The Flying Circus

by Susan Crandall

  Shame finally got the better of Henry and he walked over to the table. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  Gil jumped. His hand covered the envelope and his eyes looked guilty. Henry could only see the last name in the address: Gilchrist.

  “Where’s Cora?” Gil asked.

  “Delivering handbills.”

  “By herself!”

  Henry’s back stiffened. “I thought you decided it was safe around here.”

  “No place is safe when Cora’s running loose.”

  “True enough.” Henry wanted to suggest that if Gil felt that way, he should keep an eye on her, but that was the furthest thing from what Henry wanted. “I was arranging for the spark plugs, oil, and gasoline. She didn’t want to come. I’m headed to find her now.”

  “Good idea.” Gil slipped the envelope off the table and held it against his leg. “See you back at camp.” He walked away and got in line at the window.

  Henry left the post office thinking Gil must have family of some sort. Sending money to parents? Not that it could be much; their cuts had been pretty darn lean.

  How would you feel if Gil were sneaking around after you?

  Henry hurried down the steps and decided to forget about seeing Gil in town at all.

  He ducked in and out of businesses looking for Cora. Finally it neared five o’clock and he went to the Goodall Hotel. Five minutes later, Cora and Mercury came down the street. Mercury had a swagger in his trot and a huge bone in his mouth.

  “He didn’t steal it, did he?”

  Cora laughed. “He actually worked for it this time. Did a dozen tricks for the butcher before he got it.”

  Henry reached down and picked up the dog. The bone made him half again his normal weight. “Didn’t they have a smaller one?”

  “Mercury was allowed to choose. Being a fella, he had to go overboard.” She scratched behind the dog’s ears. Then she looked up at Henry with a sparkle in her eye—the kind that usually meant trouble. “Hungry? I know just where we’re going for dinner.”

  “Let me guess, under the stars at Gather’s farm . . . perhaps with a high-hat, delicious can of beans?”

  “No.” She grinned as if she’d just won the blue ribbon at the county fair. “We’re dining out.”

  “Your treat? ’Cause there’s not much left in the till.”

  “As a matter of fact, we’re going as guests.”

  “Whose?”

  “A fella from the hardware store.”

  “A fella from the hardware store?”

  “Yes, he was quite nice.”

  “I’m sure he was . . . to you. Does he know you come as a package deal? And I’m not just meaning the dog.”

  “Of course! He wants to show off with a war hero.”

  Henry decided to just let Cora deal with Gil’s reaction to that. “Where are we meeting him?” This town had plenty of nice places, and the Daredevils’ meals had been plenty lean. Henry’s mouth watered.

  “Oh, it’s not in town.” She moved toward the motorcycle. “It’s along some creek or river or something. He’s picking us up in his car.”

  “Just what kind of place is this?” Henry hoped his hunch was wrong.

  “It’s a supper club. You’ll like it.”

  “I think we should stick to some place in town. It’s better for business.”

  “Come on, Henry. People who like fun will be there.” She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “Fun, Henry. As in a good time. We could use one, too.”

  “As in illegal.”

  “I have it on good authority that the prohees are well taken care of, so it’s hands-off.”

  “Prohees?”

  “Prohibition agents.”

  “Ah. This from the hardware-store owner you just met?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t the owner. It was a fella in the hardware store. He goes out there all of the time.”

  “This is a really bad idea.”

  “Come on, Kid. I’ve been in plenty of blind pigs. None of them were ever raided.”

  “Then the odds aren’t in your favor now, are they?”

  She tsked. “Nobody enforces that stupid law. There’s too much money to be made ignoring it.” She walked on. “What’s the worst that’ll happen? Anyone I’ve ever known who got pinched in a raid just spent the night in the pokey. Big deal.”

  “Yeah. Big deal.” Henry had actually gone a couple of consecutive weeks without looking over his shoulder; now he wondered if wanted posters made it from Indiana to Illinois.

  She plucked her jacket off the handlebars of the motorcycle and slipped it on. “Get a wiggle on! I need to get myself dolled up and ready to go.”

  He followed, certain Gil would put a stop to this whole supper-club business.

  When they got back to camp, Gil’s dull, restless eyes lit up at the mention of it.

  “It doesn’t really seem like your kind of place,” Henry said. The man barely tolerated being inside a restaurant long enough to get a meal down. When the crowd pressed too close at the field, he climbed up on the wing of the Jenny to distance himself.

  “They serve alcohol?”

  “Yeah. That’s the problem. I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. We should avoid trouble. Not to mention support a restaurant in town, buy some goodwill, make people want to come see us.”

  “If they serve a drink, it is my kind of place. We’ll catch plenty of fish there, too.”

  Henry furrowed his brow. “Oh?”

  “What kind of people buy airplane rides?”

  “Curious ones.”

  “And?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “Risk. They like risk. So stop fretting.”

  “I don’t think ending up in jail will be good for business.”

  “But the drink will be worth it.” Gil laughed, a sound so rare Henry could count the times he’d heard it on one hand. “They would have eaten you alive in Chicago, old boy.”

  Henry didn’t like the “fella from the hardware store” on sight. He drove too fast, skidding to a stop on the road in front of the field. He honked an overly large, polished brass bulb horn—a farce in itself—mounted on the side of a shiny green Packard. Then he hung his slicked head out the window, waved a straw boater as if he were beckoning cattle, and yelled, “Hey, beautiful! You ready?”

  Gil looked toward Cora with his head tilted and his brows raised.

  Henry muttered, “Ugh.”

  Cora rolled her eyes. “It’s a ride, boys.” She waved cheerily and started toward the Packard.

  Henry had already decided he wasn’t going. Since he’d left Indiana, luck had been on his side. He wasn’t going to tempt fate over some illegal hooch. If he was arrested, it was all over. He was waiting until the last minute to back out so Cora wouldn’t have time to wheedle him into going. Once she and Gil were gone, he’d send the Gather boy, who was supposed to watch the plane, off with his dime in his pocket for no work at all.

  Setting eyes on this reckless fancy man changed Henry’s mind. What if Gil drank too much to look out for Cora?

  At least she wasn’t wearing that too-short, low-backed dress. Still, her lips were scarlet red and her city polish didn’t need fine clothes and feathers to draw men’s attention. She wore jodhpurs and polished knee boots, a blue blouse with too many buttons undone, and a white scarf around her neck tied in the back, its ends trailing to her waist. No doubt her clothes were intended to mark her as part of Mercury’s Daredevils and not just some ordinary girl.

  Even dressed in those mannish jodhpurs, she made a man think of things he shouldn’t.

  “This should be interesting,” Gil said as he fell into step behind her across the grassy field.

  Henry debated only a moment longer. “Ah, hell.” He told the Gather boy, “Take care
of the dog. He’ll try to follow her.” Then Henry headed toward the Packard, dread dancing on the back of his neck like spider’s feet.

  They climbed into the car, Cora in the front seat. The man shoved his hand over the seat back toward Gil—a soft, pasty kind of hand that didn’t know work. “Pierce Whitley. Glad to have you join us, ace.” The proprietary way he said “us” made Henry’s ears get hot.

  Gil shook his hand. “Gil. Not an ace.”

  Henry reminded himself that he was Henry Jefferson; occasionally Schuler still wanted to slide off his tongue. But Pierce Whitley apparently didn’t deem him worthy of an introduction. Whitley turned back around and ground the gears so loudly that Henry wanted to smack the back of his brilliantined head for the mistreatment of a fine machine.

  “I plan on getting an aeroplane soon.” Whitley said it just like that, aero-plane, as if he thought he were on the radio. “I’ll have it built to my specifications, of course. It needs to be fast.” He glanced over his shoulder at Gil. “Is yours designed for speed?”

  “Sure,” Gil said, keeping his eyes on the passing landscape.

  Pierce didn’t pause long enough for Gil’s sarcastic answer to register. He moved on to his family’s mining holdings and the bank they owned. He was particularly proud that the Whitleys had paid for power to be run out to the supper club they were going to. It quickly became obvious the man enjoyed the sound of his own voice. From his family’s wealth he moved on to an uncle of his who was apparently neck deep in Chicago politics and had a hand in shipping a trainload of nonunion “foreigners” down from the city when the UMWA went on strike.

  As twilight shifted to dark, the headlights flashed on the occasional set of reflective eyes crouched in the weeds at the side of the road, giving Henry what Cora called a case of the screaming meemies. Everything about this night was off, he felt it right down to the center of his bones.

  Pierce turned off the main road onto a narrow lane squeezed by woods and growing a strip of weeds between the tire tracks. Henry’s teeth clacked together as they bounced along too fast for the rough, curvy trail. He began to think maybe his dread had been spawned by an impending car crash and not a speakeasy raid.

  Finally they rounded a curve and saw lights blazing in every window of a large, fancy two-story house with a deep porch that wrapped around two sides. Lit paper lanterns were strung between the porch posts and from the house to some of the trees, swaying in the light breeze. A mix of cars and buggies were haphazardly parked all over the lawn.

  Noise poured out of the open windows, a piano, squeals of laughter, and a drone of voices. The top half of the front door was lace-covered glass. Pierce kept a possessive hand on Cora’s arm while he knocked three times on the glass, followed by four lighter raps. A man the size of a mountain with a neck that hung over his collar in a giant roll opened the door. It seemed absurd to have this secret knock when all of the windows were wide-open to the porch. But then, what did Henry know about speakeasies?

  They stepped into an entry hall, and the mountain closed the door behind them. A wide staircase was on the left side of the hall. On the right, a double door opened into a room packed with people and clouded with cigarette smoke. A three-piece band played on a low riser in the far corner, its sound all but drowned out by the loud voices and laughter. A chalkboard beside the door held the menu. For a supper club, it didn’t offer much in the way of supper: ham sandwiches or fried chicken and potato salad. Most folks weren’t eating.

  As Henry had mentally predicted, Cora’s appearance caused a stir. The hot urge to punch each of the ogling men in the nose took Henry by surprise. He was used to people looking at her, it happened every day on the field. But here, in this close-packed place filled with liquor-besotted fools, it felt different.

  Pierce led Cora to a round table in the center of the room and pulled out her chair. “This is my personal table.”

  Henry sat across from Cora, Gil on her other side. Pierce pulled out a cigarette, then offered the monogrammed gold case around the table. If Henry hadn’t been afraid he’d make a fool of himself choking on it, he’d have taken one just to make the point that he wasn’t invisible.

  “The slot machines are in the upstairs gallery.” Pierce pointed two fingers holding a cigarette toward the staircase. “Poker’s in the rear parlor. And, as you can see, liquor is everywhere.” He leaned close to Cora. “They have very fine smuggled whiskey. What can I get you, my lovely?”

  Gil made a noise in the back of his throat.

  “I’ll get my own in a moment, thank you,” Cora said.

  Pierce looked as if she’d just slapped him. “As you wish.” He shoved his chair back and walked over to a marble soda counter that was dispensing something other than soft drinks and chocolate sodas. He started talking to a rouged woman wearing a short, sheer dress and a sparkly turban around her head. Her earrings were so long they brushed her shoulders when she moved. She held a long cigarette holder between her gloved fingers and kept her nose pointed toward the ceiling as she talked to Pierce. Henry thought she looked ridiculous.

  Unfortunately, Pierce didn’t stay away long. Apparently his masculine pride healed quickly.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a white-collared, navy dress suitable for church came to their table. She had a fine lace-edged hankie tucked under a bracelet on her left wrist. “Good to see you, Junior.” She rested a motherly hand on his shoulder. “Will your father be coming in tonight? I have someone interested in his spot at the poker table.”

  Pierce drew on his cigarette and blew out the smoke before he answered. “I have no idea what the old man is doing.” He gestured with his cigarette-holding fingers again, this time around the table. “We’ll have four ham sandwiches.”

  “Actually, I’d like the fried chicken, please,” Cora said, and smiled at Pierce’s frown. “It’s easy to get a ham sandwich on the road, but fried chicken . . . that’s a treat.”

  Pierce was still frowning. “You heard the lady, Belle.” He looked to Gil. “Ace? Ham sandwich good enough for you?”

  “It’s Gil. And, yes, that’ll be fine.” Gil looked to Belle. “And a bottle of your best whiskey.”

  She looked surprised. “A bottle?”

  “Make it two,” Gil said. “Pierce is treating. His family is in coal, you know.”

  Belle gave Gil a sly wink and laughed. “You’re those daredevils everyone is talking about, aren’t you?”

  Cora said, “Yes, we are! Captain Gilchrist seems to think my handbills are a waste of time, but you just proved him wrong.”

  Henry watched with a sinking heart as Gil smiled at her. None of the usual challenge was in it.

  The night grew deeper. Gil frowned each time Cora and Pierce left the table to dance, but refused to dance when Cora asked him. Henry was too nervous to dance. Two bottles of whiskey turned into three. Cora sipped all evening on a single glass—a bit of surprise, as well acquainted as she seemed to be with “blind pigs.” Henry abstained, not because he didn’t want to try a drink, but because he wanted his wits sharp. He’d been eyeing the exits in case they had to make a run for it.

  Pierce and Gil seemed to be having an undeclared contest to see who could hold more liquor. Pierce’s eyes looked to be floating in his head. Gil grew so still and silent Cora checked to make sure he was still breathing.

  At eleven thirty the place was still full—and it was the middle of the week. Suddenly, Pierce pitched forward, his forehead landing on the tablecloth with a thud.

  Gil mumbled, “I win.” Then his chin hit his chest.

  “Swell,” Cora huffed. “I’m going to the powder room.” She got up and Belle directed her up the stairs.

  Henry sat with his elbow on the table, his cheek propped on his fist, wishing they could just clear out. When Cora got back, he was going to throw Pierce over his shoulder, toss him in the car, and drive them back to camp. Fa
ncy man could sleep it off in the backseat. Gil could probably still stagger to the car on his own.

  A flicker of light outside the window caught Henry’s eye.

  His nerves snapped to attention. Police?

  When it flashed again, it was obviously not a headlight. Lightning?

  He stood up.

  Balls of fire flew through the open windows on his right and the one behind him. Flaming bottles shattered on the hardwood, spreading fire across the floor, nibbling at trailing tablecloths.

  Screams broke out. Tables and chairs overturned.

  The music screeched to a stop.

  Feet thundered toward the door, bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder in the opening.

  Another bottle came through another window.

  Fire licked up the draperies on two walls. Tablecloths caught.

  Gil came sluggishly to his feet.

  Bodies were ten deep in the doorway, arms and voices flailing.

  “Go out through there!” Henry shoved Gil toward the open window near the band riser. It had the least amount of fire near it. A hand holding a clarinet was clutching the sill, then disappeared. Gil’s gait was unsteady, but he moved in that direction.

  Pierce’s head stayed on the table. Henry grabbed him up and threw him over a shoulder. Gil disappeared across the sill. Henry shoved Pierce through and let him fall to the ground six feet below. He landed with a thud.

  Henry heard more glass breaking. The whoosh of fresh flames.

  He looked over his shoulder. Why wasn’t anyone else using the windows? He yelled and waved his arms, even gave a shrill whistle, but all of the bodies continued to surge against the doorway.

  Cora. He stood on a chair and looked across the room, but didn’t see her. He hoped she’d been near the front door and was already outside.

  The smoke was getting thicker. How could fire spread so fast? The heat stung his skin.