“Nice,” Lewis shouted back. “Real nice.”
The red Jenny was circling back to land, coming in almost sedately. She bounced once, twice, then settled and slowed, trundling toward the hangars. He should follow, he knew. That was what the dream had meant, he was sure of it — maybe Gilchrist needed another pilot, maybe he was hiring — but that was too good to be true. He couldn’t rely on dreams when he had real leads to follow up. He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket instead, checked Forrest’s hangar number.
He should have known when he got there that it was a bad idea. Forrest’s planes were all white, decked with red and blue stripes like bunting, and the Legion flag hung from the rafters, limp in the heat. A couple of boys in what looked like old uniforms were sitting just inside the door; they pointed him to Forrest, a big man who’d put on his khakis for the occasion.
“Mr. Forrest?” Lewis put on his best smile. “Ham Wiggins said you might be looking for a pilot with military experience.”
The big man turned, pushing his doughboy’s hat onto the back of his head. “I might be,” he said.
“I put in four years regular Army, three of that with the Air Service,” Lewis said. “And I’ve been flying as a civilian ever since I got out.”
“Barnstorming,” Forrest said.
“Some. I worked a couple of years for a guy who had a mail contract. Then I did some charter work. I’ve dusted crops, and I’ve given lessons.”
Forrest was starting to look interested in spite of himself. “Huh. What’s your name, son?”
“Lewis Segura. Lieutenant —”
But the interest had died. Forrest shook his head. “Sorry. I only hire American.”
I am American, damn it. Lewis had been down this road often enough to know there was no point in arguing. “Suit yourself,” he said, and turned away. He could feel the boys smirking as he left the hangar, wished he’d kept the Coke bottle so that he could smash it. It wouldn’t take much, they’d been too young to have served, despite the cocky uniform — wouldn’t even take a gun to kill them – even a broken bottle would do, the jagged edge sharp as any blade. There was no good thinking like that. Lewis kept walking, dust in his mouth and the odor of gasoline and oil filling his lungs. It smelled like France, or like the France he’d known best, the hangars and the rickety houses where the squadrons lived. Where he’d learned to fly, where a dozen friends had died —
He shoved that thought back into the box where it belonged, jammed his hands into his pockets. There would be work, somewhere, even if the barnstorming tours seemed to be dying away. A flash of red caught his eye — Gilchrist’s red Jenny, half out of its hangar, the paint seeming even brighter in the sunset light. It was unmistakably the plane he’d dreamed about, and in spite of himself he drew a little closer. It was just to check the design on the tail, he told himself, but the dream-memory had him in its clutches: this plane was for him, was going to take him back to the skies.
The design was exactly what it had been in the dream, too, a circle and cross that looked military, but when you got up close was probably meant to be a stylized compass. There was writing underneath it, too, Ps. 22:16-17, and as he frowned, trying to remember, a woman stepped out of the hangar. She had been in the dream, too, tall, tanned, with bobbed blonde hair held back in a blue kerchief that matched her eyes, and the joy he had felt then crashed over him like a wave. He controlled it sharply, knowing she’d only find it unnerving, blurted out the first thing that came to his lips.
“Are you the mechanic?” He blushed as red as the Jenny.
She smiled, amused and friendly and not at all a dream. “And the pilot, too.” She held out her hand. “I’m Al Gilchrist.”
She’d needed someone to ferry a new plane back to Gilchrist’s base in Colorado, and he’d jumped at the chance. She’d had a run of work then, joking he’d brought her good luck, and after it slacked off she’d offered him a job on salary. And a room in her house until he found someplace permanent, but by then she’d also welcomed him to her bed. That was worth remembering, a dream that had brought him something good. He couldn’t convince himself that this latest one would end the same way.
Alma rolled over and propped up on one elbow, her eyes wide open. “Can’t sleep?”
Lewis shrugged. “Just edgy. It feels like a Santa Ana, but we don’t get those here. Like a change in the wind.”
“I know what you mean,” Al said. She turned on her side and drew him in, his head against her shoulder, against the soft warm skin of her upper arm, her hand curling around his back. The music curled up from downstairs, teasing at him, not quite clear enough to hear all the notes but never going away. “Jerry’s got that up awful loud,” Alma said. “I guess he can’t sleep either.”
“I don’t mind,” Lewis said. The music was almost like another touch. It was a strange magic, how radio could reach out across the miles, connecting people who had never seen each other, connecting people listening at the same time, swing and dip, on the wings of sound.
“Ok,” Al said. She bent her face to his brow, lips brushing sleepily across his hair. “I don’t either.”
There was something he’d meant to say, something he’d meant to ask her or maybe tell her about the dream, but it was fading now. He’d tell her about it in the morning, Lewis thought, but the music twined around him like Alma’s arms, drawing him down into silence.
Chapter Two
Lewis rinsed out the shaving brush under cold water, and ran his hand over his newly smooth chin. Some guys could do two days between shaves, but not him. By the middle of the afternoon he’d look like he hadn’t bothered, something that used to be a point of contention in the Air Corps. “Somebody get that Segura to shave,” the CO would say, six hours after he had. Fortunately, most of the time they’d had more things to worry about than the state of his chin. Or maybe that was unfortunately.
He’d managed to get more sleep than he’d expected, and actually felt almost human as he headed down the hall toward the kitchen. He could hear the coffee perking, smelled it and the hot grease in the frying pan. He was kind of hoping it would be Alma at the stove, even if that meant grounds in the coffee and taking over the eggs so nothing burned too badly, but instead it was Jerry, leaning hard on his cane, spatula in the other hand as he stared at the pan: Lewis took a breath and a step, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and Jerry pivoted on the cane and his good leg.
“Oh. Good morning.”
“Morning,” Lewis said. Jerry’s hair was damp, and he had the pinched look that meant he’d been putting up with being handled. Mitch had probably helped him get into the bath before Lewis was awake, which was always kind of a sore subject, even though Jerry and Mitch were old friends.
“Coffee’s ready, I think,” he said.
Lewis nodded, and went to the cabinet to fetch a cup for each of them. He was careful not to touch the blue-banded lusterware that stood in neat forlorn stacks next to the chipped everyday plates. That had been Gil and Alma’s, a wedding present, if he’d put the clues together right, and like the big armchair in the living room, it hadn’t been used since Gil died. It was mustard gas that killed him, gas and TB: a bad way to die, and from the few things Al had said, she hadn’t been spared any of it.
Jerry had turned the gas under the coffee down to a bare simmer. For a second, Lewis thought he was going to insist on pouring, but then he gave a wry smile, and turned his attention back to the frying pan. The bacon was smoking, Lewis saw without surprise — unlike Alma, Jerry could actually cook, but could rarely be brought to give it his full attention — and Jerry swore and snatched it off the fire.
Lewis controlled the desire to help, and the back door swung open. Mitchell Sorley was tall, good-looking, built like an athlete, the sort who made all-State and maybe all-American; he’d been a junior lieutenant at the start of the war, made Captain by the end, and walked away from the Army anyway. It would have been easy to be jealous, Lewis thought, except the man was
basically such a good guy. A good guy with seven confirmed kills….
“So,” Mitch said, coming in and putting the newspaper on the table. “What the hell was so important that you got me up early?”
Jerry leaned his cane against the stove and scraped burnt eggs and bacon onto a plate. “You said you were going to be back. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“I was,” Mitch said. “And it wasn’t. What are you up to, Jerry?”
“I’m not up to anything.”
“The hell,” Mitch began, and Alma spoke from the hall door.
“Jerry.”
“I….” Jerry made a face. “There might be a phone call for me. That’s all.”
And if that was all, he wouldn’t be making a fuss about it. “I’ll cook,” he said, and Alma gave him a quick smile. It was thanks enough, and he busied himself with the eggs and the slab of bacon, got the pan filled again while Jerry limped back to the table.
“It may not come to anything — he may not even call. I just don’t know.”
“Is this about Henry’s translation?” Alma asked, and Jerry sighed.
“Yes.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to take the job,” Mitch said.
“He offered me two hundred and fifty dollars,” Jerry said.
“Well, Henry’s got it,” Alma said. “But I thought you said he didn’t need you.”
“Well, he oughtn’t. Not from what he said in his first letter. But —” Jerry added sugar to his coffee, avoiding her eyes. “I told him I had to see the original to do it.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Mitch began, and the telephone’s bell cut him short.
For a second, everyone stood frozen, and then Alma moved, caught the phone out of its niche and lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hillcrest 6-2912. Hi, Maggie. Yes, he’s here.”
Lewis looked up from the stove, caught a glimpse of an unexpected eagerness on Jerry’s face. It was gone in an instant, ruthlessly controlled, and Mitch shook his head.
“This is Henry we’re talking about —”
“It’s for you,” Alma said, and set the telephone in front of Jerry, who shoved his plate out of the way to make room. The cord was stretched tight, so that he had to lean forward a little to reach the stick. “Long distance from Los Angeles.”
“Thanks,” Jerry said. “This is Ballard.”
There was a moment of stillness, the bacon loud in the pan. Jerry had the receiver cupped to his ear, the other hand curled around the candlestick base. His long face was suddenly alive, intent, as though he were listening with his entire being. Behind him, Mitch’s face was set in stone, and Lewis wondered what ever made him think the man was easy-going. He looked at Alma, trying to read what was going on, and was startled by her worried frown.
“I need to see the original,” Jerry said. “You know that. The difference between a chip in the tablet and a worn letter — it’s all in how you look at the object. Well, the original or a good set of photographs — and I mean good photographs, you’ll need to get someone who’s used to photographing artifacts.”
Mitch breathed a curse, and Lewis glanced hastily back at the pan, swung it away just in time to keep the bacon from turning black.
“Then, really, I have to work from the original,” Jerry said again. “And if you can’t get photos, I’ll have to come there.”
“Oh, goddammit,” Mitch said. Alma waved a hand at him, made shushing noises.
“Yes,” Jerry said. “All right. I’ll be there tomorrow — noon? Good. Thank you.” He set the receiver back on its hook, looked around the kitchen. “So. Would one of you be willing to fly me to Los Angeles today?”
“God damn,” Mitch said, more in disbelief than anger. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” Jerry said.
“Jerry,” Alma said, but he wouldn’t look at her, and added another spoonful of sugar to his already treacle-sweet coffee.
Lewis looked from her to Mitch and back again, and decided to keep his mouth shut.
“What exactly does Henry want?” Alma asked, and this time Jerry darted a glance at her.
“I told you. He wants me to translate the inscription on what sounds like a curse tablet. He doesn’t want to give me a transcription, why I don’t know — though, really, I do need to see the tablet, you can’t be sure of a transcription unless you’ve done it yourself or you know the person —”
“What’s wrong with it?” Alma said.
Jerry grimaced. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”
“Jerry….”
“It may, and I stress may, have some issues of provenance,” Jerry said stiffly.
Mitch laughed. “Of course it does.”
“Look,” Jerry said, and shoved his glasses further up onto his nose. “This is what I do, damn it. All I want is to be in Los Angeles tomorrow for this meeting. I’m willing to pay —”
“Don’t you dare say that,” Alma said. For the first time, she sounded angry. “We’ll fly you there. You’ve agreed to it, so we’re committed. Fine. But don’t you dare offer to pay me.”
Jerry ducked his head a little. “It’s a lot of money, Al. Two hundred fifty.”
“Too much,” Mitch muttered. He shook his head. “Joey’s already said he’d handle the Allen job, and I think that’s the only thing on the books. I’ll get the Terrier checked out for you, Al, and if I can clear the books, I’ll come along. If you don’t mind.”
“Thanks,” Alma said. “If you can’t, Lewis can take it.”
Mitch looked sideways at him. “Are you sure?”
Lewis scowled, and Alma shook her head. “It’ll be fine, Mitch.”
“All right.” Mitch paused, staring at Jerry as though he wanted to say something else, but then he shrugged, and pushed his way out the back door again.
“We need to pack,” Jerry said, and shoved himself to his feet. The kitchen door swung closed behind him.
It didn’t take long to pull together underwear and some clean shirts and, after a moment’s thought, his one good suit. Lewis was knotting his tie in front of the dresser mirror when he saw Alma appear in the doorway behind him. She’d changed for the flight, slacks and a white shirt buttoned like a man’s, her bobbed blonde hair sleek and smooth. She gave him a tentative smile, and, when he smiled back, came to stand behind him. “So,” she said. “Are you up for Los Angeles in the Terrier?”
“You checked me out on her yourself,” Lewis said. “But if you’d rather Mitch took the job — well, you’re the boss.”
“It’s a long flight, and I’d rather have both of you along,” Alma answered. “Mitch —”
She paused, groping for words, and Lewis made himself smile in turn. “Mitch doesn’t want me on the flight. And I don’t want to be a problem.”
“It’s nothing to do with you,” Alma said. “Not you personally. It’s this job of Jerry’s he doesn’t like.”
“You don’t sound real happy either.”
“I’m not. I’ve known Henry Kershaw for years, and if he’s found something he needs Jerry to look at, when he can afford any expert at the University in Los Angeles — there’s probably something fishy somewhere.”
“You mean like art theft?” Lewis asked.
“We should be so lucky,” Alma said. “Henry — Henry’s a big man, and he likes to play around with big things, and sometimes they’re even too big for him. I don’t want to get involved with any of his schemes. I sincerely hope this is nothing more than a stolen artifact that Henry doesn’t think he can get translated through more official channels. It could be. He buys antiquities on the black market sometimes.”
“Expensive hobby,” Lewis began, and then the name hit him. “Henry Kershaw? The owner of Republic?”
“Yes. That Henry Kershaw.” Alma smiled thinly. “Henry knew Gil before the war, and right after the war Gil did some test piloting for him.” Before he was too sick. The words hung in the air between them.
“He’s
a big fish,” Lewis said. Republic was one of the largest aviation companies in the country; they had a dozen mail routes and a regular passenger service. Republic also built planes — the Terrier was a Kershaw design — and just this month they were supposed to launch a zeppelin-style airship built for the New York to Paris route. Henry Kershaw was smart and lucky and rich, one of the few men who’d managed to make millions off airplanes.
“I hope it’s just that he’s got something stolen from the Vatican Museum or something,” Alma said. “I hope.” She pursed her lips.
“Ok,” Lewis said. There was something wrong here, something more than met the eye. After all, they didn’t know the thing was stolen, and even if it was, it was hardly their fault. Lewis met her eyes in the mirror. “What’s going on around here? Something’s not normal.”
Alma smiled ruefully. “Does it have to be?”
“No.” To his own surprise, he meant that. “What’s normal, anyway?”
“That depends on where you’re standing.”
“I’m trying to stand with you,” Lewis said. That was a little too honest, and he winced. He hadn’t meant to be. They hadn’t said things like that, not even in passion. Too soon for both of them, he thought. Gil had only been dead two years, and Victoria…. Victoria was another story.
Alma lifted her head, her expression oddly naked. “Lewis.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in turn. “This isn’t the time.”
“It’s just that it’s complicated,” Alma said. “And I’m not sure you’ll believe me. Or that you won’t be frightened.”
“I’m not that easy to scare,” he said, and managed a smile. “You know, I did survive the Western Front.”
To his relief, she smiled back. “I know. And I promise I’ll tell you. But it’s a long story, and we have to take Jerry to Los Angeles. That’s going to take all day.”
He nodded, turned his attention to finishing his tie. Alma came closer, rested her chin on his shoulder. It was different being with a woman tall enough to do that, but Lewis had decided he liked it. Lewis tucked the ends of his tie between the buttons of his shirt and turned to face her, his hands going to her waist. “Everything feels wrong today. I had a really weird dream last night.”
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 2
