The Devil Wears Wings

by Harry Whittington

  "Sure. Unless somebody said, Buz Johnson was in on it. Buz Johnson could fly a plane over there and back in that questioned time. And that's what they would say."

  "You're nuts. Why would they even suspect you?"

  "I don't know. But if they did, there would be their answer."

  "There's no reason for them to suspect you. A town a hundred miles away. A robbery. A getaway in a car. They find the abandoned car, and that's the end of the trail."

  "What about the weather?"

  "What?"

  "What about the weather?"

  "What about it? What's the weather got to do with it?"

  "Everything. If it were bad enough, we'd be grounded. If it were too good, there would be a sky full of planes."

  "So what? We'd be just another plane."

  "Not if the plane were stolen. What is the owner of the plane going to do while we use it? He'll report it, and they'll be looking for it."

  "So. Have you got a better idea?"

  "Yeah. Drop the whole thing. Any time a man comes to me with a plan that has to do with flying and he's too stupid even to figure in the weather-that's all I need to hear."

  "How in hell would I know what the weather would be?"

  "You'd find out. That's how in hell you'd know. You wouldn't make your first move until you did know."

  "All right. I'll buy that."

  I stared at him. Did he think I was nuts enough to go for a chowderhead plan like this? Obviously he did. He was sweating, even trembling slightly with his inner excitement.

  "The hell with you," I said. "I was just showing you the holes in your plan. I was just trying to keep you from getting your tail full of lead. I wouldn't touch it."

  "All right. Maybe it is a little rough around the edges-"

  "A little rough? My God. You got to consider everything-but the weather most of all when you're flying. You got to know how far to the nearest airport, the nearest place you could stash the plane… Go on, get out of here."

  Coates was laughing. "You've thought of a caper like this before."

  I didn't answer for a moment. In that time I seemed to see Jimmy Clark's snarling smile, the Glad Hand Finance Company offices, the Old Sarge's bar, this room.

  "Yeah," I said after what seemed a long time to me. "I've thought about it."

  "So. All right. So here's our chance to make a killing."

  I shook my head. "A guy thinks about a lot of things when he gets broke or drunk-or both. That don't mean I'd touch your idea. I got just one thing to say to you, Coates."

  "Yeah? What's that, ole buddy?"

  "Get out of here."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning at seven o'clock the telephone rang. I tried to outwait it and couldn't. Finally I rolled over in bed and lifted the receiver. It was Coates. I immediately recognized that silly laugh. "You've had most of the night to think it over, ole buddy-"

  I slapped down the receiver. I lay there a long time. It had the feel of another hot day, dry, still air and an early morning glare on everything beyond my windows. At last I got up, showered and dressed. I admitted I had not slept all night, but it had nothing to do with Coates and his fool plan. It was just that everything was adding up, crowding in with time running out, like a drink tab you're unable to pay three minutes before closing in some swank bar.

  I went down to the cafй on the corner for breakfast, but when I got there I wasn't hungry. I had a cup of coffee and then went out, carrying my leather jacket across my shoulder, to wait for a bus. Suddenly I couldn't do it. I couldn't ride a crowded bus this morning. It was the one thing I couldn't take. At least a dozen people were at the bus stop waiting with me and only God knew how many would be jammed and sweating in the bus when it finally arrived.

  I rammed my hand in my pocket, counted my change. I had just enough for a cab to the airport and a dime tip. It was a hell of a lousy tip, all right. I remembered times in Paris when we had thrown francs at the taxi men. Francs had no more value than soap coupons to us. They weren't real, and it wouldn't have mattered if they were real.

  I got out of the cab at the terminal building at Sunpark International. I walked through it, hearing the people chattering and hurrying, all of them going somewhere, and buying insurance before they took off. There was a racket I wished I was in; it rated just slightly under owning Texas oil wells.

  I went out the baggage exit and walked toward Hangar 2 where Jimmy Clark's face beamed down in phony benevolence on everything.

  I stopped walking. It had nothing to do with the sign. It was Judy. I felt the muscles in my stomach go taut. She was standing over there, trim and lovely in her stewardess uniform, talking with Jimmy Clark. She had her back to me, and for a moment I marvelled at the soft way her hair grew from under her cap and along the nape of her neck. I knew it was Judy; I would know her around a corner. I didn't need to see her. I could sense her nearness. It had been this way for a long time, a long, hopeless time.

  Right now, though, I didn't want her to see me. There was no reason for it, but her being there talking to Jimmy Clark angered me. Besides, talking to her never got us anywhere any more.

  I turned on my heel and walked back toward the lobby. I was almost there when I heard her speak my name.

  "Buz."

  "Oh. Hello"

  "You were running away from me," she said. She had a voice that hurt you somehow. It was throaty and had just the touch of violins. I had it bad? Sure. I'd had it bad for a long time.

  "You were talking to Jimmy."

  "I was waiting for you."

  "I hope so. I hate to think you hang around Jimmy Clark from

  choice."

  She bit at her lip. "Please don't, Buz. He is my stepfather whether you like it or not."

  "I'm glad I don't have to like it."

  "He's always been very nice to me."

  "I'll bet."

  "Oh, Buz. Can't you get rid of the hate talk? How can you think such things?"

  I shrugged. "Well, here we go again. So long, Judy."

  "Buz, wait."

  I stopped. The glare of the sun was painful against my eyes. I felt them sting.

  "I wanted to talk to you, Buz," she said.

  "Well, there's always my bed. Why don't you come up?"

  "Oh, no, Buz. I told you. Not any more. Not ever any more."

  My jaw tightened. "Yes. You've told me. In fact, it seems to me you get some kind of perverse pleasure from telling me."

  "Oh, Buz, that isn't true. I loved you once. I think I'm still in love with you now."

  "Sure."

  "But it's impossible, Buz. I-I'm sorry but I can't throw my life away."

  I exhaled. "Now you begin to sound like Jimmy Clark."

  "I'm sorry. It's just that I can't stand it when we hurt each other. That's why I know we shouldn't see each other. We only hurt each other every time."

  "All right. Like you said. I was running away from you."

  Her deep eyes showed tears. We both pretended to ignore them.

  "Are you all right, Buz? You know what I mean."

  "Good Lord, the bars don't even open until nine."

  "I know. But you don't always wait."

  I stared at the backs of my hands. "How could you ever have loved me and think what you do about me?"

  "Well, I did love you. Not for the mistakes you kept making, but for what you were really, Buz-what you could be."

  She stared at me-then, with effort, made her voice relax. "But I did want you to be sober this morning."

  "Why? Isn't this a day like all other days?"

  She touched my arm. "Inside the lobby, Buz. A friend of yours. An old friend. I didn't want you to see him though- if you'd been drinking."

  "You'd make a fine mother hen. You know that, don't you?"

  "Oh, yes. I know what I am, all right." She gave me a turn and gently shoved me toward the lobby doors She turned then and walked back toward Hangar 2 where I saw Jimmy Clark watching us, unsmiling.


  I went through the glass doors, glanced toward the lunch counter which was crowded, the waiting area which was crowded, children crying and women looking bedraggled even in the air conditioning. I saw no one I knew and wondered what to do until Judy left Hangar 2 and I could go to my purgatory in peace. The Rudder Room topside wasn't opened yet, wouldn't be for another hour. If Ollie were up there, I might rattle a door until he let me in.

  But I despised the idea of sitting surrounded by that much alcohol as broke as I was. It was Thursday and Clark would delay paying me until as late as possible Friday afternoon, and most of that pay was gone already. Ollie could run a tab for me, but if he were caught, he could lose his job, too. He would take a chance for me, but I couldn't ask him to.

  "Hey, Buz! Chicken. Chicken Johnson. Is that you, boy?"

  I heeled around, hearing a voice that was like something out of one of my purple nightmares.

  Greenie was running toward me. His swarthy face was pulled into a twisted grin. In that moment all I could see was that the poor bastard was getting old. He was getting bald, and fat.

  "Greenie. Good Lord. Greenie."

  I caught him in my arms and hoisted him from the floor. This caused all the hurried people in the place to pause and stare and laugh because, although Greenie was only a couple inches taller than I, he weighed a good two hundred pounds. "Man, are you getting fat."

  He laughed, pounding me on the back. "Son, I'm eating more chicken than a preacher." He glanced over his shoulder and I noticed the two Latin types he'd been standing with. They were runty men, and oily, but their clothes had the expensive look about them that can't be faked. "Is there some place we can talk, Buz? I'm between planes. We're riding ASA south this morning. I sure would like to talk to you a few minutes."

  "Sure," I said. "We can go up to the Rudder Room. It isn't open yet. I'll get it opened."

  He grinned and slapped my shoulder. But something odd flickered in his face. "Never was a bar you couldn't open up, eh, Buz?"

  "I reckon we've done some drinking together."

  "A long time ago, Buz."

  He walked back to where his Latin boys stood watching him as if they were frightened and lost without him. I saw them gesticulating and glancing at their watches. He argued them down and then came back, carrying his coat across his arm. His suit was well-tailored, too. Greenie looked as if he were in the money. Only, for the first time I noticed that he needed a shave and probably hadn't slept all night on whatever flight had brought him in.

  ***

  We sat in a booth in the Rudder Room. Ollie brought us a bottle of whisky and went away. Greenie said, "Just some mineral water for me, huh?" Ollie nodded and brought it.

  "What happened to you and whisky, Greenie?" I said, gesturing a salute before I drank off the first one.

  He frowned, watching me. "Just-don't need it any more, Buz." He glanced around, looked at his watch. He said he didn't have time for anything but a quick recap of the past ten years since we'd seen each other. We tried, but we couldn't stay away from the hellish times we'd had together in the Air Force.

  Thinking about it, I poured a double.

  "How are things with you, Buz?"

  I almost lied, involuntarily. The whisky had struck my empty stomach and reverberated to the top of my skull. After all, Greenie was just passing through. He was riding high; this was obvious. Why bore him with my woes? Besides, I never had liked admitting I couldn't even buy an old friend a drink.

  "I'm doing all right." I reached for the bottle.

  He touched my arm. "You hittin' this stuff pretty heavy?"

  "For God's sake, what's heavy?"

  He laughed after a moment. "Yeah. That's right." He glanced at his watch again. "It was just that I'd heard you were off the stuff, Buz."

  "Hell, where'd you ever pick up a canard like that? I told you. I'm doing all right."

  "What's all right?"

  "I get by."

  "Get by? Buz, that's not good enough for you. Look, you saw the clowns downstairs I'm with. They're from a fancy SA republic. They want to improve their airline down there. Nothing fancy. Just TWA with chrome. I've been running it for them. And it's coming along. You wouldn't believe it, Buz, we're up here placing orders for new DC-7's, and we'll have the first jet service down there. It's a big operation and it's rich. And there's a place for you, Buz. Jesus. That goes without saying. Anywhere I am, there's a place for you."

  I pushed the bottle away. "You haven't much time, Greenie. I'll level. I've been fired by all the big ones. I drink pretty hard-no matter what you heard. It's nothing I want to do. But here it is."

  "Hell, Buz. You can lay it down, like you picked it up. I know. You think I haven't heard about you in these past years? Sure, you drank. You've lost jobs. But you never worked an operation like this-so big it takes the place of drinking. Man, at first I had a hell of a time staying sober. But then I got busy. I was working hard at something I loved, I was accomplishing something, making something big out of nothing. Hell, now I can drink once in a while, or never."

  "You got it made," I said.

  The p.a. system announced the ASA flight. He stood up. He found a card in his coat pocket, scribbled his address on it. "Buz, you listen. Come to work for me. High pay. Good hours. Wonderful planes. And you're working for me-I'll give you a chance to dry out if you need it. You'll be on the payroll and nobody can get to you boy, except through me. Don't make up your mind right now. You keep this card. Wire me. I'll send you expense money-an advance. I'll get you down there-and boy, it'll be like Army days-only with real money, no bullets, and an air service that just grows and grows. You think it over, you hear?"

  He dropped the card on the table, tossed a fifty dollar bill on top of it to cover the tab, knowing damned well I'd keep the change, wanting me to. He slapped me on the shoulder again. His eyes glistened and he grinned. "We gave 'em hell, didn't we, Buz?"

  He grabbed up his coat and then he was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I sat there for a long time after Greenie left, sat with that fifty dollar bill crushed in my fist. Finally I paid Ollie, tipping him handsomely and walked slowly down the steps. Greenie was gone and I had a sense of loss and emptiness. It was lost, all of it, all we'd had, all we'd done. Even the men we had been, they were gone too. And what was left? A goodhearted guy named Greenie offering charity to a guy he once had loved.

  For a moment I couldn't help seeing the way it would be to have money again, a real ship to fly, something to accomplish. My hands shook. I rammed them in my pockets, touching the money Greenie had left me.

  "Buz."

  I shivered and had an impulse to run. I didn't want to see her. Why in hell couldn't she let me alone?

  I turned. Her smile was like something someone had painted on crookedly.

  "How'd it go, Buz?"

  "Greenie? Oh, we had a drink together. Hacked up old memories."

  "He didn't say anything else?" Her voice was flat. I looked at her, the soft, violet-blue eyes, the flesh with the glowing tint to it, and the stewardess uniform that could do nothing to her body except accentuate it. For a moment I didn't say anything. She was as tall as I and her eyes held mine levelly.

  I pretended to glance around the lobby. "Where is Jimmy Clark?" I said. "Since when does he allow you to talk to me out of his sight?"

  "Are things so bad with you and Jimmy, Buz?"

  "How else would they be? He hates my guts. He's also afraid I might touch you. He's got the damned fool idea you're nuts about me."

  "Where'd he ever get an idea like that?"

  "Not from me."

  "No. Not from you."

  She touched my arm, led me across the gleaming terrazzo floor to a leather couch that had just been vacated. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows I could see the commercial planes out on the runways. Without intending to, I looked for the ASA flight. It was far down a runway, charging up for the take-off into the wind. I shivered.

  "I ca
me in this morning," Judy said. Her hand was still on my arm. I pretended to scratch my cheek so I could covertly bump her hand away. I saw her bite her lip, then smile quickly. "As I told you, I was on the plane with a friend of yours."

  I felt the chill deepen.

  "Greenie," she said. "How many times I've heard you talk about him. Greenie. The times you two used to have together. I saw his name on the manifest. I asked if he had ever been a pilot. Buz, when I mentioned you, I couldn't get away from him. He wouldn't stop talking. He really thinks you're wonderful."

  I stared at my clenched fists. "I suppose you told him all about me? How I've quit drinking and all that?"

  "What do you mean, Buz?"

  "You know damned well what I mean. That I haven't two bucks, that I can't even ask the girl I love to marry me, that the job I have depends on how much crap I can take. Did you ask Greenie to hire me?"

  "Oh, no, Buz. I didn't. He said he was looking for you. He'd been looking for you for years. He didn't think he'd have time to see you. He asked me to tell you to get in touch with him at once."

  "Well, I saw him."

  "I know. Oh, Buz. I'm so glad for you."

  "Are you?"

  "You are going to take the job, aren't you, Buz?"

  "What job?"

  "Oh, Buz. He wanted to give you a job. With his airline. A really good job, with flight pay-"

  "You really covered all the details, didn't you?"

  She bit her lip again. "Shouldn't I have, Buz? Should I pretend I wasn't interested? Of course I'm interested."

  "So interested you told him I'd quit drinking, begged him to hire me?"

  "Buz, no."

  I cursed. "I don't want his damned charity."

  "Buz, it's not charity. It's a firm offer. He needs good fliers."

  "Sure. But not drunks. You talked him into this little charity, didn't you?"

  "Buz, you're not a drunk. You don't need to be. You could be anything-if you had the chance."

  "Is that the line you gave Greenie?"

  "Oh, Buz. You don't want to go on like this. Where is your pride?"

  Pride? There was a lovely word. Sometimes I asked myself about my pride. I was made of it, ninety-nine percent, I was a proud man. But I'd lost all right to pride. I was beaten and dejected and I tried consciously to ignore my pride until someone pushed me too hard, too far. Then I raged back and no matter what common sense might dictate, there I was, the proud man, getting his nose broken, his teeth smashed, but proud.