to the possibility anyone would care.

A visitor, however, had come; albeit with a Colt .45 in hand. It was George Hope and he was dressed in black: it included his suit and the kerchief soiled with blood and tears covering his face. Although the stains were lost upon the blackness, the bitter taste was unfading upon his lips. He had the lonely cemetery to himself. The rhythm of the insects in the grassland may have been befitting for a warm afternoon in timber country, but was too slow by far for a New Yorker on a mission. Hope was frowning down at the headstone and he aimed the pistol.

'The silent witness,' he murmured. 'How is your sleep? Comfortable?' He fired a magazine of shots into the low grade sandstone, tearing up the name in chunks until it was all but erased. He stopped to admire his handiwork awhile before reloading. 'No one will be able to read your name now. But at least they may pay more attention to it.'

He picked up the black cargo bag at his feet. It was heavy with guns and ammunition. His hands in black leather gloves gripped the handles tightly as he walked out onto the rugged gravel road that was within earshot or Route 66. The thick tree line was sparing him from the sun's rays but the same went for the incessant mosquitoes - Hope waved at them as he stood and waited.

The first car that came his way was a shiny green Chevrolet coupe. The solitary occupant was a stern looking heavily bearded man leaning into the steering wheel. He had the vehicle doing at least fifty, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

Hope put up his thumb to bum a ride. The car didn't slow and in fact may have even sped up. This might have been explained by Hope wearing the kerchief over his face, though he got the impression he would have needed to be dressed in dollar bills to rate the attention of someone like that. As the coupe sprayed him in dirt, he dropped his thumb and raised the Colt. He cracked off three shots, taking out the right rear tyre. The coupe slid off to the side and smashed into a tree. There it came to rest. Enough brake had been applied to keep the driver inside.

Hope strode that way and aimed his gun at the bewildered man's head. 'Are you okay?'

'You gonna' kill me?' said the man through his beard, still gripping onto the steering wheel and staring out straight ahead.

'The bullets went low for someone wanting to kill you, didn't they? But bullets do go higher than that when they're provoked and this busted up piece of junk isn't much of a thing to trade your life on. So, why don't you get to work.'

'Get to work?'

Hope opened the door. 'You've got a flat to fix.' He prodded and nudged the man out with the gun in his back.

The man was wearing an expensive charcoal grey suit. But with his bewildered look he wore it cheap. 'If you let me live, I won't say a word about you.'

'I wouldn't take that as a compliment, my friend. Despite the beard, I'd say you were a salesman. Am I right?'

The man nodded. 'In ladies shoes.'

'I see. Well, a salesman who can keep his mouth shut is a rare thing indeed. But at least try doing that while you're switching wheels. After the car is repaired and I'm away, you can talk as much as you want. In fact, I insist. Tell whoever cares to listen that there's a new man in town who has come to make havoc. His name will require a war to learn.'

'Being a good Christian, I must implore the man behind the mask to reconsider what he is doing.' murmured the man, steeling himself. 'The cemetery you seem to have emerged from, the police will send you back to for eternity. They are quick with a gun in these parts and they do not like anarchy one bit. There are no riches that could make this worthwhile.'

Hope respected his courage. 'You can live by your advice and I will die by mine. If I am holding a wrench instead of a pistol it will be because I have already blown your head off and that will be because I can't use both tools at the same time.'

'Okay, I'll get do this,' said the man, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. 'I will get it done. I didn't bang the tree too hard. The car will still operate. It has always run well. But the damage will draw attention. Law enforcement notice cars in these parts.'

'Let me worry about that.'

Hope crouched back against a tree and watched the salesman go to work. The man had quite a belly pressing against his britches and before long perspiration was streaming down his forehead. He worked with the same vitality that he sold shoes - at least, judging by the newness of the car he was able to afford. Sensing he was moving a tad too fast, Hope said, 'Easy on the jack. Remember you're liable to get your vehicle back at the end of all this. And make sure the nuts are good and tight.'

By the time it was done, the sun was just beginning to pale ahead of its final splash into sunset.

'Good,' said Hope, standing up, holding onto his pistol while the man continued to hold his wrench.

Another car passed by. There had been precious few and fortunately no more had stopped to offer assistance - although Hope might have got driving sooner had one bothered to pull over still intact.

'So, what happens now?' the man asked anxiously.

Hope picked up his jacket from the bonnet and tossed it at him. 'I drive and you walk.'

The man scratched his forehead anxiously as though anticipating a bullet in the back the moment he turned. 'You're not even going to tie me to a tree or something?'

'In your sweaty condition it wouldn't be nice for the tree.' Hope tossed his cargo bag into the car and climbed in after it. He sped off with a grinding of gears and a parting hoot of the horn.

The drive into Sacksville took fifteen minutes. It was not much of town: by the time he got to the brakes he had almost gone from one side to the other. It seemed Route 66 was a little too smooth and a little too quick these days for towns such as this to catch much of the traffic. There were diners and bars and hotels and pool halls and, for those without the capital to venture into any, there were shadowy steps outside shut up stores on which to congregate.

Hope chose a dark patch of the main thoroughfare to park. He pulled the kerchief off his mouth and took the cargo bag with him.

The police station was situated on a quiet adjoining street alongside a garage and a farm tool supplier and across from a cluster of residential buildings up to three stories high. The police station itself was a small single story brown stucco building and had an unassuming sign on its porch and one light on behind its barred windows.

Hope returned the black kerchief to his face, brought his pistol to hand and walked inside. It was predictably easy: police stations never locked their doors.

'Hands in the air!' Hope screamed at the two policemen eating plates of stew at a desk with paperwork scattered around them. 'Your indigestion has arrived.'

'What the hell,' cried one of the cops, who was lanky and had a long drawn out face. 'Is this some kind of joke?'

Hope set the gun at him. 'It is if you think cops getting shot is funny.'

The other one, who had chubby cheeks and a remarkably flat cranium, held out a placating hand. 'It won't come to that. What can we help you with?'

'That's more like it,' said Hope.

'If it's guns you want, forget it,' snapped the lanky one. 'You'll have to shoot us before we let police issue weapons run wild on the street.'

'Does it look like I need a gun?'

'Then what is it? Some coins?'

Hope paid the lanky man closer heed. He had a pencil mustache that had seen its fair share of tweezer time. His shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, the badge on the breast pocket bobbing in the folds

'I want your current logbook,' snapped Hope at him.

'I fucking knew it,' came the belligerent reply. 'You're FBI, aren't you? One of Hoover's sucklings.' He turned truculently to his partner. 'This is what they do. I heard they done it in Texas. And now they're doing it here. They send out their raw recruits to raid local police stations. So they get to feel they're big men just like the criminals. It's pig manure, if you ask me.'

'I could tell you you're wrong,' snapped Hope, 'but I would rather just shoot you in the face.'

'I'll get the logbook,' said the chubby cheeked policeman and he hauled himself out of his chair, his chubby neck spilling out over his collar and his lips clenching into straight lines.

'Yeah, get it, Harold,' said the lanky one, 'and the first entry in the new one will tell how the FBI, too gutless to try anything in the boroughs of New York, came all the way out to Sacksville to prove how tough they can be.' His eyes bore into Hope. 'A fucking Hoover crony. The Captain will take care of this in his own good way.' The carotid artery on his neck was throbbing; he appeared too wound up to even take a breath though had air enough to add, 'The Captain fuckin' hates the FBI even more than me. And why not? You solve one case a year and expect every newspaper in the country to put you on the front page for it. Is that why you want the log book? So you can see if there are any cases you can claim to have solved.'

'You'd better get the log book quickly, Harold,' yelled Hope with a flash of gun at the broad-faced man. 'Your partner here is going to earn a bullet.'

'Alright. Just take it easy.' The man hurried around the counter to a filing cabinet in a back corner. He extracted a large leather bound notebook from the top drawer.

As Hope observed his progress a wry smirk formed under the kerchief. Walking into the police station with a drawn weapon and a mask was the first time he had ever been mistaken for law-enforcement - his purpose mistaken for some kind of inter-agency liaison. No wonder he had never been caught.

24 _. 'A New Yorker might be aghast at how sleepy a town such as this can get.'_

The woman was tipping vegetable scraps out of her metal pail, the New Hampshire chickens clucking hungrily around her feet. The woman's straw blonde hair flowed out from under a white, wide brimmed punting hat. Her complexion was creamy, her eyes a light blue and her expression had a gentle, calming quality to it. She was wearing a pink cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up at the wrists and hanging loosely over her faded black denim trousers. Hope rapped a knuckle on the front gate; to be heard above the chooks required a firm hand, and left him rubbing knuckles as eye contact was finally made.

'Hello.' The woman put down her pail and walked across the large front yard.

Hope supposed he resembled an insurance salesman or perhaps an FBI special agent on assignment, for there wouldn't have been many other types decked out in shiny new black suits in these parts. The suit and the suitcase full of clothes accompanying his third piece of luggage, a gun laden cargo bag, had been derived from the same shopping spree in Chicago. Having studied the police logbook he had come to realise that Sacksville was not as quiet as he first thought. So, he would stay awhile.

He put down his luggage and wrapped a tired shoulder. 'Are you Katrina Hawkshaw? I've been led to believe you may be looking for a border. I'm looking for a room.'

Hawkshaw carefully looked him over. 'How did you hear about the vacancy? I don't believe anyone in this town would have recommended you to me. Not unless they thought you were of a mind to hurt me.'

Hope proffered a look of surprise and consternation. 'I would take it personally if they did.' He did not intend to let on, however, that it was in fact the police logbook that had recommended him here, her arrest for the murder of her husband having caught his eye.

He looked around the cedar trees that crowded into forest just beyond the property limits. 'I was looking for somewhere on the outskirt of town. Somewhere with solitude. I am a recent widower, you see.' He removed his iron grey Fedora so as to show his face. 'I would like to stay a few weeks. Stroll in the hills. Get my thoughts together. As you can imagine, it's a difficult time.'

'Being a widow myself I can imagine.' She spoke with a slight huskiness. She wiped her hands on her trousers. 'My name is Katrina Hawkshaw.'

'I'm Tom Colin.'

'May I call you Cole? I've met both Toms and Colins that have turned me off those names.'

'That would not be an imposition,' replied Hope.

'Good.'

They shook hands.

'It's my husband's room you would be staying in,' said Hawkshaw. 'It is the biggest room in the house but I have not wanted to take it over. In fact, I would have moved out of this house altogether if I could afford to take a loss on the sale.'

Hope put his hat back on and scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'A house of sorrow might not be what I need right now.'

She shook her head. 'My loss was some time ago and I do not feel much anymore. Probably not as much as I should.'

Hope smirked on the inside as he recalled the description in the log book of how she had stabbed him in the chest and stoved his head in with a brick. With the limited amount of enquiry he was willing to make for fear of drawing attention to himself, he had found that her father, a hotshot lawyer from Chicago, had pulled off a remarkable win in the trial, gaining the sympathy of the jury in her plea of self-defense. The details of the case had been buried away in the records, but Hope figured it was on the surface here, for such brutal actions seemed inconceivable from someone so quiet of nature and so unassumingly pretty.

'Well, if the secret to forgetting is in the waters here,' he said, 'I'd happily partake despite myself.'

'It's not the water by itself, but you can mix some in if that's the way you take it.' Katrina Hawkshaw smirked, revealing an endearing dimpled chin. 'Why don't you come and look at the room and I'll show you a map of the local woods over a coffee and freshly baked cookies and you can decide then.'

'If it's not too much trouble.'

Hawkshaw had to work the front gate to shift the stubborn latch. 'We had best move straight to the house. There's a precocious goose lurking about somewhere who will not take kindly to being challenged as the man about the house. I should have put it in the pot a long time ago, I suppose. I never found the right recipe for precociousness.'

The gate scraped open and Hope stepped through. He followed Hawkshaw into the house, as much with his eyes as with his legs. She moved her narrow hips in a manner he found beguiling.

The wire door squeaked open. A clean white linoleum floor greeted Hope. It struck him that for someone living the life of a recluse, the house was remarkably well prepared for a visitor. The kitchen, dining room composite was the first room; it smelt of baking and there was a fruit bowl on the unclothed teak table, neatly arranged with apples, pears oranges and berries. The cleanliness and order continued to impress as he was shown to the bedroom. It greeted him warmly. There was not the mustiness of a room banished but rather smelled of lavender. The room featured a neatly made bed, a round table with cabriole legs hosting silver candle holders and a ceramic vase and a walnut wardrobe. The afternoon sun shone through the windows at which the dark cream curtains were drawn.

'Is it to your liking?' queried Hawkshaw, slipping out a handkerchief as though in readiness to wipe away any new deposits of dust. 'The door is lockable from the inside.'

'You don't scare me that much.' Hope put down his baggage. 'I'll pay ten dollars a week.'

Hawkshaw caught her breath. 'I don't know what city you come from but things don't cost that much in this part of the world.'

'I'm from New York. And what I'm paying for is a small extra to go with the room.'

'If you're talking about meals, they don't cost so much either. In fact, a lot comes right out of the garden - something I doubt occurs in New York at all often.'

'You're right about that. And it sounds very appetising. However, that is not what I am talking about.' Hope stepped over to the window. There was a crow sitting atop the fence outside. And the goose Hawkshaw had been referring to was standing proudly in the centre of the yard, going in one direction and then another. 'Long walks during the day may clear my head, and I already feel this is the right place for that,' he continued. 'At night, you must understand, the pain is altogether more intense and the required distraction therefore needs to be of a comparable intensity.'

Hawkshaw frowned. 'Are you talking about whiskey?'

Hope knew the word meant different things to different people like few others and he got the feeling in this case it was something altogether acerbic.

'No,' he said, holding back his own personal enthusiasm for the subject. 'Another vice. Playing cards. Poker mainly.'

'Gambling?' This did not quite seem a dirty word.

'Not for vast sums. But it is a numbers game. And the flow of numbers through my head is very pacifying.'

'I see. Are you sure such card games are played in Sacksville? A New Yorker might be aghast at how sleepy a town such as this can get.'

'There are card games in every town. And where there is money on the table, the atmosphere is never sleepy, never provincial. The best players have superior memories and sometimes very long memories and so I would appreciate it if as few people as possible know that I was staying under this roof.'

'In other words, you are paying for silence?'

'For discretion. And an understanding that my comings and goings would be irregular.'

'A man who will come and go in the dead of night and who refuses to be discussed, I've had previous experience with such a situation,' she snapped. 'In my case it was called marriage.' She marched out of the bedroom and her voice came back through the passageway. 'I'll prepare our tea so we can drink to the deal.'

25. _'The real madman's Olympics are just around the corner and I'm going to be there representing America.'_

The Eternal Pigmy Tavern's gravel courtyard had a clutch of Dodge pickup trucks parked in a row and a gutted Cleveland tractor gathering weeds to the side. A rusted, decrepit water trough stood just outside the front door: it obviously belonged to an era when there were more four-legged arrivals than four-wheeled; the outer structure of the tavern itself also seemed to have received little maintenance since its heyday: its corrugated iron roof was buckled and rusted, its splintering timber walls streaked with the rust and dirty rain water that spilled out of its gutters, and its windows were curtained with dust to the point that any other kind of curtain would have been made redundant. Hope walked into the tavern unarmed and with his hands buried in his pockets.

There were mostly farmers and drifters at the tables and they were talking more than they drank: not because they wanted to but because they liked seeing something in their glasses. A harmonica player was belting out a lively rendition of _Chased Old Satan Through the Door_ in one corner and it was filling every other corner as well. The old man playing it, whose long beard seemed knitted from the same shaggy wool as his pullover, did not have enough fingers to hold his instrument straight and only one foot to tap to the beat. Hope wondered if he had any medals to go with his disabilities and he supposed it was a Remembrance Day treat that such things were revealed: it seemed unfair to him that the wealthiest and most vain could accessorise themselves with jewelry all year round and receive nothing but praise and envying glances while on the other hand the nation's bravest were only expected to pin on their pieces of tin once a year and rarely receive more than a passing respectful glance for the deed. Hope would have tossed a coin into the player's hat if only the hat had not still been on his head. That would have been the best way to end this train of thought; instead, he went for that other sure fire option and headed for the bar.

The bartender was in a state. He had sunken eyes and teeth that looked like he had forgotten to swallow his corn. He might have been hooked on something. He had been waiting for a customer edgily and almost jumped against the bar.

'What'll it be, mister?'

'Beer,' said Hope, putting his foot up on the skirting board, 'and I'll pay you more than its worth if you point me in the direction of a certain old friend.'

The bartender went for a glass and for a time concentrated only on the pouring. But after a while he muttered out the corner of his mouth, 'An old friend, did you say?'

'Haggerty Smith. I hear he has been known to frequent this establishment.'

The bartender did not show any immediate reaction, though as he rounded up the pouring, he said, 'You're right about one thing at least. That will cost more than the beer.'

Hope gave him a couple of dollars and a couple more. 'Give me the run around and what I take back won't be a refund.'

'You talk like Haggerty. I won't give him a name or tell him what you look like, I'll just tell him your quality of threat. He might recognise you as a friend, after all.'

'Where is he?'

'Your information is only half good. He doesn't drink in the bar, he owns it. He pays better for not telling than you do for telling but sometimes it's not what you pay but how you pay that counts.' He wiped his hands on a towel that was hanging down behind the bar. 'Wait here.'

Hope watched him disappear through a doorway at the back. He had his beer to mark time with, although it was not the most reliable of clocks. Today it was running fast and by the time of the bartender's return it well and truly needed winding up again.

'Are you packing?' asked the bartender pensively.

'No,' Hope muttered. 'And with hands as big and ugly as yours you're going to have to take my word for it.'

'Sounding like a friend of Haggerty's again, though he did just assure me he doesn't know the meaning of the word. He said he'd meet you all the same. What I'd recommend you consider carefully beforehand is whether that's what you really want.'

'If I was packing I'd probably be giving you the same kind of limp as your harmonica player over there. You think I'd come all this way and be so overcharged for a lukewarm beer without having considered what I really want?'

'What is your name? Just in case they ask me to put something on the headstone.'

Hope shrugged. 'A man who has never read any kind of bible better not be worrying about who wants to read his headstone. Now let's get on with it while it's still only _my_ headstone we're talking about.'

The bartender nodded his head, satisfied, as though Hope had just come up with the secret password.

'This way, if you will.'

He was ushering him to the doorway behind the bar. Hope walked around to meet him there and then followed a step behind. The passageway was jammed up with barrels of beer and crates full of empty whiskey bottles and Hope was having to plant one foot carefully in front of the other. The bartender then took a right turn, knocking on the door and looking at Hope without opening it.

'You're on your own. I've got to get back to the bar.'

Hope noticed that he did have a limp after all. Not so serious but it didn't make the years lived appear any the more kinder.

The door was dark grey and the handle a slippery metal knob - Hope had it open and was stepping through without checking whether or not the consistency of his palms had anything to do with the slipperiness. He found himself not so much entering a room as entering a fist. It struck him from the side, square on the temple and he dropped like there was a hole in the floor.

The voice was as calm as the punch was brutal.

'Pardon my manners but when a friend drops by unannounced there are certain ground rules. The first is just that. You stay on the ground. That way I'll be sure I can see you. The other rule is you do the talking. I assume you have something to say. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, my name is Haggerty Smith. Evening to you.'

The man might have been watching him, but for Hope himself the room was nothing more than an aching, pulsating blur.

He talked back up into it. 'Yeah, I've got something to say. I hate rules. But I'd rather say that on my feet.'

It was a blur without handholds and he only managed to get upright with time and the absence of another blow. He was just starting to focus on the man when another punch got in the way. As he again tumbled a hard boot caught him in the ribs.

'It will hurt less if you do what I say,' said Haggerty Smith.

Hope got back onto his elbows, took a breath and replied, 'That depends on what you call pain.' He started the rest of the way up.

This time he found a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm coming to like you. You can take it. Let's compromise. If you sit, it's okay with me. So, I'll get you a chair. Don't move.'

With the shot he had taken to the ribs, Hope wasn't going to straighten out much past his current stupor anyhow. A chair was slid across and he was helped up into it. The chair was solid wood with a wide square base and did not flinch or slide.

Smith seemed to achieve the same effect with two legs.

'The second rule still applies,' he said. 'You do the talking.'

Hope rubbed his head. 'That would have been a lot easier without the welcoming.'

'What can I say, hospitality is my business.'

Hope rubbed his head some more and was starting to see him. The man's eyes were black and drunk. His hair and beard were brown and trimmed. His nose had been bent out of shape and there was a mole awkwardly clinging to the edge of a flared nostril. A scar slunk down into his beard from high on his cheekbone. He was wearing a bright red shirt and grey trousers, shiny and tacky.

'You've got the longest felony file in town,' said Hope.

Smith frowned. 'You're not going to go become a cop on me, I trust.'

'What do you think?'

'I think cops can't take a punch. But it wouldn't matter if you were one. I'm keeping my nose clean. And paying what is asked. When you're bad, business is always good. That's the way of it. Only now there are the fascists, and bad is going to a whole other level. The 36' Olympics was just a warm up. The real madman's Olympics are just around the corner and I'm going to be there representing America.' He put his hands on his hips. 'So, as I look to the future, I use this place to shield me from the past. I have been quite naughty over the years and I have accrued my share of enemies. Some are not of the type to forget or forgive. You, I have to say, don't ring a bell.'

Hope found that the eyes upon him had warmed up, but he shook his head. 'You aren't what I'm looking for.'

'Should I be offended?'

'No, not really.'

'Yet how will I know unless you tell me what it is you're after.'

'I'm looking for nasty bad.'

Haggerty's face lit up some more. 'You mean evil?'

'Something like that.'

'Not as yet.'

'Well, why Sacksville for God's sake? Why not Germany and Hitler? Or Mussolini?'

Hope shrugged.

'Anyway, it's clearly not me. I've lived a life with a respectable amount of danger and that's the way it should be because that's what makes us real. Everything else is merely a suppression of the need for it. Including what gets poured in this bar. Now danger is bad because we're living in a civilised time. And all the laws of the land are designed to guard against danger, and those who continue to partake are labelled outlaw and likely to be locked away, as has happened to me from time to time. And Hitler also, as I'm led to believe. But what Hitler has done so brilliantly and I could never do is use politics to rise beyond the laws. It takes an army to stop a man who reaches those heights. Then the good folks get an education in how bad is bad.' Smith laughed boisterously. 'It seems rule two went out the windows as well, didn't it. But you've touched upon my pet subject. Anyway it's back to you. You didn't explain why you're looking for your so called nasty bad in Sacksville.'

'Because I've got a pet subject same as you.' The way Hope closed his mouth there was no indication it was going to open again anytime soon.

Haggerty nodded. 'I suppose I could try asking again, but we've already established you can take a punch. So I'll tell you what we can do. There's a card game underway in my office. Invitation only. That's what I've been taken away from. Why don't you join us? Play a few hands. That will let me take a good look at you. If things go well and I like what I see, I'll confide in you who I think is the rottenest snake in town. And as you might gather, I'm an authority on the subject. An unprecedented offer wouldn't you agree? And don't go worrying about those blows to the head. I didn't hit you so hard that you can't be playing cards for money.'

'Alright,' returned Hope, holding out a hand. 'Help me out of this chair and we'll go play a few hands.'

Smith did so with a firm wrist and a strong pull from his elbow. With his other hand he patted him on the shoulder.

'So what's your name?'

'Jesse De Luca,' said Hope.

'It probably isn't. I mean, why tell the truth when you can lie. And that's what makes poker a worthwhile past-time. Sure it's merely risk dressed up as danger. But it's the way it spotlights the queer relationship between luck and lying that has me entertained.' He smirked until his yellow teeth were again showing. 'If luck is a lady then lying is a gentleman. And they make an attractive couple.' He opened the door which had been closed to muffle any groans or screams. 'Which must make poker the debutants' ball. This way, Mr De Luca.'

26. _'Is there something about the grieving process you disapprove of?'_

The next morning Hope awoke to the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen; the sweet smells emanating with them immediately dissipated any irritation he might have felt. He swung out of bed with relative ease until it was his head's turn - it started spinning and throbbing and felt so strange he was drawn to the dressing mirror at the foot of his bed; he gazed into his reflection, mostly interested in the subtle remnants of the strain of the night's poker game, but they were lost to the bruises that had preceded them. The bruises had not rated a mention during the game, for the half dozen other players had their own fair share of marks and scars and seemed to consider them as uneventful as birthmarks.

Hope did not need to dress, the better the cotton in the suit the easier it was to wake up in. His mouth was dry and his tongue needed to be peeled off his teeth. He stepped out of the bedroom and the way his feet stuck to the linoleum there must have been holes in his socks.

'Good morning,' he muttered with vocals chords as stiff and dry as boot leather.

Hawkshaw was wearing a floral summer dress and smelt of freshly washed hair.

'Morning,' she said, scooping batter out of the mixing bowl into the frypan. 'Hope you like pancakes. Never met anyone who didn't.' Some of the batter was on her arms.

'Pancakes would be perfect.'

'Bacon topping to start with. With baby tomatoes picked out of the garden. And mint garnish. That will be followed by berries and cream.' With the pancake batter cooking, she gave him a more complete look. Although her expression remained placid, her voice certainly hardened. 'Your face looks different from yesterday. Is that the results of the gambling you were talking about?'

'You could say that,' said Hope. 'A tough game to break into. A table of cutthroat insomniacs. And a very ill-timed Jack of Clubs almost cleared me out for the night.'

Hawkshaw left her stove to pour a glass of lemonade looking liquid and handed it to him. 'A family tonic. A recipe from a great grandmother. There were members of my family that needed a lot of waking and a lot of reviving and it was used as a last resort.'

'I see.'

'But I like it more than that.'

'Cheers.' Hope drank to the bottom and winced with the formidable recoil. He wiped his mouth with his wrist. 'Bitter,' he gasped and put the glass down. 'A ginger bomb.'

'Yes, it hits the notes and tries to make it a symphony.' Hawkshaw prodded the pancakes with her spatula. 'So, who was the friend with the Jack of Clubs?'

'Haggerty Smith. Know him?'

Hawkshaw's expression turned cold. 'Yes, but do _you_?'

'Enough to beat him at poker.'

'And you were locked away with him and his cronies all night in some back room of the Pigmy Tavern?'

'The door wasn't locked.'

Hawkshaw shook her head. 'Have you gone completely mad?'

'Is there something about the grieving process you disapprove of?'

'Yes, the way it appears set to spread. That's assuming there's someone who'll grieve over you.' Hawkshaw turned her anger on the pancakes, almost hitting the roof as she flipped them.

Hope sat down at the dining table. 'Yeah, that is quite an assumption.'

Hawkshaw's voice softened a notch. 'Well, you've come to the right part of town. Here it gets thrown in with the room.'

'I'm sorry,' replied Hope, 'I didn't realise.'

There was a newspaper on the table that he sensed had been placed there for his benefit. Although it was a week old, it did not appear to have been read. And whatever Hope may have been doing a week ago, it certainly didn't include finding out about the news of the day. So he opened the paper up and began to read, or at least to go through the motions - he was not in much of a state to take anything in, but it was a welcome respite from the conversation, which had been starting to feel like the kind of hand in poker in which there was nothing left to do but bluff.

When Hawkshaw came to the table with her steaming pancakes on large porcelain plates, it was apparent she had more on her mind than the pepper and salt. The gravity with which she spoke, however, caught Hope off guard all the same.

'It is absolutely me who should apologise,' she said as she sat down.

Hope clumsily folded away the newspaper. 'Come again?'

Hawkshaw hurriedly said grace and then she said, 'It was arrogant of me to judge the road upon which you grieve. It would be deceitful of me to pretend my marriage was a successful one. In fact, the gap between my husband and myself had already grown so vast that death, when it eventuated, barely seemed to make it any wider. I locked myself away in this house for many months in a kind of daze. I read often and one Browning poem haunted me terribly: "As restless as a nest-deserted bird, Grown chill through something being away, though what it knows not".'

With the smell of bacon under his nose, Hope was suddenly famished and he collected up his knife and fork. 'Pancakes perhaps?' The pancake cut easily.

Hawkshaw smirked. 'If you like I could take the day off work. Show you around the area. There are pleasant places you cannot get to on foot. Not even with the distances you travel.'

'Thank you for the offer but I think I would enjoy walking a little more. I would like to wander one of those forest tracks. Experience the wilds of nature.'

'Well, I'm sure it will be safer for you than the wilds of town. Should I prepare a lunch hamper?'

Hope took his first mouthful and shook his head. 'There will be enough miles in this breakfast to see me through.'

'Very well, but I will not permit you to refuse seconds.'

'That is the kind of disciplining I could get used to.'

Hawker put onto her fork a much more modest first bite. She ate it distractedly and said, 'When I was tending your room yesterday I noticed that one of your bags was not yet unpacked, your black cargo bag. Forgive my intrusion, I just want you to know that regardless of any history that might be in this house, you can feel at home here.'

Hope had taken a large bite and it made for a slow reply.

'I appreciate the sentiment,' he said levelly. 'I have every intention of unpacking that bag. When the time is right.'

Hawkshaw searched into his eyes and nodded.

*

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.

*

The sunning turned to sleeping and by the time Hope awoke it was mid-afternoon. The sound of the river was pleasant and he was almost completely dry. His neck no longer particularly hurt either. It was like starting the day anew. With a little sunburn.

The Young Brothers had not accrued the most number of arrests in the Sacksville logbook, not even close, but they had been mentioned as much as anyone, and that was possibly more telling: always in trouble and barely ever any arrests, and whatever there was never translated into anything more than the most basic misdemeanours; perhaps it was blackmail that did it, perhaps it was fear; whatever it was, the scent was bad enough to justify the walk.

They were four brothers, sons to a lumbar truck driver who preferred the company of mountains over family, though he passed on the occasional smuggling job. The mother had not rated a mention in the logbook, which may not have been a good thing, for if she was in the picture she should have at least been cited for bailing out a sibling from time to time.

The Young Brothers owned the Motor Right Garage on the highway a mile out of town, and at that point it pretty much had the roadside to itself. It still did not take a big striding Hope long to get there. With all the rusted out hulks in its yard the garage looked more like a place where vehicles went to die than be repaired. The property's main structures were a corrugated iron, double doored garage with an old Caltex Petrol sign on the side and an adjacent whitewashed weatherboard house with weeds banked up against its walls and cracks riddling all three of its road facing windows. An opening in the garage double doors was the only sign of life on the property. Hope was heading that way. He stopped to fix himself up in the window of one of the old wrecks on the way. Missing its front wheels and backseat and covered in cobwebs, the Pontiac sedan had seen better days, and the reflection it cast was not much better. Hope did the best he could to make himself presentable, patting down his hair and straightening out his cuffs and collars before continuing on ahead.

A dog started barking from inside the workshop. Hope was unable to see it but he could hear the yanking of chain, which he suspected was sparing him an unpleasant encounter.

'Shut up!' somebody raged from the same direction and the dog yelped with the thud of a kick.

A young blond man walked out of the workshop holding a wrench and an oil rag.

'You looking for something, mister?'

As he neared he looked even younger than his first impression intimated - indeed, his cold look of disdain had added a good five years. He swept back his unkempt fringe with the greasy knuckles amongst the rag. He was wearing old blue overalls through which his thin pale arms were strung. The way he was brandishing the wrench was more akin to a mugger than a mechanic. Hope was beginning to suspect this was one man deserving chaining more than any dog.

The man's disposition was not growing any the more pleasant for the delay in Hope's response. 'Well?'

'Are you one of the Young brothers?'

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Maybe. What's it to you?'

'Are the other brothers around?'

'That's two questions I don't like, mister. If there's a third you're going to hurt bad. Normal folks who come here have a vehicle in disrepair. Anyone else better beware.'

Hope felt his heart quickening and realised it was a registering of real danger, the kind of danger that the others he had visited in Sacksville had only shown traces of. This was as thick as the sauce on Texan spareribs. A part of Hope was urging him to ease off in the face of it, but going against it just added to the thrill.

'I'm not so much looking for you and your brothers as looking for badness in all its pungent forms, not in an evangelistic kind of way, but in some kind of way, and I'm led to believe with the Young brothers it comes in the form of lying, cheating, stealing and probably a bit of killing as well. But no car that needs fixing.'

The man sucked onto the last trace of his restraint as though it were an aching molar. 'Are you a cop, boy?'

Hope shook his head. 'A gentleman by profession.'

'A gentleman for Christ sake? A gentleman of means or just a mean old gentleman?' He chuckled at his own pun and swung a fierce blow, the knuckles, hardened by the wrench, crunching against Hope's cheekbone. Hope crashed to the ground. He knew it was only his training that kept him conscious. But there was more coming. Kicks into his chest and one directed at his head that he just had to block.

The young man took it as lucky reflex and returned his assault to the body. Hope wanted to play it out, get to the other side of the beating; he was in no doubt this was a killer upon him, but before he countered he needed to know if this was the black sheep of the family or if it was indicative of the whole Young family.

The young man kicked him so hard in the stomach he almost tripped himself over; that was what brought the assault to a conclusion. His rasping breath simmered into another chuckle.

'Boy, I really took a piece of you, didn't I?' It was a sensual voice, as though passion had just been sated. 'I can get quite greedy like that. Leave nothing behind for my brothers. They'd each be wanting their little bit of you as well. So, I guess it's your good fortune they're out of town. Gone a couple of days doing one of those things on your list.' He grinned. 'See, I answer questions.' He stretched out and exhaled. 'That really helped blow off some steam. I got to admit I get lonesome when things are too quiet. Real lonesome.' The last traces of the rasping breath were gone now, the voice calm and sure. 'If you still want to meet my brothers, come back another day. I'll be sure to leave something for them then.' He shaped to kick Hope again, but the compulsion that had gripped him had now faded. He relented and stepped away. 'There's no point going to the cops either. The ones round here are good for nothing. Unemployed farmers. We own their sorry behinds.' He paused, looked at Hope a moment. 'Where you from, boy?'

Hope did not try to reply, though doubted he had the wind in his lungs to get a sound out anyway.

The young man lost patience and walked off, muttering to himself, 'Out-of-towers...so fuckin' stupid.'

*

Concussion was one of those times when Hope quite liked cooking. When he got back to the house he found that Hawkshaw was still not home and so he raided the pantry and ice-box, coming up with the ingredients for a better than half-decent Irish stew.

He cut with abandon the vegetables on the cutting board and he knew the cuts and bruises he had taken were just ripples on a pond. He did not even cry with the onions.

By the time the cooking was done it was dark outside and his stomach was growling at him. He scooped stew into his bowl until it was full and left the rest in the pot accompanied by a note on the lid for Hawkshaw to help herself; he hoped the smells alone would guide her as far as the pot.

He retired to bed with bowl in hand and slurped at it, letting it nurse him towards sleep like he might a paperback novel.

27. _'Don't tell me how good a man is. Tell me how much he can take before he goes bad.'_

Hope believed the secret to a good night's sleep was not in the getting to sleep but rather in the innate ability to know why one was waking up again afterwards; to instinctively realise it was the start of a new day, or that there was something troubling the person sharing the bed, or that an important detail had been overlooked during the waking hours and was only coming to light in the stillness of rest; this intangible ability of the subconscious aided sleep much more than a hard lump in the pillow from a gun or knife – at least, that was how it had been for Hope. And all of these triggers came along with frequency enough that Hope was more than familiar with them; the one that shook his eyes open on this occasion, however, was less common, though it was easy to recognise as it was only danger that came with a heavy pulse and a distinct chill.

The room was virtually pitch black and carried the kind of silence that could not be found in New York without earplugs. But it was the kind of danger Hope disliked most, shrouded as it was in emptiness and compelling him within. He found that he was lying on his side in a good position for his senses to scour the room; he started in the direction of the door and moved across – it seemed peculiar to him how deep the darkness could be in a room so small.

His eyes had not moved far when he came upon the silhouette of what he realised was a chair and someone sitting in it, and he could even see light reflecting in the white of the person's eyes. The way he stiffened caused the joints in the bed to crack. At least, he was able to maintain the consistency of his breath.

'What do you want?' he called out.

'I won't lie,' came the reply. 'I've been sitting here watching you.'

He recognised the voice as Hawkshaw's, though it was tighter, harder than he had known it to be.

'There's something I should tell you,' Hawkshaw said. 'I murdered my husband. Knifed him to death as he slept.' She paused. 'I got off on it by pleading self-defense.'

Hope rolled over onto his other side. 'Can't it wait till morning?'

From the silence came a dry cackle. 'Are you crazy? Doesn't anything bother you?'

Hope sighed and turned back to face her, climbing up on his pillow. 'Alright, if you want to talk, tell me about the Young brothers. What do you know about them?'

'After what I just said, you want to talk about the Young brothers?'

'Only if you'd like to. They don't seem very nice.'

'No, they don't. And I've tried to stay away from them.'

'But it's a small town.'

Hawkshaw's eyes had become clearer, larger. She didn't seem to be blinking. 'Gambling with Haggerty Smith and now wanting to make small talk about the Young brothers. You're not your average grieving widower.'

'And you're obviously not your average grieving widow.'

'No, the murdering kind. And that's all I get? Do you think I'm joking about my husband?'

'If that was your idea of a joke I would be more scared.'

Hawkshaw slid back in her chair and put her feet up on the bedside table. 'If you've seen one Young brother, you've pretty much seen them all. Same jaw line and chill inducing blue eyes. And they're all blessed with the same subtlety as a hammer. I don't think any animal has strayed on their property and lived past the moment. Cruel kids would do that, but the eldest of this lot is in his thirties.'

'Hurting kittens is the worst of it?'

'The kittens would think so, and they would be able to make a pretty convincing case. But there are a lot of innocent people who have got on the wrong side of the Youngs to their detriment as well.'

'Have the brothers received any jail time to show for it?'

'They've been chastised by judges on occasion but that's as far as it has gone. The charges have not been substantial enough to allow for anything more. Apparently witnesses tend to be thin on the ground. The brothers never act as a whole group, so if any of them are thrown in the slammer, there will be someone remaining on the outside to ensure witnesses have a change of heart. The effectiveness of the strategy has been made clear once or twice. In other words, if you wonder whether memory loss can originate from significant blows to the head, the Young brothers have done their absolute best to prove it.'

'You tell a good bedtime story. You can turn the light on if it comes with pictures.'

'Do you want to know why I was sitting here?'

'I hope not because I remind you of your husband.'

'That's what I wanted to find out. In marriage you can't help but know your partner's breaking point. My husband's was low. And on the other side of it there wasn't much that was pleasant.' She sniffled. 'Then he found mine.'

'I've heard that about marriage.'

'This might seem a little over the top but this was my best attempt at searching for yours. Being a woman alone, I have an interest in the breaking point of my house guest. Especially with the experiences I've had.'

'Did you get what you wanted?'

'Your breaking point is obviously high. I don't know how high because you weren't married to my dear hubby.' She took out a cigarette and lit it.

Hope looked in the flame for the steadiness of hand; he was almost offended that with her proximity to his bed it could be so marked.

'What marriage taught me, Mr Cole,' she said, blowing smoke high into the room, 'is don't tell me how good a man is. Tell me how much he can take before he goes bad. As to the Young brothers, I think some women find them attractive because at least with them what they see is what they get.' She chuckled wryly. 'You could almost call that honesty.'

'Almost.'

Hawkshaw was exhaling more smoke. 'I'm feeling quite tired all of a sudden. I think I will go back to bed.'

'Good idea.'

'Do you have plans for the morning?'

'Nothing special, just pottering around so to speak.'

Hawkshaw stood up and her voice returned to normal. 'Early to bed, early to rise, that's the lifestyle that will have you living a very long time.'

'I'm sure it will.'

'Sorry for disturbing you.' Her silhouette evaporated into the dark. Her voice, however, returned just through the doorway. 'If you've got time, you should meet Mrs Delaware at the elementary school. That's a woman with a breaking point.'

'Sounds interesting,' muttered Hope, 'but there are others.' He slid back down on the pillow and was again on the cusp of sleep.

*

Later that morning, Hope walked into the Sacksville Credit Bank with his identity hidden behind his black kerchief and two of the guns he had acquired from Zeal held tightly in both hands.

'Freeze!' he screamed. 'If nothing else happens in this town, you've got yourselves a bank robbery. Get down to the floor. Quick time it. I'm alone and ugly and I want money. If you make me earn it, bullets are my currency and everyone gets paid.'

He talked with one of his revolvers aimed squarely at the chest of the bank's only security guard; the other revolver was wafting about the rest of his hostages.

'Now I'll be the man on weapon's detail, but there are other roles that need filling. It wouldn't be right to get the customers involved in this. Unlike bank people, they know how hard it is to earn money. If they get their hands on it, they might not want to let go.' His voice hardened. 'So, let's see how efficient are the bank staff's money handling skills. Think of it as a performance review. And it would be a sad affair if any staff cuts were required.'

He dolled canvas bags out to the two tellers. 'Fill these with legal tender. Good notes only, if you don't mind. If you've been given any training in how to handle bank robbers, forget it - those people weren't holding guns.'

Pale and tense, the tellers hurriedly went to work. They didn't seem the type to put a bullet in his back, so Hope left them to it. He faced the other staff, all in different states of cowering. He dropped his remaining two bags to the floor. 'The manager and his assistant have exactly three minutes to fill these from what's in the safe.' He pointed a gun at the wall clock. 'The time has already started and I don't even know who you are yet.'

A heavy man, sunk behind his desk, stood up, his bald head glistening with perspiration. 'I am the manager.' He was about to pick up the bags, though was beaten to them by a young, gangly assistant keen to show his worth, even if it was in helping to rob the bank.

'Off you go then,' said Hope. 'And before you start triggering silent alarms, just think how silent it already is without my guns going off.'

He backed up against a wall and watched over the work being done. It was the right kind of bank for a lone robber: a small, intimate space shared between customers and employees, easy to supervise, and there was that old country pragmatism where money was never more valued than the health of livestock or the prosperity of crops or the air that was breathed - something that would not fly in New York, where the average unarmed hostage was every bit as dangerous as the average armed police officer.

'Fellow customers,' Hope said, 'this isn't the kind of bank robbery where you have to lie on the ground and tremble. Think of it as an educational experience. A chance to imagine a world where people in suits gave rather than demanded. Recollections of such moments are rarely passed beyond the exercise yard, so be glad your memories come with liberty. And forget about justice. I have and am the better for it.'

He waited a little longer after that, let the air settle and then he had had enough. He knew many a bank robber became mesmerised in finding out how long was too long, in needing to ride out his luck to see how far it could actually take him. But he knew it would never be far enough. You walk into a bank with a gun, you put a lifelong target on your back. So you better not start spreading your luck thin.

'Alright, that's it,' he called out. 'Bags here. Don't fret if they're not full. Saves me straining my back.'

The bank tellers had done well in the time available, their bags quite weighty; the assistant was adequate though not of the same standard; and the manager was predictably the worst, his concept of putting money into a bank robber's bag akin to banishing his own offspring down into a salt mine.

Hope took the bags without pause or remonstration: the priority was in getting out of the bank in one piece and the bags were just passengers. He left the bank unmolested and crossed the street to his car - no sign of the security guard and he had not even deprived the man of his firearm. Hope, however, certainly did not blame the man: he was being paid and the security guard was not, not really. So, it was a bit like asking a weekend amateur sports player to compete with a starving professional.

The Ford accelerated smoothly away from the curb with a deep clean growl. Hope pulled his mask down and inhaled a pleasantly fresh lungful of air. The handkerfchief, however, was only lowered as far as the tip of his chin: he would be needing it again soon enough, for he always robbed banks in pairs.

*

The second bank was in Pontiac and Hope was looking forward to it, for it always went the same way: the first bank blew off the nerves, got the muscles loosened up and limber and raised the confidence - as, if there were a second, he must have survived the first. His throat was looser as well.

'You want to know what a schedule feels like, try robbing a bank. Your poster says service with a smile.' He discharged a bullet into it. 'And look, it's still smiling. That's what I call a cheerful company policy. And that's why I wouldn't want to bank anywhere else.'

He again distributed the canvas bags to staff and watched the wads of notes getting stuffed within.

His thoughts drifted to his late night encounter with Hawkshaw and he even began to daydream. Maybe she was right that he had a high breaking point, and she seemed pretty impressed by it, but how good was it really when he could be in the middle of his second armed hold up for the day and be so recklessly bored by it?

It used to be different. Back in the days when he was still learning the trade, working in small tight gangs, and when he really needed the money. He went out solo very early in his career, realising that despite the advantages of working in gangs, there was one distinct drawback that could not be ignored, that would spell certain doom for any bank robber given time: his work would be discussed.

Hope did not know what had become of his partners in crime from those days, not unless their deaths or imprisonment had been big enough to make the papers. That had accounted for most sure enough. But one or two had slipped through the net. McCrann and Krahli. Old hands, even from the beginning. He considered even trying to check up on them but knew they would have only greeted him with polite disappointment for his sentimentality. A criminal simply needed a serious threshold for loneliness. It was a profession in which friends were fragility.

Hope wrapped up the robbery of the Pontiac branch of the Illinois State Farmers Bank even earlier than he had done at Sacksville. He just wanted some more of that fresh air.

He spent the rest of the day making his trail cold: he was car swapping, driving and car swapping some more. By dusk he felt as satisfied as he could be and headed back towards Pontiac, stopping in at the cemetery. Amit Henton's name was now familiar enough that he would not forget it and that was what he used as his own substitute bank.

There were graves all over America with bags of money buried just beneath the surface. All Hope's past accomplices who had suffered a violent death had received such visits - he thought it more appropriate than flowers. There were friends and sweethearts as well. And now it was Henton's turn.

Hope had not counted up the day's takings but it was certainly a few thousand dollars. He kept a couple of hundred to live on and then like a grave robber in days past went to work; his job, however, was easier as he was making a deposit.

Once it was done and he was as satisfied as he could be in the fading light that the grave was back to looking as it had been, he turned his attention to his other reason for being there. Alison Monet's grave was not hard to find, for it was one of the latest additions to the cemetery and thus had a brand new slap of marble for its headstone and was copiously decorated in bright funereal flowers.

The headstone said she had lived twenty three years. It did not seem enough time to find out what the world was really all about. But how many years were enough for that?

Hope remained standing there until darkness was well and truly ensconced. He was still alive. He still had his chance.

*

With all the barnyard animals having been set off into scuffling and babble, announcing his presence with a knock on the door seemed almost superfluous; still, he did it anyway, nice and loud, for farmers were entitled to keep firearms and gangsters could use them without compunction, which would make for a particularly dangerous man about the house.

The farm was ten miles out of Sacksville and Hope intended to walk it when he was done, suspecting an abandoned stolen car was far more risky than a moving one, even one parked off a dark, seldom used track: they seemed to have a way of crying out for a help, of demanding attention, especially ones that could be linked to bank robberies.

There was no immediate response to Hope's presence, so he knocked again. A door hinge wobbled. Still nothing. Even though there were lights on behind the curtains of the modest sized farmhouse, it was not too early for a farmer to be asleep, or for a Chicago hoodlum to be dead drunk.

The door, however, abruptly flew open at last and the face behind it was large and had a big doorknob of a nose. The man's fifty something years were it etched by chisel into a prominent forehead he further exposed by flicking away the few strands of his thinning fringe. His neck was a deflated bag of baggy skin and hardly seemed up to the job of supporting a head so sizable. The eyes were cool and dangerous.

'What the hell do you want?' he said in a thick Chicago drawl. 'Knock on a door in these parts and it better be a matter of life and death.'

'Life and death, you say?' Hope leaned forward and knocked on the door again.

'Think you're smart, hey?'

'Probably, but brains doesn't have anything to do with it.'

'You talk like the city.' The man spat onto the porch. 'You ain't from around here, are you?'

'Neither are you. But I _know_ where.'

'Alright, well come in. And I am not inviting you, I'm telling you.' He opened the door wide. 'Hurry up, it's fuckin' cold.'

The first step in stank of cat piss. Then the house opened up into a master class of plainness. The sagging sofa chairs, faded floral wallpaper, cheaply framed landscape prints, scratched and chipped wardrobes and the mantlepiece stacked with cigarette packets, simply couldn't summon anything amongst themselves worthy of a second look, which was fine unless you happened to live there.

'Take a seat,' the man barked in the living room.

Hope was a step behind and his second look at him was devoted to trying to work out where he might be hiding his weapons. He knew he was not the only one who packed a bag full of guns when he changed neighbourhoods. He dropped into the nearest sofa chair, sinking down low with the worn out springs, and as the door was being closed, he took the opportunity to run his fingers down behind the cushions, not in the search of loose change but rather for guns, knives or bullets. All he got to show for it, however, was lint clogging his fingernails.

'Alright, you say you know me,' said the man as he walked across the room and lowered into a vacant sofa chair with all the trepidation of entering a scalding hot bath. 'So spit it out.'

Hope took heart in the man's apparent bad back and his sinking into the chair below the waist: not much chance of a lunging attack in such circumstances.

'Your name is Livingston Fitch,' Hope said, 'which, fortunately for you, sounds nothing like your various monikers back in Chicago.'

'Monikers?' The man, who did not deny his name was Livingstone and had become inquisitive despite himself.

'Let Em' Pray Joe, Boom Livvy...for starters.'

Just hearing those names again was enough to put a grin on Fitch's face. Not that it softened the overall impression.

'I am at a disadvantage,' he said. 'You are calling me all these names and I don't have a single name for you real or otherwise.'

'I can give you a name if you'd like. But it won't be anything like the truth.'

'I don't give a shit about the truth. I want to know if I've heard of you or not.'

Hope shook his head.

'So, you're not a name but you play the game.'

'More or less.'

'In Chicago?'

'Here and there. Mostly New York.'

'I should be flattered that I've been heard of so far and wide.'

'I'm surprised you took the risk of using your real name.'

'I'm not here incognito. In fact, the real purpose of being here is to show I can live with my name free of monikers and the kind of activities that earn them. That's why I have not even thought of knee capping you yet. It's not what farmers do.'

'What do farmers do? Are you sure you even know?'

Fitch shrugged it off. 'It is the same as being a mobster. You hire other people to get their hands dirty.'

'Good for you. But if there is any of that other kind of dirty work that needs doing, you're on your own here.'

Fitch's eyes locked on him in a death stare. 'You are here to make a move? Is that it? Some mug hire you to settle an old score?'

'I ain't here to put one over you. I ain't afraid of you either. What I'm doing here more closely resembles police work than the other side of the ditch. You want to become the good farmer, this is your chance to practice the greater good.'

Fitch held his temper with visible effort and said through gritted teeth, 'Go on then. Fire away.'

'A girl named Alison Monet was murdered in the woods not far from here. Raped and strangled. The perpetrator has not been brought to justice. You were questioned as a possible suspect by the detective in charge of the case, a Detective Oswald.'

Flitch's voice remained unflappably calm. 'Was I?'

'A witness saw someone driving in a real hurry not far from the murder scene of the day in question. The description given resembled you enough to raise official suspicion.'

'You are particularly well informed. My compliments. But I get the feeling you know things like you want something.'

'I want to know if you murdered Alison Monet.'

'I will not make fun of you out of respect for the girl but how would this work? Did you bring a bible for me to swear on? People like me would only put greasy marks on the Good Book. Instead, I carry weapons. Guns, knives, knuckle dusters.'

'I'm not carrying anything.'

Fitch sneered. 'And you came here talking murder?'

'Why did _you_ come here? Why would you be running from Chicago and taking your name with you?'

'Why would I tell you?'

'You want to be normal? Then you've got to start worrying about the freaks. I ain't here to dust for prints. And no one's innocent until proven guilty. This town has forsaken that privilege.'

'You sound like one of the freaks,' Fitch gnarled.

'I never said you shouldn't worry about me. Anyway, I'll start the ball rolling by telling you some truth.'

'Go on then.'

'I've got my eye on some real badness in town. I was all set to go pay them some comeuppance when your name, which was in a police record, suddenly rang a bell. So, before I give Sacksville a fresh coat of blood I thought I should at least find out what a Chicago heavy was doing in town.'

Fitch sighed. 'Normally I wouldn't be so accommodating. In other words, I'd bury you out with the turnips. But I've been feeling awfully homesick lately. And you're the closest thing to Chicago I've encountered in a long time. So, I'll tell you something in good faith and then you'll be on your way. Agreed?'

Hope nodded.

'I lived a violent life in Chicago. Done some ugly things. Things that if you'd done them to a pooch you'd be taken to an asylum 'cause they were things that someone of sound mind would not be capable of. But I was capable and I was doing them to people. I wasn't special, I was just from Chicago.

'Then one day in a spaghetti bar -Tonio's was the joint - I bumped into my high school sweetheart. It had been thirty five years and yet we recognised each other in a flash. We got to talking, then we met the next day at the same place and we really got to talking. If the police could bottle the way I was feeling, they could solve a lot of crime, for I simply couldn't tell her a lie. I confided everything to her. Every miserable thing I'd done until she physically couldn't listen anymore.'

'Sounds like a fun date.'

Fitch glowered. 'People in Chicago are careful about not being that smart.'

'So I've heard.'

'Shall I go on or would you like to skip to a dance?'

'No, I'd like to know how it turned out.'

'She was a widow. I was in a dead marriage. We both felt we were made for each other. We both felt it back in high school. If I hadn't dropped out early to be in the gangs, things might have been different. No point crying over hard choices. My girl, May, gave me a stark one. If I wanted to be with her I had to break free of the rackets. Live a clean life. Do my best to make amends for all my wretchedness.' He grinned a crooked grin that Hope suspected was the last thing many a victim had seen. 'I'm so reformed these days I'm not even out drinking with my man in the barn. What's more, I'm not going to call him in here and have him do a number on you just to have you eat your words through a mouth of broken teeth. It would have occurred without a second thought in the days before May. It makes me more vulnerable to attack but also less of a target.'

'You have your man in the barn?'

'He followed me all the way from Chicago only to banish himself there. The one loyal friend I have. He has dirtied his hands for my benefit on many occasions and now I am trying to teach him the soil has more uses than just packing on enemies.' Fitch straightened up and sank further into his couch. 'Before you leave, allow me to pass on an observation. You walk in here against a gangster like me and you've got to know if a fight breaks out it's going to be for keeps and any smart punter would have an each way bet. It's your party, so why would you only give yourself half a chance? It's reckless. The first time I get to hear your name will be when people are discussing the gory death you had, that's what I'm predicting for you.'

'Bet on it?'

Fitch sneered. 'That's another thing May has had me give up. Even when the odds are so inviting.'

Hope looked around him for any traces of May apart from what he was hearing about her.

Fitch seemed to sense it and said quickly, 'It's only love keeps a man running an even keel. That's what I've learned. If cops really wanted to rehabilitate criminals, they wouldn't send them to Rikers, but rather to a tropical island populated by half naked women. Well, that's where they should've sent me.' He laughed with his teeth getting caught on his lips. When the laughter ended his teeth were still there. He shook his head disapprovingly at Hope. 'Reckless. Are you a man on the wrong side of love or are you just incapable of feeling it?' He held up a hand to indicate he did not want a reply. 'Coming here like this, you really could get yourself hurt. You know Chicago heavies are so desensitised to death that they've got to spice it up just to get a taste. They get to the point where they're shooting people's brains out on the streets in broad daylight and yet are startled when bystanders start screaming.'

'But they don't get much further than that point. They start making mistakes.'

'Except the ones smart enough to see it coming and clear out of town. And you simply want to look me in the eye and ask me if I brutalised some girl in the forest? Whether the answer is yes or no, you could still pay with your life.'

Hope shrugged. 'Especially, if the answer is yes.'

Fitch stared some more. 'Do you drink whiskey? Is that answer yes?'

'Sure.'

'Well, excuse me a moment.' Fitch disappeared into the kitchen where he banged around a few moments before returning with two glasses and plenty of ice to lift the golden liquid up off the bottom. He handed one of the glasses over and returned to his sofa. He seemed to be enjoying himself, not the slightest pretense of a farmer in his commanding demeanour.

'You could be what I'm looking for. As long as I'm not what you're looking for. Let's chew the air on that right now.'

Hope sipped at the whiskey, enjoying the mix of temperatures. 'I don't think you are what I'm looking for.'

'And if I searched you, I wouldn't find you armed?'

'No.'

'You might be lying but I can't see it on your face. That's what counts. Look, thirty years in the game, I saw lots of things that were wrong. Very wrong. Some things can't be fixed because that's just the way the world is. Like the people like me. The people like you. Other things though can be fixed. Like whoever touched that girl. I know things like that. Not that particular thing exactly. But plenty of things just like it. I was hoping I would forget about them out here on the farm. But I haven't. In fact, they're the reason I sometimes wake up hanging sideways out of the bed.'

'You could tell the cops.'

'As you say, they'd just dust for prints.'  
'Then get a bigger bed.'

'I've been thinking perhaps if I employed someone to go take care of these things I know it would be fair repentance for the life I've lived. Most my compatriots have had jail time for their repentance. But I was smarter. That hasn't been my fate.' He dampened his lips with the whiskey and puckered like it was lipstick.

'You offering me a job?'

'I believe I am.'

'To clear your conscience? With extreme violence?'

Fitch smiled. 'And I won't have to worry about what happens to you because you sure as hell don't.'

'I see.'

'There are things I know that really should be straightened out. And May would approve.' He wetted his lips again. 'But we need not settle anything right at this moment. You have your hands full already. So, let's see how you go with it. If you don't make it, I can at least be proud of myself for having come up with the proposal. Staying alive, however, will force me to put my money where my mouth is. In your case it would be worth it. I mean, there aren't too many players around who know people without being known themselves. Most act like all they're in the rackets for is a reputation. And they get so well known they finish up just another number in the Illinois penal system.'

'Fool on them,' said Hope and started the awkward process of shaking himself from the couch. 'I've had worse offers. But, like you say, I've got my hands full at the moment. Let's see if there's anything left after that.'

'Anything left of what?'

With a well refined use of his elbows, Fitch was up on his feet and ready to accompany Hope to the door. His face was finally starting to loosen up. Hope got the feeling he did not have anything left to say.

*

The 10 miles back to Hawkshaw's farm was as long as Hope feared it would be. He stopped looking at his watch soon into it, for it was akin to the advice of an acquaintance who knew what he was talking about but was not helping things all the same. He needed to keep up his pace like he was going somewhere, but not to do it suspiciously: in other words, to be mindful that of those occasional sets of highlights flashing by might belong to a cop just about as desperate enough to start wondering if the roadside vagrant and the charismatic bank robber could be one in the same – especially if the long series of abandoned cars had left the law with the impression the perpetrator would rather walk.

In what seemed the dead of night Hope reached Hawkshaw's front door; he was tottering on collapse so was as relieved as he was surprised to find Hawkshaw moving forth from the inky darkness of the porch.

'I've been waiting for you,' she said.

'Sorry. I got a little lost.'

'Really? Should I have called the police and reported a missing person?' She took him tightly by the hand. 'Come inside. We need to talk.'

The way she was dragging him by the arm, he wished he had had a bit of that earlier on the track. She lined him up with the living room's wicker chair and nudged him into it.

She was much more elegant in the manner in which she settled her own persons into a chair of dark walnut. She folded her legs and straightened out her raspberry dress over her knees.

'The thing I wanted to talk about,' she said, 'is who the hell are you? You know, the only way I can tell if your bed has been slept in is whether or not there's blood on it.' Her voice got tough. 'You'd better explain yourself again. The line you gave me first time isn't working anymore.'

Hope muttered something unintelligible as his head flopped to the side.

Hawkshaw jumped furiously to her feet. 'Are you falling asleep on me?' She had to prod him for a reply.

'No, I'm thinking,' he muttered. And then he started snoring through his nostrils.

Hawkshaw glared at him a protracted moment. 'You know, there's only one place on your face where there isn't a bruise.' That's where she punched him.

Hope grimaced and he looked around wide-eyed. 'What's happened? Are you alright?'

Hawkshaw shook her head, infuriated. 'I'm going to run you a bath. You stink.'

*

The next time Hawkshaw woke up Hope it was with a kiss. She almost had to pry his lips from his face to do it, but at last his eyes opened.

'You smell better,' she said.

Hope realised he was in the bath: it was perfectly warm and with a layer of bubbles on top. The room was softly lit by Roman candles, which were ranked beside the sink with an exquisitely serene hue reflecting off the back mirrors. Hope could not recall stepping into the bath and he became fixated on his suds covered feet as though they might hold the key.

Something the matter?' said Hawkshaw, leaning over the bath from the side.

'I don't know how I got here. The last thing I remember was sitting on the sofa.'

'You fell asleep while I was drawing the bath. I carried you here.'

Hope looked at her sceptically. 'You carried me?'

'Sure. I had a lot of practice with my husband. When it was time for him to get ready for work, the bath was the only thing that would sober him up.'

Hope noticed her hair was damp and straggly and all she had on was a loosely wrapped towel. He reached out to her arm. It was so soft and warm.

'You've already been in? I thought the water felt good.'

'You were snoozing so happily out on the couch I took my time. And I was hoping for some answers A guy like you probably talks more in his sleep than when he's awake.'

'And how did that work for you?'

'Snoring is not a language I understand.' Hawkshaw smiled.

'When you carried me in here you were naked,' he mused. 'And I must have got naked at some point too.'

Hawkshaw shrugged one of her shoulders. 'Your clothes needed burning. I thought I'd do you a favour and take them off first.'

'Much obliged.' He splashed some water onto his chest and leaned his head back luxuriously. 'So, where do we go from here? This bathtub is too small all of a sudden.'

'Not too small to wash behind the ears.'

'Alright. And then?'

'I'm warming the evening's roast beef and potatoes. I'll bring that in to you. You must be famished.'

'Yes, I am. That sounds very nice. And once you've built up my strength, what then?'

'Then you clean your teeth.'

'Absolutely. And then?'

Hawkshaw leaned closer, her eyes breathtakingly aglow in the candlelight. 'Your sheets are still drying. But you can share mine.'

She smirked and swung out the room. Hope was frozen. He had felt it more than he had her punch.

28. _'If you can't walk, you're no good to me and I'll blow your fucking hear off.'_

Neither Hope nor Hawkshaw were deep sleepers. They awoke intermittently during the night, their senses curiously probing the darkness, like insects with their antennae, wanting to feel what was out there, wanting to touch and to be reassured and to take those sensations back with them into their sleep; it was a hard way to sleep alone, but perfect in the company of someone reciprocating, someone offering warmth. And so they slept and made love through the night. The feelings, the energies, the needs that the day had not called upon, could be sated here. Tenderness and passion entwined under the covers.

Eventually the sun came again, pressing against the curtains and stirring Hope. He nibbled on Hawkshaw's earlobe and whispered, 'The difference between being with you and being alone is that I sleep less and wake up feeling better.'

Hawkshaw kissed his cheek. 'You were waking in the past with my fist in your face, so better wouldn't be difficult.'

'Still, it's better.' He squeezed her tight. 'Is it my turn to prepare breakfast?'

'It's Sunday morning and we've got business. Forget breakfast, forget the preacher.'

'What then?'

'Since I first kissed you, there hasn't been a single new bruise on your face. I'm very proud of the fact and to ensure my positive influence is maintained, I intend to escort you on your daily stroll. There's a track in the woods I haven't told you about because I didn't want you getting lost. But we have to go early before it gets too hot.'

It had not occurred to Hope that it might be getting hot these days. Weather for him was mostly physical symptoms: when it was too hot he would wring out his shirt and when it was too cold his teeth would chatter and his jaw muscles stiffen. He would react when it happened and that was about his only association with weather. He could have shared these musings with Hawkshaw but doubted he would have come off sounding any the wiser, so he left her to her room and returned to his own. He dressed in a white cotton shirt and navy blue trousers, both purchased at Harrods and they had done as well at descending from gentlemanly status as he felt he himself had done. He added to the outfit his ever reliable lug-soled mountaineering boots and he was ready to go.

He met Hawkshaw in the living room. She was comfortably attired in a loose fitting blouse and slacks and white deck shoes and she had a radiant look about her.

'I'll fetch us something to drink and we'll be off,' she said, and as she headed for the kitchen she turned back with a delicious wink.

*

Hope and Hawkshaw walked and drank from a flacon of wine. There was homemade biscuits and cheese to go with it. It was the perfect breakfast with the occasional shooing of flies. The track Hawkshaw was guiding him on looked to Hope to be of different terrain to those he had taken on his own. There were more rocky outcrops, towering oaks, berry bushes and wild summer flowers - or perhaps it was merely that people bestirred by affection noticed these things more.

Hawkshaw seemed to read his thoughts and laughed; she pushed him on the shoulder and more gently took the flacon out of his hand. 'I've been wanting to tell you something. And confidence out here in the woods feels easy.'

'No one to hear me scream?'

'I want to explain that night when I acted so strange, asked you who you really were and all of that.'

'The black eye?'

'Yeah, all of that.' She swigged from the bottle and waved off a bug that had been aroused by the scent of it. She shook her head. 'I was out of my head that night because I knew I liked your type, but after days of thinking about it I just couldn't find a word to fit what that type that was. It got to me.'

Hope nodded contemplatively and sucked in some of the forest air. 'Why put a name to it at all?'

'So as to remind myself what to expect. And to remind you. Charming men descend from ambitious rascals to paranoid burnouts in the blink of an eye.'

'They do sometimes.'

'So, then, what type _are_ you? I would like to be enlightened.'

Hope shrugged. 'I don't have a good word for it either. But I won't go forgetting.'

'What makes you so sure?'

'Because I was asking the question for quite a long time myself. I once actually went through the entire Oxford dictionary letter by letter, looking for the word that would best explain me. I got nothing and by the time I reached Z, I was starting to feel ignored. But scrolling down the Zs I kind of got the feeling I belonged somewhere there. Maybe that was why the monks who compiled their dictionaries in their monasteries added so few Zs, so that if you reached the end of the book without resolution, there was still this dark alley in which you could add something of their own. Infinite should be a Z word too. It's the only place it makes sense.'

Hawkshaw laughed. 'Okay, Z person. It's fortunate you didn't try this line when I was in my mood. I daresay I would've hit harder.' She grinned and saluted him with the flacon. 'But I can almost buy it now. Just as long as you don't let the word pathetic slip into the Zs.'

'Sure.'

'And any of those other heavy words that are liable to prise themselves loose and slip to the back.'

'Words such as _better_ and _cook_?'

Hawkshaw punched him with that but at least this time it was in the arm. 'Don't mess with me, buster,' she said teasingly.

She was on guard for any retaliation on Hope's part and so was quick to react when another bug got into her face, getting it with a fast, no nonsense swat. Or was it a bug? The whir was gone as quickly as it came and Hawkshaw checked her hand for any squashed remnants but there was nothing.

Hope peered away into the woods, his senses suddenly tightly attuned, as though in the presence of tigers not insects; and then he was flung off his feet, grasping wildly at his arm. Hawkshaw was screaming even before the sight had fully registered. To Hope the voice sounded distant and foreign - but then he realised she was still using the fake name he had first given her. If he was not careful, he would be buried with it. A steel bolt was protruding from his shoulder and blood was streaming from the wound. He resisted the urge to pull it out, for a barbed point could see half his shoulder torn with it. He gritted his teeth and took in the pain. This wasn't like the weather. This he could feel.

Hawkshaw knelt beside him. Tears were falling freely.

'It's the Young brothers,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

'Sorry?' Hope touched her wet cheek with his good hand. 'For trying to put salt into the wound?'

Four men calmly walked up to them. They were holding crossbows and had rifles slung over their shoulders.

'Good morning, Ms Hawkshaw,' said one, his voice slow, easy and haughty. 'Nice morning for a walk. Me and my brothers have been out doing a bit of hunting. Apologise if we have in any way disturbed you.' He waited for a response, an insult to fire his blood preferably, and when none was forthcoming, he continued. 'Your friend was enquiring about us a few days back and so why don't we take this opportunity for a formal introduction. I'm Art. I'm not the eldest but I do the talking.' He pointed to the brother on his left. 'Les is the eldest and the tallest last time we checked. He doesn't talk much himself but being a mean sonofabitch no one much wants to hear what he has to say anyways.' He pointed to his right. 'This is Joel, the inquisitive one. We used to think he was wrong in the head the way he would spend hours cutting animals open. Pull out their eyes and everything. But he wasn't making earrings out of them. He was just being a little scientist. He'll probably want to cut you open as well. See what's inside.' He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. 'And last, or at least youngest, is Rex who he tells us you already had the displeasure to meet.' He gave Hope a prodding kick. 'Let you have some of this, didn't he? Though he might not be able to shoot for shit, he's the hunter of the family all the same. For the past few months he has been spending his nights lurking outside Ms Hawkshaw's residence. And why not? She's quite a dish. Recently widowed. And apparently she doesn't know that curtains are there for the closing. So we left him to watch. Boys will be boys and that kind of thing.' He kicked Hope harder. 'That was until he mentioned her strange new house guest and that she had obviously gotten over her husband's premature demise with flying colours. And when this same stranger turns up snooping around our garage, then there is something for the whole family right here.'

'Wow,' replied Hope, trying to sound as indifferent as he could under the present circumstances. 'That voice of yours has my ears hurting even more than my arm.'

The jibe cost him another vicious kick to the ribs, but he well realised there was little point in becoming precious about the treatment being meted out; in fact, there was nothing he saw or heard in these four men that suggested any attempt at appeasement or begging would be received with anything more than derision and further cruelty. They would savour it. A grand finale at their hands would thus not be worth dragging out; better by far to start shaking the tree as hard as possible and just hope a miracle fell out.

'No,' he spat, 'it's still my ears hurting more.'

Another kick.

'If we're going to turn this into a sport,' Art Young hissed at him, ' it's your head that's shaped like a football.' He took a step back and set himself as though ready for kick off. 'Blow the whistle, ref.'

'Easy, Art,' interjected his big brother, Les. 'If you do him here, you'll be the one doing the burying. And I don't care how hot it is, you'll bury him deep enough that no critters can go digging up his bones.'

Art pondered this a moment and then straightened up from the kicking position and spat on Hope. 'Lucky for you the rules to the game are not all that appealing.'

Hope did not have anything more to say for now. But he was thinking. Were these brothers really as bad as they seemed or was it merely that his feelings for Hawkshaw had softened him up? Perhaps, when the looming next world war eventually arrived they would be the type who kept America safe. The heroes. In peace time, however, violent urges that could not be contained, inevitably fell into the domain of the innocent. And it was like dropping vinegar into a cocktail. In this case, the innocent happened to be someone Hope had fallen for. And even if she had bladed her husband into the most definitive of divorces, he now certainly considered her an innocent. The number of those who had preceded her could only be speculated on. The Young's themselves would probably have required a family meeting to estimate their own figure. Names such as Alison Monet would likely have come up in the process. Hawkshaw's name would only be the latest addition if the Youngs' intended Sunday frivolities were allowed to play out. Hope, however, would have a chance to do something about it - if only because his disposal promised to be bothersome. And thanks to the pounding he had given himself against New York's flagpoles, he was feeling fresh and relaxed. The Youngs would have needed to have looked beyond the cover of spilt blood and swollen flesh to see it, but he was ready.

After some back and forth of opinions between the Youngs, their huddle broke up and Art returned to Hope and Hawkshaw, replacing his crossbow with his side pistol. He smirked slyly. 'Saturday night has come late for us to be sure but the principle remains the same,' he said. 'The pretty one gets taken home, while the ugly one is left behind flat.' He chuckled at Hope. 'Not left exactly here. There's an old quarry nearby. These days it's a stinking, muddy, mosquito infested shit hole.' He trained his pistol on him. 'You, me and Rex are gonna go trekking there. Fun, right?'

'No way,' protested Rex and thumbed at Hawkshaw. 'I wanna' go with her. I found her.'

Art glanced at him and shook his head. 'I think you like her a little too much. You'll get your turn.' He was back with Hope. 'If you can't walk, you're no good to me and I'll blow your fucking head off. So, give this question careful consideration before replying. Are you ready to go?'

Relying overwhelming on his good arm, Hope slowly, painfully got to his feet. Hawkshaw stepped in to assist. A caring hand at this moment felt like life itself; she would have made a great nurse, he thought.

With her cheek brushing his ear, she whispered, 'Rip these sons-of-bitches to pieces or I will.'

Hope smirked to himself and disguised it as pain. Well, maybe not a nurse.

*

The quarry was familiar to Hope. Thompson's Quarry was the name on the map he had been taking on his hikes. He suspected it had only been given a mention as it was amidst a whole corner of emptiness. He had passed its peak on one of his walks and had stopped to take in its views across woods, sprawling lush farmland and the tightly clumped rooftops of Sacksville. Quite a view, though with its sheer drop not one for the squeamish. Hope was now running carefully through his mind what he had only given a cursory glance during his first visit to the quarry: the straight down. The quarry walls were steep and brittle and at the bottom of the eighty foot drop, there was a muddy lake. That seemed to be where the Young's intended to dump him.

Unfortunately, Art and Rex Young, were either shrewd in the way they were escorting him or were simply not getting on very well; whichever it was, the two brothers were spaced too far apart to make an effective lunge. There was not much chatter between them and there was no indication their positions were likely to change before they arrived at the quarry. So, what about at the quarry then? Hope figured they would try to club him on the head if they could. A bullet wound would set off a criminal investigation should the body be discovered and the cops game enough to check the putrid cadaver for holes. A bump on the head, however, would be indistinguishable with the damage a body would receive falling from such a height. To get things so neat, however, someone would need to get close enough to deliver the blow and that's when Hope would have his opening - after all, he was no puppy seal.

The problem with this strategy, however, was that the Young brothers were amateurs and amateurs were unpredictable: they were liable to shoot him in the back just to see the show. Hope had to get something happening without it being the crack of a rifle and the best he could come up with was a conversation - or more particularly a conversation that flattered and deceived.

'It's funny,' he said, glad that his voice came out confident and steady, 'how you boys think you are being scurrilous lawbreakers when in fact you're doing the law a big favour.'

The two brothers did not reply directly, but nor did they shut him up. Perhaps the brothers had been waiting for Hope to start begging for his life. Hope was encouraged enough that he risked a glance back over his shoulder.

'You hear about those bank robberies in Sacksville and Pontiac? I know you weren't there 'cause I would've seen you.' He increased the length of his strides, wanting to get to the quarry as quickly as possible - that kind of confidence was bound to confuse. And he kept on talking. 'The police will be paying a big old reward for my capture. You better believe it. Getting a fugitive like me into custody is worth a thousand busted engines.' He chuckled at the thought.

Art Young finally got his voice back. 'You don't look much like a bank robber to me. Anyway, you'd be worth as much dead as alive.'

'Wouldn't be worth anything in a quarry. And if you like the idea of a reward, I've got plenty of that myself. I'll take you to where I stashed the loot. It's a nice bundle and it can be all yours.'

'If we let you live?'

'That would be the terms. But the girl is no precondition. Your brother wants her bad enough to stay up nights, who am I to deny that?'

'You're a real prince.'

'This is business. And if money is your game, banks is the fastest ways to get your hands on it.' He chuckled flippantly, letting them see he was at ease. 'Mechanics might be one of the slowest. To be honest, my visit to your garage was with the intention of inviting you on the bank robbery. I wanted some local boys and you were recommended as the types who could your nerve. Even when things get dicey.' Hope looked ahead to where the steeply rising track was beginning to flatten out and he recognised it as the final approach to Thomson's Quarry. He kept up his pace and said, 'When I got to your garage, however, I must say I was struck with doubt. All those rusted out cars in your lot, which were no better than junk, smacked of laziness at best.'

He let that sit in the air, and Art gnarled back threateningly, 'And at worst?'

'A lack of ambition. Small towns, small appetites. If you walk into a bank with a gun, your senses become charged like you're whole being is a blind person's fingertips. Until you have enough experience to consider it normal I don't see you hard enough to endure the process.'

Hope figured the Youngs would be engaged by these kinds of taunts, and the replies now were coming promptly.

'How could we assure you that we are hard men?' mused Art. 'Perhaps, if we tied you to a tree and shot out your arms and legs until you surrendered the location of the robbery haul.'

Hope laughed again. 'You would be merely asking the questions. The hardness would come in not answering them.'

The trees on the right were thinning out to a bleak patch of ground that had lost its topsoil to the dull orange under-clay underneath and culminated in a crumbling edge and the gaping open wound of a mountain side ravaged in the quest for resources. Hope guessed his false promises had earned him a few steps hesitation on the Youngs' triggers. He couldn't count on anything more than that, and he doubted he had bought enough grace to make a charge at them. From his glimpses out the corner of his eye he could see their rifles were still pointed from the hip. A sharp turn would be too obvious. And the forest would need to be a great deal denser if it was to shield him from their bullets. That only left one slim chance. To go forwards. Hope steeled himself for it.

'Want to prove your tough?' he said. 'How about this?'

He ran forward and threw himself desperately off the cliff. No gun was fired. So, he had achieved the element of surprise. And it was only now free falling that he was able to see what was beneath him. The water was a thick brackish soup. Fortunately, if there were rocks milling just below the surface, he would not find out till later. In the meantime, he sucked in a deep breath of air, figuring he was going to need it and pinched his nose ready to keep the water out. He relaxed his limbs and looked up.

Feet-first he hit and the sky disappeared into filth. The water was icy cold and pitch black. Even with his nose tightly pinched, the stench somehow reached him. Hope had only once before experienced such waters, at a health spa in Tecate, and only from the neck down and the water was warmer and with a Latin beauty poised with a towel to take his mind off the grotesque sensations. It became not his life flashing before him, just an image of her - and, fortunately, the image did not include the way things turned out with her as he was in need of reasons to live. He hit the bottom of the lake at speed and kept travelling into what threatened to be an inescapable tomb of mud. He found himself stuck up to his chest in it. He realised he was going to need every bit of the air contained within his lungs to get out of this. But he could not rush, for the mud would punish his greed for air with a gorging appetite. No flamboyant movements would help. His only chance was to start gently wiggling his hips sideways, spread out the surface area of his arms on the mud's surface, take it slow. He had to ignore the burning already setting into his lungs. Remain patient. If he gave in to the temptation to hurry to be aggressive, this most repulsive of grips would snare him completely.

He closed his eyes so that he controlled the dark. And he focussed on the Latin beauty of Tecate. A long, lost memory from the long lost days of prohibition - a period somewhat hazy due to being drunk on whiskey most the way through it. But he took her dancing after the mud bath and he focussed on that. He led her back onto the dance floor now. He felt her beautiful, warm body against his. The dance was a waltz, not too fast, not too slow, just the way her eyes shone best. Get up closer. Hold her tight. She never tired of being held. Feel the music. The band playing alright. A smoky Saturday night in a crowded downtown club. The dance floor pulsating and aglow. Life on a barren street. Cheeks pressing together. Not too rough. Don't scratch her cheek with stubble. Swoon with her. Let her relax and melt. Let her feel safe. Let her move as she wants. Keep swooning until she is free.

Then it came. He was out of the mud. His last act with his Latin lover was to push away from the muddy floor, to work out which way was up. And heading that way her name finally came to him: Camella. Why had it taken so long to remember? Alas, now it was time to clear his mind of her; but he counted himself lucky that in life's worst possible predicaments his past lovers were there for him - lovers of a calibre for such dire straits.

He kicked and swam and broke through surface of the quarry lake with an almighty heave for breath. But he did not stop. He paddled for the shelter of the cliff wall, wondering how long he had been submerged and whether or not the two Young brothers were peering down the cliff face in search of him. Taking further breaths while he paddled was his opportunity to seek them out. He would not allocate an instant longer than that. One thing he was certain of was that they had not followed him into the lake; thus, any shot they might take would come from the cliff tops. They might miss. He had to take that chance, for they had Hawkshaw at close range. There would be no missing with her. Alison Monet's fate illustrated all too clearly, what the Young's did with easy targets.

Still, no shot came.

Hope turned his attention to determining the fastest route out of the quarry. To a life that had been lived as murkily as the waters of the Thomson quarry lake, the newfound clarity of purpose was exhilarating. He chose his path, hauled himself out of water and started to climb.

*

There were horses, cows, sheep and goats grazing in the outer paddocks and rows of carrots and turnips within the fences closer to the farmhouse. The fences were straighter and in a better state of repair than the farmhouse itself, which had probably not seen its last lick of paint back in the recent century (Hope had started to become more aware of such things). Where the grey paint had flaked away, the splintering timber siding was now having its run-in with the elements. The subsidence of the house's foundations were in evidence in the arthritically crooked angles of the walls, seemingly leaning over the hill it was built upon for a better look.

Hope did not suppose he was standing too straight himself. He rapped his knuckles firmly on the front door. This was the first house he had come to.

Waiting on the porch for action was akin to being stuck in the quarry mud. The man who opened the door was even less enthused.

'What do you want?' he barked and glanced past Hope to see if he was alone. He was a man of very little hair till the chin where it was thick, scraggly and reddish brown. His eyes carried a scornful look and his navel was also gaping at him from a shirt that had been stretched out of its last button or two. Not liking what he saw, he gave Hope a closer examination from head to foot and shook his head disparagingly. 'You look like a debt collector to me. You'll get a debt plus interest on this doorstep.'

'Oh, well,' sighed Hope as he took a step back. 'I wouldn't want that.'

Just as the door was about to close, he turned and charged, pounding his shoulder into it. The impact was enough to send the man back a step. Hope entered the house, writhing with pain, for he had inadvertently employed the shoulder with the crossbow bolt still embedded. He took his displeasure out on the man, punching him furiously, only getting his humour back when he started landing some respectable punches with his wounded arm, he was starting to get his strength back. Still, it was with his good arm that he finally took the big man down. The man was not unconscious, but he was swimming about his own murky pond, trying despairingly to focus on the surface. Hope finished him off with a tap to the back of the head. No point feeling bad about it. An enemy only liked you when you hated yourself.

It was a modest home he entered. The kitchen, living room and bedroom all simply depended on which direction a step was taken. In the living room there was a petite woman nursing her back in a rocking chair. She was working at some knitting on her lap with little clicks of metal. She had striking blonde hair on which a cream bonnet sat. She was also wearing a heavy woolen shawl over a light summer dress; her relationship with the man Hope assumed was her husband seemed even more incongruous. She was as young, pretty and sweet as he was not.

'Sorry to bother you,' said Hope, shaking off the sting from the knuckles. 'I was wondering if I might use your telephone. It's something of an emergency. I'll be calling the police. If you would like to protest the treatment dished out to your husband, you can have the phone after me.'

The woman got out of the rocking chair and lay the knitting down after her - it seemed to fall apart off the needle.

Silently, she led Hope that way. The bedroom had a musty smell and thistles and straw had spilled from the primitive mattress onto the floor. A pile of clothes were neatly folded on a chair whose joints were sprung. The telephone was sharing the dressing table with a hair brush and cosmetics box. Hope snatched it off its cradle.

'Operator, get me the police,' he said.

He was concentrating on the clicking of the operator's work and so was taken aback when the wife emerged right beside him; she swallowed a lump and patted his wounded arm as though it were a moping puppy. Hope shook her off firmly. Yes, the strength was coming back.

'Sergeant O'Reilly.' The voice had all the warmth of a do not disturb sign.

'This is an emergency,' yelled Hope back at him. 'A young woman has been abducted. The Young brothers are the offenders and I am the witness. Their actions upon her will most certainly be of the most heinous criminal nature. They must be stopped now.'

'What is your name, sir?' said the police officer.

'That is of no importance by my reckoning.'

A crackle of static followed. 'What is the name of the alleged victim?'

'Ask her yourself when you rescue her. The only names you need for that are the Youngs. I know you've got them on file. Find them and you'll have her. If you won't do it for her sake, do it for the Youngs'. Because I'm going after them too.'

'There'll be no taking the law into your own hands, mister.'

'I won't be doing that. It'll be a Tommy gun and a shotgun. And there won't be any law at all.' He slammed down the phone. He returned his attention to the room he was in and found that the wife had only been shaken back an inch or two. She was looking on with a peculiarly intrigued expression. Hope went to walk around her only for her to step that way.

'If it's an emergency, you can take our car,' she said hurriedly. 'You came here on foot, didn't you? The car will save time. It runs well. It really does.' She swallowed hard again. 'I can drive if you'd like. Take you home. I'm pretty good with bandages.' She was back patting his arm. 'You need care.' The rest of the message was being implied by her large, sensuous eyes.

Hope smirked and shook his head. 'Sure, that kind of help would be really nice.' He gently lifted her head off him, noticing the old fading bruises upon her upper arm. 'But I get the feeling you should be using the car for yourself. Get away from here before your husband wakes up. Pack a bag and don't come back.' He brushed past her and stopped again. 'Don't take long about it 'cause unfortunately I didn't hit him hard enough.' He stepped over the unconscious man on his way out.

*

The cold candles were in rows on the sink where they had burned in a happier moment. Clothes, both his and hers, intermingled on the floor. An empty wine bottle occupied the soap ledge. One unused towel hung from its brass hook. Nothing had changed since Hope and Hawkshaw had shared a bath together the night before, except the water was now ice cold.

The first thing Hope did upon reaching the Hawkshaw bathtub was to plunge into it. He had been sprinting hard and was sweating profusely. Far worse was the grime and stench from the quarry that had engrained itself on his skin. Sinking low into the bath left the water only marginally lighter in colour than the quarry lake. The crossbow wound stung madly. It was as though the water was mostly salt.

He tore his clothes off, blindly flinging them away until he was naked. He grabbed the bottle of vodka he had brought with him into the bath and downed a bitter mouthful. Then he shared it with his wounded arm. The pain caused his legs to cramp. He drank some more.

He gritted his teeth and let anger be his anesthetic. He began to work the crossbow bolt out of his arm. He bit his lip to focus himself through the pain. The bolt finally came away and blood oozed from the jagged wound, turning the bath water pink - he poured the rest of the bottle onto it.

No time for stitches. He got out the bath, toweled himself down and dressed the wound as best he could; blood was seeping between his fingers all the while. He applied the gauze as tightly as he could manage and practiced some quick draws from an imaginary holster; once vaguely satisfied, he headed to his room and the black cargo bag for the real thing. Putting on anything other than the bandages and the gun holster was a mere afterthought.

29. _'I think they were going to get strange.'_

The Youngs' dog was a five year old American Pit-bull named Pedro. It had lived an eventful life. Les Young bought it off a belly dancer in a traveling circus who had found it abandoned somewhere through Memphis. The Youngs' previous family pet had not recovered from being thrown out the car during a drunken night on the town. No one could quite remember who had done the throwing or why, but the only way they liked to play was rough: it was not unusual for the day after a bender to come minus a tooth or a chunk of flesh, so why not minus a dog?

This was the home life Pedro was adopted into and it had accounted for an odd assortment of scars: the deepest were the bullet wound from a deer hunting accident and a knife wound that had been punishment for an overly zealous bark. Other scars had arisen from not barking loud enough: the Youngs did not like strangers. If Pedro was chained to the house when a stranger ventured onto the property, it was to bark and raise hell; if it was off the chain, it was to chase and confront. Pedro had learned its role the hard way. It had its scars.

As this latest stranger marched through the front gate, Pedro was roaming free. Pedro's ears pricked, its eyes locked and without hesitation it charged. It was a mass of pent up energy, doubly irritable, for it had not been fed in two days. It remembered this stranger and the hard kick it had received in the ribs for not barking enough the last time he had come around. It would make amends now. It had tasted the flesh of humans before and had no qualms about tasting it again. Especially with its belly so painfully empty. Its only confusion was why the man it was set to attack was offering out a massive cut of beef steak that was its customary reward for its assault. Should it take the reward first? It stopped and barked furiously in its confusion. But it was so hungry it was salivating profusely. The stranger thrust the steak towards it and Pedro could resist no more. It bounded for it but just as its massive jaws were closing around it the steak exploded and Pedro's head disintegrated into gore. The steak was being hung from the barrel of a shotgun.

With the pit-bull out of his way, George Hope dispensed with the meat from the gun barrel. He was holding the shotgun one handed and had a Tommy gun in the other - the firearms were loosely aimed at the front door of the house; Hope waited for a reaction to his shooting the family pet. He had come dressed smartly in a charcoal grey flannelette suit and a brown fedora hat: the more the law was being broken, the more stylish the suit needed to be, for it would deflect police fire better than a bullet proof jacket, at least in the initial moments when being a well-dressed member of the community might still be equated with respectability.

Hope picked up Pedro by the legs and flung it at the house. Then he fired off a burst from the Tommy gun into the roof. The police were yet to arrive so this was what he was going to do in the meantime. Taking the law into his own hands was never going to be pretty. He noticed movement through the windows. Someone's silhouette. The person was moving freely so it certainly wasn't Hawkshaw. Hope stood on open ground and waited.

The front door swung open. Hope saw the shotgun first and then the man behind it. He discharged both his weapons into him before ducking across to the cover of a rusted out Buick to replay in his head what had just unfolded. It had been a young man, somewhat halfhearted in his actions; Hope gritted his teeth as he realised it was Joel, the inquisitive brother - the only reason he would have been sent out alone in this situation was if his brothers were too preoccupied to join him.

Hope reloaded and forced himself to bide his time. The remaining brothers would make time for him now. Riled up they would be more reckless and a much easier proposition; Hope had few regrets about the way he had done it either, for the Young brothers were never so calm as when they were raping or murdering.

'Joel!' came a cry from within the house. 'Joel's been hit!'

Hope's expression of commiseration was another blistering flurry of gunfire. This time it was returned: he ducked low as rifle fire cracked into the Buick. Unaccompanied by further cries, he had no idea if his second sojourn had been successful. Machine gunfire emerged from the same window, spattering the Buick, the hot lead angrily deflecting away about as fast as Hope would need to run if he were to break his cover. But not yet. He hung his Tommy gun out and released another burst. He sat back then and braced for the reply. Machine guns, rifles and handguns were all awake now and bellowing from the house. The breadth of the arsenal gave the impression the Youngs were confused about what sort of mechanics they were supposed to be.

Hope put down his Tommy gun and readied for a dash to the side. It would be risky but gunfights always were and he needed to get to the house before a stalemate set in.

As the gunfire eased off, however, there were other sounds that caught his attention and got his head turning quickly: car motors and squeaking breaks at the entrance to the property. Hope swore under his breath. No ordinary cars at that. Three squad cars in a line. So, the police had decided to attend, after all. Probably they had been unwilling to face the Youngs with anything less than three cars. And the occupants would be heavily armed - some of the hands upon the weapons would be clammy, some bone dry. A little earlier and the guns may have come in handy to Hope's cause. Now the only purpose Hope could afford the police was to clean up the mess.

He regathered the Tommy gun. There was no time for a peripheral approach now. It could only be a direct assault. If lucky the arrival of the law would create a moment's pause in further shooting. Or not. With one or two bullet riddled brothers on his account, he needed to keep his head down.

He spun out from behind the shot up Buick and bolted for the house. As it turned out, the police presence was no impediment in the slightest to the surviving Youngs, their machine gun fire tilling the earth around him in furious crisscrossing strips.

Hope discarded his own Tommy gun again in favour of desperately needed agility. He held onto his shotgun, however, and used it to shoot out a window to the right: not because there was gunfire coming from that direction but rather because there was not: it qualified it as an entry point. Still, there were plenty of glass shards remaining in the pane on which to impale himself, and even before that there were bullets flying through the air to pierce him and car parts littering the ground to twist an ankle on: odds, he supposed, were like the age of a lady in that there reached a point when it was no longer polite to bring them up. And unless the police cars were developing a bad bout of backfiring, the cops must have been involving themselves in the gunfight too. With the Young brothers spraying the world with bullets, it was inevitable they would start to feel victimised.

Hope held his course for the jagged window, amused by how relaxed he was feeling. The forty pound howitzer shells that had ripped to shreds the battlefields of France had left him this way: where other veterans were twitching messes he was dead steady. The exploding shells had come close enough but not too close. They had become his heartbeat. And the blood they pumped was as icy as trench mud. It was better than being a twitching mess. But he needed to keep that heart beating.

He reached the house and leapt through the shotgun hole in the window. He slipped between the jagged teeth of glass and crashed awkwardly against a chair and a wall and as he righted himself there was a revolver thrust into his face that fired just as he knocked it away. The sound threatened to crack his eardrums - eardrums ringing furiously till his shotgun drowned them out. The blast hit someone away in the doorway. The scream confirmed it. Hope did not care who. He was shooting shapes, not people. He swung his shotgun across as he felt an approaching movement and whisper of death. Metal clanged against metal, the barrel of the shotgun blocking a fiendishly serrated dagger from in front of his neck.

Hope looked up into the furious gaze of Les Young and smirked. They were locked in a stalemate, for both men were subduing the weapons of the other. It proved the other three brothers were either dead or incapacitated, for Hope would have been at their mercy. So there was only Les Young left. And here was his grief, directed upon the revolver and the dagger; he was rising onto the tips of his toes for extra leverage, leaning into the weapons with all his might.

'I swear I'm going to kill you,' he spat, 'if it's the last thing I do.'

Hope turned his smirk cruel. 'Swearing to kill me _will_ be the last thing you do.' He fired the shotgun out the window, the angle available to him spitting the shot harmlessly skyward, but the return fire from the police was low and intense and Les Young was exposed to it. Bullets ripped through his shoulders and neck, spinning him to the wall where he slumped down and out of life, leaving behind streaks and splotches of blood on the faded wallpaper.

The revolver and dagger remained behind on the floor. Hope grabbed the revolver and emptied it out through the window. Then tossed it away. The dagger he took with him. He ran low to the Tommy gun lying on the top of Art Young's bloodied body. Rex Young's body was nearby and the room stunk like they had been lying there a month and that it would take a lot more holes in doors and windows to air it out. With cops edging out from behind their blockading cars, now seemed as good a time as any: Hope leapt up to the doorside window and sprayed the police cars with fire. The police threw themselves for cover with the kind of purpose and zest that the professionals seemed to be better at than the amateurs. Perhaps it was because there was nothing criminals could hide behind that they could keep.

Ammunition exhausted, Hope let the Tommy gun drop back to where he had found it. The dagger was still in hand; he headed down the narrow passageway, leaving the retaliatory fire to shower the Youngs in splinters of glass and wood. He passed a bathroom that fielded mould the way the paddocks did its crops. The room was so filthy it was incomprehensible someone would step into it with a view to becoming clean. But that's not what they had done in this case anyway. The rumpled clothes on the floor were Hawkshaw's. Hope stopped to confirm it, keeping low, for the police fire was penetrating deep into the house - nothing of substance to impede the bullets.

Hope continued down the hallway and its threadbare rugs. The next room along was a bedroom. Beside the unkempt bed there was the back of a woman bound to a wooden, vinyl padded chair. Hope's immediate reaction was one of disappointment as this was a dark blonde, something Hawkshaw was not. And this woman was wearing an unfamiliar red and white check dress and caramel coloured clogs. Suddenly, however, her head turned wildly to look his way and there was mutual recognition, her eyes lighting up with surprise and relief. This was what he had brought the dagger for. He hurried to her and sliced away the ropes. Hawkshaw slumped exhaustedly into his arms. He put down the dagger and as gently as possible worked loose the knot of her tightly bound gag. Her chest heaved against him as she luxuriously sucked in air.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Where are the brothers?'

'All over the floor.' Hope rubbed her back. 'What's with the get up?'

Hawkshaw's voice was distant, withdrawn. 'They made me put it on. After they had forced me to take a bath. While they watched and drooled. Perverts.'

'Did they say what they were going to do?'

'They started calling me mom and shouting that I was a bitch and deserved to be punished. I don't think they like their mother very much.' She shuddered. 'I think they were going to get strange.'

She went to take off the wig, but Hope stopped her.

'Better leave it on,' he said. 'With four dead bodies on the floor and your past history with that kind of thing, I wouldn't be trying to offer the cops afternoon tea.' He pulled a pistol out from his belt and closed her fingers around the handle. 'But cutting rope is all a knife is good for at a moment like this.' He squeezed the hand reassuringly. 'We've got time for a quick practice.'

He gave her wrist a nudge and she did the rest, pointing the pistol straight outwards.

'You want me to fire it?'

'Only if there's something you want to damage.'

She held him aside and emptied the magazine feverishly into the walls and ceiling, blowing out windows and shattering the ceiling light with a spray of glass.

'That's the way,' said Hope, taking her wrist again and easing free the pistol. He quickly reloaded it. He took off his fedora hat and shook free the fragments of glass that had collected on the brim. He put it back on and held the pistol out for Hawkshaw to take.

'If that felt good,' he said, 'and you think you can run in momma's dress, then let's go outside and do it for real.'

Hawkshaw took the pistol without hesitation.

Hope nodded. 'Back door.'

*

Whatever gifts had died with the Young brothers, a penchant for gardening was not one of them. With its thriving contortions of brambles, vines and imposing cedars and beeches, it was impossible for the uninitiated to know where their backyard ended and the woods of Sacksville began– like the brothers themselves, the backyard was choked in a wilderness that was primitive without being natural.

Hope hurried into it, grateful for the cover it was providing and glanced back to ensure that Hawkshaw was coming too; if they could get away unseen, the cops just might convince themselves that it was their bullets that had ripped through the Youngs and that there was no third party that needed pursuing. It was possible. Why would the cops not want to take credit for putting holes in the Youngs? But Hope continued to pick up speed even after the house was lost from view: for the Youngs to have lasted this long, it might have meant more than a town without a moral compass, there might have been a blood relative in high places. The time to stop running would be far from here.

Hope protected his face with his elbows as he ploughed through a nest of low hanging branches; he glanced back again for Hawkshaw only to find she was almost passing him. The armpits of momma's dress were darkened with patches of perspiration. Hawkshaw was running fearlessly in her bare feet, taking scratches on her arms as she too shielded herself.

The trees and bushes became more organised and evenly spaced which perhaps marked the end of the Youngs' domain. The ground fell away into a sharply sloping gully. Hope and Hawkshaw dug in their heals as they skidded down on loose soil. It was a good fifty feet journey and there was a fast flowing stream at the bottom. Swarms of inquisitive mosquitoes were stirred up.

Hawkshaw was not slowing as she approached the stream. She knew to hold her pistol up to keep it dry and she was not stopping to test the water temperature with a tentative toe. Hope had seen banks robbed bare with a whole lot less composure. He, however, did need to pause at the stream, for there was an assortment of weapons that had to be gathered out of his pockets and hoisted into the air. Now it was Hawkshaw looking back, wading through the tannish water up to her chest.

'Are you surrendering?' she called out.

'Very funny,' replied Hope as he started in.

'You have three guns. And there's the one you gave me.'

'That's right.'

'Where on earth did you get them all?'

'I finally decided to unpack.'

'I knew it.' Hawkshaw reached the other side of the bank. Her first few attempts at extraction were foiled by the slippery mud. She wrapped her wrists in the dense undergrowth and this time successfully hauled herself from the water. Hope, in the meantime, had caught up and was preparing to assist her with a nudge; he adjusted quickly to getting himself out in turn. Hawkshaw positioned herself to assist him, taking him by the arm.

'Knew what?' Hope queried as he wriggled up the bank.

'The day you first knocked on my door I knew there was something odd about you. Not that I equated it to a bag full of guns.'

'Disappointed?'

Hawkshaw shook her head. 'In these parts a gun is about as common to a farm as a hoe or rake. I would probably just have assumed you came from a very big farm.'

Hope stood up, taking her with him and kissed her on the lips. 'Let's keep moving.'

The hand on his arm, however, held him back a moment longer. 'The police here never stood up to the Youngs like you did,' Hawkshaw said. 'No matter what happens now, I know what you saved me from would have been worse.'

The words were all too prophetic, for just as they started to run again there came a retort of rifle. Away to the right. The shot zipped away off a tree trunk, close enough that it could not be confused with a farmer trying to ward off pesky crows. Hope and Hawkshaw sprinted away from it through a thickly grassed glade and bullets continued to tear into trees around them. It was the one rifle. And it wasn't giving up.

'What's at the end of this?' Hope called out.

Hawkshaw had run hard, but her breath was starting to give out. 'A road, then fields.'

It was marked by another bullet ripping through the trees. Still close.

'Change of plan,' said Hope, taking her by the arm and leading her down into some bushes.

'Was there a plan?' murmured Hawkshaw. She put her hand up to the bright red berries on a branch. 'Poisonous but not nearly poisonous enough. You want to rest here?'

Hope gazed through the bushes for any movement within the glade. 'There's only one shooter. If we split up, he'll have to make a choice. And I'll be offended if he doesn't choose me.'

'Split up? Hawkshaw was bewildered. 'What should I do?'

'Go home.' Hope glanced her way without making eye contact. 'Keep going in this direction. Don't show yourself to anyone. Especially if there's someone on the road. Even if it means lying in the grass the rest of the day. It's important.'

'What about you?'

'I'll be a diversion. A loud one. Looking for you is going to be like trying to read the paper during the Fourth of July fireworks.'

Hope started to move, only for Hawkshaw to restrain him by the belt and she said, 'You didn't say anything about going to the house yourself, did you? If you're not coming back then I'm coming with you. And don't feed me a line about you not being relationship material. This will do fine.'

Hope betrayed a glimpse of concern. 'I'm getting a nasty feeling I'm already dead.'

Hawkshaw frowned. 'What are you talking about?'

'The shooter has been missing us by twenty yards with every shot. If he's accurate enough to do that there is no reason he couldn't put a round right into the centre of my back.'

'Then why doesn't he?'

'I get the feeling he's trying to corral us like we're a couple of stray cattle.' Hope returned to glancing out into the glade. Still not even a hint of movement within. 'Don't ask me why he would want to do that.'

'I'm wondering if you've lost your mind. How do you even know how much he is missing us by?'

'I've got a honed ear to that kind of thing.'

'You mean this isn't the first time bullets have been fired at you?'

'As you know, it's not even the first time today. And you've got to learn to listen to them or else there will come the bullet you don't hear at all.'

'So you read them like tealeaves? What are they telling you to do?'

'I'm going in the opposite direction to where the rifle is herding us. It's the only way to test my theory.'

'Which theory? The one about the bullet you don't hear?'

Hope smirked. 'My real name is George Hope, if you're interested.'

Hawkshaw's voice darkened. 'If I'm interested?'

'I know it's a sad state of affairs when it takes a moment as absurd as this to find out something true about a person.' Hope stopped her reply from the outset by clutching onto a shoulder. 'Go home and if you're still appalled don't ring the number I left under your phone.'

'What if I do dial it?' asked Hawkshaw bringing her mouth so close that Hope kissed it.

'Patrick is his name. Tell him it's time now to weigh anchor.'

'Then what?'

'That will start something.' Hope sighed. 'If you have a change of heart, don't give the cops that number. For their sake. The man at the other end of it exiled himself from New York because he was tearing it apart. I wouldn't want to be responsible for bringing New York to him.'

He kissed her again and her hand slipped away as he ran out low from the cover of bushes, somewhere approaching the direction of the rifle. The look on his face was not one of being the hunted. It haunted Hawkshaw. She remained still awhile longer, resisting the temptation to put the new found realisation of how fast she could run into practice - perhaps it was because she did not know whether to run with him or away from him. She did not know how she was feeling. There was surely excitement, but that might have been some peculiar survival instinct. Having never been shot at before, there was nothing to reference it against.

She peered through the bushes into the glade. It felt as though Hope had run off the face of the earth. But there would be traces of him still at her home. The guns would be gone, but there would be clothes and smells and there would be the number under the phone. Hawkshaw knew she would only see him again if she called that number, but she was less sure about whether or not she would actually do it. The only certainty was that there was no parent, no brother or sister, no friend who could give her advice on this. This was the kind of relationship she could not share. And she feared she would not be even able to share it with the man concerned.

And suddenly there was another retort of rifle, deeper into the woods, and with it came a sharp realisation of what it was she was feeling. It was neither the concern of Hope having gone off to confront the gunman, nor the confusion of what she in turn should do. It was the feeling of absolute relief of finally being able to understand why her marriage had failed so terribly, of what had been so desperately messy in all those long painful years. Hawkshaw found herself grinning like she had not done since she was a child - and she _did_ feel young again. For it was a giant weight off her shoulders, the realisation of how much easier it was to love a man who didn't drown in his fear.

30. _'Justice might kill off some of the bad ones but everyone else has got to die of something else.'_

Hope plunged his hands into the black cargo bag he was lying beside and pulled out a Browning rifle; he sprayed the direction of the last potshot. The dense, dark woods swallowed up the rounds with an easy appetite. There was a reaction, however, as the sniper's next bullet came much closer, spitting off a tree not far from Hope's head. To Hope's mind it was an improvement: if someone was to take a shot at him, let it be to kill.

He rummaged through the bag again to one of the half dozen Mills grenade lurking within. He pulled the pin and tossed it from a kneeling position, finding the gap between trees that could have sent the grenade bouncing right back at him. The explosion panicked the forest: birds fled their perches and rabbits took to their burrows.

Hope was up and running again, taking the bag with him. There was a road not far away from which he had dumped the cargo bag on his approach to the Youngs' residence and it would take him on to Sacksville. The town would not swallow his bullets nor conceal the sniper quite so easily as the woods and so stood as his best chance to break the death grip upon him. He threw out a second grenade as further encouragement for the sniper to keep his distance, which obligingly erupted in a loud fury.

Reaching the road with the effects of the explosion still reverberating through the trees, Hope found that he had caught the attention of a police patrol car. The car was outward bound from Sacksville just ahead of Hope's position and was crawling along, its uniformed occupants trying to make sense of this disturbance to what some would call Sackville's dependable tranquility while others would less charitably dismiss as malaise. Hope was quickly able to catch up with the patrol car and jumped into the backseat.

'A drive in the country?' said Hope through his bandana handkerchief, training his guns on the two officers in the front. 'Where is the picnic hamper? I'm famished.'

The driver, a giant of a man, sneered into the rearview mirror with a grim calmness. 'We're looking for a murderer.'

'But not looking to get murdered. So, we're going to turn this heap round and roll back to Sacksville. I'd prefer Chicago, but Sacksville will have to do.'

'Before you start barking instructions,' replied the officer, 'you'd better consider what's coming up on you.'

'If you're talking about the devil stalking me, I'm aware.'

'Boy, I'm talking about a whole truck load of them.'

Hope noted the wry smile in the mirror and glanced quickly out the back window over his shoulder. There was an oncoming military truck, less than a quarter of a mile away.

'The national guard has been mobilised,' informed the cop. 'Roadblocks are up. The whole county is locked down tight. You've been robbing banks and murdering innocent folks and now it's time to put down your weapons and face justice.'

Hope cocked his two pistols with his thumbs. 'Justice might kill off some of the bad ones but everyone else has got to die of something else. Start driving or you'll get your what right here.'

The thick-necked cop put his foot down on the accelerator only for gunfire to scream out from the woods, shooting out the tyres and front windscreen. So, the sniper could hit a target if he put his mind to it. Still, it was less than clear whose side he was on, and he certainly hadn't convinced the cops in the front it was theirs.

'We're hit!' cried the driver as he struggled to maintain control with the car riding on its rim and the windscreen cracked and holed. With anther bullet smacking into the bonnet in an apparent attempt to demobilise the engine, he had reached his limit. He veered off the road, hitting the brakes, though finding more stopping power with the tree he bounced off.

'Get out!' He cried and tumbled out the door onto the dusty road on his hands and knees and scrambled for the cover of trees. The front passenger was heading in the same direction, albeit in a more cumbersome fashion, hampered by a pronounced limp.

Hope squeezed his way between seats to the steering wheel and peddles. He reversed and heaved the patrol car round to be Sacksville bound. There was still speed to be had from the engine, though the steering wheel was shuddering so violently it was threatening to break his wrists.

The military vehicle tried unsuccessfully to cut him off, only succeeding in smashing out its tail lights in the midst of a bump that heightened the patrol car's contortions. Hope's burst of profanities was drowned out by the sniper, who turned his attention to the truck, again taking out tyres and windscreen in a barrage of precise shooting.

Hope watched in his rearview mirror a scene of soldiers pouring out of the truck, returning fire haphazardly into the woods as they scattered for cover. Their sheer numbers would give the sniper something to think about. And as the scene began to fade into the distance, Hope crossed his fingers that it would give him time. The shot out patrol car would not go far. Sacksville would have to do.

*

Hope cajoled the sputtering overheating patrol car back to the Sacksville police station, right up to the front entrance. There was an ominous black coupe parked in the driveway: perhaps, unlike on his previous visit here, there were real FBI agents present.

He tightened his black handkerchief over his nose and mouth and strode up the steps, Browning rifle in hand, sure that with the racket of wheel rims on bitumen, his arrival could not have gone unnoticed. He kicked the door open and side stepped in expectation of gunfire. Its absence encouraged him further in; he found that the only place for him to point his rifle was at an ashen-faced young man occupying the police station's cluttered desk. The young man, dressed neatly in a brown jacket and a white shirt, had his hands buried under reams of paper, and these began to shake as his eyes widened upon Hope like the suckers of the octopus tendril about to take hold.

'Who are you?' Hope murmured.

The young man nervously muttered something inaudible to which Hope responded, 'You'd better speak up, 'cause if you force me to take off the handkerchief blocking my ears, it will be the last face you ever see.'

'I'm manning the phones,' answered the young man in a loud but quivering voice.

'Is that so? Because everyone else is out?'

'Out looking for you.'

'So who are you, son?'

'Sergeant Rineheart's nephew.'

'You got a name?'

'Jonathan.'

'Are you even a cop?'

The young man shook his head.

Hope smirked. 'They've got so many cops out there looking for me that they have to sequester some brother's kid to look after their HQ. I don't think they would make very good generals. And speaking of the army, they are out there keeping your uncle company, right?'

The return voice was starting to sound like it was in the throes of puberty: 'The police, the FBI, the army, everyone is out looking for you.'

'Fortunately, there's no sea in Sacksville, so I don't have the Navy to worry about. But I must be accused of something.'

'They say you're wanted for bank robberies in fifteen states. And they don't even know your name. Now they've got you penned in, they're not going to let you out.' The young man swallowed painfully. 'They also say you've just murdered four men. The Young Brothers.'

'And why do they think I did that?'

'You were taking refuge in their house. Things went wrong.'

'Things went right,' snapped Hope. He threw him back in his chair and lazily pointed his gun towards his chest. 'Don't think I've come here to give myself up. I want to know who's in charge here. And don't go talking up your uncle. Not if you want him to live. I'm talking about the out-of-towners. Who said what happened at the Youngs' residence? Who's been calling the shots?'

'A cop,' said the young man. 'A big cop out of New York. Even the army general is wary of him. He has a team with him who aren't any nicer. He wants you bad. He said you were dangerous and evil and should be shot on sight.'

'On sight? Does he know what I look like?'

The young man pointed nervously at his masked face. 'Just that you wear a black handkerchief.'

'Well, I'd like to know more than that about what he looks like.' Hope stepped back and lowered the gun. 'Start with a name.'

'I don't know, I only saw him once,' quivered the sergeant's nephew. 'And that was more than enough. He seemed the type you wouldn't want to get too close to.'

The phone started to ring and the young man leapt out of the chair with the shock of it.

Hope caught him by the chest and pushed him back that way. 'It's your job, remember. Pick it up.'

The young man used both hands to get the phone receiver off the hook and to his ear. 'Sacksville Police Station,' he said to initiate the dialogue and that was all as he listened intently and nodded; finally he handed out the receiver for Hope. 'It's him. He wants to talk to you.'

Hope grinned. 'Really? Well, how about this?' He turned his rifle on the telephone and shot it to pieces. The young man dived to floor. Hope wondered if he had fainted. The young man, however, glanced up with tears in his eyes and said, 'But they're waiting for you outside.'

'And I'd take you along as a human shield, only you're so thin and gaunt the bullets would probably slip right passed you.'

He ran for the front door with a pang of excitement, wanting to keep his feet in time with his pounding heart; he flung himself outside, spinning over the front steps, crashing against the fender of the shot out patrol car and gunfire erupted from behind, showering him in windscreen shards and the stuffing from the seats. With his back against it, he began to roll out onto the street. Thighs and hips screamed with the torturous exertion. Hope was nonetheless able to keep the cargo bag in one hand while he discharged the Browning Rifle over the bonnet with the other. Keep moving. Keep moving. The police station had become a death trap and this was his only chance of breaking loose.

Bullets continued to fly in wild abandon. The rifle spent, Hope tossed it aside, replaced it with a Colt .41 out of his belt and emptied it into the surrounding houses without any more refined a target; then he dug out two more Mills bombs from the cargo bag and pulled both pins with his teeth through the handkerchief, one after the other.

He continued to push back the patrol car, holding his nerve till the last possible instant and then tossed the grenades under the gas tank. He dived away at the exact instant the car exploded in a ball of gasoline scented flame. Shrapnel hummed and whistled through the air. Hope picked himself up and ran low across the remainder of the street, heading between the houses from which at least some of the shooting had originated. The gunfire that emerged after the explosion, however, was more sporadic and uncertain. Hope had broken through the gauntlet.

*

Hope ran into a Monterey style house attracted by its red brick and the kind of hardness that bullets did not easily penetrate. The door was open and there was no one immediately within. Hope ran up the stairs without looking any further to introduce himself. He burst into a second floor bedroom. It was empty and immaculately clean with two small beds against opposite walls the main features. Hope scooped up a chair on which some ratty teddy bears had been carefully arranged and tossed it hard through the gabled window. He jumped out onto the sloping roof and as he slid down the slippery tiles he used the height to scan the terrain ahead. There was farmland and woods. And no sign of the men with guns. Hope reached the siding and let himself go airborne. It was only then he turned his attention to what was directly below him. At least this time there was no rancid quarry. Rather, there was a cabbage patch with a scarecrow that appeared about Hope's size. Hope landed nimbly in the forward roll of a paratrooper and promptly set about swapping clothes. The scarecrow was wearing a buttonless brown flannel jacket with split seams at the shoulders and certainly came off better from the exchange as Hope draped his black silk jacket over the sticks it passed for shoulders.

Hope was quick to set off again, aware that he was just as likely to be shot at by an irate home owner defending his scarecrow as he was the army's finest or the big cop out of New York - when Hope got the chance, he really would need to nail down who that was: he would enjoy working the name into a conversation with Errol Jones at the Underhill Cigar Club - he would pass a comment or a judgement and blow some smoke into the air.

For now, however, he was content to tear into the forest in this strange new sport, which consisted of running so hard he could not be followed. Clawing under houses, leaping off their roofs, running across roads without regard for the traffic and now bounding over boulders and into gullies he wanted to think he was reaching an Olympic standard of evasion - losing that sniper was bound to be worth a medal. His pursuers had wanted him alive and then they had wanted him dead and still they had neither. Hope's wounded shoulder was starting to throb again, the adrenaline starting to wear off.

Hope came across a fallen, rotten cedar tree and stuffed the cargo bag into it. He considered taking the black handkerchief with him, but decided against it, stuffing it in underneath the bag: there needed to be nothing linking him to what had taken place. He discarded the scarecrow jacket as well. Then there was merely a man taking a brisk stroll in the woods, just as he had been doing a lifetime ago with Hawkshaw.

Had she made it back home? It was time for Hope to do some chasing of his own.

*

It was a grim scene that confronted Hope. Hawkshaw's house had been savagely ransacked. It was as though a tornado had entered through the front door and departed out the back - and had brought with it a door jimmy.

Hope could see the devastation plainly enough from the porch but no clues as to whether this was the kind of tornado that carried a badge or perhaps was kin of the Young brothers. Better to have a gun in hand before attempting to investigate that particular question any the more deeply. Hope had held back one gun in reserve: an M191 that he had buried in a biscuit tin beside a large tulip tree in a back corner of the garden. He sprung over the porch railing, landing clumsily in a bed of Azaleas and dug up the gun like he were pulling weeds. He chastened himself against being too quick on the trigger. Although he didn't know too many cops with the energy to tear apart a house the way this one had, there was still always a possibility, and unless they had a gun to Hawkshaw's head he didn't want to start taking shots at them. With nothing concrete to tie him to bank robberies or shoot outs, there was a chance of talking his way out of trouble. Not that the perpetrators of this mess seemed in any particular mood for a chat.

Hope edged cautiously into the house. He found that nothing was as it had been. Chairs and tables were upturned, cupboards stripped of their shelves and all the contents dumped unceremoniously on the floors. Hope's room had received particular attention. More demolished than ransacked, the bed was now just pieces of timber and his suitcase was in strips smaller than what it had been packing. And it seemed what they had been looking for had started off being big and gotten smaller and smaller until it was something like a pin - Hope supposed life had a knack of being like that. He checked every room until satisfied there was no one left in the house and then he turned his attention to any traces of blood, anything to indicate a struggle with something other than the furniture. A careful sweep of each room revealed nothing. So, there was a chance the raiders had not gotten Hawkshaw. Hope lifted the phone to find the number he had directed her to still under it. The scrap of paper had shifted slightly from where he had left it - the number may have been called or a draft might have got to it. He tried to place a call to it himself and let it ring while he considered what to do next. Hawkshaw might have made it away or she might have been taken. Did Hope regret giving her his real name? It made walking away less easy. But he had decided when he had told her that this time he would not be walking away.

He salvaged some clean clothes from the floor and changed into them stiff and sore. His shoulder wound ached most, though was wrapped too tightly to still be bleeding. He set about clearing the dining table: somewhere to sit and wait on the off-chance Hawkshaw might return. There was a clock ticking somewhere in amongst the wreckage on the floor: it was the sound of time passing and it was slow and mournful. Hope sought it out with his boot heel and stomped through the face. It was only then he took his seat.

31 _. 'There is no herding a wolf.'_

Hawkshaw's bed had escaped the onslaught that decimated Hope's own mattress; Hope slept there. He longed all the while for her to be there, to slip in between the sheets beside him, smelling fresh from a bath and silky smooth in a sheer night dress. There were moments in the darkness he was sure her breath was against his cheek. Each time he reached out for her, however, he found himself alone still within the hollow shell of Hawkshaw's home. The dawn came along like quick drying cement to confirm the fact.

He had slept restlessly: the revolver that had started under his pillow was now wrapped in sheets around his ankles. He unwound himself and climbed onto his feet; he dressed in a loosely tailored black suit and assembled in its pockets his revolver, ammunition and money. He would breakfast at one of the diners in town and see what he could learn. People were always more generous with their confidences early in the morning, the pervading opinion seemingly being that gangsters were not out of bed earlier than midday. And in a small town like Sacksville tongues would likely be clucking. If Hawkshaw had been arrested by the police, her fellow locals would be talking about it. And if her name was not being mentioned, that would also be significant. Then it would be time to question the town's resident gangsters: they might be the type that slept late, but they would be seeing a respectable hour this morning.

Hope splashed water onto his face to freshen himself up and only gave up when he had lost the sensation for it. He left the house with large strides, embarking on the walk into town with a nervous excitement that reminded him of his march toward the ring to face Hammer Coller; the feeling was much sharper now, however, for this fight was more real - and the more real a fight, the less rules there were. The stiffness in his muscles from the day before was not going away, but today felt like a day he would either win or lose. He made good time out onto the road to town. He wanted to hurry the journey along by catching a ride and turned sharply with the first car that came his way. It was a Ford sedan tearing along the road, seemingly edging his way. And he had not even made a gesture. Instead, in fact, he put his hand in his pocket with the M1911 pistol and waited. The car stopped with a squeal of brakes and a spray of dust. The driver leaned out the window. 'You'd better get in, George.'

Hope's eyes widened. It was Detective Warren Longworry. The detective was wearing his customary black suit and was gripping the steering wheel in tan leather driving gloves. The rings around his eyes suggested he had not slept in a while. He had not been shaving either. The eyes themselves, however, were wildly alive. A man with an agenda. A man to be reckoned with.

Hope walked around to the passenger side.

Longworry snarled as he got it. 'Where were you going?'

'Breakfast.'

'Breakfast?' Longworry stamped on the accelerator like he was squashing a bug. The car responded with speed. What soon came to interest Hope most was how well Longworry seemed to know the roads: he was leaning into bends before they had even presented themselves. And the roads he turned into only ever got narrower.

'Were you looking for me?' Hope finally murmured.

'Would I be in tick and flea county for anything else?' Longworry added on an afterthought, 'Perhaps, you're more concerned with who we've found rather than who we're looking for. You must be pretty sweet on that girl to have charged in on the Young brothers like that.' He glared Hope's way. 'One of the brothers managed to live long enough without his stomach to tell us a few things. He didn't have a name but he gave a description.' He glanced out of the road and was back with Hope. 'He was accurate enough that you would not want to go walking out there.' He scrunched up his face disdainfully. 'When a mug like that is dying, he thinks the whole world becomes his priest, ready to absolve him. The fact is I would have shot him myself if the hole in him hadn't been so big the bullet would have just passed straight through.'

Hope glared suspiciously. 'Are you saying you were in town before he had even described me?'

'I might be saying that,' replied Longworry, chewing the words with his back molars. 'Just wait till I make this turn.'

He made the turn in an eruption of dust and pulled into a gate-less driveway just beyond the corner. The driveway was long and all but lost to the overgrown weeds. It didn't matter to Longworry, who only had eyes for the barn at the end of it. He tooted the horn in a flurry. The barn door swung open as though it were on fresh oil. The rest of the Buster and the Treatment stepped out brandishing shotguns. They were pointing them at Hope in his passenger seat and Longworry drove close so that they were all but poking him in the eyes.

'I've been looking for you longer than you might think,' said Longworry. 'And this is my lucky day.'

'Are you sure?' said Hope intensely. 'Pointing guns at me has never been lucky in the past.'

His door was opened for him and he was manhandled out and into the barn. No one was using his name now. He had become just another mug who would find out the hard way how the Buster and the Treatment had earned their name.

He was stripped of his jacket and gun and forced into an old wooden chair; the five cops were out with their handcuffs and were pushing at each other to get at Hope's limbs. By the time they were done, Hope was held fast.

'No volts in this chair,' snapped Stevens as he stepped back. 'That day is still coming.'

The barn was dark, decrepit and musty. Most the light seemed to be coming up from the gaps in the floorboards, which were invitingly wide enough for the chair to be burrowing into them in its own attempted escape.

Their hands having emptied of shotguns and handcuffs, the Buster and the Treatment stood over Hope. Their gazes were disdainful.

'This joint hasn't been used since the bootlegging days,' said Longworry levelly. 'A couple of Germans, thought back then whiskey was a refined way of saying poison. They made a fine drop too. Compared with a lot of the motor oils being labelled as whiskey at any rate. They didn't last very long all the same. The danger is not in making something but in trying to sell it. Keep that in mind when you start on with stories about being a gentleman and not a bandit. Anyway, it won't stop the boys beating you up. They've been waiting too long for the opportunity. If you find yourself tiring of the taste of your own teeth, you might try telling them where you've stashed your criminal earnings. The boys are only human, after all.'

Longworry stepped away and signaled to his men and the beating upon Hope began. The fists struck in cool, precise, bone-crunchingly powerful blows. Hope kept himself calm and his body supple. In torture it was monks not soldiers that best served as inspiration. Not that what was being dished out was so bad. It was hurting him and it might even be hurting the hands of the cops laying into him, but Hope got the feeling they were being relatively gentle. Tenderising him and nothing more. And when Longworry whistled for pause, the strikers were not exactly having to pull each other away. Nonetheless, Hope's face was left throbbing and bleeding and he was sucking on his bloody lip like it were a lozenge.

'Was that good for you?' murmured Longworry stepping back to the front. 'I've seen the boys hit harder. Maybe you've tired them out with all those juicy targets you've been gifting us with through your tips. The boys have developed hard calluses on their knuckles from all the softening up they have been doing.'

Hope spat out a mouthful of blood. 'Whatever you say, partner.'

'Partner? You bring that up? That's the part I find particularly distasteful. Why did I have to embrace you as a partner to get to this? Well, the truth will never be borne out in a classroom, so here's your chance.' Longworry chuckled menacingly. 'Actually, we want you to hear this whether you would like to or not. Why else the handcuffs? We didn't need them to beat the crap out of you. Getting someone to listen is a lot harder.'

Hope tugged on the handcuffs as though in a despairing effort to either snap them or the chair. 'I'd rather the beating.'

Longworry backhanded him hard across the face. 'You've been robbing banks a good fifteen years, but by the time I had put together enough pieces to finally be certain it was you, you had already made yourself enough money that you could pass yourself off as a gentleman.' He grabbed Hope by the hair and shook him. 'A member of exclusive clubs and philanthropic societies and the possessor of powerful friends.' His grip tightened as though about to rip out a chunk of hair; he desisted, however, and wiped his hand repulsively on Hope's shirt. 'So, you're the reason I got demoted to a desk for two years. Buried alive under paperwork. But I couldn't let it go even then. A bank robber I can't pin to his crimes is still a bank robber I should lock away. For every crime sheet I had to type up I thought how I could pin it on you. I even approached the chief with some of my better ideas. Not that he would have anything to do with it. He insisted a man like me didn't have the capital to reproach a gentleman of New York. I wanted to put him down for that but I let it slide. That was tough. You continued robbing banks across America to support your lavish lifestyle and I was left languishing in the HQ basement. You had won. But the New York Police Department has its own form of a gentleman's club - it takes the form of a poker table - and I used to take great pleasure in blowing a weekly wage that I took no pleasure in earning, and that was where I made my own friend in high places - someone willing to listen.' He smirked. 'It was, if you haven't guessed, Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones. He was intrigued about you. He was the only officer of the law who would entertain the possibility I was right about you. He befriended you at the club to get a closer look at you. That convinced him only further. He thought it a worthy endeavor to try and get the better of you. So, he made things happen. He took my ideas and developed them into a masterpiece. The way a true gentleman of New York can. And now the tide has come in and you have lost. It's your turn to wallow in a dark basement room. Yours will come with steel bars and you'll be there much longer than was I.'

Hope fought to maintain his cool exterior, but he was rattled. Was he the bank robber Longworry had been gunning for when mistakenly setting upon Salviati? Jones's revelations in the Hippodrome dressing room had not seemed so close to home at the time. A prostitute named Annabel running through the mayor's office for his benefit did not ring any sort of bells. The only possibility that came to mind was that Alice Fontaine had somehow been watching his back. She was one of his few true friends and also one of the few people he didn't dare to second guess. But he doubted as a guardian angel she would be so perverse. Still, putting someone into the mayor's office to safeguard her own interests was certainly conceivable. Someone with the capacity to tear a swath through hearts was also possible. She moved in those kinds of circles. And what of Jones? Could he have really been such a two-faced schemer that he would warn of plots he himself had instigated? Was he someone else capable of anything?

'Alright,' said Hope, keen to know more. 'What is this great plot of yours?'

Longworry lit a cigarette and took his time enjoying it. He stubbed it out on Hope's cheek. Hope did not blink.

'To take you down,' Longworry began, 'I would not only need to get myself reinstated to active duty but also to raise my name to a status even higher than yours. There was only one way to achieve this.' He laughed, wanting Hope to catch on for himself. 'Devious, wouldn't you say? Using you to lure the criminals that would go on my arrest sheet. Or to put it another way, those criminals you brought to us were building me up so I could go after the biggest criminal of all. And so here we are. I'm reinstated, on the front pages of the papers, making speeches at banquets, being urged to run for public office. All because of what you did for me.' He laughed again. 'It's earned for me a name worthy of bringing you in. So, fuck the evidence.' He punched Hope hard across the jaw. 'That's what these bruises are for. A bit of window dressing. We can at least make you look like a criminal. Before you're healed you'll be sitting in front of a jury and they sure as hell won't buy your gentleman act with you looking like this. You going to claim police brutality? Detective Longworry, the star of the New York Police Department isn't like that.' He flicked Hope's ear. 'It's over for you.'

Hope stared out ahead as though struggling to come to terms with Longworry's revelations.

'What was in it for him?' he gnarled bitterly.

'For Jones?' Longworry grinned. 'Betrayal hurts more than a beating, doesn't it? I think there are a number of reasons Jones has done this to you. I was not impertinent enough to ask directly, so this is only speculation. One reason, as I figure it, is to set up his future career. Now he has the toughest squad in New York on his side - handy for occasions when heads require butting. He's got me off that desk and I owe him big time.' He scratched his head thoughtfully. 'There are other reasons I would put money on. For example, although he puffed cigars with you, I suspect your money was too new for his liking. He is old society and he would view gentlemen clubs a birthright in need of defending from upstarts. In other words, old fashioned snobbery was at play.

'Yet another reason would be to prove once again his genius. He will not brag, but this example of planning mastery will emerge slowly overtime, as it suits him, and will be embellished as he sees fit, and his reputation will be enhanced. Put simply, any self-perceived genius is only fun when it is acknowledged by others.'

Longworry lit up another cigarette and after a couple of puffs which were little more than flirtations he held it up towards Hope's face, letting him squirm over whether this too would become an object of torture.

'The reason I like best, however, came to light at the Belmont Stakes. I was there with Errol Jones and Charles Porter, guests of the New York Riders Association and we were drinking plenty of their champagne. Maybe too much. Porter got sore when he lost a bet and snapped that he at least won the only bet that really mattered. The way Jones's mood darkened with the comment didn't go unnoticed. It prompted me to do a little digging the next day and what I found was very interesting indeed. It turns out Porter married Jones's high school sweetheart. Porter, the richer, more handsome suitor, was too good a catch to pass up on. And Jones was even invited to the wedding. All he could do was sit there and take it too, for to do anything else would have been to acknowledge his loss. But now, after so many years, here is his chance for revenge. You see, once Oregon Prime's public hero number one in fact turns out to be nothing more than a lowlife bank robber, whose face has been used as a punching bag and an ashtray, the company will be finished. Its shares price will be as watery as its paint. It will be a laughing stock.'

Longworry sucked in a mouthful of smoke from his cigarette and tossed it away. 'It would indicate a man who goes to breathtaking extremes. Willing to wait, unwilling to forgive. So poisonous his veins must be pumping like the New York sewers. The way he's got you in his little game, this isn't checkmate, it is deathmate.'

Hope remained impassive during the rant. And he looked Longworry coldly in the eyes once it was done. 'It seems like a trap intended for one. Is that the way it is?'

Longworry smirked. 'Relax. If you are referring to your girlfriend, she is nothing to us. In fact, having a beautiful woman such as Miss Hawkshaw alongside you in a courtroom would likely sway the judge and jury away from frying you. We wouldn't want that. So, she is free to run as far from this hick town as she can and bed as many admirers as her wafer thin conscience will permit. If you were gentleman enough to confide in her where your money was stashed, she might even do it in style, associate with a higher class of man. That would be of some comfort while you languish in prison, surely.'

'You're full of shit.' said Hope. 'If you had managed to take her into custody, you would have made sure a judge and jury did not find her so attractive. And she has a past you would have filled newspapers with.'

'That habit of hers of butchering her lovers? I suppose there would be a headline in that. It's fortunate she did not procure that particular act on you. It would not have suited our purpose at all.' Longworry slapped him on the shoulder. 'I sense she practised other acts. I trust she was worth the money.'

'I gave her one month's board. And if you want to talk to her about it, you'll have to wait awhile. I told her to take a holiday and make it long.'

Longworry kicked him viciously in the ankle. 'A limp for the court. I'll have to decide whether or not to make it permanent. With each agonising step you take to the electric chair you will be reminded of me. Sounds nasty, doesn't it? Sorry, were you saying something?' He kicked him again and held the chair as Hope heaved in it. 'This will be _your_ holiday right here. We'll be staying two or three days, waiting for your wounds to look old and lived in. I'll call a press conference for the end of the week and tell the papers it's in regards to the most sensational bust of my career. They'll whip themselves into a frenzy of anticipation. They'll camp out a day in advance to be the first to learn the identity of the mystery criminal I'll unveil for them. And they won't be disappointed. The Oregon Prime man turning out to be a hardened bank robber. It'll make for great copy.'

'Better put it in the comic strips so cops like you can follow it.'

Longworry glared at him loathingly, his left eye twitching with the putrid emotion; he forced his attention away to his charges; 'I've worked too hard for this to have the payday pulled out from under me, which is what will happen if one of you clowns smashes in his brains on account of that mouth of his. And that's exactly what I can see happening. So, while I'm gone I want him gagged. Anyone mess with the gag, they'll answer to me.'

'Where are you going?' asked Linde.

Longworry sighed. 'What you're really asking me is am I going anywhere near a liquor store. The answer is no. I'm going to make some calls. The one thing these glamorous lodgings lacks is a telephone. You want a drink, then sniff round for it. Our old bootlegging friends would have stashed plenty away around the premises and its guaranteed to taste every bit as potent as on the day it was distilled. And just remember there is a grand homecoming in the offing that you won't want to be methanol-blinded for.'

He turned to Hope and snickered. 'Did you guess what your gag is going to consist of?' He pulled from his jacket pocket the handkerchief Hope had used as a mask on countless occasions; he dangled it tauntingly between two pincers around Hope's face: even on its black fabric, the blood and grime of its turbulent existence were visible.

'Our dogs sniffed it out of your tree,' he gnarled as he brutally set about applying the gag. 'Call it pathos. The thing you used to conceal your identity during all your devilish deeds in banks will now stop you pleading your innocence as your long awaited meeting with justice looms large.'

He pulled the knot so tight Hope felt that his tongue was being crushed against the back of his throat - he convulsed in an instinctive bid to free himself.

'I know it hurts,' said Longworry. 'No one said captivity was a ball. Holding that tongue of yours still will at least keep you in one piece. Even at the best of times, when my boys see someone tied to a chair, all they want to do is start the punching. Best then not to draw attention to yourself.'

Satisfied with the knot's integrity he back-handed his prisoner in a departing gesture. Then he eyed each member of his unit in turn. 'The keys to the great city of New York will soon be in our pockets. The real keys. Just hold it together until I get back.'

He glanced at Hope one more time, as though pinching himself that this was really happening, that he really had his man. He slid open the barn door and was gone.

Hope and the remainder of the Buster and the Treatment continued to eye each other off long after Longworry's Ford had roared away towards Sacksville.

It was Stevens that broke the silence, his soft tone in stark contrast to Longworry's grandiose manner. 'Not all of us approve the extent to which Longworry is taking this,' he said. 'I suppose he considers that desk you chained him to a couple of years a form of torture and he is just paying you back in kind.' He shook his head. 'But our revenge could be complete without this. We have already used you to retrieve our positions and enhance our status. And all we need now to ensure those headlines that spell the demise of Oregon Prime is a corpse. Shot while attempting to escape. It would have the same effect as a bruised and sorry suspect in handcuffs. And we could easily trump up a witness or two to implicate you in the hold ups. Longworry has got his name back, after all. He could use it to prosecute the case.'

He gazed at his colleagues, trying to gage their reaction to his assertions; their eyes, however, were already starting to drift away in the hope a cache of liquor was as easy to find as Longworry had suggested.

Steven's tone remained sympathetic as he continued to address the immobilised prisoner. 'I was the rifleman stalking you in the forest. I could have ended it there. Could have put you down with any shot. And if I had been the captain, that's how it would have gone down. But Longworry thought he could head you into his car, have you skip into his trap like a fool. To your credit you showed there is no herding a wolf. Sure in the end he got you walking right into his trap. That can't feel good. But I saw the woman you were running with. I was the one who told Longworry how beautiful she was. I told him she was too beautiful for a prosecuting attorney to know what to do with. That was the first favour I did you. The second will be to loosen your gag. Not remove it. I don't need to hear you thanking me.'

He slipped behind Hope more like he was going to slit his throat than loosen a knot; if Hope had been allowed to get a word in during this act of benevolence, or even during the interrogation itself, he might have given the Buster and the Treatment his own talk and the subject might have been on the different forms of assistance the world could afford.

32. _'There's only so much you can forget and still keep your mind.'_

Father Cuebas had chosen for him his name. He had buried one Alistair that morning and had liked the idea of giving life to another that same afternoon.

The hospital had sent the boy to him because having saved his life there was not much more they could do. The savage beating had wiped clean his memory. His home might have been across the street or on the other side of New York or perhaps there was no home at all. Whichever it might have been, it did not matter: there was no going back.

Father Cuebas would have preferred to have imparted more than just a name. A room, a job, even an education. Alistair, however, chose the navy for those things. He kept the name nonetheless and added to it Plonker for no other reason than the navy's paperwork required a family name to go with its rank. Alistair still visited Cuebas on occasion, usually when he was in trouble, but never for advice and certainly not for confession. They drank tea made from herbs freshly picked from the presbytery garden. Alistair would sip his tea slowly, ask questions about the trials and tribulations of the parish. He would listen attentively but not have much to say himself. On this particular occasion, however, it was different. 'I've got to go inland again,' he instigated.

Father Cuebas stared a long moment. 'Why would you do that?'

'A friend in trouble.'

Father Cuebas sighed. 'The Lord might truly be a savior if it weren't for all those friends.' He handed over one of his freshly brewed teas and walked from the stove out the back door and across the sunny garden to its edge where he turned and leaned back against the wooden fence - it was an acknowledgment of his seventy years that he even deigned to lean, for he had forever acted as though taking the weight off one's feet during daylight hours was somehow referred to in the seven deadly sins. He gazed down at his vegetable patch with a furrowed brow.

'You're not an evil man, Alistair,' he said. 'God talks to you and you listen. You hear Him in the waves beating against the shore and you see him in the sunset's horizon. It calms your restless spirit. It gives you peace on this earth.' He shook his head remorsefully. 'It pains me to remind you that the Almighty does not talk to you through your fellow man. I will not be so bold as to speculate on the reasons. The results are merely there to be seen. You react to others like a match to gasoline. Both of those items have purposes that serve our society well and yet as a mixture it is as though hell itself has risen forth. It is the way it is and I must ask you, therefore, to consider whether a friend is really worth the risk of such catastrophe?'

Alistair shrugged. 'The day I was beaten till I could not remember my mother, my father or a single person who had spent a moment with me, I would like to think it had come about in the aid of a friend.'

'I would like to think so too, but, if you recall, you did not get booted out of the navy for assisting a friend. It was for a prostitute and a ham sandwich.'

'It was more complicated than that.'

Father Cuebas replied knowingly, 'There's nothing more complicated than a human being falling apart. It's the devil's own jigsaw puzzle. And he is begging you to play.'

Alistair noticed a blackbird perched in one of the lower branches of the birch tree that was providing much of the garden's shade. The blackbird was skipping up and down, every bit as restless as himself, the young man underneath; and then it flew off. Alistair was left contemplating what it would be like having the calmness of the Father. It would no doubt require getting old, collecting years like thistles on the feet until eventually pain began to defeat the steps.

'Remember when you first took me in you gave me an old mailbag and you told me to put in it the letters I wrote to all the people I wanted to remember? Do you remember that?'

Cuebas nodded.

'Well, I'm taking it along with me and it's holding a letter I wrote to the friend I'm going to help. And there's a letter I've written to you.'

Father Cuebas slurped his tea noisily and sucked in his chin. 'I daresay it is not a letter of confession as you do not tend to plan that far ahead.'

'It's addressed to whoever may find me broken, destitute and deranged and requests that I am returned here to the one person that will know what the picture in this jigsaw puzzle should look like.'

The old priest ran his fingernails through his bristling white beard. He looked sad and his voice was forlorn as he said, 'You had better stamp your letter with a prayer.'

'You have taught me many. Thank you.'

'I wonder if I have taught you enough to take you all the way to Heaven.' Father Cuebas scoured the garden for some relief from his disappointed thoughts.

Alistair tried to look the disappointment in the eye. 'I know you consider me a thoughtless, wayward student who has not retained even a fraction of the lessons taught. A student who could not recall a single prayer you have striven to impart, even on pains of eternal damnation. I know I have given you no reason to consider otherwise. But I want to assure you it is precisely at the point when death's shadow has consumed me that all you have told me returns in a flood of light. The icy touch of death is replaced by exaltation and joy. Dancing on a cliff's edge, whistling a prayer, it is a good feeling.' He took the priest's hand and bowed his head. 'I understand it is not God talking to me at such moments, but at least it is you.'

He marched away in the direction of his old Hudson coupe parked up against the presbyteries' white picket fence.

Father Cuebas was too dumbfounded to call him back. He considered Alistair the son he was not entitled to have and he had never felt so useless.

*

The waters of New York City, whether they be river or bay, were not simply polluted, they also did not act the way other waters did. The currents, as with the city's inhabitants, spurned direction and the waves bounced off each other and never seemed to take into bigger ones. Even the thought of them lapping at the feet of the city's countless bridges was enough to drive Alistair mad. The sounds they made in his head was like the squelching of saturated navy-issue boots amplified many fold. He needed a distraction. Speed was the first impulse, but Route 36 was clogging up as the city loomed large, so a conversation would have to suffice. Alistair had already considered that contingency: hitchhikers were not hard to find or conjure with drifters continually flowing in and out of the cracks of the metropolis and he swerved roadside to scoop one of them up now.

'What are you doing?' a man cried out in a thick Brooklyn twang as Alistair came within an inch of running over his feet.

'Offering you a chair with an engine under it.' replied Alistair through the open window. 'A chance to save for another day some of the tread on the soles of your shoes.'

The man had a mustache of thick black bristles and running over his head was a stream of wiry ginger hair. His tweed jacket was worn through at the elbows and he was carrying an old leather bag with one of its handles broken and dangling. He looked tired and undernourished. He leaned into the car about to give Alistair a serve, only to pause when he sensed the invitation might in fact be sincere.

'I wasn't hitchhiking.'

'You're walking like a man too used to ice skates,' said Alistair. 'I mean, your knees are hardly even bending.'

The man's cheeks staunchly tightened, pulling back his lips from a prominent bucktooth and accentuating a bump on the bridge of his nose. He was again building steam for a sharp rebuke, but was this time dissuaded by a quick glance at the comfortable looking seat on offer. Silently he relented, pulling open the door and clutching a sore back as he climbed in. He brought with him the odor of dried mud and stale sweat.

Alistair impatiently put the car back in motion. He had drafted the passenger aboard for the conversation and started one without delay.

'So, what's your name, friend?'

'Turner. Robin Turner. You?'

'Alistair.'

'Strange name, wouldn't you say?' gnarled the passenger combatively. 'I'm surprised you didn't sing it, 'cause you'd have to be a choirboy with a name like that.'

Alistair did not compliment his surliness in case it threw him off his game. 'I was named by a priest and he didn't get a song out of me, so I don't fancy your chances now.'

'Named by a priest? Did your parents abandon you at the doorstep?'

'I got beaten well and good when I was sixteen or thereabouts and don't remember a thing before that. Not even who my parents were or the house where I lived.'

'If you don't remember anything, how do you know you were sixteen?'

Alistair shrugged. 'That's how old the Father said I looked. And everyone needs an age.'

The stranger's interest had been piqued. 'You don't know who was responsible for putting you on this earth and you can lie about your age without any sense of guilt? Some people have all the luck.' He offered Alistair one of his precious cigarettes and did not mind that he was perfunctorily knocked back \- the simple state of knowing his parents suddenly made him feel superior.

'So, you're not coming to New York to see Ma and Pa,' he continued once cigarette smoke was curling out his nostrils. 'Where are you headed?'

'I've got an appointment with a friend in a hotel room,' replied Alistair. 'That's all I can say about that.'

'I can say something. If it's woman, you'd better watch yourself. There's only so much you can forget and still keep your mind.'

'I'm not sure I follow,' replied Alistair, getting the feeling they were no longer talking about him.

'It means you'd better watch out for the ladies of New York.'

Alistair idly watched a few white lines run by before looking back his way. 'Is that your predicament?'

Turner nodded jerkily. 'My old lady has run off on me. Taken the kid with her. My only son. Calling that a predicament is like calling a cemetery a hotel.' With the squeeze, his voice almost did not make it to the end of the sentence.

Alistair quieted his tone solemnly. 'Know where she is? Give me an address and I'll make a detour.'

Turner replied in an acridly spiteful tone. 'It won't be so easy as that. The bitch didn't just run off on me. After six years of marriage she could still find it in her conscience to call the cops on me. Not over much mind you. Just delivering a few packages for friends. But there's nothing more cops enjoy doing than putting away the poor bastards whose wives have turned against them. Probably they think those bitter, twisted dames are the only ones they might have a chance at themselves.'

'You look free enough to me. And there aren't too many escaped felons out there hitchhiking.'

'I wasn't hitchhiking. You almost ran me over, if you recall. But it's fair to say I got away with one. You see, I was lucky enough to be double crossed twice on the say day. The cops had been directed by the old lady to a warehouse I had been renting and using to store a lot of hot property such as guns and dope. But one of my associates had beaten them to it. Snapped off the lock and cleared the place out. I know exactly who it was and when this is over I'm going to send him some flowers. Without his little burst of treachery I'd be right now in the slammer and the cops would be setting the key in concrete.'

'He gets flowers, what does your wife get?'

Turner glanced out the window at the emerging outskirts of the imposing city. 'For the moment at hand, she gets my full attention. She'll know I'm after her by now and have gone to ground. Never mind. Your average hooker doesn't have much of a social circle. I'll jump right in the middle of it.'

'Ok,' said Alistair, firmly taking the accelerator all the way to the floor; his car responded with a good deal more kick than wind, the traffic suddenly drifting along like snowflakes in an asphalt sky.

'What the hell are you doing?' barked Turner, anxiously latching onto his kneecaps.

'You're lucky you ran in to me. The situation with your wife may have gone down the way you say or there might be something else at play here. Maybe the friend that cleared out the warehouse also sent the cops after you. Or maybe you're just a royal pain in the backside who no one wants to be near anymore. Who knows? But with anger clogging you up, you aren't in a fit state to see things clearly. And that's where I can be of service. Anger is like a particularly unpleasant and stubborn kidney stone. You've just got to keep jumping up and down until it passes through your system.' He screamed exaltedly at the Hudson's speed and leaned into the steering wheel. 'Fun is like a gearbox. You can just keep working up and up.'

'Are you mad?' cried Turner as Alistair scraped between a dawdling flatbed Dodge truck and a Ford sedan.

'It's going to feel like it. But that's an especially nasty stone you've got wedged in there, friend, and it's going to take some prying loose.'

There was a red light and stopped vehicles ahead and he tore into the opposite lanes to avoid them; cars were coming that way fast, but somehow he squeezed through them with just a tap of bumper bars. Still, the smirk was easy and slow. 'Close.'

'Stop the car,' demanded Turner, his tired face now even paler.

He was thrown against the door in a vicious left hand turn. It was into a main street, with a strip of restaurants, barbers and delis – one of the countless foothills to the mountains of New York City. It was there that the sirens began to wail.

Alistair looked excitedly at the flashing lights in the rearview mirror. 'Look what we have here,' he said wildly. 'I bet you aren't going to be talking about my brakes anymore.' He took his hands off the wheel, spat into the palms and rubbed them together. 'But trust me, this really helps.'

*

Detective Longworry, with some ugly clicking in the worn out bearings of his hard-driven Ford, roared back into the bootlegger's farm; his trip into Sacksville had taken much of the afternoon and had imparted a satisfied smirk on his face that was all but engrained. He had dropped in at his Sacksville Hotel room for a shave and a fresh double breasted suit: he had buttoned the white silk shirt two buttons lower than usual. He wanted to look as clean as he felt. He left the car in the middle of the driveway and put on his grey Fedora as soon as he was on his feet. He headed urgently into the barn, wanting to see nothing more inside than boredom and perhaps a little sleep thrown in. And, to his relief, that was what he got. A battered George Hope was still bound to his chair and the full contingent of the Buster and the Treatment were sitting around the barn with nothing better to do than clean their weapons or curled up in sleep in the corners.

'All's well?' he queried, his eyes flittering about his team before settling on Hope so delightedly that a guest of honour would have surely been touched. 'Everything is arranged,' he continued. 'You will be presented to the press two days from today at New York's Citizen Hall. The press have been told to expect the arrest of the decade. Bigger than any Pancho Villa by far and there will be champagne and caviar freely served to celebrate the moment - and I've made sure they're going to be the best of quality. Invitations are immediately going out. The editors will be well aware their front pages are already spoken for. You'll be marched onto the stage with a hood over your head, speeches will be made by myself and Errol Jones and at last your identity will be revealed. Gasps are going to fill the hall.'

'Well done, boss,' said Stevens.

Longworry's attention did not flinch from Hope. 'My priority now is to continue ensuring you do not get roughed up any more. When that hood comes off I don't want the press drawing the conclusion that a confession might have been coerced out of you. They'll see a nasty, hard living thug, and they'll be more than happy to campaign for having the key tossed away for keeps. Thus, the gag stays and I keep the boys away from you, which won't be hard as I've brought a few bottles of whiskey along to break the monotony.'

Cheers spontaneously filled the barn.

'And don't worry,' continued Longworry to Hope, 'none of the boys are bad drunks. I refuse to work with someone who can't be happy in his drink. After all, it is only the bad things we do that deserve a sober condition.'

'And we have been sober way too long,' murmured Randi as he completed reassembling his Browning rifle in fast order.

'The crates are in the boot,' said Longworry. 'And take it easy,' he added as Randi sprang for the door. 'You'll put your back out again.'

He turned to the rest of the unit, who hadn't minded the boredom enough to move.

'He'll need some help. They're big crates. Enough for the night and to hide the hangover tomorrow.'

'Allow me,' said Davedas, pulling himself off a crate of his own. He holstered his revolver and busily filled the void left in his hands with cigarettes and matches. 'It's not his back I'm worried about.'

Longworry turned to the others. 'You'd better get out there too. There are rifles and ammo on the backseat and provisions in the boot. Cheese, ham, and olives. Take them into the house.'

His team picked themselves up with varying degrees of enthusiasm. He had rarely nailed a case as perfectly as this and he wondered if they were starting to tire of the efficiency. He usually enjoyed the rough edges as much as anyone. But this case was too big to fool around with. It was going to be his legacy. It deserved to be as polished as Chinese jade. He stood over his team with hands on hips and an uncompromising drill sergeant's stare dissuading protest.

'There's a suit mixed in with the rifles on the back seat,' he called out as they were just leaving the barn. 'Leave that where it is.'

He smirked wryly at Hope. 'The suit is for you. A brand new one. Before you thank me, however, let me tell you the new suit will be necessary because I'm not letting you out of the chair no matter what. I don't even care if you soil yourself. There'll be no toilet trips for you. And don't worry, the stench won't offend me none. After all, we've got you locked up in a barn. But when it comes time to present you at the press conference, it will be a different story. Your stench will not go well at all with the caviar and champagne.' The smirk reinvigorated itself. 'The suit was off the rack at the Sacksville variety store. Brown check and a material as stiff as canvas. The smallest in stock. That is how the world will see the new you. They are unlikely to be impressed. But by the time it comes to leave the barn, you'll be so saturated in your own filth you won't be able to make the exchange of clothing fast enough. New York tailored silk for Sacksville handicraft. The press will be flummoxed as to how such a wretch could so completely fool the hard heads at Oregon Prime to be in a position to defile the Stars and Stripes upon our nation's most iconic buildings. Shock will turn to anger. And the headlines will only be kind to your capturers. To me.'

Longworry back handed Hope's jaw hard. 'That's another reason I sent the boys out. I don't want to set a bad example. It's funny how hitting you is like reaching an itch right in the middle of my back. It just feels so good. And I'm not one bit sorry about it. Unlike some of the softies in the camp. Chained to a chair, smelling your own funk with the occasional slap to the head, all I'm doing to you is exactly what you did to me. In my case, it was for two hellish years and it was only because of this perfectly planned enterprise that I am free of it.'

He drifted backwards, towards a side door. 'I'll leave you alone to do some planning of your own. After all, what else do jailbirds have but the endless opportunity to make plans? In case those plans include thoughts of making a nuisance of yourself, however, you should know I'm still thinking of shooting off one of your feet. That would be a real limp, wouldn't it? The press would realise the man they had interviewed fresh off the city's rooftops was already half way to the obituaries. But I daresay I have created that impression already. Sit there and behave yourself and you might just be spared from the full nightmare.' He stepped through the doorway and dragged the door closed, pausing with just room enough for his shadowy profile to be visible. 'It might cheer you to know that everyone wants a piece of you. The Sacksville cops want you locked up in their cells, the National Guard top brass want to be in trophy photographs with you and the press sure as hell wants to take them. For me, this case has been personal, but it's nearing the time to share you with the rest of the world. You'd be advised to take your rest. And if you're still thinking to instead turn your efforts to busting out of your chair, you should know the wood is ship-grade oak. It is a chair in which many have bled in and some have died for their troubles and no one has escaped.' He grinned cruelly. 'A well used chair. But I just may retire it after this occasion, put it pride of place at my dining room table and from it say my grace and enjoy my three square meals a day.' He paused for something else to say but nothing came to mind so he abruptly scraped the door the rest of the way closed.

*

The noise from the raucous revelry was making it hard for Hope to get any kind of sleep, which would have been an escape of a kind from the interrogation chair; still, he could not help being flattered by the extent of the celebration of his capture: the screaming and laughter and wild gunfire could compete with many of the New Year's Eve parties he had been involved in.

From what he could gather, the festivities was centred on the farmhouse's front porch and was spilling out into the garden as the Buster and the Treatment looked for better shots at the bats, squirrels and any other creature that braved the treetops and the night sky in their vicinity.

There was an enthusiastically yapping dog amongst the party. Most likely Linde's bullterrier Ping. The animal was running all over the garden and given that its barking coincided with the cracks of rifle fire, it had likely assumed the role of retriever should any creature be dropped. With his stomach continuing to rumble terribly, Hope could have imagined performing a similar role right about now and was in fact salivating with the mere thought of clasping a fallen winged creature in his own jowls. It was not much of a thought, however, and he expunged it from his mind as best he could. He was not going to start fantasising over escape either. It was clear enough Longworry had him good and fast in this chair and for now there was nothing he could do about it. That did not mean those rifles on the porch and in the garden were best aimed skyward: Hope had lived a life of seeking what was out on the very limits and what he had found was that there were always people. Some of them were friends. That was the thought he used to ease his mind still. His body was hurting but not crippled and would respond when the time came. What he could do now was keep himself calm. It did not matter that crime was all about greed, anger, arousal and risk: all those things he could do with sound mind. A memory came to him then. A jazz bar in Harlem he visited a few summers ago. The Mango Tree or perhaps it was the Peach Tree - it didn't matter. It was the musicians and their silky playing that he remembered; and the sultry waitress attending his table and the Cajun dishes she served; and the beautiful Jamaican painter who was his companion. Being tide to a chair was like being old: all you had were the embers - his neighbour, John Badami, was right about that.

Hope was not so deep yet in his remembrances that he could not hear the creaking floorboards behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a flashlight muffled by white cloth.

'I would tell you not to call out,' came a whisper from behind it, 'but I can see that's already been taken care of. Good.'

The man slid through the darkness like it was an oil slick. There was a flash of silver hair from under his black beret, which belied his youthfully agile movement and haughtily light voice. He set himself beside the chair and unslung a khaki shoulder bag. He removed from it a neatly arranged tool kit.

'I'm going to get you out of these handcuffs,' he said. 'It will take a few minutes and when it's done I don't want you jumping out of your chair like a jack-in-a-box. I've been paid to get you out of here in one piece, so just relax and let me earn my wage.' He gripped Hope's shoulder to ensure he had his attention. 'If you've taken offense at being slapped around, save it for another day.' He knelt down to the rear of the chair and with the chosen tool in hand began his work on the handcuffs. He showed all the care and application to detail as a jeweler. 'I was going to wait till the dead of night before making my play,' he murmured, 'but with all those drunken bullets zipping around I was just as likely to get shot crouching in the woods. And besides, there is enough noise being made that I could have used a stick of dynamite to gain entry to the barn and still not be heard. All the same, I'm going to leave that gag on till last, just in case I don't agree with the pitch of your singing voice. By the way, my name is Sam Keppel. We haven't met.'

Hope got the feeling the man was using his voice to calm and reassure, the way a doctor might for a patient while administering an injection; still, the only sound he needed for that was of the shackles hitting the floor: it would be the ultimate proof this man really was someone to be excited about.

This didn't take long, in fact, and Hope lifted his freed arm onto his lap and set about reviving it from its dense numbing pain. Keppel moved to the other wrist. 'I'm aware nothing scratches an itch like a good answer, so I'll give it try.' The whisper was being generated on the very tip of concentration. 'I'm a private investigator who isn't too frail in his retirement from the Chicago Police Force for a little muscle work when the price is right. I don't usually go up against fellow cops that being said. Unless, of course, they are from New York or I have been asked particularly nicely.' The second handcuff gave way with an easy click. Nice and quick. 'In this case,' he continued, 'both are true. It seems we share a mutual friend from Kentucky. Quite a lady.'

Hope smirked to the small extent the gag allowed. He had made the call to Alice Fontaine almost as an afterthought, having already recruited Alistair Plonker to his plight. Something to pass the time on the long night he had spent alone in Hawkshaw's ransacked house. It had been nagging at him what kind of sniper would take shots at him without trying to hit and it occurred to him it that it might be a friend posing as an enemy or even vice versa; it was then he began to wonder about the true intentions of the Assistant District Attorney and the Buster and the Treatment and sense that intervention might be required for the predicament he was in. He had wondered at the time if it had just been an excuse to hear Fontaine's voice. Fontaine had been amused by the situation, teasing him that he had obviously been on his way to Kentucky and had only managed to just get on the road out of New York before getting himself into trouble.

Keppel had a good feel for the locks now and the leg shackles were perfunctorily dispatched to the floor. 'That's it. Ready to go?'

The notion Hope would spring up with a hunger to extract revenge revealed itself as a mere polite fantasy, his body having all but fused to the chair. As he struggled to even budge an inch, Keppel came to his aid, managing to bring to an unassuming hand under his arm a great surge of strength that peeled him off the chair and delivered him upright.

'No time to get your head right,' said Keppel. 'I'm worried that dog will find something new to bark at. _Us_.'

To his surprise, however, his supporting hand was firmly shaken loose. Hope grabbed hold of the chair he had been bound to. 'I'm taking this.'

'Are you mad? What the hell do you want a chair for? Was it that comfortable?'

'Comfortable isn't the word.' Hope started dragging it. It was noisy and Keppel hurriedly moved in to lift it. 'Alright then. Expecting logic from a friend of Fontaine's is just a recipe for a headache. But stop a minute while I collect my stuff.'

Keppel scooped up his tools into his shoulder bag and then pointed the torch to the opposite side of the barn to the farmhouse where a side door had been jimmied open. 'Let's go.' As they stepped out into the night Keppel replaced his torch with a gun and Hope worked loose his gag. The chair kept them together, just as a guide rope would two mountaineers. They crossed a dark, chillingly exposed paddock, straddled over a sagging, decrepit barbed wire fence and moved into the cover of a pine grove. At that point Hope halted the retreat by letting go the chair.

Keppel turned in surprise. 'What is it? We need to keep moving. My car is just down the way.'

'This is far enough' replied Hope, his parched voice barely recognisable. 'When Longworry comes looking, this is what I want him to find.' He picked up the chair and furiously smashed it over the fence pailings, as though exorcising all of his anger at the cruelty dished out to him. After withstanding a few brutal blows the chair began to crack and then, its resistance exhausted, began to disintegrate. Hope kept at it with a frenzy until he was left panting with a single chair leg in hand.

'Feeling better?' murmured Keppel.

'Fairly. But this is where we split up.'

'Remember what I said about revenge,' stated Keeper. 'You can't smash up cops armed with guns the way you can a chair.'

' _You've_ done pretty well over them,' said Hope, still catching his breath. 'How did you track me here?'

Keppel did not reply immediately. He put a cigarette in his mouth, ran a finger over the lighter in his pocket and then let it be without drawing a flame. 'A magician does not like revealing his tricks, but I suppose there was nothing magical about this. There was only one secret in town and Longworry came charging in like he knew it. Following his movements around Sacksville was easy enough. Since the Depression following someone has always been easy. There are always plenty of folks idling away their time on the streets. One more is never going to be noticed. Especially not by someone as preoccupied as Longworry. And once he was on the roads I did not even need to follow his car. With the roads in these parts you can simply follow the dust. Not so easy at night. So if we make our break now you can get away clean. Next stop Kentucky.'

Hope shook his head. 'Longworry has been using me to build up his position. He was going to bury me in jail as gratitude and most likely campaign to have the whole wing named after him.'

'I guessed something like that.' Keppel frowned. 'So what will you do then? The honest cop in me would not like to see you going around shooting people. Not even double crossing New York cops.'

'Relax. As tempting as a bloodbath is, I've got something else in mind.'

'Like what?'

Hope shrugged. 'He tries to ruin the name of a professional gentleman, it is only fitting he wakes up in the middle of the night screaming it.'

'Well, anything I can help you with?'

Hope shook his head.

Keppel offered up his Smith and Wesson police special revolver. 'Not even this?'

Hope patted the chair leg club-like in his hand and nodded. 'You're right, this is not going to be enough. So, sure.'

Keppel handed over the gun and tilted his head away. 'Whatever you're going to do, you'd better go and do it. You can bet they'll be checking on the barn before long.' He pointed a thumb back in the direction of the now distant laughter and shooting. 'As happy as they are now, you can magnify it by a hundred the fury they will feel once they know their prize has got away.'

'And for that we really need to discuss reimbursement. I'm sure you have been offered a generous sum by our mutual Kentuckian friend, but I'd prefer to keep this between ourselves. I'm sure you'll find me a softer touch. She doesn't value my hide that much.'

'It's fine by me. How are we going to do it?'

'Bank opens tomorrow,' replied Hope darkly. 'Is Sam Keppel the name on the office door?'

Keppel nodded. 'Not that I want you going anywhere near it.'

'I'm sure, but I'll be in touch.' Hope swung back over the fence. He crouched low as he was once again in open paddock and said back as an afterthought, 'Assuming you're a local in these part, I'd venture to guess you're an associate of Livingstone Fitch.'

'I know him. What of it?'

Hope started to move away. 'Just that we have another mutual friend. Well thanks, and so long.'

Keppel frowned, for the departing voice did not have the note of finality he would have liked.

33. _'It's guns that do murders. And we've got plenty of them.'_

Beyond the murderous rage was the murderous stillness and it was far more ominous. The last occasion had earned him the name Buster - boxing out the lights of the Watch Commander, Henry Mieszko after a whole week of stillness. He had refused to explain the incident and it was only by some kind of miracle that his career had heeled faster than the busted jaw. And as far as Linde could tell only another miracle could prolong it again. The words at such a time needed to be chosen with the same amount of care as a bomb disposal unit choosing which wire to cut.

'Detective Longworry,' he began warily, 'the boys found the rest of the chair. It was smashed to pieces over by the paddock fence.' He swallowed a lump. 'There will be other chairs. A throne if you want it. And with a cup of black coffee in the system, the boys will be ready to go after Hope - if you think there's a chance of catching up with him.'

Longworry was sitting on the farmhouse's porch steps, taking drafts on a cigarette with that stillness cast over him. He was clutching onto the piece of chair leg that had smashed through the car window. He kept eyeing off the proximity of the car to the porch and contemplating the kind of nerve it would have required to assault it while a squad of heavily armed cops was letting off steam just feet away. Cloth could have been used to muffle the sound of breaking glass, especially against the backdrop of wild gunfire - Longworry could certainly imagine Hope using the black bandana handkerchief he had been gagged with: nerve enough to rob banks with, why not turn it against a policeman's car?

'Criminality is like any other tumor,' Longworry finally gnarled, 'the longer it is left untreated the bigger it grows. Now I can see that during those wasted years at the desk this particular tumor became nothing short of a monstrosity. Indeed, I believe Hope was so emboldened that he let himself be taken by us. Presented with the illusion of victory we were all too happy to tell him how brilliant our schemes were. And that is why we now face ruin. He was the one being tortured but we were the ones doing the talking. Death by gloating.' He spat disdainfully at the ground. 'Wouldn't make for a pretty headstone.'

'Do you think it was the girlfriend who rescued him? That could be a line of inquiry. Or there might be witnesses on the farms around these parts. It's as my uncle told me - and remember, he was one of the baddest cops to make it as far as his pension - when all else fails, that's when cops should fall back on conventional police work.'

'There's nothing conventional about a press conference with champagne and caviar,' snapped Longworry impatiently. 'The orders are already in. If I cancel now the press will know something is awry. They might even feel aggrieved enough to find out what. A manhunt of this scale cannot be kept under wraps, not even from one of those permanently drunk reporters with beer bottles for glasses - the ones I usually trust. They've been told to hold the front page for us and one way or another a front page is exactly what they'll get.'

'Then what are you going to do?' queried Linde.

'As far as I can make out with a hangover and a cigarette, there are three options: cancel the press conference and take the egg on the face, track down Hope in the next four hours and deliver him up as scheduled or the third option is to find someone else to take his place.'

'Do you have a favourite among them?'

Longworry frowned. 'We're not going to cancel the press conference. If we do we lose.' He mulled over the thought a moment. 'The dirtiest squad on the force, the Buster and the Treatment, we take pride in the reputation, but if you add water to dirt, you get mud. The press is nothing but cold water.'

'So then?'

Randi stepped onto the porch brandishing a Tommy gun in hand while a Colt .45 sat at his hip in an open holster.

Longworry glanced his way and seemed to be encouraged by it. 'The other two choices will be our target. We can cover both bases. That's the beauty of being a team.'

'What choices?' Randi enquired.

Linde talked over him. 'Put someone else in front of the press conference, as the biggest collar of our careers? Do you have someone in mind?'

Longworry flicked away his spent cigarette. 'Livingston Fitch would be the likeliest candidate. He's the biggest gangster living in these parts.'

Linde was worried. 'You talk about tumors. He's a blight way bigger than Hope and he hires only the best lawyers to ensure he keeps growing. If we try to pin the bank robberies on him they'll grind us into mince.'

'Forget robbery. We're going to pin him to a murder.'

'Murder?'

'Why not? There are plenty of cold cases out there. We'll use his name to warm one up.'

'Linde is right,' warned Randi. 'Fitch has got a lot of weight behind him.'

'It has to be a big name for this to work,' said Longworry. 'If we're going to drink champagne over the bust, it can't be the local milkman watering down his deliveries. Hope has us at check and our next move needs to be big, bold and dirty. We have the advantage over Fitch 'cause he doesn't know the game that's being played.'

'To make a frame stick is going to take time,' said Linde, more and more concerned. 'We can't just plant a gun on the likes of him and expect to get away with it.'

'Why not? It's guns that do murders. And we've got plenty of them.' Longworry smirked cruelly. 'If your mind doesn't work in that fashion, mine sure can. You can focus on getting Hope back. Let's see how far your conventional police work gets you.'

'Alright. I'm happy to show you how it's done, boss.'

'Will you? Well, I'm fine with that. But your suspect is not particularly conventional himself, and right at this moment there's one thing gnawing at me more than anything else.'

'What is that?'

Longworry replied slowly, 'Disabling our cars made sense. Cutting the brake-lines was clever.' He shook his head in puzzlement. 'Smashing into the car, however, made no sense.'

'Did he take anything?'

'Only the cheap suit we were going to dress him up in for the press conference.' Longworry pulled a disconcerted expression. 'Only the suit.'

*

George Hope hit the Sacksville Farmer's Bank mid-morning.

'This is a robbery!' he cried, waving about Keppel's Smith and Wesson revolver. 'Everyone down on the floor. If anyone is still on his feet, I'm going to do some spring harvesting, and my plough is fully loaded.'

Gasps of panic and diving bodies was just the response Hope wanted. It meant the residents of Sacksville had not yet grown flippant to bank robberies in their town. There were eight customers in queues to the two tellers on duty and they became a tangle of limbs and bodies on the floor.

The one man who remained on his feet was the big bellied bank manager. He was stunned that his bank was being held up for the second time in just a matter of days. And he became fixated upon Hope, perplexed that on the previous occasion Hope had been wearing an expensive, stylish black suit, whereas this time it was a cheap, brown checkered monstrosity: it was simply inconceivable to him that a robber who had gotten away with thousands of dollars would return so soon after dressed no better than a pauper. In fact, he became convinced that if he gave his shocked senses time to steady, it would be a different man he was seeing behind the black handkerchief - the calm hazel eyes gazing over it would change colour and the smooth, cocksure voice coming through it would change into something different.

Hope could see his bewilderment and was amused by it. 'Glad to see me? I'm becoming a regular customer.'

Anger flushed over the bank manager then and despite himself gnarled, 'Why have you returned? There are police and a whole army out there looking for you.'

'I have already encountered the law enforcement in these parts and they proved most agreeable hosts. Detective Longworry and his squad in particular were very nice. They provided me with this lovely suit I am wearing today and they have planned a nice champagne reception with the New York press, which unfortunately I will be unlikely to attend, indisposed with the pleasant task of spending all the money you're going to give me right now. If there are any objections, I'm all ears. Otherwise, it's time to get to work.' He tossed an empty canvas bag at him. 'Fill it up, fat boy.'

The bank manager swallowed his anger, quite certain that Hope was as deranged as he was dangerous; and besides which, the touch of money excited his fingers: he had learnt that from the previous robbery when he had shoveled a good thousand dollars into a bag, and the irony was not lost on him: a bank manager who could only live out his obsession with money during a bank robbery, scooping notes with wild abandon into a fast filling bag – the feeling of pure release had lasted longer than any other emotion associated with the robbery. And almost miraculously this was his chance to experience it again.

Hope watched over his work and could not fault its intensity. He turned his attention to the other hostages who were now all splayed out across the floor, including the old timer security guard who had still not been persuaded by events to reach for his gun.

'In case there are any tears down there on the floor,' said Hope, walking amongst them, 'you can relax. Not because of all those police in town looking for bank robbers – that doesn't seem to be doing any good. You can relax because I'm only taking money from over the counter and not the savings you were misled into bringing here with assurances that it would be safe, assured indeed by the manager now shovelling money into my canvas bag - doing a good job of it too.' He pointed one of the guns right at the manager's forehead. 'But that will be enough. Give it over.'

The bank manager reluctantly swung the bag onto the counter.

Hope pulled it out of his hands and glanced appreciatively inside.

'Nice work. If you want to know why I've come back so soon, it is merely because easy money is the most pleasurable to spend, and the money here is so easy I'm even happy to leave some behind in the vault for a rainy day.'

He sprung forward, cracking one of the pistols across the bank manager's temple, dropping him flat.

'But my bankbook is painful, I'm afraid to say.'

He leaned over the counter to see that the bank manager was looking up with the kind of blank gaze that could be had out of a coffin – a thin line of blood was trickling down his cheek. Hope immediately stepped back to the elderly security guard.

The old man cringed reflexively with the attention. 'This is suicide, son,' he blurted out. 'Money is not worth dying for.'

Hope extracted the revolver from the man's side holster and replaced it with a wad of notes from the canvas bag. 'Try to draw and you'll withdraw,' he chuckled hoarsely. He straightened and shouted at the hostages, 'Stay down on your stomachs with your eyes closed and I'll deposit some of my earnings into the pockets of one and all. The bank will not be able to claim it back, for how will it know what is theirs and what is yours. It will be the perfect crime. And you will be successful bank robbers in your own right. You will come to experience how intoxicating the feeling can be. And how profitable is its success.'

He collected up the tellers' money bags. He grimaced with a stab of pain from his pierced shoulder and cracked ribs that pierced the cocaine numbness that had come with breakfast at the Eternal Pigmy Tavern. It didn't last long. He walked up and down the line of stiffly expectant hostages before abruptly marching out of the bank. He had a pleased grin, aware there was no better method in keeping the hostages still than offering to pay for it. They would be waiting for their promised share of the spoils and when they finally realised they had been duped, the bitterness would be palpable. They would do everything they could to see Hope apprehended and sent to the chair, including telling the press every last detail of what had transpired. Hope was counting on it.

The Sacksville street that greeted him outside the bank was quiet, which was just as well as he neglected to check for traffic as he crossed it towards his idling stolen Chevrolet. He swung into the driver seat, tossing the money bags to the side. The engine started cleanly though stuttered and backfired in the acceleration out into traffic. Never mind. He had stolen worse. And he would soon be changing vehicles again anyway. He felt not the slightest sense of ownership: journeys were not roads or wheels, they were battles.

*

The handcuffs were being clapped on tightly behind Livingston Fitch's back, but he remained impassive. He spat at the ground at Longworry's feet and murmured, 'So, you've really got nothing on me?'

Longworry shrugged nonchalantly. 'Right at the moment we've got a pair of handcuffs on you.'

The arrest was being made at the front door of the Fitch's homestead. Lunch time aromas were permeating out from the kitchen: sauerkraut and sausages. Fitch's bodyguard was also his cook and the problem with that particular arrangement was that when the cooking started the chef was not much good at guarding bodies. Fitch could shout out on the off chance he would be heard above sizzling sausages but then it would take more than a kitchen knife to take on the weaponry the three hard-nut cops had brought to the porch. Chances are the fool would not realise his absence until the lunch was served to table and starting to get cold.

Fitch was unceremoniously yanked in the direction of the black Ford coupe by Stevens, who, to Fitch, was just another thuggish looking deputy. Fitch did not resist, however, for fear of whiplash. With his eyes remaining fixed on Longworry, he said, 'I've seen your mug in the papers. You're the hotshot cop who's been on an arrest spree through New York.'

'Not just New York,' spat Longworry. 'And if you call me hotshot again, I'll flatten your face. Even if it's meant as some kind of compliment, I don't want you saying it.'

A firm nudge in the back from Stevens sent Fitch staggering down the porch steps. It was all Fitch could do just to stay upright. Another nudge put him on course for the Ford that had only just moments before torn up his driveway.

'You want to know something,' murmured Fitch over his shoulder at Longworry. 'Plenty of times I've been arrested after one meal only for my lawyers to have me walking away clean in time for the next. Getting me just before lunch is served, however, is something that will not be easily forgotten. My bodyguard won't forget it. He does the cooking and he takes it as an affront if someone is late to table.'

'That might explain that bulging gut of yours,' snapped Longworry. 'You're so shit scared of him, right. Now shut the hell up. And you can give it a rest about the charges. Once we're on the road to New York there'll be plenty of time for me to decide what I'm going to fry you for.'

A silver Chevrolet came tearing up the driveway, prompting a simultaneous training of guns from Longworry, Stevens and Linde on the front windscreen. The dust around the wheels was like an ominous churning storm cloud. Randi jumped recklessly in amongst it before the car had even stopped moving. He tripped over onto his hands and knees.

'What the hell are you doing?' cried Longworry, not yet lowering his firearm.

Randi coughed on the dust and called out, 'He's robbed another bank.'

The shock bucked up into Longworry's stomach. 'What did you say?'

'An hour ago. The Sacksville Farmers Bank. And he was boasting and talking about you.'

'Talking about what?'

Randi was starting to get up off his knees only to hesitate with the thought he had better not make himself too large a target. 'The suit you bought for him got a mention. He told everyone how you had been intending to dress him up in it for the press conference - with all that caviar and champagne. He was wearing it to humiliate you.'

Longworry's lips quivered with a rage. 'Is that so?' The words were constricted by his throat and mashed by his teeth. He dazedly turned and pointed his gun at Livingston Fitch's head - this seemed to help him gather his thoughts. 'Are there people out there looking for him?' he said back at Randi. 'The local constabulary and the National Guard must still be in the vicinity, packing up from the manhunt they thought just finished. Tell me you've put them back to work. This is a madman we're talking about.'

Randi had had enough cowering and slowly got to his feet. He slapped a hand at his suit, trying to recover the black from the powdery brown dust. Then he exhaled sharply, as though undertaking a similarly cleansing process of his lungs.

'I tried,' he said. 'They are upset that you kept Hope to yourself last time. And they don't see any incentive in going after him again now. Hope was captured and then escaped and as far as they are concerned it's on your head. And besides, I get the feeling your head would suit them just as well as any bank robber's.'

'What do you mean?' said Longworry in a voice so taut it was almost undecipherable.

Randi folded his arms self-consciously. 'I've seen such occasions before, boss. It's always a bad sign when the press is asking more questions than the cops.'

Longworry's gun hand clenched into a fist until the knuckles were white. 'How many witnesses were there?'

'Too many to shoot.'

'And you couldn't find another way to shut them up? You could have at least shot the press. There wouldn't have been so many of them.'

Stevens stepped out from behind Fitch, his brow gravely furrowed, his voice soft. 'It's too late, boss. The story will be out in the evening editions and we'll be a laughing stock. I'm afraid that's what you get for being a little too good.' He sighed. 'It's the anxious fool that laughs hardest.'

Longworry snarled. 'We need Hope.'

'We won't get him without a dragnet,' said Stevens grimly. 'We should have let the generals take their damned pictures. Kept them appeased. All those resources they invested in the manhunt and we wouldn't even give them a name. Now they simply won't believe us.' He pointed a thumb at Fitch. 'I mean, it won't matter if we give them Hope's name or this name. They won't care what we say. They won't have an arrest but they'll get a head. And I daresay they'll relish that result even more. Bank robbers knocking off the local bank are a dime a dozen. Taking down an over-rated, stuck up New York cop, on the other hand, would be the sweetest peach on the tree.' He held out a placating hand. 'I'm just telling you the way they'll see it, sir.' He reached into a trouser pocket and slowly came out with the handcuff keys. 'Fitch has got to walk. He's a big fish and our rod just got real brittle.'

Fitch was wise enough to keep his mouth closed throughout. Stevens went to work unlocking the handcuffs and they promptly fell to the ground. He pushed Fitch perfunctorily back in the direction of the farmhouse, as though he were a fish being thrown back into the sea, or perhaps a rat too big for the python to swallow.

'You'd better make sure we forget you,' snapped Linde in parting.

Blank faced, Longworry started to again raise his revolver at Fitch; the movement, however, was without conviction and he was quickly disarmed by Randi.

'When you lose this big, boss,' Randi muttered into his ear, 'no matter what you do, you'll just lose some more.' He slipped the revolver into his jacket pocket. 'We've still got our families. Don't forget that. It hurts that we will no longer be able to impress them with this, but perhaps they don't need to be impressed.'

Longworry silently stepped away and drifted over to the Ford they had commandeered out on the highway and climbed into the back seat. He proceeded to vacantly stare out the window - out across the paddocks of tall wheat.

'What are we going to do with him?' murmured Randi, finding it painful to watch.

'We'd better take him back to New York,' replied Linde.

'Damned shame. It's as though he has been beaten without a fight.'

'Maybe that's why Hope calls himself gentleman,' said Stevens. 'You get beaten and you don't even know you've been fighting. Against the likes of Longworry, it's a handy knack to have.'

The slamming of door that marked Fitch's return into the house momentarily caught their attention.

'I've got to admit that lunch smells pretty good,' said Randi, hungrily.

'A bodyguard that cooks better than he fights,' murmured Linde, 'no wonder Fitch has retired to the country.'

The eyes of the three members of the Buster and the Treatment gradually returned to the Ford. Davenas was looking at them from the driver seat, obviously uncomfortable with the situation and impatient to get moving. Longworry was still gazing blankly out the back window.

'I can't say I've ever seen him like this before,' murmured Stevens. 'Is that what he was like during those lost years at his desk?'

'This is worse.' Linde sighed. 'There must be something we can do.'

'When a man's spirit leaves his body,' said Stevens, 'there's only one thing to do: take him home.'

34. _'I am not done raising that flag of mine just yet.'_

Assistant District Attorney Errol Jones had taken to reading the bloody events of Europe with a different kind of sadness. A whole generation of up and coming cops would be lost to the armed services. It was an inescapable reality that wartime stripped the policing fraternity of all its prestige, for an occupation in which a firearm might well remain holstered for years on end seemed all but redundant: certainly, it would take more than a badge and handcuffs to halt a Hitler with his tail up. And nous wouldn't have too much to do with it either. Not the kind of nous a good cop would employ to solve a crime. In this case, the crime was already obvious for all but the most dim-witted. The crime was murder and it would take whole armies and seas of blood to clap the handcuffs on. The one bright spot was that New York's violent crazies would be signing up into it, and they would be hard pressed to be considered crazy then.

Jones enjoyed the melancholia he felt at the Underhill Cigar Club, especially in the Reading Room, with its walls inundated by stuffy leather bound first editions - it seemed to sharpen the flavours of the cigars and whiskey. Not that he ever read much beyond the evening edition newspapers. He was not actually sure if he drank to read the papers or read the papers to drink. Suffice to say they complemented each other well. On this particular evening he had been caught up in articles about Germany and Italy's signing of the "Pact of Steel" in Berlin and the plight of the S. S. St. Louis's and its Jewish refugees in Havana Harbor and drinking had certainly been required such that by the time he finally made it to the financial pages he was already up to his fifth whiskey of the evening.

That was the moment when the club's background noise of low-pitched chatter was broken into by the long serving maitre de, Kenneth Connolly, making a rare appearance beyond the foyer, his voice sounding like an ashtray smelt.

'There is a surprise for you, sir.'

Jones looked up from the stock listings to see Çonnolly's bony, arthritic fingers pointing back towards the arched entrance of the Reading Room. George Hope passed through it at that very moment and headed their way. He walked with a pronounced swagger and a relaxed, carefree wisp of a smile on his lips. He was immaculately groomed in stylishly tailored double breasted black silk - as black as fine silk could get. There was also a black bandana handkerchief neatly folded in the breast pocket. Jones saw it and wondered if it was the one and only featured in so many unsolved crime reports and if he snatched it up would it bear the smells of criminality and violence. No matter, it seemed that despite the recent tumultuous events nothing had changed about Hope; or, perhaps, even the recent events had agreed with him.

'Mr Hope, welcome back to the Underhill,' said Connolly enthusiastically as Hope came to a stop on the plush opal blue carpet in front of them. 'Your absence has been all too frequently noticed. I presume you will be wanting to sit with Mr Jones. Shall I arrange for a chair to be brought over?'

'Yes, please, Kenneth,' voiced Hope.

'And your usual whiskey?'

'It wasn't my usual till I turned fourteen. Before then, I really had to earn it.'

'Very good, sir.'

Connolly hurried eagerly away, leaving Hope standing over Jones. Hope's smile turned formal. 'Good evening.'

Jones sat up straight in his sofa chair to a groan of fine leather and folded in half his newspaper to reveal a carefully guarded secret: the paper he was reading was the Brooklyn Chronicle. He slapped at it and frowned. 'For weeks I have been trawling through the columns of your friend Donovan Black for any hint of your continued existence. Bringing a paper of such dubious quality into the club is of some risk, but I wonder what risks are associated with the presence of the man himself.'

A dark green velvet lounge chair was moved into place by two young stewards with white kit gloves; they promptly added to it a polished black wood side-table and departed with bows. A waitress came forward then with a silver tray bearing a whiskey on the rocks and all the paraphernalia required for cigar smoking. She unpacked the tray's contents onto the side-table. She smelt nicely of a well-judged spray of perfume. As she departed, Hope pulled out a couple of cigars in hessian wrappings and offered one to Jones. 'Handmade in the West Indies.'

Jones grinned and took one. He curled it approvingly under his nose with a shallow sniff. He placed it on his own side-table. 'A fine cigar. You've still got taste. Does the poison you have to slip in my glass bear such flavour?'

Hope smirked and shrugged. 'I'm not sure. I haven't tasted it myself. But tell me, were those bodyguards in your rather nice Series 61 out front? I must say, I don't think they saw me over their Tommy guns.'

'Minders,' Jones corrected darkly. 'I didn't invite them in because I didn't want to hear them slurping champagne like it were tomato soup.' He added dourly, 'But I have to admit I thought they might come in handy. I thought that around about the time I stopped looking for you in the obituaries.'

Hope sat in his chair. He snipped off the end of his cigar and employed the club's nickel plated lighter in puffing it to life. Then he settled back luxuriously, crossing legs at the ankles. 'The obituaries you say?'

Jones idly tickled the underbelly of his own cigar. 'Pitting the two toughest men in the city up against each other, with a little dash of hate blended into the mix, I was convinced the obituaries was the only place it could end.'

'Well, people did die,' gnarled Hope.

'Did they? I'm sorry, I didn't notice. A few on the margins, perhaps. The odd body in an alleyway. And a gun battle between two rival gangs, which from what I can gather, would have occurred regardless of our presence. Still, I will concede there were a few bodies involved. Surprisingly few, all the same, considering the grandness of the venture. And your own personal survival is only as remarkable as your ability to thwart my efforts to confirm it.'

'You mean to curtail it?'

Jones frowned. 'I'm not sure of that myself. You may have noted the efforts I made to warn you of your peril. Not that you paid any heed at the time.'

'Yes, I did notice as a matter of fact. Twisted though they were. Was it having a bet both ways?'

Jones set about smoking his cigar rather than tickling it and complemented it with a gulp of whiskey. 'I was not entirely ready to accept on face value the accusation you were a serial bank robber. Despite Warren Longworry being so adamant. After all, cops are not always right. Of course, now there can be no doubt.'

'No doubt?'

'The way you handled Longworry and his squad resembled a matador allowing a mad bull's razor sharp horn to brush his heart without letting it break the skin. Such a feat could only be accomplished by someone well versed in the dark arts of crime.' Jones held out a placating hand to indicate he was not prosecuting a case. 'Charlie Porter and his rather impressive niece, Leslie, spent an evening here last week. And your name naturally enough came up in conversation. Charlie Porter is keen to put you back to work to sell some more cans of paint in a lavish fall campaign. He informed me that Frederick Bulkhead is also keen to revisit our scheme - no doubt to create a few more bylines for his, dare I say it, rather less impressive nephew.' He chuckled callously. 'They still only think of you in terms of how high you can reach, not how low you can stoop. But if you were willing to make assurances, here in a gentleman's club, that you would no longer do anything to raise the ire of a desk bound Longworry, then I too would happily agree to another campaign.'

'You would?'

'Certainly. I would be duty bound. After all, this episode has confirmed a long held hypothesis that only events so dramatic could prove.'

'What hypothesis is that?'

'That police make the best criminals and criminals make the best police.'

'Interesting. And the innocent the best victims?'

Jones smirked. 'Possibly. Or possibly the victims become the best innocents. Detective Longworry, you might be pleased to know, has fallen into that category. My experiment required a clash of wills and his has been broken. Fortunately for him he has a wife strong enough to fill the void left behind. She sees that he attends his desk every morning and that he passes each and every drinking establishment on his way home again. And most importantly, she has created a space in their home where he is not the laughing stock of the New York Police Department. Which is a far cry from HQ, I'm afraid to say. Apparently, there is barely a day in which an empty champagne flute or a dollop of caviar doesn't mysteriously appear on his desk. To his credit he takes it. Not that he has much choice. One more strike and he's out of the force for good, and his old lady has made it clear she isn't coming along for the ride. I tell you this because any minders you may have employed would not be funded by the taxpayer like mine are. I would hate to see you needlessly flitter away money you've gone to such pains to earn.'

'No minders,' replied Hope. 'Just acquaintances.'

'Acquaintances? Is that how you refer to the mysterious Annabel McLeary? You must have been the person she was seducing the Mayor's office to protect. And I daresay her services don't come cheap.'

'I don't know any Annabel McLearly. And it all sends quite farfetched, wouldn't you say?'

'Does it? The case with Carter Nelson might suggest otherwise.'

'That woman was no prostitute,' snapped Hope pointedly.

'Naturally. I apologise for any insinuation in that regard. However, there might have been someone else.' Jones grinned and shook his head pointedly. 'You really don't know who your friends or enemies are, do you? And for that matter you don't even seem to care.'

'I know _you_ , don't I? That seems to cover both very neatly.'

Jones pulled a face. 'Maybe you bring that out in people. No matter. I'm willing to call a truce. And I trust you are not here to attempt another of those rather nasty right hooks. It kept me away from the Underhill a good few weeks waiting for the bruising to heal.'

'Really?'

'I'm glad to see you have fully healed too.'

'A month in a hotel saw to that.'

'I'd hate to imagine the state of the hotel room after that time. Especially if you were banging your head on the walls as seems to be your way. But here we are, ready to start afresh. If we can agree to be civil, there would be no one else I would rather discuss all things war with than you.'

'Sounds pleasant enough.' They reached across and firmly shook hands. 'Another campaign in the fall would be a possibility,' Hope said. 'Certainly, I am not done raising that flag of mine just yet. But when the war starts in earnest, it might be time for it to leave New York Bay once again.'

'Fair enough.'

'And you'd better tell Porter and Bulkhead it is liable to cost a lot more this time to lure Bobby Carpets away from his work in the Alps. He's been doing very well for himself out of his increased notoriety: out in the fresh air with high society and usually not doing anything more than tying their shoelaces. But he's the only one I'll trust with knotting my ropes.'

'I'll let them know,' replied Jones in good humour.

'Good. Now let's talk about you.'

'Me? If you'd like.'

'Is it really true you intended to destroy Charles Porter due to a high school sweetheart having the good sense to jilt you?'

Jones looked sharply away. 'Next time I think I _will_ invite my bodyguards in.'

Hope downed the last of his whiskey and stood up. 'We'll have to leave it for next time.'

'You're not leaving already, are you?' Jones betrayed a note of disappointment, apparently having been enjoying himself, after all.

'I'm afraid I must. One of my aforementioned acquaintances is waiting out in the car and he made it quite clear if I did not return within twenty minutes, he would come in all guns blazing. I'm not entirely sure it would be for my benefit either. He's a restless sort.'

'Invite him in.'

Hope shook his head ruefully. 'He expressed no interest in joining us in a conversation polite or otherwise. He's the sort that I have learnt are not to be trifled with. They live fast and die young, no matter how many years they manage to accrue, and for better or worse they are the pointy end of the human race.'

'I see. I would venture to say it is no coincidence such people would be acquaintances of yours.' Jones nodded in acceptance. 'Anyway, feel free to return home. I give you my word as a gentleman you will not be disturbed.'

'That's kind of you, Errol. But I'm actually going away awhile. On my honeymoon.'

Jones raised his eyebrows. 'You're married?'

Hope smirked. 'Not yet. The honeymoon should always come first.' He stabbed out his cigar in Jones's ashtray, saying as he did so, 'It was quite a plan you put together with Longworry. I was by no means a bullfighter in getting out the way of it. By no means at all.' He left the flattened cigar behind and departed the Reading Room, straightening out the lapels of his evening jacket as he went.

Jones gazed thoughtfully after him. He was promptly attended to by Kenneth Connolly.

'It was good to see Mr. Hope here again, sir,' said Connolly chirpily. 'A true American hero.'

Jones swallowed his whiskey like a pill. 'Isn't he just?'

'A shame he had to leave so soon.' Connolly collected up Jones's empty glass as soon as it was left to the table. 'Another, sir?'

'Yes, please, Kenneth. And make it a double. The kind of double that gives other doubles an inferiority complex.'

'Yes, sir.'

Jones pushed the Brooklyn Chronicle at him. 'And for God's sake bring me something else to read.'

***

