Trouble on His Wings

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Oh, no, no,” said the manager, hastily. “I didn’t understand. . . .”

  “Quite all right,” said Johnny.

  The manager bowed out, and Johnny took another chunk off the roast chicken. He looked fixedly at the girl and she avoided his eyes.

  “Have some more chicken or arsenic or something, Jinx,” said Johnny. “Irish and me have got eight bucks between us and you’re going to be put on a bus as far as that will take you.”

  She wept a little but very quietly and then went off to her room.

  “You’re a brute!” said Irish.

  “And she’s a jinx!” snarled Johnny.

  “She likes you. She told me so.”

  “To hell with what she likes!” snapped Johnny, attacking a steak. But a moment later, “What did she say?”

  “She said she thought you weren’t near as tough as you acted. She said . . . ”

  “Shut up,” said Johnny. “She goes, and that’s the end of it!”

  Chapter Six

  IT was very early morning—a time of day abhorrent to newsreel cameramen. Johnny awoke and did not know why except that he had a feeling that he had somehow done wrong. He fished aimlessly around the dressing table beside his bed, almost dislodging the phone. That near-accident served to bring him more clearly to himself and he propped himself on one elbow while he found his pack and lighted a cigarette. He was used to waking up in strange quarters and so his surroundings told him nothing. He yawned and massaged his curly brown hair. He looked over at Irish, who slept in the other twin bed, completely lost in a tangle of covers and grinning idiotically in his sleep. Johnny wondered if he had had a row with Irish, and then decided against it. No, something else was bothering him. Yes, he had been fired, but that didn’t seem . . .

  The Jinx, that was it. He’d told her to get out, come morning, and now morning was here. That was it; and he lay back, puffing ferociously at his cigarette. He was in his rights to make her beat it. Hadn’t had a bit of luck since she had happened into his life. He was glad he’d see her no more.

  And then a small voice within told him, “You can’t trace a single bit of your bad luck to that girl, and you know it. It was your own damn fault that you bought water-soaked film on that ship. It was your own orders which made Irish go down too close to that crown fire; you might have known that your engine would quit, in all that smoke.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Johnny, “but just the same, I never had hard luck before.”

  “That’s why,” said the small voice, “you had so much good luck you thought you were perfect, and so you stopped taking precautions about things. You were the best flying cameraman in the business and you always got the pictures. World News couldn’t get along without you. Yahhhh!” jeered the voice. “See how easy you were fired? You didn’t amount to so much. Guys like you grow on every bus.”

  “Aw, lay off,” growled Johnny to himself. “That doesn’t prove anything. I was going good until the Jinx came along, and just as soon as she leaves, things will be going good again. Wait and see.”

  “Yahhhh!” said the small voice. “You’re nutty. Things won’t go good until you settle down to your job again. You were flying too high, that’s all. You just don’t like the girl.”

  “I do,” said Johnny. “That’s the hell of it.”

  “I suppose you can find girls as pretty as her anyplace.”

  “I wish that was true.”

  “I thought you said she was bringing all your bad luck and there you are trying to fall in love with her.”

  “Who, me?” snapped Johnny.

  “But that’s all right. You won’t be worried about her long. Probably somebody will read that newspaper story and know just where she is and as soon as you turn her loose, they’ll be picking her up in an alley with a bullet in her back. But that’s all right, she’s a jinx! Yahhh!”

  Johnny sat upright in bed. “I don’t believe it!”

  “That story will get all over the shop. Whoever is after her will be able to trace you and then get her.”

  “That’s her hard luck!” snapped Johnny to reinforce his flagging courage.

  “Whatcha talkin’ about?” complained Irish.

  “G’wan back to sleep,” said Johnny.

  Irish looked at the clock and then gave Johnny an accusing stare, afterwards wrapping the blankets around his head and burrowing down for another snooze.

  Johnny sat holding his knees and puffing on his cigarette. A knock, very light, sounded upon his door, and he growled, “Come in.”

  She entered cautiously and he saw with some wonder that she had washed out the white flying suit and helmet and had dried them with some magic or other. Further, she had transformed her appearance with methods beyond Johnny’s ken. She didn’t look like a boy, despite those overalls. For the first time since that morning she had suffered the impact of his hangover he saw her without disguise. The helmet dangled from her hand and her honey-gold hair poured down over her shoulders like beaten metal. Her lips were full and red and sensitive and her eyes were soft and blue. She stood just inside, as though afraid he would throw something at her.

  “Well?” said Johnny, trying to keep up his resolve.

  “I came to tell you that I was going.”

  “Goodbye,” said Johnny.

  His tone hurt her, but she made no sign. “Is that all?”

  “What more do you expect . . . Jinx?”

  “Johnny . . .” She paused.

  “Well?”

  “Johnny, why do you act so tough? You aren’t that kind of a guy. You just put it on to keep people from seeing that you aren’t. You don’t have to do that, Johnny. Gosh, I never knew anybody that had the personality you’ve got—if you’d only use it.”

  “Look,” said Johnny, hit harder than he dared show. “It is too early for a lecture out of Lord Chesterfield. You said goodbye.”

  “Not yet,” said the Jinx. She reached into the pocket of her overalls and pulled out a small wad of bills.

  “What’s that?” snarled Johnny.

  “I had this in a money belt and I don’t need it—not now. There’s two hundred dollars here—”

  “I don’t want your money,” said Johnny, working very hard now to appear as ungracious as possible, lest he break down. “Buy a ticket for Europe or Chile or some place.”

  “I’ve saved enough for a ticket and some clothes.”

  Johnny’s voice was a threatening monotone. “If you don’t put that money back in your pocket I’ll break your neck.”

  “But . . . but I lost you your job, Johnny. I brought you bad luck. . . .”

  “Nuts,” said Johnny. “Take your dough and get out of here, before I lose my temper.”

  She hesitated and then, afraid of his scowl, she put the money back. She edged out of the door. “Goodbye, Johnny. I hope . . . maybe you’ll have some good luck now.”

  She was gone and he sat staring at the door and feeling terrible. Why did he have to act that way to her? Wasn’t he human? Was his soul turning into a mass of celluloid? He got up and threw his cigarette out of the window.

  “Well!” She was gone and he ought to feel relieved. She was dynamite—and she was a jinx.

  But no matter how many times he repeated it, he could not make it quite ring true and could not keep himself from wanting to call her back and apologize.

  The ringing phone saved him. He picked it up and barked, “Hello! Johnny Brice speaking.”

  The smooth, purr on the other end alarmed him. As soon as the operator had said, “Here is your party, sir,” Felznick said, “Oh, hello, Johnny.”

  Johnny was upset. Felznick calling this time of day—and then he recollected that it was noon in New York. “Hello,” he said cautiously.

  “How are you this morning?” said Felznick. “Rested up, I hope.”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny.

  “And how is Irish? Fully recovered, I trust?”

  “Look,” said Johnny with great patience. “Eithe
r you’re crazy or I am. The last time I talked to you, I was fired.”

  “Oh, that!” said Felznick, with careless dismissal. “I was upset about my wife. You know, they found Louise in Paris. She didn’t sail.”

  “Who is it?” hissed Irish. “Paramount?”

  “Shut up. . . . No, not you, Mr. Felznick. Glad to hear your wife is safe.”

  “Yes, yes, a great relief, Johnny, especially since I got no publicity out of it. And, by the way,” he added, falsely casual, “that was good going on your crash story. Made page one in all the New York sheets. Had the angle, you know. Give your all for pictures and then lose them. Good stuff, Johnny. They had you slated as dead yesterday, after you failed to turn up for thirty hours.”

  “I see,” said Johnny.

  “Now if you’re all rested up,” said Felznick, “you might run down to Frisco and catch the China Clipper. You’ve just about got time—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Johnny. “Maybe I want to stay fired.”

  “Has Paramount been after you?” said Felznick, severely. “Haven’t you any loyalty? Is this the thanks I get for teaching you all you know about the business? Now I’ll—”

  “But—” began Johnny, out of honesty.

  “I don’t care about any buts. I’ll up your pay. How much did they offer?”

  “They—”

  “All right, I’ll make it three hundred a week, but not one cent more, and up Irish to two-fifty with a recording rating. But not one penny more!”

  “All right,” said Johnny.

  “Now, follow me closely. Harrington was wounded yesterday in the fighting up on the Amur, which means I’ll have to replace him. You’re furthest west, and the only one close enough to the Clipper to catch it in time. And you got another break. The Chinese ambassador-at-large, Mr. Sen Shu Wu, will be aboard that plane. The Japanese would give anything to get his treaty papers and you might witness some sabotage or an attempted murder or maybe even a murder. Think of that, Johnny! You stay right beside Mr. Sen Shu Wu, and if anything happens to him, put it in the can! I’m depending on you, Johnny.”

  “Look,” said Johnny, “is this an assignment, or a scheme to get us bumped off?”

  “Hah hah!” laughed Felznick. “Always the wit, eh, Johnny? Now pick up some cameras in San Francisco, and don’t fail to connect with that Clipper. Everybody gets bad breaks sometimes, and you’ve had yours. Now we can count on you, I know. Good luck, Johnny.”

  Johnny hung up and Irish looked searchingly into his face. “Did we get it?” said Irish.

  “Pay raise,” said Johnny. “You two-fifty, me three hundred. Boy, what an assignment this is!” He sighed deeply and then, shaking off all extraneous thoughts was immediately business itself. “Roll out! We got to get some clothes. If we’re going to make that Clipper, we’ll have to step on it!”

  “Gee,” said Irish. “China! I wonder if those Japanese left anything at Mum’s. ’Member that big tall Russky? Maybe she’s still there, Johnny. Think so? Gosh, I been prayin’ we’d get a crack at that fighting. Bet we can get some swell shots. Maybe get some air-raid stuff, up close. Maybe, huh, Johnny?”

  Johnny walked toward the bathroom. He stumbled and grabbed his foot, swearing. When he looked down he saw that a rock was the offender, and he almost kicked it again before he remembered that he was in his bare feet.

  “Wonder where that came from,” said Irish.

  “Somebody must have thrown it in from the fire escape,” said Johnny, picking it up. “Look, there’s a note on it.”

  Irish read it aloud, from under Johnny’s arm. “‘Brice; Take a friendly tip. You’re monkeying with dynamite. If you don’t believe it, tip off the cops—any cops—that you’re harboring Jacquelin Stuart, and let them take her off your hands and collect the reward besides. Your own office could tell you about her if you’d only call. Stop being a damned fool and turn her in. If you don’t, I’ll have to take other measures, not so pleasant. A Friend.’”

  Johnny crumpled the note angrily.

  “Gee!” said Irish. “The cops! Say, Johnny, what you know about that? She’s wanted. Maybe for forgery or counterfeiting or smuggling or something. Huh? What do you think, Johnny?”

  “Shut up.”

  “But look, Johnny. It’s plain as day. This gang wants her, see? She double-crossed them and they tipped off the police that she was guilty, and now they’re scared to contact the cops again. And if they bump her off, she bein’ a criminal, nobody will ask too many questions. Look, if we don’t turn her over to the cops, they’ll try to kill her!”

  “She’s a jinx,” Johnny was saying bitterly. “She leaves and my luck changes. She’s a jinx and I’m through—”

  “You mean she’s gone?” gaped Irish.

  “Yes, she’s gone!” yelled Johnny wrathfully. “Don’t stand there gawping at me! Do something! The kid’s in trouble. You want to let the cops get her, huh? You want her to swing for something she maybe didn’t do? Get hold of her! Try the airport and the bus station! Don’t stand there like a fool! Get going!”

  “But I only got this yellow bathrobe . . .” wailed Irish.

  Johnny booted him through the door.

  Chapter Seven

  MR. SEN SHU WU had the kind of a smile that is painted on dolls—with the exception that nothing could ever remove it, not even breakage. He answered all questions with the very best of polite language, bowed in payment for every attention and generally gave the impression that he had but one mission in life—to utterly efface himself. At this time in particular he was anxious to be as unnoticed as possible and, when he thought no one was looking, his small brown eyes would try to reach around corners as though expecting, from moment to moment, the arrival of at least a tiger.

  Johnny, after seven years of photographing mankind in action, was not likely to miss any such signs, and before they had shoved off from San Francisco, he had already remarked to Irish in private, “I hope you can swim.”

  “Huh?” Irish had said.

  “Yeah, swim. But what I’m worrying about is not whether we’ll be lost along the wayside, as that’s pretty well established, but whether Mr. Sen Shu Wu will have company on the highway back to his ancestors.”

  “Gee, y’think there’ll be trouble?”

  When the big Clipper wallowed down the bay to swoosh into the sky and head westward, the Jinx asked the same question. “What’s the matter with our friend, Johnny? He looks like he expected the sky to fall in. Is there going to be trouble?”

  Johnny looked at her grimly and she knew what he meant.

  “I suppose there will be,” she decided, with a sigh. “But you don’t really think I’m a jinx, do you?”

  Johnny leaned back on his head, dragging on a cigarette and scanning the vanishing coastline below.

  “You don’t, do you, Johnny?” she persisted. “Honest, things just happen, that’s all. You . . . you’d have turned me over to the police if you really thought I was.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t,” said Johnny. “Why don’t you come clean with a guy? What did you do?”

  She was instantly frightened, glancing around to see if any of the other passengers had overheard.

  “All right,” said Johnny. “Keep it to yourself.” He looked at her speculatively, still asking himself over and over just why he considered it his bounden duty to play escort to her. She was lovely—especially so in those gracefully tailored whites she had mysteriously produced in San Francisco—and there was something . . . No! He was too damned tough to get caught falling in love with any girl. He’d been too far and seen too many. And besides, wasn’t she a jinx?

  Mr. Sen Shu Wu, across from Johnny, smiled faintly and looked a little green. He was getting airsick, despite the calmness of the day, but he didn’t allow himself to be discomposed. “Nice sea, isn’t it, Mr. Brice?”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny, “there’s lots of it.”

  “Very strange, seeing the coast depart behind us. Makes one
feel oddly without purpose, sailing off into the horizon. It is so very far to my country.”

  “It’s plenty far to swim,” said Johnny.

  Mr. Sen Shu Wu’s eyes flickered over Johnny’s camera which, at Johnny’s request, had been left in the cabin. He said nothing, but he knew very well that this newsreel man was not there by accident. Beneath his own feet was a small briefcase—but size had nothing to do with importance, as treaties take but small space, and a fifty-million-dollar bill of exchange can be wadded into a vest pocket. The enemy would do anything to get Mr. Sen Shu Wu personally, let alone to stop those treaties and that bill.

  Mr. Wu and Johnny smiled at each other, understanding with mutual respect.

  “News consists mainly of disaster,” commented Mr. Sen Shu Wu.

  “News is trouble,” said Johnny. “And quantity makes quality.”

  “I hope, for your sake,” said the Oriental politely, “that you are not disappointed. As for me . . .”

  Johnny saw the doom in his eyes and tried to cheer him up. “Never mind. I’ve got a bad-luck charm here that makes it completely impossible for me to get any good news shots. You’re as safe as if you were home in bed.”

  “That might not be so safe,” smiled Mr. Sen Shu Wu. “Are you referring to your charming companion?”

  “Twenty-one-carat jinx,” said Johnny. “This trip will be as uneventful as taking the Albany night boat.”

  Mr. Sen Shu Wu’s smile was a trifle uncertain for a moment. “You newsreel men astound me, Mr. Brice. Have you no regard for your own safety? An attack upon me would inevitably place you in extreme danger.”

  “He eats it,” said the Jinx, “with or without cream. His idea of heaven would be the assassination of the president with siege guns during a five-alarm fire in an earthquake. Newsreel men have cameras for hearts, Mr. Wu.”

  “Aw, they do not,” stated Irish, turning around. “I saw Johnny drop his camera in a flood once to pull three kids out of the drink, and he damn near drowned doing it, too.”