Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain by Jonathan Bloom (bookreader TXT) 📗

written on parchment – that this was going to end up with the police striking and the local government unprepared to do anything about it.

Junk acted fast. He remembered the names of the wealthy families to whom he had sold soda in front of the church during leaner times. He went door to door, visiting them in their homes on Beacon Hill and outlying areas. He let them know things were about to get scary in their fair town. He let them know if the police did stop working and chaos ensued, chances were high the wealthy would be targeted. Their houses burned, their women raped, their children taken from them, and their own lives snuffed out. Junk also let them know that for a daily fee, he could ensure their safety with his own security force until such a time the conflict had subsided. He ensured them this was not like mafia security. Signing up was optional, and they could stop paying at any time.

It is a testament to Junk’s amazing way with people that almost every family he visited took him up on the offer. Each paid him tens of thousands of dollars for protection from the riotous hoards. They signed a contract and in return were handed a piece of paper with details about the paramilitary officer who would be summoned to their house if a strike should occur. His new customers went on to tell friends about Junk and McGee’s service, and those people immediately came looking for protection.

On the evening of September 9th, as Junk predicted, the city descended into madness. The police went on strike, and the local and state governments were not able to replace the officers until the next day. Throughout the evening, rule of law was suspended. Violence broke out in every corner of the city. Windows were smashed, people were assaulted, and fires were started.

Very quietly, out of the picket lines, several hundred striking officers disappeared into the night. They individually arrived at homes with well-manicured lawns and at perfectly maintained row houses. Greeted graciously by the people inside, maybe offered a sandwich or a cup of coffee, these officers then went about the business of vigilantly standing guard outside of their employers’ homes, waiting to bash in the skulls of any rioters who chose to target their charge.

The officers were getting paid only slightly more than the city paid them, which was fine given the city had no intention of paying them during a strike anyway. Junk and McGee had little overhead to worry about. Most of the revenue went right into their pockets. Between the times Junk started selling the security services until the evening of the infamous Boston Police Strike – a period of about two weeks – historians estimate Junk and McGee pulled in almost one million dollars in pure profit.

Then Junk and McGee took their profits and bet it all - and considerably more - on the Cincinnati Reds in the infamous 1919 World Series. A friend of Junk’s named Nicky Arnstein had let him know “the fix was in” and the heavily favored White Sox planned to throw the game. Exactly one month to the day after the police strike, Junk turned one million dollars into tens of millions of dollars.

Junk and McGee were now major players in Boston. They ran legitimate business and they ran the streets between them. They drank watered down ale in the seediest dives in South Boston, and they drank the finest single malt scotch at private functions along The Commons. They had connections high and low, among public officials and private businessmen. Junk especially made waves because of his impressive social gifts. McGee often chose to lay low and attend to business. Junk was the face of their power. Everyone knew him. It would not be an exaggeration to say that by the opening of the 1920’s, Aaron Junk owned the city of Boston.

On the trail, Hoyt and Junk did not speak to each other. Progress was slow. Snow and slush reached to their belts. They were soaked to the bone, making everything heavier. Even good friends would have kept conversation to a minimum in such conditions. Every bit of energy was focused on moving forward.

As they ascended, the weather improved. The rain let up. The sun shined. But the temperature dropped and the wind picked up behind the departing front. The sun was setting when they reached the top of Mount Madison, and they set up camp in brutal conditions.

In the night, the wind continued to pick up outside of their tents. Junk was introduced to a kind of cold he had never known before. Every muscle he had was in a state of total rigor. As Hoyt had predicted, everything was frozen, including the wool hat Junk wore on his head as he searched in vain for dreams in his sleeping bag.

It was then things got worse. Junk’s tent, which was also frozen after sitting wet in his backpack on the ascent, succumbed to the howling wind. It did not rip. “In its frozen state, the roof actually cracked and then rose up like a drawbridge. I was suddenly looking at the tops of aspens framing a starry sky.” Humility had not been in Junk’s lexicon until that night. He simply had no alternative but to hop over to Hoyt’s tent in his sleeping bag and beg for entry. The two men spent the rest of the night in the same tent, which potentially kept them alive. Both Hoyt and Junk would return from the trip with advanced frostbite on their toes. Hoyt would lose one to amputation.

Having been cut off by his father, William Hoyt had no home, no finances, and no family. Wizzy’s parents were fond of the young man and agreed to take him in for a few months or until he was back on his feet and Wizzy herself did not hesitate to pay for everything. Over the course of