Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army

by Steven Paul Leiva

  The crowd scanned the sky with binoculars, camcorders, or hand-shaded eyes. Suddenly an arm extending with a pointing finger shot out while a cry shouted out. People turned, more arms shot up and pointed. Off to the West, coming over the Pacific Ocean playing the part of the English Channel (an interesting bit of casting) came three Messerschmitt fighters flying in a triangular formation, their yellow noses bright in the sun. It was a formidable fear they engendered, coming in fast and low. When were the guns going to open up? Your gut wanted to know.

  “Scramble!” came over the loudspeaker and off at the mock RAF field four pilots ran like mad for their planes. The Messerschmitts started to strafe, small explosions chewing up the ground before them. One of the Spitfires, the one that sat quite apart from the others, exploded under the fire before its pilot could reach it. A special effect, of course. The plane could be quickly put to right and exploded over and over. The three Messerschmitts shot up into the sky. The three Spitfires followed. Then they put on a show. Flying lower than a real battle would have taken place, they mixed it up, pursuing each other, weaving, dodging, “bouncing” on each other. Over the loudspeaker we could hear their radio transmissions from the Spitfires, many “Tally Hos, Rabbit Leaders,” and a few, “Let’s get those bloody Krauts!” kind of dialog, somewhat lacking in authenticity whenever Sara Hutton’s female voice would shout out something like, “Wing man! Bandit Two ‘o clock!”

  The crowd loved it. They couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad guys, but it really didn’t matter. They OOOOOed when a plane was “hit” and started to bomb its way down to the ground, a trail of black smoke streaming from it, and AHHHHed just as the plane always pulled up at what seemed the last minute to rejoin the fight.

  It was—I have to admit—somewhat grand. Certainly Henderson and Pinsker expressed their delight in it. The five seemed to enjoy themselves, as well, although I think Brooke might have liked it if one of the planes had crash. At least I detected a little breath of disappointment whenever the planes recovered from their fall. Lydia was captivated. Her mouth hung open. She called it “amazing” about four times. When the loudspeaker announced the end of the show and the planes formed into two groups and prepared to land, she lead us all in vigorous applause.

  The Messerschmitts landed on the tarmac while the Spitfires landed on the grassy RAF field. One of the Messerschmitts, though, and one of the Spitfires, broke off from their comrades of the sky and taxied over to the area directly in front of us, the sound of their engines growing louder and louder, until they stopped and sputtered down into silence.

  The pilots ejected themselves from their planes in smooth, jaunty moves that saw them swing themselves out of the cockpits and land both feet on their wings, then cast themselves off onto the ground. Very romantic. They both were in costume. One was wearing an RAF flight officer’s uniform and leather jacket—pretty dashing. The other wore the uniform of a German fighter ace, a leather waist jacket, well-cut pants tapering down at the end and covered by high, well polished boots. Of the two the German uniform was the niftier. It often happens that way. Bad guys seem to have a better sense of design. British Redcoats: Natty, to say the least. Pirates: Eye patch, bandanna, and sash as defining accessories. Indians: Great use of feathers. Unless, of course, you consider the U.S. Cavalry to be the bad guys, but even they had nifty blue uniforms as opposed to the drab olive of today’s army. Darth Vader: A symphony in basic black.

  I could recognize Sara now; she was the pilot of the Spitfire. She took her leather flight cap off, smiled at us, and waved. The other pilot was a tall man, maybe six foot three, and large in build without being fat at all. When he took off his leather helmet we could see that he had dusty red receding hair that was strangely piled on his head. Then he reached up and pulled out bobby pins, I supposed, for his hair came tumbling down. It was very long, ending just above the small of his back, and narrow, falling between his shoulder blades. As he walked towards us, his hair blew up in the wind, it was that thin and light, and glowed with highlights from the sun that pierced it.

  The two walked up to us. “Hello everybody, hello Lydia, glad you could make it,” Sara said, still breathless from the exhilaration of the flight and the fight. “I’d like you all to meet a very good friend of mine, and a man you should all get to know very well, Maxwellton James.”

  Maxwellton James stood before us on the tarmac, the two warbirds back-dropping him. He smiled broadly. His eyes, which were a strange, muted green, glowed. His large forehead, partly an illusion from the receding hairline, was pink and freckled and icon like. His hair, flowing back off his forehead, continued to wave in the wind.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gorged With Style

  “Hello—Hi—How are you?” Maxwellton James was up on the platform, greeting us, shaking hands all around. Like a skilled and masterful politician he could look you straight in the eyes, with just the slightest tilt of his head to the right. Such a look could take you aback—people don’t really look into each other’s eyes, do they?—but the slant of his head kept it from being disconcerting. Straight on, such a look pierced you naked. At a slant, it took in your protective cover and seduced it.

  In his greetings Max had something particular to say to each person; Sara had obviously briefed him well. To Nick, for example, he talked ice hockey, knowing Nick was a fan, having played on championship teams in high school and college. To Brooke he mentioned that he had managed to lay in a small case of a little-known-in-America Irish beer. It was, of course, her favorite, only indulged in when she traveled to the UK. Lydia he paid much attention to, thanking her for coming on such short notice, hoping she enjoyed the show, mentioning a particular bill under consideration in the Greek Parliament and how he hoped her efforts to defeat it will succeed, as it was detrimental to the media business in Greece, wasn’t it?

  Then he came to Henderson and Pinsker.

  “Ah,” he looked at us with his muted green eyes, “the lawyers. Briefcases in hand ready to do business, I see, but we are doing no business here this weekend, gentlemen. Wouldn’t you like to unload yourself of the burden of carrying them? I’m sure one of the Rangers would be happy—”

  “They’ve already offered,” I broke in. “Numerous times. Their concern for our comfort has been admirable.”

  Max was stopped. The Rangers’ failure had most likely been reported to him as he flew high above in his Messerschmitt. Leave it to me, he had probably sighed, regretting the incompetence of others. “There is nothing like a good public servant,” Max said, a slightly different texture to his smile now.

  “But as we explained to them,” I continued, “we are far more comfortable being able to hang on to them. Goes back to law school, I suppose. I was always afraid of losing my homework.”

  “I see. Well, my duty as host is to acquiesce in the desires of my guests. So suit yourself,” Maxwellton James said in that same voice we had heard over the bug. That smooth voice. Not smooth and slick; smooth and soft. A pleasant wrap around your consciousness. It was the voice of a pal, a buddy a friend. There was no hint of irony in it, no lack of sincerity; it was plain without being bland, well modulated, and direct. It was not the voice of a dangerous man.

  But it was a dangerous voice.

  “You like airplanes, I understand.” Max divided his attention between Pinsker and myself.

  “Very much,” Pinsker said.

  “Would you like a close look?” Max indicated the two warbirds with a quick dart of his head.

  “Yes, that would be quite exciting,” I said.

  Max led us down to where the Messerschmitt and the Spitfire stood.

  Combatants. Fighters. Mechanized flying armor for Twentieth Century knights. Henderson and Pinsker showed their delight quite openly, their lawyer’s reserve diminishing in front of the machines, which they walked around, touched, bent close to, inspecting details.

  “What model Spit is this?” I had Henderson ask, abbreviating the name in an attempt to
sound like a member of the brotherhood.

  “It’s a Mark II.”

  “One of the early ones,” I said in awe.

  “It actually fought in the Battle of Britain,” Max said with pride. “It cost over a million dollars to bring it back to prime condition. Still got its original Rolls Royce Merlin XII engine.”

  “How about armaments?” Pinsker wanted to know.

  Max looked at him. Challenged him. “Well, you tell me. You know this stuff, right?”

  “Looks like ‘B’ wing to me. Four Browning machine guns; two 20 mm Hispano cannons.”

  “Exactly. See, you know your stuff.”

  “Only from pictures. We collect aviation art,” Pinsker said.

  “It’s all we hang on our walls at the firm,” added Henderson.

  “But you fly don’t you? Sara told me—”

  “Only Pipers and Cessna’s,” I answered. “We’ve never flown anything like this.”

  “You haven’t flown until you’ve flown something like this,” Max said with that superiority of the initiated. “Look at the Messerschmitt. It’s a Bf109E-4. Magnificent machine. Built not just to conquer the air, but to use it, to turn the air into a medium in which to express yourself.” Max looked up at the dark gray plane, mottled for camouflage. “Your joy. Your delight.” He then looked back down at us. “Your anger. Your righteous indignation.” He paused to allow us to consider. “All other planes are—transport. Flying them is easy. Be powered. Control airflow. Exploit lift. Go from point A to point B. To pilot something like that is to be not much more than a passenger.”

  “Well, still—”

  “You want to take her up?”

  “What? Now?” Henderson asked, amazed, teased, not daring to hope.

  “No, of course not, not now. I don’t gamble a million dollar plane on someone who’s only flown Pipers and Cessnas. I could put you through training. Rigorous training. Then you could have the experience.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t really have the time to go through rigorous training, but you made my heart jump there. I really would like to. You know, flying is flying it’s all the same principal. I guess I could fly it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure, but I would rather fly the Spit.”

  “The Spit!?”

  “It’s the better plane, isn’t it?”

  Max signed. “And it’s the winners who write the history.”

  “What?”

  “Did you know that in fighter vs. fighter losses during the Battle of Britain 219 Spitfires were lost, but only 180 109s?”

  “But I thought—”

  “Yes, I know what you thought,” Max smiled, he refused not to be my friend, “but the facts are what they are. Romantic visions of right fighting might don’t ever change them. They might warm your heart and put a lump in your throat but they don’t ever affect reality.”

  “Well, yes, I guess that’s so, but you have to admit this: The Spitfire is aesthetically the finer machine,” I declared.

  “I would argue—”

  “You can’t,” I said. I was emphatic. “This also is a reality.” I got close to the German fighter, I pointed to each feature, and spoke with the dispassion of a lawyer ticking off the charges against the accused. “The Messerschmitt is all hard lines. A square, boxy canopy. A fat, brutish, lump of a nose. The thick wings sort of just jammed into the fuselage. The tail a straight, harsh 45-degree angle set against the fuselage. Now look at the Spit.” I let passion creep in now. Not melodrama, but passion. I wanted to make Max uneasy. “Curves, everywhere curves. The canopy is rounded. The nose curves up gracefully. The wings are thin, delicate, and they curve onto—not into, that’s important—onto the fuselage, as does the tail. Like organic parts of a whole body. Like the neck of a beautiful woman curving onto her shoulder.”

  “Henderson!” Lydia admonished. “Stop being poetic. It’s unbecoming of a lawyer protecting my financial interests.”

  But Max was impressed. “Good points, Mr. Henderson. For someone who collects aviation art. Still, I prefer the Messerschmitt. I prefer a blunt instrument.” Max smiled at me again. This time it was nearly paternal and almost kind. Then he turned his attention to the group. “I believe the chef is preparing a very delicious lunch for you all to enjoy as the rest of the show continues. Sara and I have some more flying to do, but we’ll join you when we gather later this afternoon. The Rangers will take very good care of you and they will make sure that you get to your destination on time.”

  “Which is where?” Thad feigned innocence, but not well.

  “That’s a surprise, but I suspect you’ve already guessed. Most likely having been told in the strictest of confidence by someone who has preceded you.”

  Worry rammed Thad’s guts. “Uh, no, really—”

  “It’s okay. I know you can keep the confidence. That’s why you’re here.”

  Max turned to Sara. “Shall we?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  They climbed into their planes and started them, initial puffs of smoke expelling from the engines. Then they taxied away.

  “Lunch.”

  It was Ranger Blunt, appearing suddenly. The five took little notice of this, but then, why should they? We followed him to tables laid out with food, buffet style.

  Max had been right, it was a delicious lunch. Beef, chicken and salmon cooked on an open grill along with a selection of vegetables. Three types of salad were available, including a Greek, and the most wonderfully sour of sourdough breads, baked right there in a portable oven. There were drinks of every kind, of course, well-brewed coffee and three desserts. One heavy on the chocolate, one heavy on fruit, and one a light pastry filled with a delicate cream.

  Five of the Rangers stationed themselves around the area, warning off any errant plebes, and pointing out the van across the tarmac that sold hot dogs, chips and warm sodas.

  Our conversation, at first, revolved around the food as we ate it, as if talk of it not only spiced it but etched it on our palates for future reference and comparisons. Then, as the air show continued the conversation moved on to other subjects, none of them relating to planes in the air. It was all Hollywood talk. Most of it just chatty, some of it catty. Henderson and Pinsker did not partake but Lydia got into it. She told stories of her past and of making B movies around Los Angeles, and of all her cleverness in avoiding various obstructionist authorities, for she never got the proper film permits; she never dealt straight with the unions, and she never paid off the Teamsters. She told how a Teamster official, at least he said he was Teamster official, promised to break her legs. She said to him, “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Don’t break my legs and I’ll suck your dick.”

  “What? He went for it?” Thad seemed excited.

  “Wouldn’t you?” Lydia held herself and her abilities up proudly.

  “Well….” Thad blushed.

  “Of course, afterwards, the bastard still demanded a pay off.”

  “No!” Brooke was delighted to be shocked. “So you had to pay him?”

  “No. I sued him. For sexual harassment!” Lydia laughed loud.

  The five laughed with her. They loved Lydia. She was a character—and they had been so little exposed to character.

  Around two fifteen the show was over and the hatless Ranger came to us and suggested we spend some time in the museum proper while we wait until three PM when the limo would take us to our destination.

  “Why do we have to wait until three?” the precise Pinsker wanted to know.

  “Winter hours,” was the hatless one’s only answer.

  We went into the museum, looking at the planes on display and reading the information about them on the little cards. Brooke, I noticed, started to hang close to Lydia. I think she was in love. The guys found most fascinating the old, yet operable, training guns, WW II versions of virtual reality, where you looked into a scope, saw a film of the enemy, sighted and pushed the firing thumb button.

  There we
re whoops as the enemy died.

  At three o’clock, the Rangers came to us and herded us into the white stretch limo, a congealed, happy unit of companions. Except for Henderson and Pinsker, of course, who sat, squeezed together, clutching their briefcases in exactly the same manner, dreaming of advantageously written contracts.

  It didn’t take anyone long to realize, or have confirmed, that we were heading up towards the castle that sat on top on the Enchanted Hill, as Hearst had dubbed it, really the peak of the Santa Lucia Mountains. If it was enchanted, it was only because Hearst had paid for it to be so. We started winding slowly up the road, passing tour buses on their way down, but there were no tour buses in front of us, or following behind. Winter hours.

  As our caravan of the limo and two Ranger cars, one ahead, one behind, passed from the grassy coastal plain into the oak woodlands of the higher elevation, Abbie said, “I feel like we’re in Citizen Kane.”

  “Why?” Brett asked.

  “Because of the scene when they’re traveling on Kane’s Xanadu property.”

  It meant nothing to Brett. “I haven’t seen it.”

  Abbie was shocked. “You’ve never seen Citizen Kane!?”

  “No, never got around to it.”

  “You didn’t see it at Harvard?”

  “I was an MBA.” As if that explained it.

  “Yeah, but, but—”

  “I’ve never seen it.” Brooke said.

  “Me neither,” Nick said.

  “Me too. I mean neither, I guess,” Thad added.

  “The greatest film ever made,” Abbie was trying to explain it to himself, “and you guys, film executives all, have never seen it?”

  They shrugged in concert.

  Abbie turned to Lydia. “Have you seen it?

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “Overrated.”