"Fine." Stasi rearranged her pocketbook, hoping that made loitering under the awning look natural. "What do you want?"
"Tell Milward that I put the strongbox down the dry well at granny's place. He'll know what I mean cause we used to play there together."
"You put the strongbox down the dry well at granny's." Stasi sighed again. "Fine. I'll tell him if I get a chance."
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, ma'am," the dead man began, but she brushed him off, opening the swinging door and stepping into the restaurant.
It was crowded on a rainy night, gleaming brass railings separating sets of white draped tables, every table filled, while waiters in black tie fairly flew about, trays of steaming crawfish etouffeé and Creole rice in hand.
The maitre d' met her before the door closed entirely. "Do you have a reservation, ma'am?"
"I'm meeting a gentleman." She looked around him, scanning the dining room. "Mr. Lanier."
"Ah yes." The maitre d' almost bowed. "He's expecting you. Right this way."
It was a table in the front bow window, romantic and thus a little isolated from the clatter of the dining room. Lanier stood up as she approached. He was tall and rugged, good looking in a way, with prematurely gray hair somewhat at odds with a face that couldn't have been quite forty. "I'm so pleased you could join me," he said, his accent thick enough to stand a spoon in. He stood while the maitre d' held out her chair and saw her into it, but waited until he left before he spoke again. "Miss Smirnoff, is it? I thought that was a brand of vodka."
"It's Rostov," Stasi said, unfolding her napkin.
He sat down, smiling. "War and Peace."
"Ivanova."
He spread his hands, a generous grin on his face. "I don't much care, Miss. Call yourself whatever you like. I've heard good recommendations of your work and I'm pleased you'll undertake this little commission for me."
"If the price is right," Stasi said. "And the particulars are as you say."
Lanier nodded slowly. "Five hundred dollars. Half now, half on delivery. And I would advise you to take care with the piece." He paused. "It has a history," he said delicately.
Stasi's plucked eyebrow rose. "A history?"
"You know how objects acquire history," he said pleasantly, reaching for the basket of angel biscuits in the middle of the table. "But I shouldn't have to tell someone with your talents to be cautious."
"I'm always cautious," Stasi agreed. "But you'll have to be more specific."
He looked thoughtful, as though he were saying less than he knew — typical for a buyer, but unpleasant. "The object in question has been purchased by a very wealthy man who has an interest in the occult. I won't say expertise. I won't credit him with that. But he does take precautions with his possessions."
"You said there was a safe," Stasi said. "You didn't say anything about occult protections. What kind of protections?"
"I would assume that his home is warded. Beyond that, he probably has specific deterrents on the location of the safe." Lanier picked up his butter knife. "Things to make it unobtrusive, or at least unattractive to passersby. Possibly there are specific measures to confound ordinary burglars."
"Well," Stasi said with a brilliant smile. "I'm not an ordinary burglar."
"Indeed not, Miss," he said. "Which is why I came to you. You have a reputation for handling objects with unusual protections on them."
"Or unusual objects," she said.
"That too." Lanier said cheerfully. "So I'm sure you're the perfect connection for this. I have every faith in your success. And I imagine you'll find the object…interesting."
"What tradition is he working in?" She spread her fingers. "It does matter operationally, you know. I'll need the proper countersigns."
"It's an offshoot of the Golden Dawn," Lanier said.
"Humm." Stasi took a sip from her water glass, considering. "Formal Hermetics. A Lodge tradition. Stuffy and stogey and completely predictable." She shrugged. "That shouldn't be too much of a challenge for me. Two fifty now and two fifty on delivery." She held out her hand briskly. "That would be two fifty now."
His smile broadened. Lanier reached into his pocket and took out an envelope, which he gave her. "It's a pleasure, Miss Ivanova. Will you stay and join me for dinner?"
Stasi took the envelope and opened the flap, fanning through the stack of tens and twenties. "I don't have the time. I have a train to catch."
"Of course you do. Good luck."
"I always have good luck." Stasi stood up. "I'll be in touch."
She threaded her way between tables and waiters out to the front. The rain was falling in solid sheets, gray and chilly. But there was a taxi just across the street. The dead man was still pacing. She turned to the hovering maitre d'. "Do you have something to write on?"
"Beg pardon?"
She hooked an order pad off the shelf behind his reservation stand and tore off the top sheet. "Can you please give this to the chef? It's terribly important."
"Of course."
Stasi wrote across it swiftly. Milward — your brother put the strongbox down the dry well at your granny's place where you used to play together. She folded the note and handed it to the maitre d' with a smile and a quarter for his trouble. "Thank you."
"I'll give it straight to him," the maitre d' promised.
"You'd better," Stasi said, and gave him a sideways smile. "It's a good thing to stay on the right side of the beyond." And with that she walked out into the rain.
It took two days to make the arrangements, and then the third day to fly into Grand Central. It felt weird not having Jerry in the back seats, especially after their last trip to Los Angeles, but Mitch managed to ignore the absence. He took the last leg, bringing the Terrier neatly onto the runway in the early dark, and taxied the plane to the hangar they'd reserved while Alma ducked into the terminal to change out of her flying clothes. They weren't staying at the Roosevelt this time — Henry wasn't paying and they couldn't afford it on their own dime — but Alma had managed to find them a cheap place not too far from the field. The diner across the street was still open; they wolfed a late meal, and retreated to their rooms.
It was warm in the little room, at least by Colorado standards, and the noise from the street came clearly through the thin walls, making it hard to sleep. Mitch rolled over, trying to punch his pillow into a better shape, wondering why they’d even bothered. This whole trip was a waste of time and money. Henry wasn’t going to risk $500 on them, not right now. Whatever he owed them for saving his life was long ago paid. Lewis was good, but his talent was untrained. He might not be able to tell Sight from wishful thinking…
Mitch folded the pillow again, frowning at his own pessimism. He shouldn’t blame Lewis for his own bad mood, particularly when Lewis had never shown any sign of making that sort of mistake. If anything, he was more likely not to mention his hunches, which had its own drawbacks —. He cut off that line of thought with the ease of long practice. There were plenty of things that didn't bear looking at, and this was one of them. They were meeting Henry in the morning; time enough then to be disappointed.
"I don't know why I put up with you people," Henry Kershaw said, sitting down on the edge of his desk and looking at the three of them.
"Because we're the best and you know it," Alma said briskly. At forty-one she was still a handsome woman, tall and curvy, with blonde hair cut in a tidy short bob. She wore a conservative tweed suit, but her long legs drew the eye anyway.
In Mitch's boyhood, the sight of legs like those would have started a riot. Two years younger than Alma, he'd been born in 1892. Victoria had been on the throne of England and Benjamin Harrison had been President of the United States, which had only had 44 states instead of the current 48. The massacre at Wounded Knee had been less than two years old and the Ghost Dance was still alive and well. Mitch didn't think he'd ever seen a woman's legs other than his little sister's until he was in the army, and trying to catch and diaper Eve
lyn didn't exactly count. Not that it mattered much now, but he could still look. And not that Alma had ever been anything but a good friend to him. Usually he was able to keep his mind off such things; it must be being in Los Angeles that was making his thoughts drift.
"And we can win the Great Passenger Derby for you," Alma went on. "Because we fly a Terrier Trimotor. It's the best in its class, hands down — a beautiful design, beautifully built."
Mitch nodded. The Terrier was the sweetest passenger plane around, way better, faster and more versatile than the Ford Trimotor which dominated the class, better made than the Fokker that was Ford's other big competitor. If Henry wanted a genuine ace to endorse his plane, Mitch was perfectly happy to express his honest opinion.
"I know it's a good plane," Henry said. "And I know I sold Gil the top of the line. But I don't see how that guarantees that you'll win. Even if you were to — exercise other available options — I can't see that you can promise me that."
Henry had been part of the same lodge back during the war, though he'd moved on since then to a lodge that practiced a more experimental form of the art. "That would be cheating," Mitch said, solemnly, and surprised a grin from Henry.
Alma smiled too, though more gently. "I can't guarantee a win, of course. But I can show you why we have a better than average chance of taking the big prize."
She took the sheets of paper out of her purse, and Henry shifted himself to let her spread them out on the blotter.
"Mostly the race alternates short and long legs," Alma said, "except that there are two short legs to get us from Little Rock to New Orleans to Pensacola. The long leg from San Angelo to Little Rock — that's the third leg, here — that's just about 600 miles. The Fords, and you know most of the planes are going to be Fords, can't make that jump without refueling."
"Unless they have long-range tanks installed," Henry said.
"Which I wouldn't," Alma answered. "Not when their cruising speed is already on the slow side. I wouldn't want the extra weight even with them empty."
Henry nodded slowly. "Go on."
Mitch held his breath. When Alma had spelled it out for them back in Colorado, he hadn't quite believed it either, but she'd gone over the math patiently until he finally got it.
"The Terrier is designed to be an all-purpose aircraft," Alma said. "Swap out two seats, add a daybed in the cabin. Need more cargo space? You can move the rear bulkhead forward. Need more range? Put in a supplemental fuel tank."
"Ah." It was barely a breath, but it sounded as though Henry was there ahead of her.
Alma went on anyway. "If you'll send our supplemental tank on ahead to San Angelo — where I know you have hangar space — then it will be waiting for us when we land. We install it that night, and we'll be able to make Little Rock without refueling."
"You're not just going to be flying against Fords," Henry said. "The Fokkers have the range. I don't know about some of the others...."
"The Terrier's faster than a Fokker," Alma said. "Not to mention more reliable."
"That kind of change isn't against the rules?" Henry picked up the sheaf of papers, began sorting through them.
"Not that I can see," Alma said. "The planes have to be stock, but the supplemental tank is stock, and we're treating it as a stock item. We're installing and removing it just the way we would for any ordinary set of jobs."
"Which is a very nice selling point for me," Henry said. "I do see that." He paused, still looking at the papers in his hands. "What are you going to do if there's another Terrier in the race?"
"Fly faster," Mitch offered. Lewis smothered a snort of laughter.
"We are very good," Alma said, demurely.
"Not to mention smart," Henry muttered. "What exactly do you want from me, Alma?"
"I need you to put up the entry fee," Alma said. "And pay for any fuel that's not supplied by the race. We'll pay you back out of our winnings."
"Assuming you have some," Henry said. "There aren't any guarantees in air racing, as I'm sure you'd be the first to tell me."
"There is, of course, a manufacturer's prize," Alma said. "If you wanted to enter that part of the competition as well."
Henry sighed. "At another $300? Hell, why not? All right, Alma, it's a deal. But I'm going to work this for every bit of publicity I can get. Are you game?"
Alma nodded in turn. "We're game."
Mitch nodded, too, and hoped it was true.
Jerry Ballard levered himself out of Mrs. Holton's Model T. It was an awkward process, first getting the wooden leg to the ground, and then the cane, swinging his body around to get his hands on the door's frame to lift and balance. It was worse in the snow, and he made himself take his time even though he wanted to be out and gone, to walk off the anger filling him. He made sure he was steady, and turned carefully to lean back into the car.
"Thank you, again." He couldn't drive any more, of course, not with the missing leg, had had to cadge rides to school from his fellow teachers, and Catherine Holton lived only a little further up the road.
"Oh, my pleasure, Dr. Ballard." Her smile was as false as his, and he only hoped his worry didn't show as clearly as hers. She had two children, and her husband had already been out of work six months.
"Will you be all right?" he asked abruptly, and her eyes fell.
"We'll have to be, won't we?" She reached for the gearshift, and Jerry took a step back, closing the car door gently. She put the Ford into gear with equal care, and Jerry turned to make the long walk up the drive. At its end, the farmhouse waited — Gil's house, Gil's and Alma's; Alma's and Lewis's now, and Mitch's. And his, too, except he didn't want it. Not like this, anyway: his dream had been summers in the Near East, a dozen different dig sites mapped out in imagination, and winters here in the mountains, coming back to friends and lovers only long enough to write his papers and ready himself to leave again. Gil had never wanted that much travel — he was a pilot, not an archeologist; he needed a home base, a home field, and there had been a few months when it all seemed as though it would come together. But the war had ended that. He shook himself and fished in his pocket for his key, his breath steaming in the thickening dusk, fogging his glasses.
He let himself into the hall, balanced carefully as he unwound his muffler and freed himself from his topcoat and gloves. He took his time putting them all away — there was no good way to tell his news, and it was even worse, coming on top of Henry’s decision to back them — and Alma's voice came from the living room.
"Jerry?"
He braced himself. "It's me."
"Everything all right?"
"Yes." And it wasn't a lie, not in the most essential things. He limped toward her, his cane and his leg tapping on the wooden floor.
She was waiting in the living room, wearing one of Gil's old cardigans against the chill. She still had a book in her hand, her finger holding the place, but she was frowning, undeceived. "What is it?"
Jerry sighed. "They're closing the high school early, and laying off the teachers — laying off everyone, from the janitor to the principal. They'll hire some people back in the spring when they open — if they open. But — not me. They don't need a Latin teacher right now."
"Oh, Jerry." Alma stopped. "What do you mean, if they open? They can't just close down the high school — can they?"
"There's no money to pay the teachers," Jerry said. "No money to heat the building, either, so the school board's closing down until spring."
"Which puts us into planting season," Alma said. "So they probably won't start up again until the fall."
Jerry nodded.
"Oh, Jer," she said again.
"I've got other options," he said, though the words felt hollow. "Reviews, the occasional article, translations — there's still work out there for a specialist." Except that there were half a hundred specialists in exactly the same things competing for those jobs, and most of them were in Chicago or Cambridge, not Colorado Springs. "It's people like Catherine Holton
and Martha Betts that I feel sorry for."
Alma nodded. They all knew who'd been out of work for a year, who was pawning the family radio, whose watch no longer had a chain or fob.
"And it's not as though I particularly love teaching high school," Jerry said. He couldn't seem to stop talking, as though he might convince himself. "I won't be sorry to see the backs of a few of those boys."
Alma turned to the sideboard, where the decanter stood half full. It wasn't good whiskey, exactly, but it was better than the local homebrew Mitch usually scrounged for them. She poured them each two fingers of neat spirit. Jerry lowered himself into the chair by the radio and took the proffered glass. His stump was aching, and he took a long swallow.
"Say," Alma said, and sat up straighter in the chair opposite. "This means — Jerry, there's no reason now that you can't be our designated passenger."
Jerry blinked. He'd resigned himself to not being part of the air race, done his best to pretend he didn't hate being left behind, and now — Alma was right, there was nothing to keep him here. "Every other team is going to be bringing some one hundred pound starlet," he said, scrupulously. "Not only are they a good deal more photogenic, but I weigh nearly twice that. Every ounce could make a difference, Al."
"Leave that to me and Mitch. You've got other advantages."
"Let's hope we don't need them," Jerry said, and felt his heart lift in spite of everything.
Chapter Three
On February 25th they took off to fly to California, spending the night in Las Vegas along the way, because this time they weren’t flying into Grand Central but a bit beyond, to the private field at Henry’s hacienda outside the city. There were no lights there, no flagman unless Henry detailed someone to meet them or, even less likely, deigned to wave them down himself, and there was no point risking a landing at dusk, not when even a small miscalculation would bring them in after full dark. At best that would force them to divert to Grand Central, and no one wanted to make them look bad just when Henry was ramping up the publicity for the race.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 38
