Coleman twisted in his seat, then went on. "Milo likes to run things. If he's got a fault, it's that he doesn't like to delegate anything to anybody. I understand he drives the people in his company crazy, checking into everything."
"Got any weaknesses, any vices?"
Coleman thought it was a hell of a question to ask about his father-in-law but went on. "Not that I know of. He's a churchman, attends every Sunday when he's in Little Rock, runs the vestry with an iron hand."
"How does he like you?"
"Oddly enough, he thinks I'm tops, because I'm a pilot. That's his one frustration in life—he always wanted to be a fighter pilot. But his eyes are bad, never had a chance to fly himself."
"Did you get any kills during the war?"
Coleman hung his head modestly and said, "Three." He hesitated and added, "Only one of them was confirmed."
He didn't talk about his victories too much—he'd been stooging around in Bavaria, late in 1944, and had come across a flight of three German training planes, little Focke-Wulf biplanes. He had shot one down, and the other two had dispersed like rabbits in the woods. When he came back, he claimed three victories, but they gave credit only for the one on the gun camera film. McNaughton went back to business. "What about Ruddick's son?"
"Oh, Bob flew during the war. He's a closed-mouth, private sort of guy, but we get along pretty well. I understand he's a good pilot. But his dad intimidates him like he does most people. Like he does me."
"What's Bob doing now?"
"He's running a small airport outside of Little Rock. He's talking about getting into air racing, but his Dad's not willing to foot the bill."
"How would Milo Ruddick feel about it if someone else gave Bob a little help?"
"He'd love it. He always talks about Bob being another Roscoe Turner, racing at Cleveland. But he won't put up the money it takes. I don't know where all his money goes, he must be socking it away. The Ruddicks live well, but not lavishly. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn't have a little tootsie on the side who he spends his money on."
McNaughton shook his head. "I doubt it. It always seemed to me that he preferred power to pussy."
Coleman smiled and Troy went on. "You know, it might be good publicity for McNaughton Aircraft if we converted one of the Sidewinders into a racer."
Coleman leaned forward at the word we.
"It looks to me like the kid's the way to his father's heart. We'll work on Bob, convince him about our capabilities. Then maybe the three of us can convince his father that we need twenty million in start-up money for the wing."
"Twenty million! That's a lot of money; Boeing only spent about half that on the XB-47."
"It's a lot, but it's only a down payment. Let me level with you. The Manta bomber is just a stalking horse. I don't care if we ever build one! I want to build guided missiles, flying wings with a long range and an atomic bomb load."
"Is that why there's no cockpit on the model?"
"Exactly! I want the money for applied research, mainly for a robot navigation system we acquired from Vanguard. It'll be far more accurate than anything humans can do."
Self-interest flashed' in Coleman's eyes like a neon sign.
"Missiles are the key to the future, Stan. Nobody will need bombers in twenty years, believe me. But those idiots in Washington won't see that. Theodore von Karman, one of the greatest scientists in the world, says they are possible, but Vannevar Bush says they are not. So they believe Bush and cancel development. "
Coleman nodded; he'd met von Karman, heard of Bush.
"Where does the competition stand with missiles?"
"Good question. Convair's had a lot of money funneled to them, but they're off on the wrong track, trying to build ballistic missiles—like big V-2s. They won't be ready for eight or ten years. With the present technology, you just can't build a rocket big enough to throw a ten-thousand-pound atomic warhead from here to Russia. That's why I want to build flying-wing guided missiles. Manned bombers are obsolete—with the atom bomb, you don't need them anymore." He waited for this to sink in.
"So, you see, I've got to take the money where I can get it, and put it where I know it will do the most good. The Air Force will go for developing the wing, I know—if Ruddick backs us."
"How can I help?"
"I've watched you for the past few months. You know how to handle people. You're a natural-born salesman, and I want you to sell the two Ruddicks. They already know you and trust you. You're an insider, part of the family. Your wife can help, too."
Coleman's feigned reluctance didn't fool McNaughton. "I don't know, Troy. I've got a great flying job, and I'll probably be promoted in the fall."
"I'll double your salary, and put Ginny on the payroll at whatever you are making now in the Air Force."
"Gee, I'll have to discuss it with her, Troy."
Sticking out his hand, Troy smiled. "No, you won't. I'm sure she and Elsie have already come to an agreement. Now don't say a word to anyone about the wing, and especially not about the missiles."
The two wives had in fact already come to several agreements, the first of which was that they disliked each other intensely. The second, almost equally important, was that they nevertheless would have to work together.
Elsie McNaughton had been waiting in the grand old Maxwell House Hotel dining room for half an hour, passing the time with bourbon poured from a silver flask into a thick tumbler of ice water. She much preferred the sweeter taste of a Manhattan, but you still couldn't buy drinks in a Nashville restaurant. She glanced at her wristwatch, then poured more whiskey over the ice.
As she sipped, Elsie impatiently tapped a crystal vase with a spoon; she had carved out a career in the almost exclusively male aviation industry by never waiting for anyone or anything. Knowing her temper, the Negro waiter watched her as nervously as a mouse watches a cat.
She had started as a secretary for Bruno Hafner in the old Hafner Aircraft Company, unable to take shorthand, barely able to type, but young, virginal, and eager to learn about everything. The first thing Bruno taught her was sex, but after the first rough edges of his lust had been knocked off, he found she had brains as well and began to treat her as his girl Friday. When Hafner Aircraft went belly up in 1936, Troy McNaughton had bought up its assets—among them Elsie Raynor.
With the experience she'd had with Hafner, she quickly assumed a major role at McNaughton, developing an easygoing, bantering managerial style that did not quite mask her voracious appetite for power. Troy valued her knack for going to the heart of business problems. Sometimes she used sex as a weapon, exploiting the weaknesses of the men she worked with, but most of the time she simply worked harder and gathered more information than anyone else she was competing with. She had used both approaches with her old friend and lover, the late General Henry Caldwell, and it had paid off handsomely over the years. Elsie was a wealthy woman, with a large interest in McNaughton Aircraft held in her own name.
When Ginny finally appeared, clicking in on four-inch high heels, the two women experienced the polar opposite of love at first sight. Elsie thought, A frigging flamenco dancer—where are the castanets? even as she realized the truth—Ginny was too young, too pretty, and too much in love with herself for Elsie to endure. As Ginny walked over, Elsie's eyes swept up and down. Ginny was taller and she had a gorgeous figure—much like her own had been only a few years before.
Elsie sat up straight and stole a quick glance into the mirrored column next to her. She sighed. Twenty extra pounds had mugged her body, making the flat round and the firm sag. Her once silky, copper-gold hair had been turned to dime store henna by too many weekly treatments. In her youth, she used just a touch of makeup, but now she was layered in a rose-pink Elizabeth Arden haze.
Ginny, piling up impressions at equal speed, let her best beauty-contest smile blossom as she thought, She looks like a whorehouse madam.
Elsie half-rose from her seat to greet her. They shook hands formally, each mome
ntarily lost in appraising the other.
If Ginny's first mistake was to be attractive, her second was to dominate the conversation. Elsie tried to interject at first, but soon gave up, confining her remarks to "aha's" and a few "I see's."
"I just love your guesthouse; you must have had a professional decorator in."
Elsie liked the old guesthouse better, where she had roistered with Caldwell and many others. The new place was too luxurious for her, and it didn't even have a mirror by the bed! She started to say that she had done the decorating herself when Ginny went on, "'Course, I'd never hire anyone to do my home. I've got a natural talent for decoration, everyone says so."
Elsie smiled, thinking: You probably love blue-tinted mirrors and movie-dish tableware, you cracker bitch.
In the next hour, Elsie learned far more than she wanted to know about Ginny's aristocratic family, her powerful father, Stan's cleverness, and how much the two of them could do for McNaughton Aircraft. She also saw that as mendaciously cunning as Ginny was, she could be a useful tool—and would never be a threat.
Finally, Ginny ran down, saying, "But goodness me, I've been doing all the talking. Tell me why you all want Stan to come work for you."
Smoothing the silver-threaded tablecloth with her hand, Elsie decided to tell Ginny the simple truth.
"Because of your contacts—your stepfather, of course, and all the others. And because your husband will make a good salesman for us. He's much smoother than Troy. Troy's ways were fine for the old days, but the government's more sophisticated now. I understand that Stan has a very winning manner, and that he looks the part."
Ginny was excited, visions of managerial perks dancing in her head. "You don't want him to be just a test pilot?"
The white-jacketed waiter, silver-haired and sleekly deferential, served dessert, orange sherbet for Ginny and bourbon black bottom pecan pie for Elsie.
"Oh, sure, he'll fly as much as he wants to. But Troy wants to use him in Washington to sweeten up the brass—you know, buy them dinner, take them fishing and hunting. Troy always says you sell a hundred times more airplanes on the golf course than you do on the flight line."
"Stan will be perfect for you!"
Elsie just smiled. Maybe he would, at that. She pushed the pecan pie away untasted—perhaps it was time to find out if there was life in the old girl yet.
*
Cleveland, Ohio/March 17, 1948
God bless his father. Usually his calm presence, so benign and filled with good will, made everyone feel better. Now he was mad as hell, veins purpling out in his forehead, arms waving, and everyone was uneasy.
"Start at the beginning, son. I'm tired of wondering what's going on. You and Saundra have been sharp with each other all morning.
The Reverend John Stuart Marshall Sr., three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than his son, was built more like Joe Louis than Father Divine. Curly white hair ran around the monklike tonsure of broad black scalp, and his eyes normally sparkled with humor. Now they flashed an urgent warning that he wanted straight talk. Despite his anger, Reverend Marshall instinctively pulled Saundra close with his beefy arm; she gladly folded herself into him, grateful for his love and warmth, sorry that their bickering had bothered him. She had never really known her own father. For some reason still unrevealed, her sternly religious mother had forbidden even the mention of his name. Their life had been work and church, yet until she'd met John's father she couldn't believe that ministers could laugh, that religion could be comforting.
"Dad, the problem is work! I can't get a flying job. I've been all over the country. If I didn't have Mr. Bandfield's word on it, I'd think I'd been blacklisted by McNaughton."
"Oh, you're 'black' listed, son, we all are. I thought you found that out at Tuskegee." His mother shook with mirth, eyes lit up and crackling white teeth smiling through skin as shiny as a polished pan. Her face was long and narrow, her nose slightly hooked, her smile wide. The family had always had fun, no matter how hard times had been. When everyone was home it sometimes seemed as if laughter would jump the little frame house on Connick Street right off its concrete block foundations. Mary was a tall woman, thin and strong as the lengths of hickory she used to apply to John Jr. 's backside. His copper color and hooked nose came from her side of the family. The senior John Marshall always joked about there being an Indian somewhere in his mother's family woodpile—but never when Mary was around.
She busied herself around the battered oak kitchen table, the center of their life, passing out plates of fragrant stollen, heavy white frosting dotted with raisins, oven-warm and their standard Saturday morning treat. Working for a German family in Shaker Heights for almost twenty years, Mary's cooking style had changed over time to mix its purely Southern origins with German-American dishes. John's favorite meal was still neckbones, sauerkraut, and liver dumplings, a Dixie-Bavarian mixture he'd daydreamed about when eating K-rations in Italy.
"Don't laugh, Mom; at least Tuskegee taught me to fly—I'll always be grateful for that."
Tuskegee Army Air Field had been the experience of a lifetime—and an utter nightmare. Tuskegee was an experiment, to see if Negroes could learn to fly, and the Army handled it in a curious dual fashion. Oh the one hand, the training was just as arduous and fast-paced as at a white flying school. On the other, segregation was preserved almost as strictly as it was in the nearby town of Tuskegee, where the drinking fountains were marked white and colored and hostility lurked behind every glance. Like most of the other aviation cadets, John had endured the humiliation because he loved to fly and because he felt that a chance to be a commissioned pilot offered the best way for Negroes to advance.
"Dad, the only people hiring pilots are the airlines, and of course they're not taking on any Negroes. I thought about seeing if I could get back into the Air Force, but after our problems at Lockbourne, I decided against it."
Saundra's smile was tight. "No, no more Lockbournes, please."
The old man's manner softened. "I have to tell you, son, I was worried when you left the Air Corps." He would never call it anything else but Air Corps. "I knew that when that McTaggart outfit offered you a job, they didn't know you were colored."
"McNaughton, Dad. And they must have known; there was a box to check for race on the application, and I told them that I'd learned to fly at Tuskegee and fought overseas with the 332nd. No white boys did that!"
"No matter. When somebody realized who—and what—you were, they took care of things. Just like I said they would."
His mother broke in. "Amen. He said that the very day we got your letter saying you were going to work for them."
John Sr. looked at her and smiled. They'd been together thirty-five years now, survived two wars, a depression, and two race riots, one in Detroit, and the other in East St. Louis. They'd had five children, and three had lived to maturity. She was still a good-looking woman.
"What's this business you're in now?"
"I don't know a whole lot, and most of what I know I can't tell. All I can tell you is that I've got a job, flying for a foreign government, and the pay is good—six hundred dollars a month, as long as I'm there."
"Six hundred dollars a month! Whooee! Sure beats a dollar a day at the foundry. But where are you going, John?"
"That's what I can't tell you. As soon as I can, I will, and I won't be gone any longer than I have to. If Saundra can stay here with you, I can save a lot of money, and maybe come back and start a business of my own."
"You know that Saundra's welcome here. You just be sure you come back." He paused. "It's not this 'ace' thing, is it, son? You don't have to prove yourself to anyone, you've already done that."
John Marshall flushed; as usual his dad was on target.
"No, no, Dad, it's nothing like that."
His father smiled and said, "Son, you forget a daddy can tell when his son is fibbing, and you're fibbing now. I just hope it's a good cause."
"It is; you'd join yourself if y
ou knew what it was." Then he laughed and added, "'Course, you're not exactly in the line of work they'd want to use," and made his father angry because he wouldn't tell him any more.
That night Saundra lay next to him, cradled in his arms, crying softly because he was leaving, again. His parents, knowing they would want to be alone, had said good-bye that afternoon, driving to St. Louis in their two-tone gray 1940 Nash Ambassador to see the Reverend's sister. The elder Marshall loved the Nash because the front seat folded back to make a bed, and they never had to worry about finding a place to stay that would accept Negroes. They packed a big hamper of food, slept in the car by the side of the road, and used the woods for a restroom.
"Don't cry, honey, not on our last night for a while."
"I should be better at this. We've had almost as many 'last nights' as we've had nights together."
It was true. They'd been married less than a year when he went off to flying school—just in time, it turned out; a few months later married men weren't being admitted to the program. Since then only his job with McNaughton had given them any kind of home life, even though the little house they'd rented in the desert had been lonely and primitive. There'd been no place for her—no place livable—when he came back to Tuskegee, and their experience at Lockbourne was too painful to recall.
"Do you mind staying here? Would you rather go back and live with your mother?"
"Never! I love her, but I hate being with her. Mother is always scrubbing life on the washboard of religion. Your parents are so different—you're so different."
"That's why you love me so." They kissed for a long while, and she pulled away to ask, "What's this 'ace' thing your daddy asked about?"
He'd never discussed it with her, and knew he couldn't now. She'd never understand. "Ah, when I went to flying school I told my daddy that I wanted to be an ace, shoot everybody down—just foolish young man's talk. Don't think about it."
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