by Stan Hayes
“Mornin’, Pete,” he said as they shook hands. “You pitchin’ customers already?”
“Naah, just scroungin’ up a crew. Mind puttin’ a couple of observers on the manifest? I’ll be checking ’em both out in this ol’ bird as soon as I’m legal.”
“I can stand it if they can.” glancing at Jack, and scrutinizing Linda, he said, “You guys multi-engine rated?”
“Nope,” Pete interjected. “That, however, will be our main objective once I’m type-rated.”
“Well, hell, then, what’re we waitin’ for?”
The Albatross’s preflight check began with Pete’s climbing a ladder to the top of the battered yellow truck, which Sy called “the pie wagon,” and inspecting the aircraft’s exterior, its control surfaces in particular, as Sy positioned the truck in a succession of spots around its periphery. Around twenty minutes later, he led them back to the cockpit, or “flight deck” in Sy-speak. Pete slid into the left seat, Sy into the right. “Y’all can ease right in there for takeoff,” he said, indicating the flight engineer’s and radioman’s seats behind the pilots’ that could be swiveled to face instrument-laden panels set against the ship’s skin.
Pete and Sy went through the preflight checklist, and, having apparently summoned someone by radio to stand by the fire bottle, started the engines, first number 2 and then the number 1. After the requisite pops and belches, the engines settled down to their customary roar, which, all windows and hatches in the cockpit being open, filled the Albatross’s interior.
The tower cleared them for taxi to the runup area as the pilots continued with the checklist enroute. Runup complete, Pete released the brakes and taxied to the end of Runway 14, Sy’s left hand reaching up to advance the throttles to takeoff power as the aircraft lined up with the center stripe. The Albatross moved ponderously ahead, engines roaring, and after a protracted roll Pete rotated the nose and coaxed her into the air, wrestling the yoke hard left in a crosswind correction. Once clear of the runway, he pushed the nose over, leveling at a hundred feet or so to gain airspeed. He resumed climbing a few seconds later; Jack loosened his seatbelt enough to crane his neck over Pete’s shoulder and check the indicated airspeed, which sat at a tick over 100. Since he had no idea what Sy had in mind by way of a flight plan, he settled back in the seat to await an OK from the cockpit to unstrap and get a better look at what was going on.
The OK came quickly; Pete leveled the aircraft at 2,000 feet, banking gently left as he waggled a finger at them to come forward. They stood jammed together in the narrow aisle, half their bodies still behind their respective pilots’ seats, as Pete rolled out on a heading of 130. The flatness of South Miami slid steadily below them, a wide conveyor belt of pale gray roofs, pastel cars and a scattering of shimmery aquamarine swimming pools. “I thought y’all’d enjoy a little sightseeing before the work starts,” Pete said as he continued to scan both the surrounding airspace and the instrument panel. “We’ll be passing over the house in just a minute, then a quick run out to Bimini and back here to Dinner Key, the old Pan American Clipper seadrome. Sy’s gonna show me how to put this thing down on the water today.”
“You sure this thing doesn’t leak?” Linda asked, drawing laughter from both student and instructor.
“Just a little here and there,” Sy replied over his shoulder. “But the bilge pump’ll handle it.”
They were over the open ocean in minutes, boat traffic dwindling as the water turned an ever-deeper blue. “Mind if these guys get a little left seat time, Sy?”
“Not a bit,” Sy said as he readjusted the fuel mixture. “Who’s first?”
Bimini behind them, passengers and crew at their landing stations, Pete requested clearance for “splash-and-goes” from the Coast Guard air controller as they approached the waters of Dinner Key from south-southeast. “You’re cleared to enter the pattern, 3312; no other traffic at this time. Wind 095 at 8; advise splashdown.”
“Wilco, tower.” all business now, Sy called for the on-water approach and landing checklist, which Pete began calling out. The passengers exchanged a smile on hearing the first item, “wheels UP and locked.” Somewhere in the middle of the list, Sy pulled the power back, setting up a gentle sink rate. As airspeed bled off, his use of aileron to correct for the crosswind was even more extreme than that of Pete’s on takeoff. The water reached up for them, vignetting the Plexiglas. As the airspeed indicator dropped past seventy the Albatross’s keel hit the water’s chop, staccato rattling of the hull giving way to a surf-like roar as displaced sea momentarily cut off outside vision.
“Tower, 3312, down at 1327. Request immediate takeoff,” Pete advised.
9 JAI ALAI HIGH
Plunging into the cavern-like cool of Norman’s, their watering-hole of choice in Coconut Grove, they luxuriated in the contrast to the sweaty sturm und drang of dropping the Albatross onto Biscayne Bay and driving it into the air again. Sharing the memory of reverberating Wright Cyclone horsepower, they regarded each other with mixed incredulity and exultation as they waited for their Daíquiris.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Pete, leaning back in his chair, “I’ll damn sure take our afternoon over the eighteen holes of cow-pasture pool that took up a lot of people’s time today.”
“Take that to the bank,” Linda said, smiling up at the white-jacketed waiter delivering their first round of drinks. “One thing’s for sure; whoever named them ‘flying boats’ got it exactly right. When she settled down into the water that first time, I had my doubts about her ever getting airborne again.”
“Yeah. Good thing that big-ass rudder’s got hydraulic boost. I’m not exactly looking forward to horsing that thing around boost-out.”
“I don’t even want to think about that,” she said, “at least not right now.”
“Your time will come, missy,” Pete said with a grin. “Sy’s not about to give you a pass on boost-out takeoffs and landings.”
Bristling slightly, Linda drained her drink. “No, and I wouldn’t want him to. You know me better than that.”
Still grinning, Pete lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I know, I know; guess I was subconsciously hoping that he might give me a pass. Of course, ol’ Sy never looked at me the way I caught him looking at you a couple of times today.”
Linda ended a withering seconds-long stare at him with, “Guys like you and Sy ought to act your age. Excuse me,” she said, getting to her feet and striking out for the ladies’ room, spine stiff with indignance. Both men had seen that posture often enough for them to know that her anger was likely to subside as quickly as it gathered. It would, however, have to be addressed, as a prudent yachtsman would tack around a summer squall.
Jack shot a wry grin at Pete. “Never know whacha gonna get back from a line like that, do you?” Catching the waiter’s eye, he raised his empty glass and received an acknowledging nod.
“Shit. One very basic thing about that woman just slipped my mind momentarily.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s absolutely incapable of accepting a compliment.” Pete almost added, “Just like her mother,” but under what were already ticklish circumstances decided not to. Talking about a shared lover’s not something I want much to do with in any case, he thought, and certainly not a shared lover’s mother.
“Damn!” Jack said as their fresh drinks arrived. “She will turn it around on you, won’t she? I was amazed at how quickly she learned to ride that little R27. She’s a natural motorcycle rider, and I told her so. Know what she said?”
“Let me guess. Something on the order of ‘nothing to it,’ the subtext being ‘and if you think there is, you’re dumber than I thought you were.’”
Jack’s bark of laughter and the table-slap that went with it drew surprised gazes from a score of fellow drinkers. “That’s it! Sort of, ‘Everything’s so easy for me; can’t imagine why it isn’t for you.’”
“And the hell of it is, she may be right,” Pete said, answering the laugh wit
h a wry smile. “Shall we try to find out?”
“You mean we haven’t already?”
“Well, in day-to-day, more-or-less-inconsequential terms, yes, we have. I was thinking of upping the stakes a bit.”
“Better hold that thought,” said Jack, “unless you want to share it with her and that Hunt guy, plus somebody else I never saw before.” Linda, smiling broadly, brought the two men to their table in her wake.
“Look who I found, sitting at the back table like a couple of Mafiosi,” she said, clearly enjoying both the surprise appearance of Hunt and his associate and regaining the initiative. “This is Howard’s and my old buddy from Havana, Bernie Barker.”
Jack stood automatically, followed by Pete, who took his time. Barker, half a head shorter than Jack but easily twenty-five pounds heavier, extended his hand. “Howya doin’?” he asked, his American accent belying his Latin, Jack guessed Cuban, physiognomy.
“Fine,” said Jack, returning Barker’s closed-lipped smile and registering the quick interplay of glances among Linda, Pete and Hunt. “Y’all have a seat.”
“Howard and Bernie were just leaving,” Linda interjected. “They’re going to the Miami fronton for some jai-alai, and asked me if we’d like to join them.”
“I don’t know if Linda told you what we’ve been doing today,” Pete said, “But it’s going to be all I can do to sit here, soak up a few more Daíquiris, and head for the barn. You kids go ahead.”
“Much as I’d like to,” Jack said, “I need to get Pete’s opinion on a couple of dozen things before I head back north. I’m gonna take this opportunity to do that, if y’all don’t mind making it a threesome.”
The almost-imperceptible tightening of Linda’s jaw muscles gave way to a just-barely-overdone smile. “Suits me,” she said. Then to Jack: “Bernie broadened my gambling horizons to include jai-alai in the good old Havana days,” eliciting a deprecating smile from Barker. “It’ll be like old times.”
“We had some good times at the old Capri, fooling around with George Raft and donating money to Carlos the blackjack dealer,” Barker offered, “but jai-alai has a charm all its own.”
“Well,” said Hunt, “charm school awaits, if you gentlemen are sure you won’t join us. We won’t be too late. You haven’t moved?” Hunt had found their Coconut Grove house for them, at Barker’s request, it had turned out.
“Nope. Sorry we’re not joining you, but Jack and I do need to cover some ground before he goes. He’s headed to Pensacola for flight training.”
“Really? Hey, that’s great,” said Barker, shaking Jack’s hand a second time with a good deal of added vigor. “I flew B-24’s in the big war. Shot down over Germany, but that’s another story. Best of luck, young man.”
“Thanks, Mr. Barker.”
“Bernard, please.” he smiled deprecatingly. “Linda’s the only one who calls me Bernie.”
“Bernard it is. Thank you sir. I’d like to hear about your war sometime.”
Barker’s smile faded noticeably, but stayed. “My war’s still going on, but that, too, is another story. Buena suerte, amigo.”
“Y usted también,” said Jack.
“With that, we’re off,” said Hunt. “ I didn’t get shot down, but as a naval officer in that same war, let me add my own buena suerte to that of Bernard’s. No disrespect, compadre, but Naval Aviators are the world’s finest.”
“Suits me,” said Barker with a grin. “Hell, I was a bombardier. Can’t imagine landing on an aircraft carrier.”
“Neither can I,” said Jack, “but I guess I’ll get used to it.”
The jai-alai contingent departed, still laughing at Jack’s riposte. “Jesus, if my throat wasn’t dry before- yes, please, another round,” he said to the waiter who had hovered at the edge of the group. “Courtly jaspers, aren’t they?” he said as they resumed their seats.
“That’s one way to put it,” said Pete. I wonder when Barker left Cuba.”
“As soon as he could, I reckon. Didn’t he work for Batista?”
“Yeah, but my impression is that he wasn’t at any even medium-high level. Castro couldn’t have gotten rid of all of Batista’s people, much as he’d no doubt have liked to. You can’t run a country, even Cuba, without bureaucrats. Since he’s obviously Hunt’s buddy, he may have stayed there in his job, but as an undercover counterrevolutionary.”
“Undercover? For whom?”
“One, or more, of our intelligence outfits. During that long-ass session that I had with Hunt the first time we met him, he as much as told me that he worked in intelligence. For our side, that is. ONI, CIA, ASA; somewhere in that alphabet soup. Don’t guess it matters which one; they all want to get rid of Castro.”
“Do you think that’s what brought Hunt to Miami in the first place? Getting rid of Castro, I mean.”
“Could be. A couple of middle-aged ex-military types, one of ’em Cuban? Stranger things have happened.”
“Well, Linda obviously thinks old Bernie’s the greatest thing since sliced bread,” said Jack. “How much do you suppose she’s had to say to him about how y’all happened to be in Cuba in the first place?”
“Just what I told her to say, assuming she stuck to the script, and I have no reason at this point to assume that she didn’t. She has that well-known tendency to run off at the mouth when she’s drinking, but she knew, and knows, damn well that making sure our story holds water’s in her own best interest.”
“So Barker still thinks that the three of you just came down to work in the casinos?”
“As far as I can tell. No doubt he gave Hunt a full briefing before he asked him to help us find a house here. I know that he sounded Johnny out about us early on, probably right after he and Linda met for the first time at the Capri.”
“Johnny told you that?”
“Sure. He didn’t want any extra attention from Barker, or anyone else from the government. He knew about Dieter getting killed, of course, and that he’d been Linda’s lover, but he wasn’t real happy at the thought of her out cruising solo, gambling and rubbing elbows with people like Barker. After all, he did me a hell of a favor in getting those casino visas for us in the first place.”
“I guess so,” Jack said. “You guys must’ve been pretty tight, growing up, for him to do that.”
“Yeah, we were. A couple of kid-palookas, beating each other’s brains out, thinking that we had it in us to be prizefighters. He smartened up about that a little sooner than I did; gave it up to be a button man.”
“A mob guy.”
“Bingo. And old Pete flunked out of NYU and joined the Navy. How’s that for some b-grade Hollywood shit?”
“Not so b-grade, if you carry it into Hitler’s Germany and on into dear old Bisque. That’s a story that Hollywood would kill to sink its teeth into.”
Pete grinned, waiting to respond until the waiter had set down fresh Daíquiris and moved on. “Yeah, probably so. Maybe you can peddle it someday, after I’m dead.”
“Would that I could, O mighty co-conspirator. You might’ve been a lot busier then I was getting us to this point, but I don’t want any curious lawmen backtracking this story, as good as it is, any more than you do. So anyway, your money’s on Linda keeping her trap shut.”
Pete’s steel-gray eyes bored into Jack’s. “If it weren’t, buddy, she’d be someplace else by now. By the way,” he said, “I probably owe you an apology. I didn’t really know what to expect from that run up the river, but I figured y’all needed to spend a little time alone. Am I wrong, or was it as bad an idea as it appears to have been?”
Jack put a dent in his new Daíquiri, then said, “Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say it was a bad idea. I wouldn’t take anything for gettin’ back to the old home place that way. Through the back door, so to speak. I doubt one in a thousand Bisqueants has a clue that they’re twenty minutes away from a boat ride to Miami. It’s a completely different world on that river. Just picking out what looks like a safe place to tie up
for the night’s something you think about all day.”
“Yeah, I envy you the trip. What I don’t envy’s what seems to be the state of affairs between you and Linda since you’ve been back.”
“You noticed.”
“Hell, son, Helen-fucking-Keller woulda noticed. I know that being with her in Bisque was probably more than you bargained for, but y’all are just being way too nice to each other. Now, tell me it’s not my business and I’ll butt out. But since I’m responsible for the two of you havin’ met in the first place, and since I love both of you, and since a word or two in the wrong ear might put us both behind bars, I hope you won’t do that.”
“I’m not about to do that,” said Jack. “I was also not about to shove off again without us getting our heads together and figuring out what we can do about this mess. Or at least trying to.”
“Well, since the lady saw fit to leave us, why don’t we have at it. And her leaving us is probably a good place to start. If things were good between you two, she’dve ducked that jai-alai invitation altogether. Or, if she’d felt constrained to accept for old times’ sake, you’dve dug in your heels. Neither of those things happened, and what that means to me is trouble in paradise.”
“Guess that depends on how you define paradise, and for which of us. I love both of you guys, too; goes without sayin’. But you can bet your ass on this; Bisque draft board or not, she ain’t about to become Mrs. Mason.”
Pete laughed, giving the waiter the high-sign. “So it comes down to that.”
“Bull’s eye. I know we can’t afford her gettin’ a snootful and opening up to the wrong person, but there’s got to be a better way to do it then marrying her ass off to me. If that’s what you had in mind.”
Pete sighed, his eyes losing their ball-bearing sheen. “No, buddy, I didn’t. Maybe she did, or does, but I doubt it. Takin’ you back to Bisque on Striker was her brainstorm. I’d a hell of a lot rather you’d flown back, so you and I- well, the three of us- could’ve spent that time together. We had a lot of catchin’ up to do- still have- but between what she had to say to me about y’all’s New York shenanigans all those years, and jumpin’ in the sack with you as soon as you showed up, I figured that you both needed to get it, whatever it’d gotten to be by now, out of your systems.”
