by T. E. Cruise
“Out of the frying pan—” Gold muttered.
The G-man was still squeezing off shots at them. Gold remembered the revolver in his pocket. He drew it, and as the Jenny pulled abreast of the agent, Gold aimed and quickly fired off all six shots. The agent disappeared into the shadows.
“And into the fire—” Gold finished. The Jenny was splashing like a waddling duck through the puddles of flame. Gold prayed that the Jenny’s fabric skin and wooden landing gear did not ignite.
Then they were out of the flames. Hull had the Jenny wide open. For a moment Gold thought she was going to run out of airstrip, but at the last possible moment Hull managed to lift off. The Jenny’s wheels scuffed the canvas tops of the parked trucks, but they made it. They were airborne.
Gold noticed that he was still clutching the revolver. He thought about the government lawman he’d shot at and wondered if he’d just killed a man… Hopefully the agent had merely ducked out of sight, but Gold would never know. Disgusted, he held the gun over the side and let the wind snatch it away into the darkness. Lester’s Jenny settled in beside them as Hull flew for home.
(Four)
San Diego
They landed at the North Island facility, where Hull had already slipped the night watchman a couple of bucks to look the other way while he and Les “borrowed” the airplanes. It was too late for the ferry to be running, but they managed to grab a ride back to the mainland on one of the military boats patrolling the bay.
Now they were in an all-night eatery near their hotel. At this hour they were the only customers in the place.
“But how did you know I was going to need help tonight?” Gold demanded while they waited for their bacon and eggs.
“Les and I were in a speak earlier tonight,” Hull said as the counterman came around with their food. “We overheard a guy at the next table bragging about how Ramos’s operation was going to get squashed tonight. Of course, we were interested. The guy was already three sheets to the wind, but we kept buying him drinks, and he kept talking. It turned out the guy was a government stoolie. He was the guy the government men had paid to discover the location of the airstrips.”
“But how could United States G-men operate in Mexico?” Gold asked.
“They couldn’t! Not legally!” Lester exclaimed around a mouthful of toast. “Those men were crooked! Worse crooks than Ramos! Remember you told Hull that Ramos had said his previous pilot had been killed by a rival gang? Well, these men were that gang. They wanted to shake down Ramos—”
“You mean, get Ramos to pay them to allow him to bootleg?” Gold asked.
“Right.” Hull nodded. “But Ramos wouldn’t go along, so they kidnapped his pilot and killed the guy as a warning. When they found out Ramos’s airlift was back in business, they decided to get tougher, but they had to be careful. They couldn’t disrupt the U.S. side of the operation. It would have meant alerting the local cops, and it would have meant either arresting or killing Ramos himself, and that would have been the same as killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.”
“So they decided to hit his operation in Mexico,” Lester added. “They killed Ramos’s men—those poor bastards—because they couldn’t afford to leave any witnesses. They intended to hijack the truckloads of booze, which they could sell for themselves.”
“And they intended to kill Ramos’s new pilot,” Hull added meaningfully. “To make it clear to Ramos that he couldn’t operate without cutting them in for a piece of the profits.”
“Do you think we have to worry about them in the future?”
“Nope,” Hull said firmly. “Not about them, and not about Ramos. That informer in the bar said that the men don’t know the identity of Ramos’s pilot. They didn’t get a good look at you tonight, did they?”
Gold shook his head. “With all the military fliers based in San Diego, I guess I’m safe.”
“Anyway, those guys can’t afford to follow up on what happened tonight,” Lester said. He signaled the yawning counterman for more coffee. “How could they explain what they were doing in Mexico in the first place?”
“But what about Ramos?” Gold asked.
Hull grinned. “Les and I flew past the Chula Vista airstrip on our way out to the desert, just to see what was going on. It was deserted. My guess is that Ramos heard about the move against him and decided that San Diego was no longer a healthy place for him to do business.”
Gold looked at both men. “I owe you guys my life…”
Hull shrugged. “The way we see it, it’s now all even. Don’t forget, you saved our lives… back during the war. You could have killed us when you shot us down, but you didn’t. You went out of your way to spare us. Let’s just say that tonight we paid you back.”
“Well.” Gold smiled as the counterman came around with the coffeepot. “Let’s have a drink on it.” He pulled the slender green bottle from the pocket of his duster and put it on the table. “If it’s all right with the proprietor, who is welcome to join us in a drink, of course…”
The counterman stared wide-eyed at the label. “It’s real scotch… from Scotland! By all means open it up! I’ll get us some clean glasses!” He hurried away.
“Where the fuck did you manage to lay your hands on that?” Hull asked, amazed.
“I found a case of it on one of the trucks during my first flight tonight,” Gold explained. “Ramos sells this stuff to his rich customers for fifty bucks a bottle. I figured he wouldn’t miss a fifth, and if he did, fuck him, we were going to be on our way to Los Angeles tomorrow.”
The counterman came over with a tray of glasses. Gold poured everyone shots. “To good friends,” he toasted, raising his glass.
The counterman drained his glass and sighed. “Thanks for the drink. I haven’t tasted anything that smooth for a long time.”
“Help yourself to another if you’d like,” Gold said. The grateful counterman did, and took it with him into his kitchen.
A newsboy came into the cafe to ask if anybody wanted the night owl edition of the paper. Gold bought one, figuring he would enjoy having something to read back in his hotel room while he was trying to unwind from the night’s excitement. He scanned the front page.
“Herman, you can also pay for the meal,” Hull said. “How much did you make off of Ramos, all told?”
“Huh?” Herman looked up from the newspaper. “Let’s see… Counting tonight, five thousand, one hundred dollars.”
Lester whistled. “That’s a nice piece of change.”
“And just enough.” Gold stared at his newspaper. “And just in time, too,” he added excitedly. “I knew my opportunity would come around, and now it has!”
“What are you talking about?” Hull demanded, pouring himself another drink.
Gold held out the newspaper, tapping the boldface headlines in the lower lefthand section of the front page:
POST OFFICE AIR-MAIL ROUTES ANNOUNCED—
FEDS GIVE FRISCO THE NOD TO BE SOLE
WEST COAST TERMINUS—
Hull scowled. “Forget it, Herm. You can make more money flying for Captain Bob than you can flying for the post office.”
“Not flying for the post office…” Gold began. Hull and Lester were staring at him, obviously bewildered. “Look, I’ll explain everything to you later. Right now I need to know something. I’ve been so busy these past few days that I haven’t talked much with the Captain. Is he still planning to throw that party in Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, sure,” Hull replied. “He thinks he might be able to swing a movie deal. Some kind of aviation picture, with all of us in the troupe flying the stunts.”
“He’s pulling out all the stops, too,” Lester said. “Spending a lot of money and inviting bankers, movie people, oil tycoons; everybody who’s anybody. As the captain says, it takes money to make money.”
“All the bigwigs, huh?” Gold nodded thoughtfully. “Look, guys, if things work out the way I hope they will, I may not be working for Captain Bob much longer
. I’ll be working for myself, and I’ll need some pilots.” He smiled. “Men I can trust. Would you consider coming to work for me? You’d earn less in the beginning, but your pay would grow with the business.”
Hull and Les looked at each other. Les nodded.
“This is the best scotch we’ve ever had,” Hull said. “Any man pours us drinks from a fifty-dollar bottle, we’ll follow him anywhere.”
(Five)
Hotel Darby
Los Angeles
17 September 1921
The Hotel Darby, its yellow domes and red-tiled, bulbous turrets rising majestically over the swaying palms, reminded Gold of an oriental potentate’s castle out of some exotic fairy tale. It was early evening, a few hours after the troupe’s first show at Mines Field. It had been an invitation-only performance, intended to charm the city’s elite, as was this buffet reception being held in a first-floor lounge of the hotel. It was a large room, done in the Spanish adobe style, with stuccoed walls and a red-tiled floor with a splashing fountain in its center. A wall of glass revealed a lantern-lit garden. In one corner, almost hidden by luxurious floral arrangements, a string quartet played soft classical pieces. On the far side of the room a buffet was being served. The only thing missing was liquor, which was, of course, illegal.
The captain’s engraved invitations, hand-delivered to a select list by messenger boys costumed as pilots, had made the right, flamboyant impression. The party was well attended. The men were in business suits, their ladies dressed in silky, sleeveless, slim-fitting dresses. Soon Erica would be wearing such clothes, Gold thought to himself, and she would put these women to shame. He noticed that most of the ladies had bobbed hair, and began to worry that Erica would want to cut her beautiful, long tresses…
The Captain, dressed in black tie, interrupted Gold’s musings. “Herman, what the fuck do you think you’re doing here dressed like that?” he growled softly.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Cap. I must have forgot.” Gold lied through his teeth.
“None of the others forgot!” The captain’s arm swept the room, taking in all the other pilots, including Hull and Les Stiles, standing around in their leather jackets and tight-fitting helmets, looking totally out of place amidst all this elegance. The Captain had ordered his pilots to wear their gear to the party in order to establish what he considered to be the right atmosphere: he was trying to pitch an aviation adventure film.
Gold was wearing a charcoal-gray linen suit, a light-blue silk shirt with socks to match, and a white and blue polka dot tie. His low-cut, slip-on shoes were of supple, nappy, oyster suede. He’d spent a lot on this outfit, and even more to have the alterations done in time for today’s party, but he felt the investment was essential.
“I want you to go and change,” the Captain said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” Gold apologized. He wished the captain well, but he was here for his own purposes, which he couldn’t achieve looking like a walking publicity stunt.
The captain was staring at him. “What’s going on, son? What have you got planned?”
“That’s my business.”
“But this is my business!” the captain said through clenched teeth. “I’m paying for all this, and I have a right to call the tune.”
“Don’t worry, Cap. I won’t upset your plans.”
“You do what I tell you—”
“No,” Gold said calmly.
“Then you’re fired!” Captain Bob glared at him. “Get out of here, or I’ll have you thrown out—”
“Your voice is rising,” Gold warned quietly. “People are starting to stare…”
The captain immediately shut up, nervously looking around. “What are you trying to do to me?” he hissed through a hideously artificial smile.
“Nothing, Cap,” Gold said. “Just something for myself. As long as I’m fired I might as well let you know that I was intending to quit. Now, you can have me thrown out if you want, but I won’t go quietly, and that would disrupt your party a lot more than just letting me be.”
“First thing tomorrow you come by the show site to collect your back pay,” Captain Bob said, backing down. “After that, I don’t want to see you around.”
“I’ll inform the hotel where we’re staying that I’m responsible for my own bill,” Gold said.
“Fine.” Captain Bob started to turn away.
“Cap?” Gold held out his hand. “You taught me a lot. I’m grateful. I’d like there to be no hard feelings.”
Captain Bob scowled suspiciously. “This con you got in mind, does it involve fishing my part of the pond?”
“A different pond entirely, sir,” Gold vowed. “I know better than to compete with the master at his own game…”
The Captain sighed. “What the hell, then,” he grumbled. “No hard feelings, son.” He shook hands with Gold. “Hook yourself a big, fat one, if you can.” He walked away.
Gold was relieved his relationship with the captain had ended harmoniously. He really was very fond of the old rogue.
But it had ended, Gold realized. He was out of the Captain’s nest. It was time to spread his wings and take flight on his own.
He saw Jimmy Cooper, the advance man, and went over to talk to him. “What was going on between you and Cap?” Jimmy asked.
“Nothing.” Gold shrugged. “He was just bawling me out because I forgot to wear my flying gear. Jimmy, you put together the invitation list for this party, right?”
Cooper looked proud. “I sure did, and we’ve got almost one hundred percent attendance. Do you have any idea how much money there is in this room?”
“For instance?…”
“Well…” Cooper looked around. “Take Lane Barker, over there.” He pointed to an elderly-looking man with a thick shock of white hair, dressed in blue pinstripe. “Barker is the president of Pacific Coast Bank.”
Perfect, Gold thought. “Jimmy, you know everybody,” he said enviously. “Who are those two guys Barker is speaking with?”
“The guy in the tan suit is Collins Tisdale, the publisher of the Los Angeles Gazette. The guy in gray is Paul Petersiel. He owns a number of businesses, and he’s involved in local politics.”
“Were they all at the air show this afternoon?” Gold asked.
“Yes, they were.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
Gold went over to the three men and introduced himself. “Gentlemen, my name is Herman Gold. I believe you saw me fly this afternoon? I played the part of the Red Baron…”
“Yes, Mister Gold.” Lane Barker smiled politely. “It was quite enjoyable.” He had a wispy, paper-thin voice, feathery around the edges, like well-worn currency.
“I’m glad you came over, Mister Gold,” Tisdale said. “I’m in the newspaper business. I’d like to have one of my reporters interview you. I understand that you really were a German ace during the war?…”
“I was, sir,” Gold replied. “And I’d be glad to speak to your reporter, but right now I have a question to ask all of you. I was wondering how you gentlemen felt about living in a second-rate city.”
“What?” Tisdale turned red.
“How dare you insult Los Angeles?” Petersiel demanded.
Gold noticed that Lane Barker, his most important target, had said nothing in response to his provocation. The banker merely seemed amused.
“I’m not insulting your wonderful city, Mister Petersiel,” Gold said. “But the federal government certainly has.”
“What are you talking about?” Tisdale asked.
“The news that the United States Post Office has chosen San Francisco to be the sole West Coast terminus for its transcontinental air-mail route,” Gold explained.
“Oh, that…” Petersiel acknowledged wearily.
“You must admit that it’s a slap in the face, gentlemen,” Gold said sadly. “What can the world think, if none other than the United States government has decreed that the City of Angels must take second place to the City by the Bay?”
>
“We intend to petition the government about this slight,” Petersiel said. “I’m in the process of putting together a committee of private businessmen and municipal officials to investigate and then challenge the selection process…”
“You should do that,” Gold said reasonably. “Of course, you know how the bureaucratic procedure can drag endlessly, during which time Los Angeles will be deprived of the benefit of speedy mail deliveries. Commerce and finance will suffer. As we all know, in business, time is money.”
“Mister Gold,” Tisdale interrupted. “What would you have us do?”
“I believe Mister Gold has been waiting for that question.” Lane Barker laughed. “Go on, young man—” His pale gray eyes were sparkling. “—Make your proposal. I think you’ll find this sort of thing only slightly more treacherous than stunt flying.”
“Gentlemen, what I propose is a private air express company to ferry this city’s mail back and forth from San Francisco. Incoming correspondence could be in Los Angeles within hours of its arrival at the federal terminus. Outgoing mail could arrive in time to take advantage of the very next post office departure flight from Frisco. The express service I propose would also be available on an around-the-clock, special-hire basis for important documents for which time is of the essence.”
“It sounds expensive,” Petersiel muttered.
“Priceless in value, but reasonable in cost,” Gold heard himself say, and imagined that somewhere in the room Captain Bob was sending blessings with a wink and a nod. “Especially considering the beneficial publicity Los Angeles would receive,” Gold pressed on. The city fathers could no more effectively demonstrate Los Angeles’s hospitable business climate than by taking the bull by the horns concerning this matter.”
Lane Barker held up his hand to silence Gold. “I suspect you want my bank to finance your prospective endeavor?”
“Actually, my first concern is that I receive a positive response from the business community.”
“Well, I, for one, think it’s a firecracker of an idea,” Tisdale enthused.
