Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “Well, let’s see what we got.” There was a moment’s pause during which I could hear Petey humming the inane music that the bells had been playing, accompanied by the clack of computer keys. “Well, we got three private fields. One’s connected to a big wholesale distributor out in East Haven.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be it.”

  “One’s a private flying club.”

  “Give me the details on—”

  “Oh, this is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a file on one out in Mom’s Cove that’s got a stop sign on it.”

  “Really? You don’t have that level of security clearance, do you?”

  “Well—not so you would notice, Fixx, but then I’ve always preferred going in the back door anyway. After all, I am but a servant of the State. Here we go. Oh wow! You’ll never guess. The field is owned by—”

  “Max somebody.”

  “Hey, don’t bruise my lines by stepping on them. Not just Max somebody. Maxwellton James!”

  A bell rang. Not one of the ones in Harkness Tower. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Well, you and I never worked with him.”

  “He was a gun runner.”

  “That’s right!”

  “Central America.”

  “Lot of frequent flyer miles to Honduras.”

  “How did we compensate him?”

  “Well, according to this, we didn’t.”

  “What was he, one of Reagan’s new George Washingtons?”

  “Nope. It just seems that we allowed him to transport certain illicit drugs back up here.”

  “Not, I would assume, for private consumption.”

  “Not unless he took an occasional toot for quality control.”

  “And this air field?”

  “Just never seen by the good old blind eye of Uncle Sam. Nor, it seems were the air fields he owns in Texas, Central California and in—”

  “Nome, Alaska.”

  “Yeah! Just outside of.”

  “And his current activities?”

  “None listed here. I guess he’s retired.”

  “A rich man?”

  “Well he’s got an expensive hobby.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He collects and refurbishes antique planes. You know World War One, World War Two war birds, that sort of stuff. Rents them to movies. He’s a big deal at air shows. Very respect—The Monkees!”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the bells were tolling. The theme from The Monkees!”

  “Oh. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, the bell tolls for cultural kitsch.”

  “Yeah! Hey, hey, we’re the—”

  “Petey?”

  “What?”

  “May I have the address of the air field?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, Fixxer!”

  *

  I walked back to my car, which I had left in a parking lot on York, across from the 305 Crown Street building. It was a rented Ford Taurus painted a very strange nightmare version of green. Just what I thought a freelance journalist on a limited expense account would be forced to rent. I drove out of the central city to the area known as Mom’s Cove, which sat on the wide mouth of the Quinnipiac River, where it merged with Long Island Sound. The airfield was not hard to find. It was a desolate plot of land surrounded by one of the tallest chain link fences I had ever seen. A narrow road with muddy, snow-slush tire ruts lead to the gate that had a dirty white sign on it that read in red letters:

  Private Air Field.

  Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.

  If They Survive Their Wounds.

  I parked the Ford and got out and went to the gate. It was locked with a brand new keypad system that was all shinny and sleek, compared to the fence, which obviously had had a long acquaintance with the various faces of weather. I looked through the fence. The property ran to the river’s edge. Between the fence and the shore was one lone runway, running perpendicular with the river’s edge; a large, two story hangar, much larger than one would think a field this size would need; and a small one story building, most likely the office, attached to the side of the hangar. There were no planes on the runway and no other activity that I could tell. There was one car parked by the hangar, a bright yellow Corvette.

  I decided, despite the sign, to make my way in. I went to the trunk of the car and pulled out the Bag o’ Tricks, a case just larger than a standard attaché that held an amazing variety of little tools lovingly created by Roee. I pulled from it the little device Roee was most lately proud of, and which he had dubbed, “Fingers Malloy.” Looking like a one button remote control, it housed various electronic this-and-thats, including a little microchip that had stored on it every possible combination a keypad was capable of. Attached to the side of a keypad, and the button pushed, “Fingers Malloy” tried every one with amazing rapidity until a match was found. Then it displayed the proper number sequence on a little screen. Unfortunately there are many combinations possible, so the amount of time one has to wait varies from a minute or two to twenty. That’s its only drawback. It could possibly keep you rooted in the illicit act longer than you felt comfortable. In the dead of night, under cover, that may not be a problem — especially if you have a good book and a tiny flashlight to kill time with, but in broad daylight with nothing to hide behind, it gave you a feeling reminiscent of that reoccurring nightmare where you show up for school with no shirt on.

  I did not have to be shirtless long. “Fingers Malloy” cracked it within a minute. It was an easy combination for an obviously easygoing mind: 7-4-76.

  I opened the gate and walked in, and stood for a second surveying the scene. The road with the ruts continued on to the hangar. Except for the runway, the ground was covered with dirty snow and pieces of litter that had been blown over the high fence. There was a bright blue winter sky overhead, looking as crisp as the air felt. I walked in the ruts, avoiding the deeper puddles, not wanting to chance a noisy slip on the old snow. When I got to the tarmac, I walked quietly and came around to the opening of the hangar. At the side of the hangar that had been hidden from the road stood a snowplow. Next to it was a small, weathered, burnt orange Clarke airplane tug with its fifteen foot lashed together tow bars jutting out from under its nose. Essentially a boxy little motorized muscle on wheels, the tug is used to pull airplanes in and out of hangers. Compared to the much larger snowplow, it was close to being cute, especially with the end of the tow bars resting on the little wheels that allow the driver to maneuver the bar as he drives.

  Inside the hangar, towards the back, stood two old C-23 transport planes. Not recently used, one had the feeling, but there was still magnificence to them as they stood there, their noses pointing slightly up in the natural snobbery of things that can fly. The rest of the hangar was fairly empty except for assorted tools and equipment that lay about haphazardly, and except for a man who was sitting on a chair, bent over the engine of a very small airplane that, like the tug, was also in danger of being cute. It was sleek—but things built to be aerodynamic often are—and all white except for some black trim. It couldn’t have been more that fifteen feet from prop to tail, with a wingspan of about the same length. The cockpit was only about four feet off the ground. Couldn’t have weighed more than 500 pounds. It looked like a large-scale model, or a serious toy.

  The man was dressed in exceedingly wrinkled gray coveralls, which, if they had been washed anytime in this decade, it was probably on the short cycle and with a brand of detergent that hadn’t engendered much customer satisfaction. His hair, what there was of it, was short cropped and gray. I walked into the hangar, making no noise, and came right up behind him.

  “Nice airfield,” I said by way of getting his attention.

  There was no jolt of surprise. He just stopped work on the engine, and turned his head around to face me. The eyes were gray also, not to mention his general complexion. He slowly twisted his body in a follow-through as he stood up before me
, scanning my particulars. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “And with such a friendly staff.” I countered.

  “This is a private airfield. How the hell did you get in?”

  “The gate was open.”

  “It was not.”

  “Look for yourself.”

  The man quick-paced out of the hangar and took a look towards the entrance. He saw the gate swung wide open. “Damn!” I heard him say. He turned around and returned to me. “Why didn’t you just drive in then, instead of sneaking up?”

  “Well, I did read your sign.”

  “So?”

  “I didn’t want you to take a shot at the car. It’s rented and I didn’t take out the insurance.”

  “Got coverage on yourself?”

  “Look, I’m a journalist…”

  “That’s hardly impressive.”

  “A freelance journalist, and I’m doing a story on Sara Hutton.”

  “Who?”

  “Sara Hutton. She’s the president and CEO of Olympic Pictures.”

  “I can see why you don’t have a steady job.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not very good, are you? Look around. No movie studios here.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed, but Sara Hutton went to school at Yale and she’s a pilot. I understand she kept her plane here.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I haven’t been here that long. Only been here about three months.”

  “Oh, really? That surprises me.”

  “Why?”

  “You look so—” I considered again the overalls. “Settled in.”

  “I’d ask you nicely to leave, but I’m not a nice guy. So, if you don’t, I’ll kick the crap out of you.”

  “Seen Max lately?”

  “Who?”

  “Well, maybe you have been here a short time. Maxwellton James. He owns this field.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I used to buy all my drugs from him.”

  Mr. Gray took a hard look at me. I had finally cracked him. “Yeah, asshole, I’m a bad guy, just like you and it was a pretty sweet deal when I used to get all my supplies from Max, and you know, I was sitting around the other day getting all nostalgic about it and realized how much I miss Max. Thought he and I could talk about a reunion.”

  “Max is retired.”

  “Retired? What’s the matter? He doesn’t like money anymore?”

  “Max has got plenty of money.”

  “Oh. Well, I hope he saved some for his old age.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, what’s this bullshit about being a reporter and doing a story on Sara Hutton. What do you know about Sara Hutton?”

  “Send a message to Max for me. Tell him we’ve been real disappointed since he ‘Went Hollywood,’ and we’re determined to bring him back into the family. Can you deliver that message, asshole?”

  “Sure, I can get it to Max.”

  “Good. Business concluded. Now tell me about the toy airplane.”

  “That’s not a toy. That’s a Cassutt racer.”

  “Oh, it actually flies.”

  “Yeah, it actually flies. About 300 miles an hour.”

  “Not much room for your luggage, though.”

  “I said it was a racer!”

  “You’re very serious about this plane, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, going to take it up right now. So why don’t you leave.” He started to walk out of the hangar, making it clear I should follow.

  “Sure, why not? You got the message and I’m sure you’ll deliver it. Now, listen, I’ll be back in one week’s time for the answer.”

  Once out of the hangar he jumped into the seat of the tug and started the engine. “Hey, wait a minute,” he shouted, stopping me.

  I turned around. He was gesturing for me to get closer so I could hear him over the engine. I assumed he was going to ask me my name. I had been expecting it and I was prepared to simply tell him that Max would know who I was, but he had something altogether different in mind. Just as I was in range, he suddenly lurched the tug to the left, causing the tow bars to swing on their tiny wheels swiftly to the right, sweeping me, unromantically, off my feet. I landed hard on the ground, then found myself oppressed by the full weight of his body landing on me, knocking the air out in a gasp. I would have lodged a formal protest if he hadn’t, at that point, grabbed my head and slammed it onto the pavement. After that, I was in no condition for the paperwork.

  *

  There are times when pain just simply defines existence. Especially when you are coming out of a deep, unnaturally induced, sleep and the pain is lodged in and around your head where, the natural assumption is, existence lies. It is interesting how, when you begin to regain consciousness, you start to delineate the pain, separating that which is within the cranium from that which is without. The very tactile pain of bruised and abraded flesh without, from the amorphous, seemingly non-corporeal, pain within. Then, of course, there is the decision making process of, “Should I move and possibly intensify the pain? Should I open my eyes? Do I really want to see where I am?”

  The first sense to poke out beyond the pain was my hearing. Making itself known through the disturbance of air was the high-pitched whine of an engine that seemed very far away. I didn’t care. I simply couldn’t muster concern for the very far away. Then an awareness that I was not lying down, as one would have expected, but seemed to be sitting upright, so upright I was stiff-necked, piqued my curiosity. I tried to move my head forward. I couldn’t, and something cut deep into my forehead when I tried. A rope most likely, I thought, as I had also just realized that my hands were tied behind my back. The rope around my head was probably tied to the rope around my wrists, I dispassionately deduced. Enough clear thinking had now invaded my head that I had no choice but to open my eyes to see the glimmer of the sun on the very white wings of a far away airplane that seemed to be coming directly at me from over the Quinnipiac River. It didn’t take but a second to realize that I sat, tied to a chair, in the middle of the runway.

  I appreciate the surreal as much as the next intellectually discriminating person, but having a plane land onto my lap was not quite irrationally odd enough to tolerate. I began to struggle with the loosely tied knots, assuming I had plenty of—

  Not far away! Just small! That damn Cassutt racer, and the tip of its right wing was just about to intersect with my neck!

  I lunged to my left and fell hard onto my side as the tiny Cassutt roared its small, but deadly, Doppler-effected roar over my painful head. It was pain I luxuriated in. It meant my head was still attached to the rest of me.

  I quickly got out of my loose bonds—obviously Mr. Gray did not tie me up for security, but just for the better positioning of my head, like a golf ball on a tee—and scrambled to my feet. The Cassutt was just banking a hairpin bank, obviously intending to give chase. I looked around me. There was no conceivable place to take cover outside of the hangar, but it was too far away, I knew I would never make it there in time. I thought of running to the gate and the car, but that was also quite a distance, plus I noticed that the gate had been shut again. I had no weapon on me, outside of a disarming wit, but I didn’t think the plane could take a joke. I looked over the snow-covered ground. It was not completely smooth. That might provide something. I ran, landing my feet flat to try to grip the snow and keep from sliding, at least until I wanted to. I could hear the subtle change in the sound of the Cassutt, which meant it was following. I had to use that sound as my gauge on how close it was getting, as I didn’t want to take my eyes away from the landscape I was weaving through and the task of spotting advantageous gullies and bumps. Still, the desire to turn my head was intense, but as you don’t want to look down during a high climb, I knew not to face this potential death by RPMs.

  I only needed to feel a millisecond of agitated air at my back to know it was the time. I saw and aimed for a little gully running perpendicular to the direction I was coming from; leaping and
twisting my body to land on my back. The Cassutt’s prop kicked up snow as its underbelly passed over me in a blur.

  Then my cell phone rang.

  As the only one who can call me was Roee, I figured I could get back to him, but the phone seemed insistent. Roee will always hang up after three rings and try again. On the fifth, I felt compelled to answer. “Roee, sorry, just a bit busy at—”

  “It’s Petey, you better listen,” I heard Roee say quickly.

  “Fixxer, wow! That was a close shave!”

  “Petey, how do you know that?”

  “I’ve been watching you on the satellite.”

  “The satellite?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked up high into the sky. I waved.

  “And a hardy hello to you too, Fixx!”

  “They’ve improved it since I was there.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Well, by any chance does that satellite have a laser on it that could beam down and zap this bastard?”

  Petey laughed at the thought. “Oh, Fixx! You’re such a fantasist! But, if you’ll go about twenty yards to the north, you’ll find a long stick, or something, just at the edge of the runway. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do finding you a weapon.”

  “A stick?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No laser?”

  “Not today, nope, sorry. Oops, head down!”

  The Cassutt roared past again.

  “Oooww, that sounded close.”

  I was still thinking of the stick. “Slingshot, by any chance?”

  “Sorry, David. Stand up and I’ll point you in the right direction.” I did. “Turn a little to the right—a little more—a little more. Run!”

  I ran to the runway as the Cassutt was now making a lazy bank. Mr. Gray had probably decided that cat and mouse wasn’t a bad game and he wanted to play it out. Just as Petey had said, I found a long, blond, rounded piece of wood poking out of a small snow bank on the edge of the runway. It looked like a broom handle. I grabbed it and pulled it out of the bank. It was a broom handle, it was a large push broom with a wide head with dull, colorless bristles. Probably used to clear the runway of litter and little piles of snow, but what the hell could I use it for? I turned and found that the Cassutt was heading over the runway towards me, descending to a position level with my chest. What could I do? I took a stance, planting my feet as solidly as I could, and held the broom like a baseball bat, its head an unwelcome counterweight at the bottom. Timing, of course, would be everything. I fixed my eye on the plane and wondered what his plan was. Slicing me through the middle with one of the wings, my top half getting kicked up into the air to spin a while before plopping back down to the ground; my bottom half remaining standing, half the man I used to be? Or hitting me straight on, letting the prop mince the meat that was me? Either way he was probably looking at me—a desperate man challenging him with nothing but a broom—and laughing uproariously. Yes, I could see that. He was now close enough to see. He was laughing uproariously.