What I did next was all rote response, deeply ingrained by years of emergency training.
I looked over at Helen, spoke in a firm voice. “Honey, push the right engine Feather button and pull the mixture to full lean. It’s the big red button on the instrument panel right in front of you.”
She knew enough of the basics of flying the Electra that she could do it, and I was too busy trying to control the plane to attempt it anyhow.
Helen jabbed the button, then pulled the mixture control to full lean, simultaneously reducing the propeller angle and cutting off fuel to the engine. That eliminated enough drag for me to pull the wings close to level, but the fire didn’t go out.
I analyzed our situation. We were about ten miles from town now and clear of the last of the hills with nothing but sand and scrub between the airport and us. I checked the altimeter again, we were maybe eight hundred feet above the ground and still sinking. It was easy math—we had no shot.
The only variable I still controlled was how smooth the crash would be. I turned toward Helen, looking deep into wide emerald eyes. My words were hard and clear.
“Honey, we’re not gonna make it. I’ve gotta put her down out here. Strap yourself in—all the way—and lock your harness. Put your head down and cover your face before we hit. Understand?”
“Yes, Joe,” she replied with odd detachment. She was a cool one, that girl.
“We’ve got about fifteen seconds. Do it now.”
There was no time to buckle my own harness. It took all my efforts just to hold the attitude near level.
I looked out ahead at the landscape. It was mostly smooth sand with a few gentle dunes and occasional clumps of vegetation, but it was hard to tell for sure in the flying dust and darkness. I picked the clearest spot I could see, turning the aircraft into the wind that was blowing like hell out of the southeast.
At fifty feet, I closed the left throttle and shut the fuel off. I stole one last glance at Helen. She was staring directly at me, her face a mixture of hope and grit and fear—at once as courageous and as lost as anyone I’d ever seen. I’ll never forget that look.
I pulled the nose up just before impact, wrestling the wings toward level, but we still went in cockeyed and low to starboard.
We punched in hard and bounced up, the burning wing digging a furrow into the ground, spinning the aircraft around. A halo of sand and brush fanned through the air as the Electra chewed into the Sonora, skidding sideways toward her ruin.
The rest of it is a blur. We struck something hard on the way, probably a boulder. I think we lost the tail then.
I don’t remember anything else after that.
52
I came to slumped against the cockpit wall, one hand still clutching the yoke, the other hanging limply at my side. The reek of aviation gas hung thickly in the air even as the scouring wind swirled through the open cargo bay. Blood, salty and raw, permeated my gums, trickling down my thickening lips.
My left eye wouldn’t open. I raised my hand to check it, but a searing pain in my ribs cut that short. I tried the other hand, dabbing at my forehead. It was slick to the touch, and there was a large lump above the swollen eye. I looked at my fingers—they were damp and dark.
Then I rubbed my cheek and felt another knot toward the back, where Spazzo had belted me. I wiggled my jaw back and forth a few times to see if it was broken. It wasn’t, but it still felt like I’d gone fifteen rounds with Joe Louis. My earlobes didn’t hurt, so at least I had that going for me.
Having ascertained that I was more or less alive, I looked across the cockpit to check on Helen.
She wasn’t there.
I shook my head several times to clear the fog, but she still didn’t appear. Grimacing from the pain in my side, I put a hand on the glareshield, pushing myself up from my seat. I called out several times as I steadied myself to walk.
There was no response, only the wind on the desert and the crackle of fire.
The fuselage was a wreck. Electrical wire harnesses dangled from the ceiling and the wainscoting hung down like rotted palm fronds in several places. The cabin was tilted a good twenty degrees down to the right on the sloping terrain, moonlight flooding in from where the tail should have been.
Bracing my right hand against the ceiling, I hobbled toward the back of the aircraft, looking for Helen as I went. Neither she nor Spazzo were in sight, but what was left of Carmine Ratello lay twisted beneath the fold-up bunk halfway back on the right side. A dark stain surrounded his body on the aluminum floor.
I stepped through the gaping hole in the back of the plane, snagging my pants on the jagged metal, slicing my calf. I grunted from the pain but didn’t even bother to check the cut—it just didn’t rate. My boot sank into the soft sand an inch or so as I lowered myself from the shattered airframe to the ground.
“Helen,” I called out. “Where are you? Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Thirty yards away, the wreckage of the tail section sat upright on a rise, the twin rudders jutting up like tombstones, backlit by the burning right engine that lay behind in the trench gashed in the sand.
I couldn’t have been out long, five minutes, maybe ten. I checked my watch: 2:44. Even if Helen had started to walk away, she couldn’t be far ahead. I felt my chest pockets for the penlight I normally kept there, but it was gone. Then I checked my holster.
Empty.
Wary of Spazzo popping out with a gun, I circled the remnants of the aircraft searching for Helen. Desperation began clutching at me when I couldn’t find any sign of either one of them.
I climbed a low dune on the port side and peered into the murk toward the crown of light above the city. I spit out some blood and sand, calling Helen’s name again and again. A wave of shock-induced nausea welled up. I dropped down on one knee to let it pass. For the first time, I became aware of the throbbing pain in my head, to go along with the dull stabbing sensation in my rib cage.
I knelt in despair, watching, the flickering flames glinting off the wreck of the Electra and dancing across the sand in irregular patterns. Amid the orange glow something metallic caught my eye. With dull irony, I realized it was the film reel, maybe ten feet away, nestled amid some cactus roses.
I crawled over toward the apparent cause of this mortal pandemic. The cover was off and a good fifteen feet of the film lay unwound on the sand, but most of it was still spooled. I held the celluloid up in the firelight—I had nothing left to lose at this point.
I stared at a few frames, concentrating on the dimly lit characters. It was what Helen had said—two nude women dancing with several men. None of the figures were identifiable in the faint light, but one resembled her sure enough. My first impulse was to toss the damn thing in the fire, but then I decided I could use it to strangle Frank.
I dropped my head and exhaled heavily. Another bout of nausea hit. I vomited on the sand, then closed my good eye and sat mostly still, waiting out the racing heartbeat and sweating brought on by the shock response, the only movement the small spasm I made each time I drew in a breath.
* * *
In a couple of minutes I was good to go. I stood up on wavering legs, surveying the site. The logical path would be from the back of the aircraft toward the city lights—pretty much where I was standing.
As I looked around, I saw something that confirmed my fears: two sets of shallow footprints in the sand, one substantially bigger than the other, leading off toward Palm Springs. It was possible they had been made at different times, or by different people. It was also possible that I was Flash Gordon. I set right off, hastily rolling up the film and shoving it in my jacket pocket as I went in pursuit.
I followed the shallow trail, shadow-lit by the moon, calling Helen’s name out every few steps while dodging the razor spikes of cholla and ocotillo. She never answered but I staggered on, wooziness and the uneven terrain dropping me to the ground several times.
After a good twenty minutes, I reached Highway 111
where the footprints ended abruptly. I crisscrossed the road, walking fifty yards in either direction, but that was the end of the trail. My heart sank as I realized that they must have hitched or strong-armed a ride. Helen was gone—again.
I stood alone on the blackened roadside, whipping winds caking blood on my face. I dug down deep, trying to grasp what was happening, praying for some help, struggling to hold myself together as my world spun further and further down out of control.
53
Within five minutes a truck appeared, heading east. I flagged it down, waving off the cloud of swirling road dust that mushroomed out from its wheels as it ground to a halt on the shoulder. As the sand settled, I made out the sign on the passenger’s door:
OLYMPIC FREIGHT FORWARDING, ATHENS, GA.
I rubbed my chin, entertaining a very old suspicion, then dismissed it with a shake of my head as I climbed up on the running board.
The driver did a double take when he saw me, letting out a whistle.
“Jee-zus, son, what happened to y’all? Anybody else hurt?”
“No, just me, had an accident. Can you drop me off in town?”
His eyes kept getting wider as he looked me over. “Sure, feller, sure. Wouldn’t y’all rather go to the hospital? You look like hell.”
I nodded. “It’s all right. They’ve got a doctor where I’m going. We can be there in ten minutes if we hurry.”
“Okay, son,” he said, reaching to unlock the door. “Hop in.”
I climbed in and he took the next exit at Indian Canyon, driving south into the valley. Along the way, I started to think about what I’d been through. The more I thought about it, the more torqued I got. There was a hell of a lot more going on here than just some amateur stag film gone missing—and everyone seemed to know but me.
By the time the driver stopped at the address, my boiler was lit and making plenty of steam. I thanked him for his assistance, climbed down to the road, and slammed the door behind me, muttering out loud.
He eyed me a long moment, perhaps assessing my sanity, before putting the truck in gear and rumbling off down the road, leaving me alone in the cool, still desert night.
I turned to face the property, clenching my bloodstained fists.
54
Frank Sinatra’s home in Rancho Mirage was commonly referred to as the “compound” by friends and strangers alike. The ten-acre property at Tamarisk Country Club had eleven buildings, two tennis courts, a swimming pool, and several train cars—none of which meant jack shit to me at that moment.
I walked down to the service gate and forced it open, ducked a security guard, then stole quietly across the open lawn, making straight for the still-illuminated main house and marching up to the front door.
I tried the handle, but the door was locked. I stood there a moment trying to decide whether to kick in the glass panel or ring the bell. Frank’s valet, George, happened to walk past the door at that moment, making my decision easier.
I rapped sharply on the glass with a bruised knuckle. Then I saw George peering out at me. A second later the ornate door opened inward. He looked me up and down a moment then declared, “Good Lord, Joe, what happened to you?”
“Pack of bobby-soxers mobbed me. Frank up?”
“Yes, in the living room, but he’s—”
I brushed right past him, storming toward the center of the house.
“Can’t wait, George. He’ll understand,” I said over my shoulder as I went.
I stopped at the entrance to the living room in the darkened hallway. Frank was in the center of the room, speaking to a group of men. The sharp smell of cigarettes peppered the air, the smoke clouding the room. Through the haze I made out the faces of Peter Lawford, Frank’s business manager Hank Sanicola, and none other than Johnny Roselli. There were two other nondescript thugs just hanging around, probably Johnny’s guys.
In any other setting it might have been highly unusual, but in Frank’s house it was just another late-night cocktail party. Then I noticed that no one was drinking.
Frank was speaking to Lawford in an uncompromising tone. “Of course I understand the gravity of what we’re talking about here, Peter, but we’ve got to keep this under wraps a little while longer. Joe’s on the case and he always gets results.”
Lawford responded, “Well, Frank, if that’s so, why haven’t you heard from your ace boy all day?”
“How the hell should I know?” he thundered. “But he’s never let me down—he’ll get that film. I need another day, that’s all.”
I stepped forward, into the room. “This film, Frank?” I said, grinding my teeth. As I did, I held up the canister, a foot or so of footage trailing beneath it.
All eyes turned toward me. Their faces hit bottom. No one spoke for several seconds. Finally, Frank said, “Joe … mother of God …”
“He’s got it, Frank,” Lawford exulted. “He’s got the movie!”
I paid him no attention whatsoever, asked, “How well do you know the Palm Springs police chief, Frank?”
“Kettman? I own him. What’s that—”
“Because my plane is a bonfire in his desert. And because Carmine Ratello’s body is out there with it. And because Helen is missing again. You’re gonna need one helluva cover-up job to keep this one under wraps,” I said, quaking with rage.
Frank stared at me, his face screwed up in confusion. “Joe, did you find Lilah? Is she all right? And why did you call her Helen?”
“Please,” I said tiredly, “can we stop calling her that? Her name is not Lilah DeHart—it’s Helen Castano. And she’s not from New Orleans, she’s from East Troy, Wisconsin. And before she was your girlfriend, Frank, she was my fiancée. I had her, but now she’s gone again, kidnapped by some half-assed wingnut of a mobster.”
He just looked on at me, pupils dilating.
“I’ve been arrested, beaten up, blackjacked, shot at, crash-landed, and generally jacked around for three days running. And it’s all allegedly over this film,” I said, hoisting the canister over my head, “which is a load of shit!”
Then, in measured words I spat out, “So I would like to know right now just-what-the-fuck-is-going-on-here!”
As I spoke, I wound up my arm and hurled the metal can across the room, rifling it into the sliding glass door behind Frank. It struck hard, cracking the glass on impact, a vitreous crescendo filling the room as fractured shards fell to the floor and shattered on the terrazzo.
The film popped out of the canister and rolled away, celluloid spooling out like railroad tracks in front of Lawford’s feet. The reel came spinning to a stop in front of Frank, rattling as it oscillated down on the polished floor. Then it went quiet.
A charged silence fell over the room.
Like gunfighters in a standoff, Frank and I sized each other up, no one moving. The others appeared to be paralyzed by the sight of my swollen face and bloodstained clothes, but Frank just glowered at me, his eyes burning blue embers. I could see him absorbing the shock of what I’d just said. He took the blow, then fired a return volley.
“Hey,” he shouted, “do you have any idea what this is all about? Do you know who’s on that film?”
“It’s a little hard to see by firelight with half your face smashed in. Why don’t you tell me, Frank?” I asked, my voice rising. “Then you can thank me for getting it for you. Then you can call the police so we can start tracking down Helen and Spazzo. And then … then you can go fuck yourself!”
I shouted the words out, making myself dizzy and hoarse in the process. While I was yelling, Lawford bent over, picking the loose footage off the floor and holding it up.
Frank took a step toward me, the muscles on his neck bulging. “Well, I’ll tell you, Joe. That’s a movie featuring Marilyn Monroe, Judy Campbell, and Senator John FUCKING Kennedy of Massachusetts! You may have heard of him, he’s running for president of the United States.” Now he was shouting. “And you can bet your ASS they’re not discussing the New Frontier! Now do you get
it? Do you have any idea the harm that film could have done if it had gotten out?” he screamed, a thin spray flying from his mouth, sparkling in the light.
“How?” I asked. “But Helen said it was … I saw it … there wasn’t any …”
I could feel my brain locking up from confusion, pain, and just plain exhaustion. It all just hit me at once, the weight of everything—the poundings, the deceptions, the plane crash.
The dizziness increased. I put a hand to my head, my good eye blinking involuntarily. I could feel my legs going as I began to sway.
Then Frank was racing toward me, calling, “George! Get the first aid kit, and get Dr. Rosenbloom over here—now! Hank! Get Joe a drink. Let’s help him to the couch.”
Then he was next to me, his arm under my shoulder, helping me stand.
“Slow down, dago, the rest can wait. Let’s get you taken care of first. I’ll explain everything, I promise.”
Peter was holding the film in his hands, examining the frames against a lamp. As I collapsed onto the couch, I could hear him squawking, “It’s not here, Frank. This isn’t the one. It’s not fucking here!”
* * *
I sat back on the couch for several minutes while George cleaned up my face, the ice pack stinging almost as much as the iodine he put on the cut above my eye.
Hank held a glass of whiskey in his paw and handed me a sip every so often. The smell of burnt rye was a welcome relief after the chemical pungency of the antiseptic. Frank sat next to me the entire time, arm across my back. There are Elks Club meetings with less male chumminess.
Lawford sat opposite us in a chair, head in his hands, fretting, “What are we going to do now?” over and over.
Roselli and the thugs sat quietly, saying nothing.
Frank finally said, “You on the level, Joe, she’s from Wisconsin?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Small-town girl. Big-town trouble.”
“And how. You have no idea. You were engaged to Lilah, no shit?”
“Helen. Yeah, back in ’55. We dated about a year. Didn’t take, in case you hadn’t guessed.”
One for Our Baby Page 16
