Warren Murphy: Firing Line

"You've got no respect at all for clothing," Witherspool said.

"Where you're going," Remo said, "You won't need any."

Witherspool could not move his head, but rolling his eyes right and left, he saw that he was on the grounds of one of the big refineries that bordered the northern part of the New Jersey Turnpike near Newark Airport.

The crazy white man was dragging him toward one of the two-hundred-foot-high stacks that burned off gas waste from the refining process. Up ahead, craning his neck, the minister could see the top of the stack and, high up above, the ever-present flames spitting out the top as they did twenty-four hours a day. Then the white man was at the base of the yellow brick stack, and Witherspool wondered what he was doing. He had little time to wonder because suddenly he was off the ground, and the white man, holding Witherspool in his left hand and using just his right hand and feet, was climbing up the smooth brick sides of the stack.

Witherspool was so frightened, he did not even

67

bother to wonder how the white man was climbing up the smooth, sloping sides of the stack, but he felt the rough bricks against his back, and when he peeked downward, he saw he was already a hundred feet off the ground. And he prayed, really prayed for the first time in years, and he prayed, "Oh, Lord, I don't know what this lunatic wants, but let's make sure, Lord, that he don't lose his climbing skill in no hurry, right now."

A few moments later, Witherspool was at the top of the stack. He could feel the heat from the burning gas fumes. He felt the white man sling him upward and then let go. Witherspool reached out with his hands and caught the edge of the top bricks and was hanging there, his feet kicking into the air below him.

"Don't kick," Remo said. "It makes it harder to hang on."

Witherspool looked up. Remo was sitting on the ledge of the top bricks, as unconcerned as if he were on a park bench.

"I don't like being up here," the minister said. "Take me down."

"Just let go. You'll get down quick enough," Remo said.

Witherspool clutched harder with his fingers. "What do you want?" he said.

"Now, as I was saying, who did you hire as a torch to burn that building?"

"I don't ..."

"Let me warn you, Reverend Doctor," Remo said. "One more lie from you, and I'm dropping you down the middle of this smokestack. I may do that anyway. Now, who?"

"You bring me down if I tell your"

68

He looked imploringly at Remo, who shrugged and said, "I don't know."

"You let me live if I tell you?"

"I don't know," Remo repeated. 1"You not drop me down that smokestack?" Witherspool asked.

"I don't know," Remo said.

Witherspool swallowed. His fingers were getting sore and weak, and his stomach was feeling the heat of the stack. "Okay," he said and tried to smile at Remo. "Then we got a deal."

Remo didn't smile back.

"Who?" he repeated.

"His name was Solly."

"Solly what?" asked Remo.

"He didn't say," said Witherspool. "A young white guy. Solly. Maybe twenty-eight years old. He had a partner."

"Who was the partner?"

"I didn't see him, but I heard about him."

"What'd you hear?"

"He's a kid. Like fourteen years old. Solly calls him Sparky and says the kid is a magician at starting fires."

"Where'd you meet this Solly?"

"He contacted me. I put the word out that I was looking for a torch."

"And he contacted you?"

"Right."

"Is he from Newark?" Remo asked.

"I don't think so. I met him in the lounge of the Roberts Hotel."

"Was he staying there?" Remo asked.

"I don't know." Witherspool looked again at Remo, who glared at him.

69

"Wait," said Witherspool. "He signed for the bar check. He put it on his room. He musta been staying there."

"Thanks, Reverend," Remo said. He pushed himself off the ledge. Slowly, with his back to the bricks of the stack, he began to walk down the smooth side of the chimney. "Vaya con Dios" he said.

"Hey, wait."

Remo stopped. He was ten feet below Witherspool, standing stuck against the side of the chimney as if he were a housefly on a wall.

"What?" Remo asked.

"You can't leave me here."

"Why not?"

"It's not . . . it's not . . . it's not humane."

"That's the biz, sweetheart," Remo said.

He started down again. He had gone another fifteen feet when he stopped and called up to Witherspool.

"Pull yourself up and sit on the ledge. Somebody'11 notice you eventually," he said.

"Thanks," said Witherspool. "For nothing. How is this gonna look? A man of the cloth on top of a smokestack?"

"You can always tell them the devil made you do it," Remo said. He moved again down the side of the stack, almost running, seeming to be able to dig his heels into the small cracks between the bricks and using them as if they were broad steps. When he reached the bottom, he turned and waved up at Witherspool, who sat with his ample butt on the brick ledge, trying to keep his rear end from being ignited by the flaming exhaust gases.

As Witherspool watched, Remo walked over to

70

his car, got inside, and drove off, back onto the New Jersey Turnpike. He had two stops to make.

The manager carefully explained to Remo that, yes, he knew it was important but, no, he was very sorry, he could not let Remo look at another guest's bill because, well, just because it was against hotel policy and simply could not be done.

Then he sat down in his chair, unable to move, as Remo began to look through all the bills at the Roberts Hotel.

He found one for Solly Solomon. It was the only name that was close.

"This Solly Solomon," Remo asked the manager. "What did he look like?"

The manager tried to work his mouth but could not speak.

"Oh," said Remo. He leaned over from the file cabinet and touched a spot on the manager's neck. He could speak now, even though he could still not move.

"Young guy, maybe thirty, medium height, dark hair."

"He travel with a kid?" Remo asked.

"Yeah. Skinny little kid. Maybe thirteen. Kept lighting matches and dropping them in wastepaper baskets. I think he was retarded."

Remo nodded.

He took all the charge bills from Solly Solomon, put them in a manila envelope, and walked toward the door.

"Hey, wait," the manager said.

"Yes?"

"I can't move. You can't leave me like this."

71

Remo shook his head. "It'll wear off in fifteen minutes. Relax and enjoy it. You'll feel great when it's over."

Out front, Remo walked to the first yellow cab waiting in line. He leaned in the open window on the passenger's side.

"You go out of town?" he asked the driver.

"If the price is right."

"Rye, New York."

"Too far," the driver said.

"A hundred dollars."

'The price is right," the driver said.

Remo handed him the manila envelope. "This has to be placed in the hands of a Doctor Harold Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. You got it?"

"Got it: Must be important."

"Not really."

"Where's my hundred?"

Remo handed him a fresh hundred-dollar bill. While the driver inspected it, Remo looked at the nameplate over the taxi meter. When the driver looked back at Remo, Remo said, "Now, Irving, I know your name and your cab number. If that isn't delivered, I'm going to make your life Interesting."

The driver looked at Remo with disdain. His right hand moved instinctively across the seat, toward a stillson wrench he kept there in full view.

"How interesting?" he asked mockingly.

Remo reached both hands in the window and picked up the wrench.

"This interesting," he said. He bent the wrench in both hands. The thick iron handle snapped in half. He dropped both halves on the seat.

72