by Peter David
The great whale of a human being was struck squarely between the eyes with a satisfying thump. Peevy waited for the monstrous intruder to sag to the floor, unconscious, or at least fading fast, so that he could then make a dash for it. He heard Cliff’s pounding outside and shouting. On the one hand, he was happy that Cliff was there to help. On the other hand, he was concerned that Cliff was going to get himself killed.
The latter seemed the more likely, for the giant, his back against the front door, was shaking off the effects of the heavy trophy. It hadn’t even sent him to one knee. A second later his head had cleared, and he smiled coldly at Peevy.
But the shouting from outside was getting distracting, and besides, it might be someone who could help out with gathering information. The giant suddenly turned the doorknob and yanked the front door open.
In hurtled Cliff with such speed that Peevy realized the flier had just now been charging the door, ready to knock it down with his shoulder. Instead, deprived of a target, he stumbled in, and the giant put a meaty paw on his shoulder and added to his forward motion. He hurtled across the carpet and landed on a coffee table.
Peevy leapt forward, landing squarely on the giant’s back. The huge thug reached around and grabbed Peevy’s collar as the mechanic pounded with utter futility on the massive back, doing more damage to his own fists than to the intruder. The giant flipped Peevy aside like a poker chip. Peevy landed in an easy chair with such force that the chair, and Peevy, toppled backward from the impact.
The giant turned back toward Cliff, who was just trying to get to his feet. He grabbed Cliff by the face and, for the second time that day, Cliff left the ground through the force of a superior power. The giant held him high in the air and shook him like a rag doll, the flier’s feet dangling above the carpet.
“Where is it?” snarled Lothar.
Cliff’s voice was muffled since the giant’s hand was covering his face, and Lothar readjusted his grip so that Cliff could at least see and speak. But he couldn’t breathe any too well, and he was still hanging several feet above the carpet. Insanely, Cliff noticed that the ceiling needed cleaning.
“Where’s what?” gasped the pilot.
“The rocket!” rumbled Lothar.
Cliff actually had no idea. He had assumed it would be on the kitchen table or someplace out in the open. It would—
His eyes widened as, just past Lothar’s shoulder, he saw the rocket pack.
It was sitting on an end table with a very nice fringed shade atop it, and looked for all the world like an art deco lamp. Through pure audacity and a degree of luck—Cliff had accidentally broken the lamp that went with the shade just last week, and Peevy hadn’t gotten around to fixing it, so it was sitting stuck in a closet somewhere—Peevy had managed to hide the thing in plain sight.
Cliff forced a ragged smile. “Sure you’ve got the right house?” he asked.
Snarling, Lothar shoved Cliff upward, slamming his head through the lath and plaster ceiling. Powder fell all around him and Cliff coughed and thought he was going to pass out. Peevy started to pull himself up from behind the easy chair, and it was at that moment that they were all suddenly transfixed by the glare of headlights coming in through the windows.
“Secord!” came a shouted voice. “Peabody! Open up! FBI!”
The giant hurled Cliff aside and drew twin .45s from within his jacket. Without hesitation he started firing through the windows and doors.
Cliff, to his horror, heard the thud of a falling body on the porch, and he saw shadows in the headlights diving and running for cover. Seconds later there was the sound of return fire, and bullets ripped through the windows, chewing up the walls and furniture.
The giant ran out of the living room and Cliff crawled across the floor to Peevy, shouting, “We gotta get outta here!”
“Let’s just surrender!” Peevy yelled back.
“Aw, great idea, Peev!” screamed Cliff. “The rocket pack we could just make like we found, but that palooka was shootin’ at them! They’ll never believe it wasn’t us! They’ll put us away for a hundred years!”
Cliff looked at him expectantly, and Peevy tried desperately to figure out what was the right thing to do—right meaning the way that was least likely to get them shot or jailed.
Into the kitchen ran Lothar, not weighed down by any concerns heavier than putting distance between himself and the feds.
He paused only a moment, his attention caught by the diagram on the kitchen table. He grabbed it and glanced at it. He couldn’t begin to understand it, but it looked important, and that was enough for him to shove it into his pocket. Then he turned and headed for the back door.
Agent Wolinski had made it around back while Fitch and the others had run to safer cover behind their cars.
Finding out the names and backgrounds of the occupants of 1635 Palm Terrace had been a snap. But the thing was, there was nothing in the backgrounds of either Secord or Peabody to indicate that they would put up this kind of resistance. They had no record of any kind. Where did they get this kind of hardware, not to mention the sheer nerve to engage in a shootout with the FBI? It didn’t make sense.
But Wooly was convinced that he would have his answer in a moment. While they were preoccupied with a defense of the front, he would come in the back and—
—and that was the moment that the door burst free of the frame. It slammed Wooly to the ground, knocking the wind out of him as Lothar pounded across the door and down a nearby alleyway.
Wooly waited for the world to stop spinning, and was about to rise from under the door when two more sets of feet came stomping across it. This time the gun was knocked from Wooly’s hand, and he lay there, dazed and helpless, as Cliff and Peevy—carrying the helmet and rocket—jumped a hedge and disappeared into the darkness.
13
The South Seas Club was, quite simply, the hottest spot in town. Huge palm trees festooned the orange and white exterior, which had a series of porthole windows in the facade, and the words South Seas Club blinked on and off in intermittent neon flashes on a large overhead sign. Stunning women in sarongs placed leis around the necks of various entering Hollywood gentry, whose admission was carefully monitored by tuxedoed doormen. Photographers and autograph hounds jockeyed each other for position at the velvet rope barricade, rubbernecking each new arrival.
A black limousine rolled up to the curb and a uniformed valet immediately hopped forward to open the door. There was a cheer from the crowd as Neville Sinclair stepped from the car, turned, and extended his arm. Jenny emerged with the beauty of Botticelli’s Venus emerging from the clam shell. She was a bit more elaborately clothed than Venus, however, wearing a stunning evening gown so clinging that it looked as if it had been painted onto her. She looked around in wonder, her fantasy of an evening on the town being played out before her very eyes. She had wondered if this evening could be everything she had hoped. It never occurred to her that it could be more.
Sinclair’s fans were shoving autograph books, napkins, body parts, everything they could at him for the purpose of getting his signature. One book was shoved into Jenny hands, and automatically she turned to pass it to Sinclair. And then, to her shock, the autograph hound shouted, “Not him, doll, you!”
Her face lit up. She couldn’t believe it. Almost numb with delight, she scribbled her name and drew the signature heart around it. Her first autograph. She handed it back to him and he said, “Thank you!”
“Oh, thank you!” she said with a blinding smile, and then was swept into the nightclub by Sinclair.
The autograph hound, in the meantime, stared down at the signature. “Jenny Blake! Aw, nuts! Who in Sam Hill is Jenny Blake? I thought she was Paulette Goddard!” And with disgust he ripped the autograph out of his book and tossed it away, then turned back to watch for Hollywood types of more importance to come in.
Fortunately out of earshot, Jenny was inside the club. The decor was deco/tropical, with full-size palms and glowing lanterns
. Sarong-clad cocktail girls walked past wearing gardenias in their hair. All around were pools of rippling water reflecting shimmering patterns. Incredibly, a woman dressed beautifully as a mermaid sat in a circular aquarium, smiling in a sultry manner to passersby.
At the moment, up on the stage, the orchestra was playing a lilting rendition of, of all things, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” with a stunning female vocalist standing in the midst of a giant clam shell and doing a very sultry rendition of it. For a moment it reminded Jenny that the previous night, that song had been playing on her radio just before she’d gone out on what was probably her final date with Cliff.
Now, why the devil couldn’t she get him out of her mind? She forced his image away and instead smiled engagingly at Sinclair, who in turn smiled back and maneuvered her through the crowd with practiced ease.
The moment they were seated at their table, Jenny’s eyes opened wide as a familiar gentleman with an equally familiar martini in one hand approached. “Neville, you old scoundrel!” he bellowed. “Fall off any chandeliers lately?”
“Hello, Bill,” said Sinclair with genuine fondness. “Miss Jenny Blake, may I introduce Mr. W. C. Fields?”
Fields took her hand, gallantly clicking his heels. “Charmed, my dear,” he said silkily, and rather obviously allowed his gaze to linger on her cleavage. “Doubly charmed.”
Jenny tried not to laugh at the overtness of the comment. Fields was so obviously lewd that it couldn’t be taken seriously . . . she thought. And then, to her surprise, she noticed that Sinclair was having something whispered in his ear by a rather odd-looking man. Sinclair nodded, then turned and said, “Forgive me, Jenny. I’ve received an urgent call. I won’t be a moment. Bill, look after the young lady.”
“Thought you’d never ask. Scram!” He shooed away Sinclair, dropping onto the chair just opposite Jenny.
“I’ve loved all your movies, Mr. Fields,” she said.
“Ah, my dear, I knew we had something in common,” Fields replied. “And there are so many other things we could have in common as well. The night’s still young, after all.”
Overlooking the club from his office window, the club’s owner—Eddie Valentine—peered down below in agitation at the evening’s guests. As he did so, Stevie sat at the desk, phone balanced on his shoulder, mixing a bicarbonate of soda. “Yeah, okay . . . so long,” he finished, and then hung up. Turning toward his boss, he said, “Spanish Johnny. Okay, get this: The license number was registered to an Ambrose Peabody, but when they went to check out the house, there were feds crawling all over it. So instead they went to the airfield to poke around there for info, and there were cops all over the place there! This Peevy guy is taking the law on some chase, I’ll tell ya.”
“So we want this Peevy guy, then?” asked Eddie.
“Maybe not,” said Stevie. “Johnny found some fliers hanging around, and they told him—for a couple of sawbucks—that this Peevy’s thick as fleas with some hotshot pilot named Cliff Secord. Peevy’s an old guy, but Secord’s a young flyboy. He might be this rocket jockey we’re looking for.”
“So where do we find Secord?” said Eddie, getting more and more irritated.
“Johnny’s working on that now. He’s checking on that hash house where the fliers hang out.”
He handed the bicarb to Eddie, who downed it in one gulp. This whole business was getting nastier and nastier, and most of the nastiness seemed to be playing itself out on Eddie’s digestive system. It was at that moment that Sinclair entered, without knocking and without much of an inclination to look even marginally polite. He stood there, glaring at Eddie as Valentine belched loudly and thumped his fist against his chest.
“Having a nice time, Sinclair?” said Valentine sarcastically. “Service all right?”
“Get to the point,” said Sinclair impatiently.
Eddie slapped a newspaper onto the desk and pointed at the headline that was typical of those all over the city. “I got my boys tearing the town apart looking for this Rocket Head,” he snapped, “and you’re out steppin’ with some dame!”
“That ‘dame’ ” said Sinclair with icy calm, “happens to be the Rocketeer’s girlfriend.”
Eddie blinked in surprise, turned in his chair, and stared harder out at the young woman who was, at that moment, fending off the rather aggressive hands of W. C. Fields. “Holy crap!” he said, recognizing her suddenly from the picture his boys had found at the airport. “It’s Lady Luck! Why’d you bring her here?”
“Because time is short,” said Sinclair tightly. “The clock is ticking. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my hands on that rocket.”
It was that attitude that reminded Eddie why he’d wanted to see Sinclair in the first place. “Like having your goon break my man in half?”
“Just covering my bases. That’s an American expression, isn’t it?”
Eddie’s mouth went thin and his eyes narrowed. “If that ape of yours lays a finger on any more of my men without my say-so,” he said angrily, “you’ll wind up kissing fish under some pier. Another American expression.”
If Sinclair was the least bit intimidated, he didn’t show it. “One word from Wilmer to the police,” he said, studying his fingernails, “would have hung us both. Are you too stupid to see that?”
Bristling at the Englishman’s arrogance, Eddie half rose from behind his desk. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, buster.”
“Of course I do,” rejoined Sinclair. “A small-time hood who made the big time by rubbing elbows with stars like me. And catering to our whims.” His smile might have been made of steel. “Don’t ever forget your place in the scheme of things, Eddie.”
He crossed to the door, stopped, and shot off a final warning. “Now, do as you’re told, or I’ll demolish your shabby little empire with a phone call. I want that rocket. Tonight.” He stalked out, leaving Eddie glaring across his desk.
“Boss?” asked Stevie hesitantly. “I promised my girl I’d get his autograph. This a bad time to ask?”
Eddie stewed for a moment, then snatched up the newspaper and hurled it at Stevie.
14
The giant mastiff form of the Bulldog Café sat serenely in the moonlight, warm light from within spilling invitingly through the doors.
Malcolm hurried into the Bulldog, anxiously looking for Cliff and Peevy, for Skeets, for anybody whom he could tell what he had just learned over at the airfield. But he couldn’t get the words out, and instead just stood in the middle of the café, waving his arms, trying to signal that something big had happened. Skeets and Goose, seated at their customary table, watched him with curiosity, and Millie, finally becoming impatient, slapped the counter with her skillet and said, “Out with it already!”
“Where’re Cliff and Peevy?” he demanded. “They gotta hear this too!”
“Hear what?” said Goose in annoyance, anticipating some new war story that Malcolm had just remembered.
Instead, he turned toward Goose with a pasty-faced look on his face that was the same kind of expression and pallor he’d had the day a year earlier when he’d barreled into the Bulldog to tell them about the Hindenburg blowing up in Lakehurst, New Jersey. And Goose knew immediately that whatever it was, it was pretty bad.
“It’s Bigelow,” said Malcolm darkly . . .
The head of the Bulldog Café also happened to be the attic, and Cliff and Peevy were crouched in it now, listening to a radio that was perched on a small table. The announcer was saying, “. . . moments after the daring rescue. The masked hero has yet to step forward and identify himself, but air circus owner Otis Bigelow promises his birdman will return. Until then, all of Los Angeles is buzzing . . . who is the Rocketeer?”
Peevy snapped off the radio and turned to his companion. “Cliff, there’s only one way out of this. Call the FBI and give the rocket back!”
“Nix, Peev! The FBI just tore our house in half! They think we were shooting at them. They’ll lock us up!”
“But
that gorilla tried to kill us,” replied Peevy, having had time to compose himself and get a better handle on what was what. “Whoever these people are, they’re playing for keeps. I’m tellin’ you, somebody’s gonna get hurt!”
There was a pounding on the attic trapdoor beneath their feet. Cliff and Peevy hurried to it, threw the bolt, and lifted it up. Millie and Malcolm were below.
“I just came from the airfield,” said Malcolm. “It’s Bigelow . . .”
Cliff rolled his eyes. What did that blowhard want now? And Peevy said, with a trace of impatience, “What about him?”
“His office is crawling with cops. Somebody tore up the place like they were looking for somethin’.” He took a breath. “They killed him.”
The words flew through the air with the force of a hammer. Cliff rocked back on his heels and sat down, hard. All the blood drained from his face, and he looked at Peevy with pure horror.
All from the rocket pack. It had seemed like a game. Cops and robbers, us versus them. Keep one step ahead of the bad guys and the feds and show how clever you could be. And now Bigelow was dead . . .
Millie sounded small and scared as she said, “Cliff . . . what’s going on?”
With a new conviction in his voice, Cliff said firmly to Peevy, “I’ll make the call.”
Peevy nodded in approval and clapped Cliff on the shoulder.
Cliff and Peevy descended the ladder. The young flier could feel the gaze of Goose and Skeets, who had obviously already heard the news, on him. As Cliff went to the phone and picked up the receiver, Malcolm left the café to head back to the airfield and try to pick up more information.
“Operator? Please connect me with the FBI. Yeah, Los Angeles.”
As he stood there, waiting for the connection, Millie went back behind the counter as if in a fog. Skeets and Goose looked at each other, each silently thinking about stuff they’d said to Bigelow that now they kind of wish they hadn’t. After all, he was obnoxious and uncouth, but hell, he didn’t deserve to die for it. Nobody did.