The engine had a problem. It was running foul, firing wrong, missing beats. And there was another problem. Abe’s airfield had been designed for Poll. Because Poll was slow, she didn’t need much room to land or take off. And when the Miami authorities had approved the grant of land for an airfield, they had approved enough for Poll and not an inch more. The little racing plane didn’t have room to land.
The little plane howled overhead, its engine note all wrong. Abe watched, helpless. The longest strip of clear space on the airfield was on the diagonal, but a line of telegraph poles ruled out that approach. The little plane came to the same conclusion. It buzzed off towards the southwest, but Abe knew that the south-west held few options. A beach was fine for Poll’s slow and sturdy ways. But a racing plane could easily smash up on a beach. No. Abe corrected himself. Not could, would. Would smash up. Abe stared another moment, then ran to Poll. If he could get airborne fast, he could follow the pilot, and be on hand for the coming catastrophe.
But he was too late. The little plane came again. She was flying desperately low to the ground, tree-skimming and dune-hopping. Abe breathed slowly and evenly through his mouth. He silently urged the pilot not to do what he was about to do.
In vain.
The little plane sank lower. It was flying just twenty feet off the ground, dead level with the telegraph poles, dead level with the wire. It was an insane way to fly in any case, but here on the coast, with the turbulent ocean breezes making any manoeuvre vastly more difficult, it was beyond lunatic. The plane kept coming. Heading for the telegraph wire, heading for extinction.
The plane got closer – closer – closer – then at the last possible moment dipped its nose down. Like a terrier easing under a gate, the little plane scuffed its way beneath the wire. Its wingtips were so close to the telegraph posts on either side, Abe could virtually hear them twang. The pilot held his four feet of altitude another half second, then touched down on the airfield within mere yards of the boundary.
It was precision flying of the highest calibre, but the danger wasn’t over.
The pilot had already cut his approach speed to the bare minimum, but the plane was still running too fast. The aircraft tore across the airfield, kicking up a storm of dust from its wheels, its tailskid digging into the sand. Slowly – too slowly? – the racer lost speed. The pilot was using fullback stick, to drive the tail down and maximise drag from the wings. All the same, the little plane bounded three-quarters of the way across the field – then four-fifths – then nine-tenths – then ended up, engine still running, just fifteen yards from a three-foot ditch.
After a short pause, the racer made a cautious turn and bumped slowly up to the hangar.
Up close, the machine was beautiful – stunning. Abe recognised the plane as one of the Curtiss R6 series of planes, purpose-built racers, winners of all the flying competitions in 1922 and 1923, and holders of the world speed record before the Europeans had snatched it back. The plane was power and force and beauty and speed. Abe was open-mouthed with envy and delight.
The plane came up and stopped. The air emptied of sound, huge and hollow after the noise.
Abe looked at the pilot, whose head poked out from a cockpit screened by a low windshield raked back hard from the nose. The pilot was only just visible in the cramped cockpit, dust- and oil-stained, still helmeted and goggled, but obviously young and boyish. The pilot caught Abe’s glance and raised a gauntleted hand.
Abe nodded in answer.
The hand fell back and thumped the edge of the cockpit twice. The gesture meant ‘Thanks, old girl’, or maybe, ‘Thanks and sorry’. It was a gesture Abe had used often enough. He knew the pilot’s feelings: a mixture of relief, exhaustion, happiness, shock – a bubbling brew which took hours to settle.
The pilot took another few moments to gather himself, then pulled a face. The face might have meant something about luck and close shaves and being relieved, or it might just have been that his heart was still pounding in his chest and he was too tired to say anything sensible. Abe stood back, didn’t try to rush things.
Then the newcomer pulled off his goggles and dropped them in the cockpit. He was young, terribly young, reminiscent of the boys who had served with Abe in France. Served and died, in so many cases. He stood back as the pilot got ready to jump out. For a second – or less, perhaps just half a second – the pilot paused, as though expecting Abe to step forwards and offer a hand. But maybe not. Shock could make even the most familiar things seem strange. In any case, the pause ended. The pilot put his hands to the side of the cockpit and rolled his body out and onto the ground. He was around Abe’s height and, as far as you could tell anything about a person wrapped head to toe in sheepskin, thin.
‘That was a heck of a landing. One of the best bits of flying I’ve ever seen.’
The pilot smiled and puffed out with relief. Then he put his hand to his head and removed his helmet.
Or rather, not.
Not his head, his helmet. But her head, her helmet. Abe goggled in astonishment as a pretty sandy bob emerged into the strong Miami light. The pilot’s face was boyish, but it was boyish the way that the fashion plates in the women’s magazines were boyish, fine-boned but unfussy, clear-skinned, fresh and direct. It was an attractive face, the sort of face a man could like straight away and never change his mind about.
The woman smiled.
‘Hi.’
22
As problems went, it ought to have been a small one.
The Association of Orthodox Synagogues was expecting a consignment of ‘Sacred Books and Sacramental Materials’ from a Long Island based import-export outfit. The documents were in good order. The goods were in Long Island, ready for delivery. Insurance and transportation arrangements had been settled. But there was a problem.
The customer named on the delivery note was the Association of Orthodox Synagogues. But the beneficiary named in the insurance documentation was the Associated Synagogues of New York. Did it matter? Maybe not. But if there was a screw-up and Powell Lambert took a hit, then it would be Willard who suffered, no one else.
Larry Ronson wasn’t around at the time Willard ran into the issue. Willard didn’t like Leo McVeigh and didn’t want to ask him. Iggy Claverty and Charlie Hughes were both there, but Willard guessed Claverty was bound to be flippant and Hughes fussy and nervous. Sunshine cut across the room, hurting Willard’s eyes, reminding him of his time in the cockpit, when throwing the plane around in the sky made the sun bob and spin like a wild thing…
He strode across the room and pulled down a blind. Annie caught his eye and smiled at him. She smiled at him more than at Ronson now. Willard noticed and was pleased. He went back to his desk. The problem was still there. Sunshine still swam in through a flaw in the blind. The Association of Orthodox Synagogues? The Associated Synagogues of New York? Which? Willard dialled a number, got no reply. To hell with it.
The documents both contained the same address, which was only a short walk away on the Lower East Side. Willard jumped up.
‘I’m going out, Annie. Shan’t be long.’
She smiled at him again and tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. It was a menace that strand: always falling loose and needing to be put back, especially when she knew he was watching her. Willard didn’t flatter himself that she was flirting, but he knew that she was very aware of his presence.
In a rare good mood, he strode north, but as he got closer, his mood evaporated. The neighbourhood was a poor one. There was something edgy in the air: smells of bad plumbing, decaying masonry, conversations that fell silent as he approached. He found the address: a shabby doorway at the bottom of a concrete staircase. A domestic argument droned angrily from a nearby room. There was no plate on the door. Split green linoleum rippled underfoot – Willard noticed it particularly, because he had just taken delivery of half a dozen pairs of handmade shoes. He was wearing a pair now, and his feet were sore and uncomfortable in the stiff new leather. H
e rang the bell.
No answer. He rang again. Then, just as he was about to give up and go, an Irishman, unshaved, wearing trousers and his undervest came to the door.
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh… Excuse me, I believe I must have the wrong address.’
‘Who d’you want?’
‘I understood that a Jewish religious organisation was based here. As I say, I must –’
‘Huh? Kikes?’
There was a muffled shout from the dark interior beyond the Irishman’s shoulder. ‘Uh … wait a moment, will you,’ he said, and disappeared.
When he came back, he’d found a shirt from somewhere, but hadn’t bothered to button it.
‘Sure, you’re right. At least, they’re not here exactly, but… What d’you say your name was?’
‘My name is Willard Thornton, representing the Trade Finance department of Powell Lambert.’
Willard handed the man a card, who blinked at it, and stuffed it into a greasy pocket. ‘Jesus!’ He pronounced the name the Irish way, Jay-sus.
‘You can get a message to them?’
‘I can, sure. There’s a fellow, black coat and that, a rabbi. I guess he’ll give you a call, maybe. Is that all you’ll be wanting? OK.’
The door slammed shut. From inside, a burst of laughter crashed against the shabby plywood. Willard was suddenly angry. Whatever had just happened, he had the sense of being made a fool of. He folded his fist, wanting to smash it through the door, wanting a fight.
He didn’t, of course, but when he got back to Powell Lambert, he sought out Ronson. Willard explained the problem in angry, affronted tones. Ronson looked serious.
‘You think there might be a problem with this outfit?’
‘It was no place to find a bunch of…’ Willard swallowed the word ‘kikes’ and used the word ‘rabbis’ instead. ‘The place was a shithole, Larry, honestly.’
‘You worry somebody’s playing us for suckers? That’s your worry?’
‘Well, good Lord, something didn’t add up.’
‘Maybe. On the other hand, there’s no law against shitholes. And the thing with the insurance note, I’ve had that before. The insurance clerks just scribble down whatever the hell they want. No attention to detail. Now what I’d do if I were you…’
The conversation drifted into the comforting detail of paperwork and insurance forms. Willard was grateful to Ronson for his help. Iggy Claverty came over and helped out too. The problem seemed resolved.
And that was all.
Or almost.
Going home that evening, Willard happened to ride in the same elevator as McVeigh. The two men exchanged a couple of words, then fell silent. The elevator moved slowly, people got in, got out. The compartment emptied. All the time, Willard felt McVeigh’s heavy gaze pressing on him. When Willard turned, the big man, with his cropped red hair and football player’s neck, was looking squarely at him, unblinking.
‘Yes?’ said Willard.
McVeigh shook his head.
‘You’ve been staring at me all the way down,’ Willard persisted.
McVeigh paused a second, then stepped half a pace closer. His head was too close. Though Willard weighed in at an athletic one hundred and eighty pounds, McVeigh must have had another forty pounds on him at least. There was something directly threatening in his attitude. Willard’s anger flared. Whatever McVeigh’s problem was, Willard had no intention of backing down.
‘Careful,’ said McVeigh. ‘Asking questions, like you were today.’
‘What d’you mean?’
McVeigh shrugged.
‘What d’you mean? Why the hell shouldn’t I ask questions?’
McVeigh came a little closer still. He had small blue eyes, lost beneath a broad expanse of forehead. ‘Just be careful what you ask and who you ask. You wouldn’t want to…’
The elevator hit the ground floor. Willard clanked open the inner door, then the outer one. The two men held their pose of near-aggression a second longer.
‘I’ll ask who I want, what I want, and I don’t suppose I need to ask your permission, Leo.’
‘That’s up to you.’ McVeigh looked like he was trying to take some of the heat out of the situation, but a muscle continued to clamp and unclamp in his jaw. ‘You do what you like. Just remember … anyhow, goodnight.’
McVeigh turned and walked away. For a big man, he was light on his feet and fast. Willard found himself thinking that man could be dangerous. For the second time that day, he found his fist curled into a ball, wanting to thump something.
23
‘I’m Hamilton, Pen Hamilton. Short for Penelope only no one ever calls me that.’
Abe shook her hand. ‘Abe Rockwell. Welcome to Miami.’
‘Abe Rockwell? Captain Rockwell? … Oh, gosh, what a way to meet you! Gee!…’ The woman flier was briefly flustered by finding herself in front of one of the two or three most famous aviators in the United States, but Abe was used to this reaction and brushed it away. ‘I can land the normal way too, you know,’ she added.
‘I bet you can.’
‘I was lucky the sand was soft.’
‘You were lucky you knew how to fly.’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t sure I needed to land. The engine was missing beats, but I still had power. Maybe I could have gone on.’
‘It wasn’t just the distributor blocks, maybe?’
Pen pulled an apologetic face: the first really girlish thing she’d done. The face said, ‘I couldn’t tell a distributor block from a humpback whale.’
‘The distributor blocks on the magnetos,’ Abe pursued. ‘They get coated with carbon when the engine’s running. But they were cleaned before you took off, right?’
‘I’m sorry, Captain. I’m sure I ought to know, but I don’t. They told me she was OK to go.’
Abe felt a jolt of irritation. During the war, he had no time for pilots who couldn’t strip, clean and reassemble an engine. The reason why Abe’s squadron had the best serviced airplanes in the American Army was that Abe made his pilots responsible for the airworthiness of their equipment. It was an attitude he regarded as sacred. And by those standards, Pen Hamilton’s ignorance was shocking, an insult to aviation.
And yet… Pen Hamilton was a woman. She had handled her machine with a rare combination of courage, force and delicacy. She had made a horrendous landing look almost easy – and was now handling herself not with bravado but with modesty. Abe let his irritation pass.
‘The problem sounded to me like your magnetos. If so, you could have gone on to wherever you were going. I’ll take a look, if you want. And please, Miss Hamilton, there’s no need to –’
‘Oh no, call me Pen, please.’
‘Then I’m Abe. No Captains around here, if you don’t mind.’
They grinned at each other, suddenly comfortable.
‘You’ll want to come in and get cleaned up. And something to eat or drink? I was about to have something myself.’
They went in.
Abe could see Pen noticing Abe’s camp bed in the corner of the hangar, his makeshift kitchen, and his barren wardrobe, the logo on Poll’s fuselage: a mailbag in the very approximate shape of a shield with the words ‘US Mail’ stencilled across it. She noticed something else too. Above Abe’s crowded workbench ran a shelf at head height. The shelf was crowded with metal castings, polished, clean and free of dust. Pen looked at the collection with curiosity. The castings were models of aircraft, but not necessarily complete ones. Only four of the castings had nose cone, fuselage, tail, and a full set of wings, upper and lower on both sides. The rest were simply airplane pieces. A fuselage without wings. A wing without a body. A nose cone. A lot of nose cones. She picked up a few of the castings, ran her hands over them and put them down.
‘You make these?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Yes.’
‘And unusual. Beautiful and unusual.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Since Abe didn’t exactly seem full of chatter on the subject, Pen turned to a different topic. She indicated the mailbag stencilled on Poll’s side.
‘You’re flying the mails?’
Abe nodded
‘I didn’t know there was a route… To Cuba, I guess?’
Abe nodded.
‘Havana?’
Abe nodded.
‘Every day? Over water?’ She took in the information like a professional pilot, calculating the hazards, the safety margin, the rewards. ‘You must hit quite some weather at times.’
Abe gestured at Poll. ‘She’s a strong girl. We get through.’
‘Still…’
Pen washed her face and hands. Abe offered to walk out of the hangar so she could take a proper wash, but, since the washing facilities consisted of a cold tap and a tin water-scoop, Pen managed to resist. By the time she was done, Abe had laid out the only meal he could provide: bread, cold meat, some tomatoes, water. She came over to his little table. First she said she didn’t want anything, then, when Abe pressed her, she ate hungrily.
A moment’s awkward silence was covered by eating.
Abe wasn’t shy of girls. True, he didn’t see much of them. True, he’d never had a relationship that had lasted longer than a couple of months. But he wasn’t shy, nor even inexperienced. He’d dated girls, petted girls, slept with girls. The reason why his relationships had quickly fallen apart was that he’d never really wanted them. Abe knew his priorities and they had never included women. So, aged thirty-six, he wasn’t shy of girls, but he didn’t spend much time with them either.
Pen bit into a tomato. It was overripe. The skin split and spurted juice across the table and down her chin.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Abe gestured at his linenless table, his bare accommodation. ‘Sorry I haven’t got anywhere better.’
‘You …?’ Pen began to ask the obvious question, then dropped it, embarrassed.
‘Yeah, I’m living here for now. While I get the business started up. In time, I’d like to build a little. Extend the place at the back.’
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