‘Too bad.’
Just then the Cuban kid came at a slow trot with the mailbag. Abe took the bag and buckled it behind his seat in the rear cockpit. The American came closer, tilting his head up to speak.
‘Fifty bucks. We got a deal, right? Where do I get in? Here?’ He made as if to climb into the front cockpit.
‘Hey! Out of there. I’m full, I told you. I’m not some kind of railroad service.’
Mason stopped where he was, half-in, half-out of the cockpit. He held Abe’s gaze square on.
‘A hundred bucks.’
‘I’m full. That’s the last time I’m telling you.’ Abe checked his instruments, before jumping out of the plane to swing the propeller a couple of times. On a cold day, it could take a few turns to bring enough fuel into the piston heads. But in the heat, Abe could tell by the smell that the pistons were already primed. He walked back to the cockpit.
‘Bullshit, that’s bullshit.’
Abe shrugged. ‘My machine, my route.’
He reached inside his cockpit, flipped the ignition, and set the throttle low enough that it would keep the engine turning without sending Poll skittering out across the field. Then he went back to the propellers, ready to spin the blades into action.
Mason let Abe pass him, then said in the same low voice, ‘Fuck you.’ He picked a hundred dollars from his wallet and threw them into the rear cockpit. Then he grasped the edge of the front cockpit with both hands and jumped up, before swinging his legs down and into the plane. A grimy blue curtain would have blocked his view of anything lying forward from the seat. Expecting empty space, he moved too fast and barked out loud in pain as his feet struck something hard and solid. He swore loudly, then grabbed at the curtain to pull it aside.
And saw it. Six cases of booze, Gordon’s Gin still in the original boxes, strapped tight against Poll’s wood and fabric hull.
Mason stared – stared – then began to roar with laughter.
‘Full! Ha! I’ll say you are. That’s a sweet little business you got yourself there.’
‘Right. So as you see, I got no space for you. Now scram.’
Mason shook his head. His eyes smiled but there was an unruffled confidence in his manner which hinted at something a whole lot tougher. ‘I’ll squeeze up. I promise not to snitch a drink on the way.’
‘It’s not a question of squeezing, it’s a question of weight. The plane won’t take off overloaded.’
‘Then lose the booze.’
‘I’d sooner lose you.’
Mason paused. His manner was still very easy, very calm. He looked inside the curtain and counted the cases. ‘Six cases. And twenty, twenty-five bucks turn on each one. I was underpaying. One fifty.’ He counted out another fifty bucks and handed them down to Abe, who didn’t reach to take them.
‘Sorry, pal. I’m not in the passenger business.’
‘My men will get you unloaded.’
Mason glanced over at the car which had brought him and made a gesture. Two men stepped out, not exactly threatening, but not exactly meek either. Abe watched them come.
‘Where do you store it?’ said Mason.
‘If I take you this time, it’s the last time, OK? I got people who rely on me.’
‘I get it.’
‘And it’s two hundred.’
‘OK.’
Abe spun his reluctance out another second or two, before pointing at the little locked shed, where he kept the bits and pieces he needed to service Poll. ‘In there. And your guys had better break a sweat, unless you want to try a landing by moonlight.’
‘OK.’
Mason handed over a further fifty dollars, gave brief, precise instructions to his men, then chuckled to himself as the booze was unloaded. And it was true: ever since beginning the mail flight, Abe had been transporting six cases of alcohol a flight, every flight. He bought the stuff from a wholesaler in Havana. He sold the stuff to a poxy little Miami bootlegger, named De Freitas. The booze came in wooden cases, nailed shut and sealed with the manufacturer’s mark. To begin with De Freitas hadn’t believed the stuff was unadulterated, but as time had gone by, he’d changed his mind. De Freitas paid good prices. Abe’s costs, gasoline mostly, were low. Each and every trip he cleared around a hundred bucks’ profit.
Mason supervised his men, but didn’t help. He jigged up and down, enjoying himself.
‘You got Gordon’s on the box. I like that. Booze you can trust.’
Abe said nothing.
‘You ain’t worried about the good folks from customs?’
Abe jerked his thumb at Poll’s fuselage, with its stencilled mail logo. ‘Interference with the mails. It’s a federal crime. Besides, why would Uncle Sam want to stop his own airplanes?’
Mason stared at the logo an instant, transfixed by the sight. Then his face creased into a bellow of laughter. ‘Ha! You got it figured out there, pal! Good ol’ Uncle Sam, huh? Looks after his own, hey?’ He laughed some more and shared the joke with his two pals, who had got the last case unloaded. They laughed too, but were sweating too hard to laugh loudly.
‘OK, hurry it up,’ said Abe tetchily. ‘You want to go to the can, go now. Otherwise, get in. There’s a helmet and goggles behind the seat. Put ’em on. Keep ’em on. Sit still. Don’t touch anything. Miami in three hours. Got it?’
Mason nodded, still chuckling, and complied. Abe got Poll started, and bumped across the airfield until he was downwind of the sea breeze. Then he opened the throttle and let her roar into flight. Abe pushed her upwards at two hundred feet a minute, until he hit her ceiling, seven thousand feet or so. He kept her pushed up against the ceiling all the way to the Florida coast, raising the altitude as the fuel load lightened. Up at those heights, the air was icy, the cold multiplied by the hundred-mile-an-hour wind.
By the time Abe set Poll down in Miami, Mason was half blue with cold, his hands shaking, his face pinched and tight.
‘You have to fly her as high as that?’
‘Nope.’
‘Then why the hell did you?’
‘I run a business, but it’s not a passenger business. Next time take the boat.’
Mason left, heading off towards town, flexing his fingers to get them warm.
Abe watched him go. It was his first serious contact with the gangsters of Marion. But it wasn’t too late to quit. He was committed to nothing, he had promised less. Few people knew where he was, and no one knew what he was doing. Abe stood watching, ’til Mason had long passed out of sight. But the hesitation that had gripped him since the moment when a lanky storekeeper in Independence had asked him for help still gnawed inside. Should he fight or quit, stay or run?
He didn’t know. He still hadn’t made up his mind.
26
One Friday afternoon, Willard had had business with the bank’s archive on the twentieth floor. He’d deposited one file, collected another and was just about to leave, when he happened to see Leo McVeigh and Charlie Hughes through the glass-paned door. McVeigh had Hughes pushed up against the wall. Hughes was white, obviously terrified. McVeigh was standing too close, speaking intently, his big hands half-curled into fists.
Willard stared for a second, then banged the door open. McVeigh stepped back. Charlie Hughes put his hand to his face, checked his tie, began muttering nervous hellos. Willard already loathed McVeigh and was angry enough to welcome a confrontation.
‘Hello, McVeigh,’ he said icily, before turning to Hughes. ‘You all right, old chap? You’re looking rather blue.’
‘I’m fine, honestly, Will, please don’t worry.’
‘I do worry. You’re not looking at all well.’
‘Spot of tummy trouble. Maybe something I ate. I’ll be OK.’
‘Have you drunk some water?’
‘Water?’ Hughes repeated the word as though unfamiliar with the substance.
‘Water. You ought to drink something. Maybe go home and lie down.’
Hughes caught McVeigh with his eyes. He’s aski
ng that bastard for permission, thought Willard angrily. McVeigh nodded slightly and stepped away.
‘Yes, good idea,’ said Hughes. ‘I’ll drink something. That should help.’
He made no move to come with Willard, as though still spellbound by McVeigh’s presence. The big one-time football player stood a pace or two back, kneading his hands and breathing silently through his mouth.
‘Good. I’ll walk you to the bathroom,’ said Willard firmly. He put a hand on Hughes’ shoulder and steered him away. In a deliberately loud voice – loud enough that McVeigh would be sure to hear it – he said, ‘You always feel free to come to me if you need help, anything at all.’
‘Yes, of course, thanks, Will-o.’
Feeling distaste for the man he’d just rescued, Willard turned and stared McVeigh straight in the face. For a second or two, their gazes locked. Hostility flickered in the air. Then Willard, pulling some of his Hollywood moves, curled his lip, turned on his heel, and stalked off.
Speaking about it later with Larry Ronson, Willard said, ‘I’d swear he was threatening Hughes. The poor chap looked white as a sheet.’
Ronson was sympathetic. ‘He’s an ugly sort, McVeigh. He’s never even attempted to join in with things. I mean, at least Hughes tries.’
‘Yes… Look, you probably think I’m being absurd, but you don’t think … Look, I don’t even know what I think, but have you ever wondered if there’s anything strange going on at times? You remember that business with the Orthodox Synagogues?’
‘Irish rabbis. That’d be something.’
‘McVeigh threatened me in the elevator. Told me not to ask questions.’
‘He did? He did that? Jesus! Have you told anyone else?’
‘No. I’m not quite sure who I would tell.’
‘There’s Grainger, I suppose. Or Barker.’
‘Yes, but what if they’re in on it too?’
‘In on what?’
‘I’ve no idea. None at all.’
‘Look, you know Powell a little, don’t you? Or at least your pa does?’
‘Father and Powell are Yacht Club buddies, that sort of thing. Trouble is, I don’t really know the man and, in any event, I wouldn’t know what to say.’
Ronson looked at his watch. It was four thirty-five. ‘I trust you’re intending to keep New York’s bootlegging community in proper employment tonight?’
‘Love to, but I’m bursting to get out of the city, to tell the truth. Take a weekend in the country.’
‘The delights of Martha’s Vineyard, eh? Lucky dog.’
Willard smiled. His father owned a thumping big estate facing south over the ocean. What was more, Willard’s four sisters were all going to be there this weekend, with girlfriends in tow. Willard had enjoyed happy hunting with his sisters’ friends in the past, and could think of nothing more welcome in the present. Willard stared at his desk and its cargo of detested manila files.
‘To hell with it,’ he said, feelingly. ‘To hell with everything. If Messrs Grainger, Barker, McVeigh or Powell want me, please tell them to go to hell too.’
Grabbing coat, hat and briefcase, Willard strode for the door.
27
The shop was dim compared with the street outside, but then again since the street outside was a blaze of white dust and air so hot it practically buckled, dim wasn’t a bad way to be.
The kid kicked around at the back of the store, waiting while Hennessey finished serving an old lady customer at the front. The kid was down in the hardware section, fingering the metal pans full of nails, weighing the hammerheads and axe handles. The old lady left the shop. Lundmark approached.
‘Afternoon, Mr Hennessey.’
‘Hey, Brad. Fancy some candy?’
The storekeeper pulled a jar of Brad’s favourite candy from the shelf behind him. The kid looked embarrassed, sticking his hands in his pockets.
‘Oh, gee, no, it’s OK, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t come out with any –’
‘This candy’s a treat between friends. I didn’t mean for you to pay.’
‘Oh, gosh, Mr Hennessey, thanks.’
The old man and the young one went silent as they chewed on the pink and white candy. Brad was still of school age and his mom’s blind eyes didn’t let her earn a living. The two of them lived off the town’s charity and the poorer the town got, the poorer the Lundmarks became.
‘Good candy.’
‘Yeah.’
Hennessey could tell the boy wanted to ask something, but wasn’t sure about doing so. The older man let him take his time. Another customer came in, asked for a bolt of cloth, was told it hadn’t come in yet. The customer left.
‘Say,’ said Brad, who had plucked up his courage, ‘I keep telling Mom it’s time she let me earn a little money. Schooling don’t bother me none, only it don’t pay nothing either.’
‘That’s a problem with it,’ said Hennessey, hoping the boy wasn’t going to ask him for a position.
‘She thinks I ought to become a carpenter like my pa.’
‘He was good with his hands, your pa.’
‘Yeah…’
‘And sometimes you know those things run in the blood.’
‘Yeah…’
‘Only if I’m guessing right, you don’t fancy the carpenting line of work over much.’
‘Not so much.’
Hennessey was more sure now that the boy was going to ask for a job – a request which Hennessey would absolutely have to refuse – and his manner stiffened as he waited.
‘But I reckon you’re right about them things running in the blood, though.’
‘Yes?’
The boy looked up, suddenly bold. ‘Oh say, Mr Hennessey, it ain’t carpenting work I want, it’s mechanics. I am good with my hands, even Captain Rockwell said so. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, really. There are four auto shops in Brunswick now. I’ll bet one of them needs an apprentice around the place. I could come home every Sunday. I wouldn’t need hardly nothing to live off and Ma could have everything else.’
He stopped abruptly and the storekeeper finished for him. ‘Only your ma wants you to stay at home. She doesn’t like the thought of you heading off to Brunswick.’
The kid didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. It was the same all over Independence. Ever since Marion had begun its war of attrition against their neighbours up the hill, the town had been dying. Kids left, not to come back. Businesses folded. Farms went under. Hennessey was an Independence man born and bred, but he couldn’t deny that the kid spoke sense. There was no use in trying to hold the youngsters back. They had their own lives to live.
‘I’ll speak to Sal,’ said Hennessey. ‘I expect I can talk her round.’
‘Gee, would you? Gosh, thanks! And I promise –’
Hennessey raised a hand. ‘No promises, Brad.’ He hesitated. Under the counter, he’d kept a newspaper from a couple of months back. The newspaper had contained an item about the inaugural Miami–Havana mail flight, about Captain Rockwell and his new airfield in the south.
‘Autos. That’s your thing, huh?’
‘Oh sure. You know Captain Rockwell started out as a racing car mechanic. One day, I’d love to do that, but meantime
‘How ’bout airplanes, Brad?’
‘Airplanes?’
The air turned still. The silence turned holy.
Hennessey produced the paper. ‘Now don’t you dare tell your ma I showed you this. It ain’t autos, Brad, but if you don’t mind slumming it, there’s a guy working down in Miami who might have a job for the likes of you.’
He handed over the newspaper. The kid read the article, his eyes shining.
‘Gee, Mr Hennessey, do you really think he’d –?’
‘I’ve no idea. You’d best ask him that yourself. And, listen up, Brad, mind you don’t tell him I said you go see him.’
‘I shouldn’t?’
‘No, son, better not.’
The kid looked back at the newspaper, doubt
fully. ‘But, you know Mr Hennessey, Miami’s a whole lot further than Brunswick…’
Hennessey suddenly felt bad about doing what he’d just done. He couldn’t have said why, but he felt like he was a man betraying a trust. He grabbed the tall glass jar of candy, tipped some out into a brown paper bag and thrust the bag over the counter, restoring the jar to its place on the shelf with his free hand.
‘I’ll speak to your ma. I’ll ask her about Brunswick. I won’t say anything about Miami, let alone airplanes. If you choose to jump on the eight o’clock freight train when it slows down just this side of Williams Point and ride it all the way down to Miami, then that wouldn’t really be my business now, would it?’
A couple more customers came into the shop, one of them Jeb Gibbs, a seventy-five-year-old man whose sweet-tempered moonshine whiskey had kept him one of the wealthiest men in town for as long as anyone could remember. Gibbs was a customer Hennessey did a lot to keep sweet. The storekeeper greeted the newcomers and flashed a last glance at Lundmark. The kid had grabbed his bag of candy and stood with it held against his chest like something precious.
‘Williams Point, huh?’ he breathed.
‘I’ll talk to her,’ said the storeman, ‘but no promises.’
The kid left. Hennessey watched him all the way into the dazzle of the street and the deep indigo shadows of the further side. He hadn’t done anything so bad, had he? And if he hadn’t, then how come he felt like such a louse for doing it?
28
The weekend was everything that Willard’s life once used to be and now wasn’t.
Although he carried twelve hours’ worth of paperwork in his briefcase, he touched none of it. Deliberately choosing to ignore the difficulties that hemmed him in, he didn’t think about his debts, didn’t think about Powell Lambert, didn’t think about his future. Instead, he did all those things he had once taken for granted. He played tennis, sailed and swam. He was outgoing, charming and easy. He didn’t ‘score a confirmed hit’, as he expressed it to his eldest sister, Lucinda, but he ‘winged one or two machines, for sure’ – his phrase for petting that stopped just short of the bedroom door.
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