by T. E. Cruise
Suzy gritted her teeth and ignored the dig. “But for the entire summer, and into the fall, my parents have been really moping around, you know? Finally, I managed to get my mother to tell me the whole story.”
“A toast to Steven,” Blaize said, raising his glass. “At last he has accomplished what I have failed to do. He is free of your father.”
He turned his bleary eyes toward Suzy. She knew that look. He was drunk. Again.
“And a toast to you, my pretty,” he murmured, saluting her with his glass. “A toast to my pretty jailer.”
“Don’t say that to me!” Suzy jumped to her feet, livid with rage. “Don’t you ever say anything like that to me—”
“Aren’t you my jailer?” he asked, bemused. “My Circe, keeping me bewitched and a prisoner—”
She snatched up the gin bottle and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered. “You keep yourself a prisoner!”
She turned on her heel and ran through the apartment.
“Where are you going?” Blaize called out, and the raw panic in his voice almost stopped her.
“Home!” she yelled, pausing in the kitchen to grab her purse, and then out the door, and down the steps, out onto the street, where she stood transfixed.
Down the block, where the boardwalk began, the fairy lights and music of a happy world beckoned. How she wished that she could venture forth and lose herself in that promised gaiety; meet a happy young man, and never look back…
How she wished she didn’t love Blaize so much, or that she could at least find the strength to deny herself that love…
His hand upon her shoulder did not startle her. She knew that he would appear to draw her away from the lights and laughter. There were tears in her eyes as she turned to face him. “It’s not fair that you can make me so happy, and so sad—”
Blaize nodded, and gently embraced her. “I can be a fool,” he whispered. “I am sorry.”
“Damn you! How could you talk to me that way?” she demanded.
Blaize continued to hold her tight. “I get angry… and I get drunk, and I say hurtful, foolish things to you. Things I don’t mean.” He tilted up her chin. “This much I do mean. I need you, Suze. I love you and I need you. If you ever left me, I’d walk out to the end of that pier and jump—”
“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk, either—”
“I swear that I would, Suze.”
She pulled away from him. “This feud between you and my father is destroying you.”
“Do you have any idea how much I detest myself for being here, when my country needs me?” Blaize said.
“But your RAF superiors assigned you here!” she argued. “You have your orders! Why can’t you just accept that?”
Blaize nodded. “It appears that I must… But I will never forgive your father for orchestrating my predicament!”
“Very well, hate my father!” Suzy shouted.
“I will! He’s spoiled everything!”
“But must he spoil our love, as well?” Suzy challenged.
Blaize stared at her a moment, and then he smiled. “No,” he whispered. “He needn’t… Do you really love me, Suze?”
She resisted the urge to smack his face. “Would I be hanging around here if I didn’t?” she asked wryly.
He smiled, nodding in acquiescence. “Then let me try to explain. When I think of you as your father’s daughter, I see him in you—there is plenty of him in you, you know—and that makes me hate you a little.”
“But what can I do about that?” Suzy demanded.
Blaize took a step toward her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You could marry me,” he said.
“W-what are you saying?” she asked, shocked.
“Actually, I’m not saying, I’m proposing.” Blaize smiled. “You see, my love, if you married me, you would no longer be Herman Gold’s daughter. You’d be Mrs. Blaize Greene.” He laughed. “Actually, seeing as I’m Lord Greene, you’d be Lady Susan…” He winked. “Lady Suze, to me.”
“But… married… How could we?”
“We could elope! To Nevada! We could leave now! By this time tomorrow we could be man and wife.”
“Blaize, I do love you…” She stared at him. “You are sober? You know what you’re saying?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you do want to marry me for me, right?” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying to get even with my father?”
He looked angry for an instant, but then he relaxed. “I deserved that, for having behaved so abominably toward you these past few months. If you will do me the honor of accepting my proposal, I swear to you that I will never again give you cause to hold me in such low esteem.”
“Good answer.” Suzy chuckled, slipping her arms around his waist and giving him a kiss. “But why do we have to elope? It’ll come as such a shock to my parents.”
“I want this to belong to us, alone. I don’t want your father tainting it for me. Can you understand?”
“Yes, I suppose I can. But I can’t—I won’t—choose between you two,” she warned. “I’ll love my father just as much as I always have.”
“I understand that,” Blaize said. “And perhaps I’ll be able to come to terms with him.” He smiled, shyly. “If you’re by my side.”
Suzy needed to ponder it for only an instant to know what was right. She did love him, and wanted to marry him. “I’ll accept, on a few conditions. Number one, no more drinking.”
“Done.”
“And you’ll take a shower, and shave, before we leave for Nevada.”
“Agreed.” He laughed.
“You’ll put on some weight—”
“I’ll blow up like a balloon!”
“And we don’t fly to Nevada,” Suzy said, between kisses. “We drive!”
Chapter 17
* * *
(One)
Downtown Los Angeles
15 December 1941
At noon Herman Gold told his secretary he was leaving for lunch, and never went back. He was just too depressed to face the office. He ended up driving to downtown L.A., where he decided to escape his own, and the world’s, troubles by going to the movies.
On December 8, the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt had declared war upon Japan. Three days later, Hilter had declared war on the United States, and the day after that Herman Gold had declared war on the Axis, by presenting himself at his local army recruiting center to volunteer for the U.S. Air Corps. The army’s doctors had looked him over and then rejected him for any sort of duty, never mind being a pilot, telling him that he was too fat, and that he’d failed the eye test.
Granted, it had been a dumb idea for Gold to have gone down there in the first place, he now thought as he wandered past the Broadway movie houses. No doubt he was doing far greater service for America by overseeing GAT’s production of war birds. It still irked him that he had been found unfit to defend his country.
He hadn’t told anyone about his misadventure, and he never would tell about it. He knew he’d never be able to endure the ribbing if word of it ever got out, especially considering what he’d done to keep Blaize Greene out of the war. Gold shuddered at the thought of the humiliation he’d have to endure if Teddy Quinn ever got wind of it…
But being stamped 4-F was only the final straw upon Gold’s backbreaking burden of disappointments, beginning with the news that Blaize and his daughter were now man and wife.
Blaize and Suzy had run off to Nevada to get married, without telling anyone of their plans. Surprisingly, Erica hadn’t been all that upset upon hearing the news. She’d seemed to think that eloping was romantic, and that Blaize wasn’t a bad catch for their daughter, but Gold didn’t trust Greene’s motives. He’d been keeping his mouth shut for fear of being branded paranoid, but Gold couldn’t shake the notion that Blaize Greene’s marrying Suzy was the young Englishman’s way of getting even…
But what was done was done, Gold now thought. At lea
st Suzy was safe and sound, even if it was in some shabby apartment near the Santa Monica pier, and as the wife of a man who professed to hate him. Gold could only hope that his son was also safe and sound—
Somewhere…
Steven was still missing. Gold had hired more detectives, but they could find no trace of his son. He’d brought the police into the search, but the New Jersey authorities had been no help at all. As far as they were concerned, a boy approaching his eighteenth birthday was no kid, and had the right to go where he wanted. Gold supposed that was the point that Steven had been trying to make all along, before giving up and taking off.
If only he hadn’t been too stubborn to listen, Gold brooded. Given the chance now, Gold would be too happy to swear that he’d learned his lesson.
He paused to study the marquee outside the Century Grand Theater. The Maltese Falcon was playing. Gold had heard good things about the movie, but hadn’t gotten around to seeing it. He did like Humphrey Bogart…
Too bad he couldn’t hire a guy like Bogart to find his son for him, Gold thought as he bought a ticket and went inside. He paused to buy a sack of popcorn in the mirrored lobby, and then he followed a uniformed usher’s bobbing flashlight to a seat in the darkened auditorium. The theater was crowded, and Gold had to sit fairly close to the screen. He crossly wondered what all these people were doing spending their afternoons hiding away in the dark. You’d think these able bodies would be able to find work…
A newsreel was just beginning as Gold settled in. Up on the screen an intrepid fellow in a turtle-neck sweater, his trousers tucked into high boots, was peering through a movie camera mounted on a tripod.
Kaleidoscope Productions presents your news picture magazine of the world— the narrator exclaimed, as trumpets blared in the background.
The newsreel led off with pictures of the smoking devastation that was Pearl Harbor. There were airplanes burning on the tarmac, and crumpled battleships going belly-up as they slid silently beneath the sea.
December seventh, a day that will live forever in infamy! the narrator intoned, his voice quivering with indignation as he quoted Roosevelt.
Next came a shot of President Roosevelt himself, standing before a huge American flag backdrop as he addressed Congress, asking for a declaration of war.
Watch out, Tojo! the narrator warned. Pearl Harbor is going to be the mistake you won’t live long enough to regret!
We take you now to Russia, where the German blitzkreig advances!
There was an aerial view of the vast, snowy tundra that was Russia in winter. Russian peasants—men, women, and children—were shown building a barricade across the road that led into their village.
Yes, they’ll die in defense of Mother Russia, every last one of them! And they swear to Stalin that they’ll take a Nazi with them! Watch out, Huns! Your “lightning strike” just might end up frozen dead in its tracks by Russia’s secret weapon: 01’ Man Winter!
Gold sighed. All this war stuff was only further depressing him. He’d come here to forget reality, not have the awful state of the world thrust at him in images thirty feet tall. He was about to head out to the men’s lounge until it was time for The Maltese Falcon, when the screen was filled with a pair of fighter planes—Curtiss P-40s, Gold thought they were—banking across a clear sky.
The P-40s had the twelve-pointed Chinese Nationalist stars on their wings, and bizarre, toothy shark profiles painted on their noses just aft their props.
Hi-ho, Tojo! the voiceover chortled. Before you yellow-bellied sons of the rising sun lay claim to China, you’ll have to deal with these fellows! Don’t let those Chinese stars painted on the wings fool you. These pilots are Yanks! And this time they’re ready for you, Tojo, and spoiling for a fight!
Gold settled back in his seat. Anything to do with fighter planes interested him.
We take you now to the exotic mountain jungles of Asia—
The movie screen showed a map of Southern China and Burma, and then a bird’s-eye view of a narrow road, zigzagging between rugged mountain passes thickly blanketed with vegetation.
And slithering like a serpent for seven hundred miles through these vast jungles is the Burma Road. With the Japs controlling China’s sea-lanes, the Burma Road is China’s last supply link to the outside world!
The picture dissolved to an indoor scene: a rugged-looking American in military uniform was seated at a table beside a Chinese woman and man in civilian clothes. All three were smiling into the camera.
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the Chinese couple. Meet Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek, rulers of China. They’ve appealed to FDR for American air power to keep the Burma Road open, so that China can keep fighting the Japs.
Next came a close-up of the American in uniform. And here’s the man FDR has sent to do the job. He’s Captain Claire Lee Chennault, recently of the United States Army Air Corps, and now in China per FDR’s mandate. Chennault’s leading a special fighter-pilot volunteer group of broad-shouldered American boys. This American Volunteer Group vows to wrest control of the China sky from the Japs, before Tojo can do to the Burma Road what he’s done to Pearl Harbor!
The screen flickered with footage of an airdrome staked out in a jungle clearing. There were a number of P-40s parked beneath the trees. Some of the fighters were draped under camouflage netting, and some looked ready to fly, but all had their engine cowlings festooned with those fierce-looking shark-snout paint jobs. In the background were thatch-roofed huts, fuel-barrel stockpiles, and men hurrying about in baggy, khaki shorts and leather flying jackets.
From bases like these hidden away on high jungle plateaus—
The scene shifted to show a number of men bending over the hood of a Jeep, studying maps.
—Chennault and the boys of the A.V.G. are ready to give Tojo’s gnat swarm a shellacking they won’t ever forget!
There was another scene of two P-40s in flight, performing loops against the clouds…
Isn’t that right, fellows?
The sky scene faded into a close-up of a half-dozen of the volunteer pilots in their khaki and leather garb, wearing pistols around their waists, or in shoulder rigs. They were laughing and joking with one another as they looked shyly into the camera, and then put their arms upon each other’s shoulders to improvise a ragged, kicking, conga line. The line broke apart as the young men grinned and waved into the cameras one last time.
No wonder the Chinese call them “Fei Hu”— the narrator said jovially, as the background music began to soar.
Gold was staring at the screen. There was something about the pilot second from the left… Something familiar, even if his light hair was close-cropped, and despite his hollow-looking face, and the dark shadows under his eyes…
“Oh my God, is that Steven?…” Gold murmured to himself.
Fei Hu, in Chinese, that means Flying Tigers!
“That’s Steven!” Gold bellowed, jumping up from his seat in the darkened movie house.
“Hey, buddy!” somebody behind Gold yelled. “Down in front!”
Gold ignored him. He pointed at the screen, as Steven, thirty feet tall, waved back at him. “That’s my son!”
(Two)
Madame Marie’s
Rangoon, Burma
25 December 1941
Steven Gold was awakened by a distant rooster, crowing to greet the dawn. The room was bathed in silvery half-light. He stared up, sleepy-eyed, through the cloud of gauzy mosquito netting enveloping the double bed. The slowly revolving ceiling fan was gently wafting the currents of incense-scented air, barely stirring the brightly colored Chinese tapestries hung from brass stretchers on the walls.
Christmas day, he thought to himself, stretching beneath the satin coverlet. Beside him, Monique stirred. Steven kicked off the coverlet. Monique was lying on her belly. Her feet were beside his head on the pillows. Her magnificently rounded ass, the color of toffee, was within easy reach. He patted it, and then reached between her legs to
tickle where she was shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom. She made a sleepy squeak of complaint, but pressed her strong thighs together to lock his fingers inside her.
“Merry Christmas,” he told her.
She released his hand, curling around to take hold of his penis as Steven lightly stroked her long, sculpted back. Monique had straight black hair, shiny as patent leather. Her eyes were black as well, and shaped like almonds. A slight smile began to play at the corners of her pink rosebud mouth as she began tickling his balls with her long, crimson-enameled fingernails. Then she began to suck him. Steven lay back and watched the ceiling fan go round and round.
Madame Marie’s was a four-story building located in the anthill-like labyrinth of alleyways behind Rangoon’s terribly British, terribly proper, Silver Grill. The girls at Marie’s came in three basic flavors: kimono girls, girls spiced with leather, or girls swathed in lace. The kimono girls were okay, with their intricate hairdos, and geisha giggling, but Steven preferred the lace girls, with their black-satin garter belts and peek-a-boo bras, and their silk stockings with the seams up the back. Steven didn’t at all understand the appeal of the leather girls, but Sam “Cappy” Fitzpatrick had once explained to him that they were an acquired taste, like scotch malt whiskey. Cappy was an ex-Army Air Corps aviator, and Steven’s fighter squadron leader, so Arnie looked up to him. And Cappy had sure been right about the scotch.
Monique was a lace girl. Just now her garter belt and bra were missing in action, but her stockings were still in the battle; one flying high up on her slender thigh, the other bunched around her ankle. Her black lace panties had seen a lot of dogfighting during last night’s tussles. Just now the sheer, lacy material was bunched in the crack of her ass, and no wonder. Monique was just average in the chest department, but her rear end cleavage was positively inspirational.
Steven had been spending his nights with Monique for a couple of weeks, ever since Chennault had assigned the squadron to Rangoon. He was fond of Monique, and liked to think that she cared for him. Not that he was born yesterday. Hell, he was young, but not so young that he didn’t know better than to fall in love with a whore. After all, every morning that he left Madame Marie’s, a guy was waiting at the door to collect the rent…
