Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  There were bargains out there but, having written a few ads himself, Lovett's eye had developed a case of jaundice. RESTORATION 90% complete might mean that the owner had made 90 percent of the mistakes possible and hoped to dump this abortion on a complete idiot. LOW TIME could mean the engine had been overhauled by a cross-eyed maladroit who worried over those funny new noises coming through his firewall and was hoping to sell this deathtrap before the pistons started swapping holes. ALWAYS HANGARED could suggest the aircraft hadn't been flown since 1947 - for good reason.

  And the guy who said, "History is bunk" may have just bought a secondhand airplane. NO DAMAGE HISTORY sometime's meant the owner had a convenient memory for little things like. scraped wingtips and propellers with an acquired taste for seagulls. When a prop went south while you were going north, you instantly had a glider, or pieces of one.

  He landed at Taft to check on an acrobatic Aero Sportheld together by its paint, if Lovett was any judge, and not worth the money-then stopping again at Corona between mountain ranges that bounced the Varieze around. The tiny Wittman single-seater at Corona was worth a second look, a checkout ride and, on Saturday after a more thorough inspection, his personal check for the down payment. Once he got the little plane ferried home, he could renovate it himself; the little screamer might even entice Chip back to Wichita.

  He flew to Santa Ana just in time for Bente,@n's National Emergency, an entire day behind schedule, only a short hop but in skies so crowded with air traffic that he felt like a gnat in a roomful of fly swatters.

  What do you call fifty Southern California lawyers flying joyrides? Air pollution, he reminded himself, taxiing to refuel before seeking a tiedown space. Some of his old colleagues would be tanked up on Benteen's booze already, though the real festivities wouldn't begin 'til dark.

  It was sundown when Lovett strolled toward the hangar of Bentwing Associates, flight bag in hand. The assortment of aircraft towed outside, safely out of the reach of partygoers, looked as though someone had evicted a museum of flight. Elmo's Monocoupe, a long-distance racer of 1935 vintage, needed work. The Tiger Moth was older still but looked flyable. The Sikorsky flying boat, a genuine 1920s antique, was small by modern standards, lovingly rebuilt. Created chiefly from wood and fabric, such flyable relics brought top dollar and Lovett doubted if Benteen owned them outright.

  Lovett entered the hangar unnoticed, his heels echoing a ghostly tattoo on the concrete floor. Someone had unfurled the B.O.F. motto, in gleaming satin a yard wide, to hang from a shattered propeller high on one wall. Four long tables had been shoved together, doubtless for the bimbo runway, faced by three more tables surrounded by folding chairs.

  God, that's depressing, Lovett thought. There probably won't be enough of us to fill those three tables. Two young guys resplendent in black had their backs to him, setting up the bar in a far comer of the hangar, strategically placed far from the chairs. Elmo's theory was, if you couldn't make it to the bar, you didn't need a refill.

  In years past, dozens of men would have made the place more festive than bunting by now, lounging at the tables, scarfing down cold cuts with imported beer while they waited for the real action to begin. Now, Lovett could hear faint echoes of it all, which he discovered wasn't just his imagination. The earlier arrivals had all convened with beer in the hangar office, away from those hollow echoes. Pretty soon we'll be able to do this in a phone booth, Lovett thought as he entered the main office.

  Of the dozen B.O.F.s lounging in the scatter of office chairs, the first to spot him was bearded, overweight Victor Myles. It would be, Lovett thought: Mr. Survivalist, a self promoting writer whose neck always seemed to be on gimbal mounts lest he miss something worth scribbling about in the men's magazines.

  "Condition red," Myles boomed in a cowpoke drawl, waving his corncob pipe as he spotted Lovett. "Hide your booze and broads, boys, ol' Lovett's back in town."

  Lovett gave them his best smile, shaking hands all around with men he'd known for decades. In Benteen's momentary absence, Vic Myles had seated himself behind the scarred old desk and now he finished the tale he'd been spinning. "So then he says, 'Get an eye test, Myles, your broad's ugly as a combat boot,' and I says, 'Maybe, but she can suck a football through a garden hose.' And would you believe, a week later they were going steady."

  Lovett decided the little group was primed to laugh at anything, even Myles's raunchiest lines. And teenagers wanted to hear this kind of stuff Christ, they probably invent it, Lovett mused.

  And Myles was no worse than some of the others, and he knew better stories than most. Spotting targets for Army artillery in Korea, Vic Myles had earned every right to wear that grungy Stetson, to walk the walk, to talk the talk. He'd earned a nickname, "Hemingway," from messmates in those days for the eye-popping porn he'd pecked out in his spare time. A gun nut who hung out with Army demolition teams, he'd become familiar with explosives of all kinds-and the stories about them that would curl horsehair. When Myles returned stateside in the fifties with an endless fund of fine ground baloney, adventure magazines began to take his stuff, and in time he had developed into a passable scribbler.

  Much later the survivalist movement had made his articles popular, more so after Myles contracted with a CIA offshoot to instruct foreign nationals in handling explosives.

  But for Myles, fame had been brief. Needing glasses, his beard gray, the man exuded an air of forlorn hope, as though remaining the focus of attention was proof that he still had the right stuff. Half listening, Lovett reflected that maybe that term should be retired until somebody found a way to define exactly what stuff was right. Good sticks came in every conceivable and a few inconceivable packages; there was stuff, and there was other stuff; and some of it turned out right.

  Myles's face betrayed a trace of dismay as an old fellow shuffled out of the men's room. On the best day he ever had, Myles couldn't compete with Elmo Benteen.

  Lovett forced a grin for the old man and said the right things over their handshake. What he -felt like saying was, "Damn, I'm sorry, Elmo."

  At a guess Benteen had lost thirty pounds, his gait uncertain, the flesh drawn tightly over 'his cheekbones, that go-to-hell square grin of his now reduced to a set of cheap false teeth in a skull. Only the eyes were the same, still clear and lively, as if they could look into you and evaluate the man within.

  Evidently they could read minds, too: "I know, kid, I look like shit warmed over," Benteen said, and waved a hand toward the framed photos along the office wall. "Look at those instead if you dr uther. And grab a beer." Benteen himself was nursing a non-alcoholic Kaliber brew.

  Not many people could properly call Lovett "kid," and somewhere among those wall photos was one of a younger Wade Lovett with his arm around the shoulder of a middleaged Elmo. In the photo's background, stark against silhouetted palm trees, squatted a huge old Consolidated Catalina, looking like a goose on wheels-and a dead-black goose at that.

  Those had been Elmo's glory days, rare old times for a man who had never finished high school.

  Other photos showed Elmo in more recent years, sharing the frame with politicians, CEOS, film actors, a starlet or two. Oh, he's led a high life, Lovett conceded. It had been the kind of life that bluffed the distinction between fame and notoriety. In a way, it was too bad Chip couldn't meet this living legend in the flesh, while there was still a little of, it left.

  But Elmo was pulling up his shirttail while one of the guys began singing, "A pretty boyyyy, is like a melodyyyy..."

  "Well, you wanted to know what took me so long in the dumper," Elmo said, either pissed off or pretending, tugging at something to the left of his navel. Lovett was sorry when he craned his neck for a better look; he hadn't known about Benteen's colostomy bag. The old fellow showed off his synthetic intestine's orifice now to Crispin Revendo, the only Brit among them. Evidently Chris had provoked this little demonstration with a remark, and must now live with the result. "Some of my innards are now outtards," Benteen exp
lained.

  Because Benteen was standing and Reventlo sitting, the hapless Brit found himself at eye-level with Elmo's little surprise, a pink pucker visible through that flaccid plastic bag which seemed grafted to Elmo's side with tape. "We knew you had guts, Elmo, but what's that winking back at me," he demanded.

  "My butthole," Benteen said. "I wear it pretty high these days."

  "He always did," Reventlo said in an aside to the others as Benteen rearranged his shirt.

  "What'd he say?" This from Coop Gunther, whose ability to lip-read usually masked the deafness he tried to hide.

  "Hey, that's nothing. Wait'll you see my catheter." It was Cuffan Quinn, reaching down into the front of his trousers, then blinking in pretended confusion. "Gee, that's odd. I had it in here somewhere," and then the competition heated up, half of the group with some kind of age-related peculiarity, the other half trying to appear envious.

  One spoke up with, "My stainless steel hip feels okay, but I swear to God it squeaks." Another: "It's a cruel fate to get ice in your pants."

  "Oh, I dunno," said a third; "I could use a few nibbles." A fourth: "Ow, the very idea hurts. You shouldn't say that around a guy who's just been circumcised at sixty-nine." Myles: "Lenmie get this straight: you tried a sixty-nine and got circumcised?"

  "Lissen, Myles, if I can't get it straight by myself, don't try and help me 'cause that really hurts. Sure, laugh," said the complainer to old comrades, "but after I got my trim in from the San Francisco Clipper, which is what they call my doc, I hadda learn to pee all over again."

  Revendo's manner was droll: "I gather 'all over' is the operative phrase," he said.

  "That's operative. This?" Patting his fly tenderly: "This is still in intensive care. My wife won't even let me into the front bathroom anymore. I level off for a bombing run on the commode and ease off a stream, and my shoes and my tie and the towel rack are all targets of accidental oppomnity." lit@ s just getting back at you now for all those years you've abused it," Lovett said, straight-faced.

  "Okay, have your fun, Wade, but mark my words: get a trim job at your age and Mr. Wiggly goes cross-eyed on you. It's like he's never been sighted in. I'm as apt to get two streams as one and like as not they both hit my galoshes." Even Benteen found this bizarre. "You wear galoshes to the john?"

  "I do until my aim improves. House rules," was the reply.

  "If you have to go in here," Benteen told him, "don't go in here. Go outside. Hell, it'll be dark soon anyway Lovett had heard stories about mid-life circumcisions before, but never anything quite this plaintive.

  It wasn't the last tragicomedy of aging he was to experience that night as he listened, sipped his beer, and tried to feel festive.

  dog Several late arrivals strolled in until Benteen's office was standing room only, and it took the caterer several tries before he got Benteen's attention from the doorway. "The ladies," he said, "have arrived." Lovett thought it was remarkable how fast a score of old guys could dodder out of a narrow doorway.

  Lovett saw no women, but he could hear someone trying to cue a music tape somewhere in a side office and Benteen reminded the throng that they'd need a drink of some sort for the opening toast-a pointless reminder since the bartenders were already hidden, besieged by revelers ordering doubles. Lovett still had half his beer and decided to take it slow this time, choosing a chair at random. wly In moments he found himself flanked by Quinn and Reventlo, both with hefty glasses of booze. "How's it hanging, Quinn," Lovett said.

  Don't ask. I wasn't kidding about the'catheter. And business isn't what it should be," said the affable Quinn, as though it was of no importance. "Still putting your kids through at Illinois?" 'Nope, wife and I moved to Florida. I run a little FBO; Doris is mostly bedridden and I have dialysis every three d ays but it's doable. Non illigitimus carborundum," he grinned. That was More of their bogus Latin: Don't let the bastards grind you down.

  Lovett nodded. An ex-Raven with missions over Laos, Quinn would probably still have his old spook contacts. If he was a Fixed Base Operator in Florida now, those contacts could be important. Once a handsome six-footer with the curly dark hair of the black Irish, Quinn had picked up some exotic bug in Southeast Asia and would carry its effects to the grave. Now he seemed to have shrunk a bit with a permanent squint that might be his old laugh lines, or possibly just worry lines. With Curran Quinn it was hard to tell. "I'd think your end of the biz should be good in Florida," Lovett said with a wink.

  "Place is crammed with blacks and spics,', Quinn rejoined, and they don't fly, they try to hire it done with no questions asked." found momentary eye contact with Reventlo. Quinn Lovett had never made any secret of his bigotry, but at least he told you up front. And he wasn't dealing with drug runners. Lovett shrugged and said, "So you turn down a lot of business?"

  "Yeah, and sometimes I see who doesn't, and I take a few license numbers. Now and then it helps pay the bills." Quinn said volumes in those few words. With business flagging and medical costs in die stratosphere, he had the balls to play an informant role to the authorities. It could pay the rent. It could also get you seriously killed.

  "Just watch your back, old man," Reventlo murmured.

  Then Elmo Benteen made his way to a chair and raised his beverage, having graduated to a hearty ale. "Vincit qui primum gerit," he called, husking it as loud as he could. A score of stronger throats responded with the same motto, "the old guy conquers," and its thunder brought dust sifting from the hangar rafters as they drank. Lovett felt gooseflesh on his arms. For the moment, it was 1965, or even 1945 for some, and they were all ageless, peerless, dauntless. The eyes of some of those men glistened, and Lovett realized that this moment was what most of them had really come for.

  The second toast was more of the group's tradition, with a moment of silence for those B.O.F.s who had "gone west" before them. Then Elmo announced the evening's agenda. "I've had a pig barbecued for you, South Pacific-style, and you'll get served like civilized folks. Of course there'll be some after-dinner entertainment," he smirked, "and I advise you to remain conscious 'til it's over."

  He waited for the cheering to subside, then went on: "Because I have a little business proposition for you later. I reckon you all know a little about that accidental vacation of mine back in '68 ..."

  "Let's hear it for the Phantom of Shangri-La," someone called, to good-natured jeering.

  Elrho's grin was sly. "Oh, I ain't a phantom quite yet, but stay tuned.

  Anyhow, what you never heard was this: I had the best reason in the world for not telling where I fetched up in that forced landing. In a way, it sure 'enough was a Shangri-La." No longer smiling now: "It should be, still. Oh, it may not let you live forever-but i, t'll stuff the deepest pockets you've got. And you'll be remembered as long as air chines fly, gentlemen. That, I promise." The throng had fallen silent now; something in old Elmo's manner said this was more than a tall tale.

  Again, Lovett flashed on the question Chip had asked. Why is he throwing a party? It seemed the answer would not be long in coming.

  "I'll whet your curiosity this much," Benteen went on. "I tried for years to get backers for a return trip. Looks like I tried all the wrong folks. Every mother's whelp of 'em wanted too big a share and too much proof before they wrote a check. Starting with map coordinates."

  Quinn pierced the silence with, "How big a check, Elmo?"

  "Last time I ran the figures out with my kid, a hundred thou. Might take twice that much now, or so Mel tells me."

  Lovett could hear murmurs of, "I'm out," and other words to the same effect.

  "Might not be that much, though, if you have the gumption to do it up close and personal. Most of you runway rat were too busy getting'

  domesticated until now," Benteen went on, visibly tiring. "It needs diplomacy, which ain't my strong suit; it needs some cash; it may need some heavy equipment. Mel can run anything with treads, so you'd have an operator I'll go along 'cause I wouldn't miss it, and if I'm gonna get
it done it'd better be soon. The question is, do we have a few guys who could use, say, a mill apiece?"

  Quinn again, now in disbelief. "As in, million? A one with six zeroes and no decimal points?"

  "Dollars," Benteen nodded, managing his patented grin again. "And that's all intend to say for now." He waved a hand expansively. "Eat, cheer the ladies, and think about it." Had he not sat down, Lovett thought, Benteen might have simply fallen down.

  While waiters served paper plates of succulent pork and salad, Cris Reventio murmured what Lovett was thinking. can't say I like Benteen's looks."

  "We can't all be fashion plates," Quinn rejoined, taking in Reventlo's tailored shirt with epaulets, his ruddy tan topped by a thick shock of white hair. In his seventies, the Brit was still erect, his bearing vaguely military as befitted a man who had flown Qantas and Air Micronesia jets for years. You know what I mean," Reventio insisted, as a paper plate slid in front of him. The waiter moved quickly behind Lovett, served him a plate, then plopped down a very large and suspiciously dark drink.

  "Iced tea is more his style," Lovett said, nodding toward Reventio.

  "Scotch highball, triple," said a voice with a laugh in it, a familiar voice that shocked Lovett, literally, speechless. It was Lovett's favorite drink, all right; and as he jerked around to verify the impossible, he saw his only grandson give him a horse wink as he hurried away for more plates.

  Chip, here? Sweet Jesus, the kid was underage, hundreds of miles from home, and wearing the same damned monkey suit he'd worn the night before. No, two nights; time enough to sneak down here and weasel his way in as hired help not that he needed the money. If you must open your mouth that wide, Lovett, stuff some protein in it," said Reventlo with an amused glance.

  Lovett snapped his jaw shut, blinking, thinking furiously, not wondering how'go' xanne would react because he knew only too well. Then, because there was nothing he could do about it-perhaps nothing he should do to a youth who could pass as an adult-Wade Lovett began to chuckle, and addressed his plate. The next time Chip passed, Lovett raised his scotch highball in a silent toast to his grandson, who cackled aloud and kept serving.