Gladys knew a lot about money, and she was mollified that Eddie could write off the plane rental fees.
Eddie didn’t like to lie, and he had wondered, later on, why he really hadn’t wanted to have Gladys along when he went flying, but flying seemed about the only area left to him where he could be completely alone. He didn’t mind having Gladys around all the time. Most of the time, it was very pleasant. He liked to have her drive him to the Miami International Airport and pick him up when he came back from his regular flights. He avoided the parking hassle that way. He liked having her along when he went to a movie in the afternoon, or talking to her at dinner, or when they watched TV at night. But sometimes a man wanted to be by himself. Gladys often did things she didn’t want to do, just to be with him. So Eddie had given up a few things he liked to do because he knew that she didn’t really enjoy them. But she was with him all the time.
In the evening, around ten p.m., Eddie liked to stretch his legs. The four-block walk to the 7/Eleven store was just about right. He would walk down there, get a Coke and a bag of peanuts, browse among the magazines, and then buy the early edition of the next morning’s Miami Herald. Gladys accompanied him on these walks, which meant that he had to wait for her while she put on fresh make-up and got dressed for the walk. When he wanted to take a little walk, that was what he wanted to do—then—not wait twenty minutes for Gladys to take off her old make-up and then put on all fresh make-up. But he went along with it, and waited, even though it made him impatient.
He still had the early morning jogging to himself, too. Gladys had bought a new sweat suit and red leather Keds with white racing stripes so she could jog with him in the morning, but she had only lasted for one morning and one block before she quit and walked home. Eddie had set a fast pace, and trying to keep up with him had made her breasts hurt. So all Eddie had left was the jogging and the flying. The rest of the time, during the three or four days a week he was in Miami, Gladys was with him. She was with him all the time, it seemed.
She had begged to go with him on the first Cessna flight, all excited about the idea, because she had never flown in a light plane before. This was about a month after he had moved into her house. As soon as he got some altitude he had sideslipped into a falling leaf, zigzagging sharply for a fairly swift drop of about 200 feet. Gladys had vomited all over her purple slacks and white sandals. He had flown back to the Opa-Locka airport only ten minutes after take-off.
“What caused that terrible drop?” she asked, as she scrambled out of the plane.
“Air pockets,” Eddie lied. “They happen all the time, and I had to fight for control.”
But even if she had given up flying with him, she usually drove him to the Opa-Locka airport and waited for him to come down. And this made Eddie a little irritated—knowing she was just sitting down there in the Twin Services rental waiting room, flipping through old Aeronautical Journals, bored out of her skull for two or three hours. The slight feeling of guilt he felt had diminished some of his pleasure in being alone up there.
If she hadn’t been in Fort Lauderdale, she would have been with him today, not saying anything, but pouting jealously because he and Don were going to be alone for two or three hours without her. In some respects Gladys reminded Eddie of Schatzi, the German shepherd bitch he used to have as a boy. When he used to put his arm around his mother, or kissed her goodbye when he was leaving the house, Schatzi would bark and snarl. Until he broke her of the habit by beating her with a rolled newspaper, Schatzi would snap at his mother’s legs.
But having Don with him in the plane was a lot different from having Gladys. Don probably had a hundred questions to ask, but Don could sense that Eddie didn’t want to talk while he was flying. If Eddie had wanted to talk, why would he rent a plane for $55 an hour? So Don was quiet, and looked out the window. Gladys would have been asking “What’s that?—and that?—and that?” Of course, just to have Don or anyone else along was distracting, in a sense, because if Don hadn’t been with him Eddie wouldn’t have been thinking about him. But then, Eddie didn’t mind thinking about Don, because if he thought about Don he wouldn’t have to think about Gladys. And thinking about Gladys, now that he had made his decision, was painful. He wanted to wait until he had some more distance, until he was in Chicago, maybe. Then he would think about Gladys.
Don, Eddie thought, was like a chameleon—a social chameleon—because he could adapt himself to almost any group or social situation—blend right in and be accepted, even though he never said much of anything. Basically, though, Don was a sad guy, a sufferer. Although he didn’t show his pain or complain about anything much unless he was fairly close to a man, as he was with Eddie and Hank, and Larry, sometimes. But even then Don had to be coaxed a little to get him to talk about his problems.
That story about Nita and the rim-job was probably true. Otherwise, Don wouldn’t have told it on himself. Eddie would never have told a story like that to anyone if it had happened to him. And yet, in a curious way, he had admired Don’s courage, or humility, in being able to tell him about it. Don could talk about it, Eddie supposed, because he was a Catholic. Catholics were used to making confessions, or conditioned, as children, to talking about intimate matters to nuns and priests, and so it probably didn’t bother them any. Also, Don being an Italian and all—that probably had something to do with his crying when he got drunk. Italians were very emotional. Eddie hadn’t cried since he was twelve years old, and that was when Schatzi was run over. She was a good old dog, Schatzi. Eddie had refused his mother’s offer of a new puppy. He hadn’t wanted another dog. Another dog wouldn’t be old Schatzi. Some things were just too damned intimate to discuss.
Eddie certainly couldn’t talk about his sex life with Gladys to anyone, although Hank had asked him questions about it several times. Every time, Eddie had merely grinned and shrugged. He had driven old Hank right up the wall. But what he and Gladys did together would never be told to anyone. He didn’t even like to think about it. Jesus. He had had his share of ass in his time, but he had never done that with anyone before! Eddie wasn’t a prude. He didn’t mind talking about sex, in general, like admitting you balled some chick three times in one night, or something like that, but going into the intimate details was just too gauche.
Anyway, Hank, in his letter, had been right about Don. Don was really depressed. He was way down there. But Hank’s suggestion about getting Don a girl to shack up with on the side wasn’t the answer. Besides, Don had never had any trouble getting laid. Women liked Don. He was good looking, in a dark way. A lot of women had told Don he looked like John Derek—in that movie where John Derek had been in a wheelchair. No one could ever recall the tide of that movie, but Eddie remembered two or three times when women had brought up Don’s resemblance to John Derek, and none of them could ever recall the name of the movie, either. But each time, they added “in that film where John Derek was in the wheelchair.” That was when the four of them used to hang around the Turf and Surf in Hialeah, before the new manager took out the pool table. Eddie and Hank would meet there for lunch, and then play pool all afternoon. Don would arrive by two-thirty or three, and Larry by five-thirty. Sometimes, drinking beer and playing pool, they would close up the place at midnight. Those were the really good days, when Don was still living in the building. But after the new owner had taken out the pool table, they had started to hang around the White Shark instead.
Eddie still didn’t know what to do about Don, though, and now it was a little too late to do much of anything. He should have gotten around to Don before now, instead of spending all that time with Gladys. Well, when they got to Ft. Myers he would tell Don about his promotion to captain. He could do that much. It always made Don happy when something nice happened to one of his friends.
The plane was approaching the huge abandoned concrete slab in the Everglades that was supposed to have been a new jetport for Miami before the environmentalists had forced the state to stop work on it. The plans had been
made and more than three million dollars expended on the jetport before “ecology” had become a fad. But the landing field was still there, a vast, flat-out wasted expenditure of taxpayers’ money. It was used occasionally by private planes and even for training purposes by some of the airlines, but that limited use would be curtailed soon—as soon as there was a bad accident on the uncontrolled field. Eddie liked to shoot a few landings in the Cessna when he came near the field, especially when the weather was nice, as it was today. But as he looked down he could see thirty or forty parked cars and a crowd of people at the southern end of the slab. Drag racers. He would skip the touch-and-goers today. Drag racers were crazy, and some of their home-made vehicles, with parachutes for brakes, zipped down the middle of the slab at 250 miles per hour.
Eddie made a slow banking circle to give Don a closer look at the crowd and the cars, and then flew straight across the ‘Glades to Naples. From Naples, he followed the shoreline up to Bonita Beach, turned inland, and put the Cessna down at Page Field in Ft. Myers.
28
Instead of taking a cab into Edison Mall, they ate lunch, at Eddie’s suggestion, in the small cafe in Hangar Three. Eddie ordered the special—meat loaf, blackeyed peas, corn bread and string beans—but Don, who said he wasn’t very hungry, asked for a hamburger and a chocolate milk shake. While they sat in the booth, waiting for their food, Don polished his purple sunglasses with a paper napkin.
“While we were flying over, Ed, I had an idea,” Don said. “I don’t know if it would work or not, but if it did, it would be a way out for me.”
“A way out for what?”
“You know. The situation I’m in. I don’t work very hard, as you know. In a way, I hardly work at all. I just take orders from the stock I have in the warehouse. I haven’t had to get out and hustle any sterling for about three years. Most of the time, as it is, it takes about two months to fill a big order. A replacement order—like a new forty-five dollar spoon to replace one some housewife’s thrown away in the garbage—takes from three to six months.
“So I’m not overworked. In fact, Nita handles most of the Dade County orders. My main job is keeping my boss in Gunnersbury England, happy, and checking on my salesmen in Tampa and Jax. Considering the bread I make, I sometimes feel guilty about how little I do.”
Eddie grinned. “I feel the same way sometimes. In fact, I just got a raise, Don—and my promotion to captain.”
“You did? Congratulations!”
“Thanks. I’ve been putting off the promotion for some time, Don. I could’ve had my fourth stripe two years ago, but I waited until I could get my own Seven-twenty-seven. If I’d taken it two years ago, I’d’ve been hauling cargo and taking most of the lousy runs. Moving from co-pilot to pilot only means another twenty-five hundred a year to me right now, but a lot more eventually. The point is, I’d probably fly for nothing—or for just enough to live on, if that was the only way I could get to fly. But other pilots in the Association, fortunately, don’t feel that way, so now I’ll be drawing down twenty-eight, five a year.”
“You sure as hell deserve it, Eddie. As the captain, you’ll be the man, now, and if anything goes wrong it’ll be your ass.”
“I know. That’s what they really pay us for—the responsibility, not for flying the plane. If they only paid us—say—six or seven thousand a year, the passengers would lose confidence in flying, I think. It’s like psychoanalysts. They charge fifty bucks an hour so you’ll trust them.”
“I never thought of that, but you’re probably right. Let me ask you a couple of questions, Eddie, before I test my idea on you. Okay?”
“Anything, man.”
“The Cessna. Could it haul you and me and about twelve hundred additional pounds?”
“No. Not this one. The ten-passenger job could, though—the Cessna Four-oh-two. If it didn’t have the ten passengers along, I mean.”
“Could you check one out—a Four-oh-two?”
“Sure. I’ve got more than thirty-five hundred hours in multiengined planes, for Christ’s sake.”
“I know that. But are they available for rental, these ten-passenger jobs?”
“If you’ve got the hundred bucks an hour. The rate is, or used to be, about sixty-five cents a nautical mile. They might’ve gone up some on rentals, though, just like everything else.”
“How long would it take you to fly to Tampa and back from Opa-Locka?”
“I’d have to check the maps first for an exact schedule, but I can give you a rough idea. It’s about one hundred and twenty-five miles to Tampa from Miami—nautical miles—and the Four-oh-two can fly at about one hundred and eighty knots. So roughly, give or take a few minutes, it would take about an hour each way. At Tampa, however, you can’t always land when you want to. Sometimes they make small planes wait—both to land and to take-off. They’ve got priorities, you see.”
“D’you need a flight plan?”
The waitress brought their food. As she put down the plates, she stared at Don and smiled. “You’ve got beautiful hair,” she said.
“Thanks,” Don said, nodding pleasantly, “I just had it styled yesterday. Twelve bucks a crack.”
“In Fort Myers?”
“No—in Miami. I go about twice a month.”
“I didn’t think it was in Fort Myers. I didn’t mean to be rude. But my husband’s got long hair like yours, and his looks like a rat’s nest.”
“That’s okay. It’s always nice to get a little feedback. So maybe the guy’s worth twelve bucks.” He grinned at Eddie, “Where do you get your hair styled, Eddie?”
“Miami Barber College. It’s a buck-fifty for white sidewalls.”
“I’d rather see my husband with short hair like yours,” the woman said to Eddie, “instead of having it look like a rat’s nest.”
“That’s a nice diplomatic comment,” Eddie said.
The waitress left, and Don nodded solemnly. “D’you see how it is, Ed? If you’d let your hair grow, they’d be all over you.”
Eddie grinned. “I can’t stand it down over my ears that way, but I’ve been wearing it a little longer since I’ve been living with Gladys. Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about going back to the flat-top. That was the best hair style men ever had, and George Peppard’s gone back to it. I saw his picture in the paper the other day.”
“Where was I? Before my fan came over?”
“On the flight plan. The answer is no. It isn’t necessary to file a flight plan, not on a rental plane. If you were going outside the continental limits—like to Nassau or somewhere—you’d need one. But that’s because you’d have to have a Customs agent check your plane when you got back. What is it, exactly, you’ve got in mind?”
“Well, what I need, you see, is some money. Twenty-four complete sets of flatware, about fifty pounds each in its neat little case, are worth about twenty thousand. My plan or idea was to steal twenty-four sets from my own warehouse, have you fly me and my daughter and the silverware over to Tampa. You could fly back alone, you see, and I could rent a car over there, and take off. We could settle somewhere, in New Orleans, or Dallas, and I could change my name. Then, once we got settled, I could find another job and start a new life.”
Eddie shook his head. “Don, Don, Don—you really haven’t thought this thing out, have you?”
“Not the details, no, but in general, I have—as we flew over.”
“How would you get the silverware and your daughter to Opa-Locka?”
“I could rent a panel truck, I suppose.”
“And leave it at the airport?”
“Sure. You could turn it in for me when you got back from Tampa.”
“Here’s a better way. You visit your salesman in Tampa once a month, right?”
“I’m supposed to, but usually it’s about every other month. It’s easier to phone him, and Henry’s a pretty good man. I do go to Jax once a month though. I take the breakfast flight up, and the dinner flight back. And I never tell the bastard w
hen I’m coming, either.”
“Okay. How about this idea. You drive over to Tampa, and you establish that you’re in Tampa—an alibi—because you’re checking on Henry. Then that night I pick you up in Tampa, and fly you back to Miami. You have a stolen car staked out at the Opa-Locka airport. You take the stolen car, drive downtown to your warehouse, pick up the silverware and drive back to Opa- Locka. I fly you and the silverware back to Tampa. All in all, you’ll only be away from Tampa about three hours.”
“But what about Marie? I’m not leaving without my daughter.”
“Wait’ll I finish. You stay in Tampa all night, and then you drive back to Miami the next day. Then you discover the missing silverware and call the police. You’re clear. You couldn’t possibly have taken it because you were in Tampa, and Henry Messinger’ll prove it. Meanwhile, the silverware is all hid out over there somewhere. When things blow over, in another two or three months, let’s say, you can quit your job, pick up Marie, and go to Tampa. Then you can get the silverware and take off for New Orleans, or wherever.”
“That plan sounds better than mine.”
“It’s a plan, at any rate. You didn’t have a plan. You just had an idea. A bad idea.”
“Would you do this for me, Eddie?”
“Sure. Why not? If that’s what you want to do. But I’ll tell you one thing, you’ll have one hellova time finding another thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year job like the one you’ve got now.”
“Hell,” Don said, “I don’t expect to. But the way Clara’s got me boxed in now, I can’t keep any money anyway. My paychecks and commission checks go directly into her account, and then she gives me a weekly allowance. It’s an adequate allowance, but that isn’t the same. The house, and even the Mark IV, is in her name. Marie and I, we won’t need a lot—but I’ll need at least ten thousand to start over, and twenty would be even better. D’you see what I mean, Eddie?”
“Yes. But if you try to start over as a fugitive—you and a little girl trying to begin again somewhere with new names—you’ll get caught, or you’ll worry about getting caught all the time.”
The Shark-Infested Custard Page 20
