by Peter David
Cliff was concentrating on the ringing of the phone on the other end, trying to phrase just what exactly he would say when they picked up. So he did not hear the jingling of the bell on the café door indicating that someone else had just entered the Bulldog. At least, he didn’t pay attention at first. But then he heard a set of heavy footfalls and he turned in that direction.
Four guys ambled in, and Cliff knew immediately, with no doubt at all, that they were thugs after the rocket. They wore expensive suits, shined shoes, and had an air of casual violence beneath their smiles.
Were they the ones who killed Bigelow? Cliff couldn’t be sure. But there was no question that they were quite capable of murdering somebody . . . quite possibly, somebody in this café.
At that moment, a voice came on the other end, a gruff voice that said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Agent Gorman speaking.” And then there was a pause, clearly waiting for some reply from Cliff.
Cliff licked his lips and said, as casually as he could, “Uh . . . yeah. I’ll be home soon, honey. Love you too.” And he quickly hung up, cutting off the confused Agent Gorman, who was saying, “Huh? Who is this?” before he was disconnected.
Cliff gave the four thugs a bland, pleasant smile and sauntered as best as he could over to the counter. Millie, not quite understanding what was happening, nevertheless knew enough to immediately put a plateful of food in front of him. She got the sense that in front of these men, no wrong moves could be made. And if Cliff was about to sit at the counter, there’d better be some food waiting for him.
Peevy, for his part, sat at the counter next to Skeets and Goose.
“What can I do for you gents?” asked Millie cheerfully.
Spanish Johnny smiled, glancing at his companions, Rusty, Jeff, and Mike. He chuckled inwardly. Oh, yeah, definitely gents. Gentlemen all. With an exaggerated drawl, Johnny said, “We’re looking for a pilot, namea’ Cliff Secord, ma’am. Anybody here know him?”
Millie thanked God above that Malcolm wasn’t there. Malcolm couldn’t lie if his life depended on it, and at that moment somebody’s life might very well depend on it.
“Haven’t seen him around,” said Millie.
“We need a flier for a real special job,” said Rusty. “There’s a lotta lettuce in it. Hate to see the kid miss out.”
No answer.
“Tell you what, we’ll lay out a little finder’s fee,” said Rusty, and held a twenty-dollar bill up to Peevy. “How ’bout it, dad?”
“Yeah,” said Peevy slowly. “Secord? Yeah, I know him. Little guy? Curly hair?”
“Didn’t he moved to Cincinnati?” said Goose.
Spanish Johnny leaned down and put his face an inch from Cliff’s. “Howsa ’bout you, bub? You know this Secord?”
Cliff glared at him and Millie said sharply, “If you boys aren’t going to order, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Johnny turned to Millie, fixing her with a cold stare. “Oh, we’ll order.” He pointed at a rack of pies on the counter. “Those pies look good. They home-made?”
He suddenly seized the rack and sent the pies crashing to the floor. The pilots were immediately on their feet, but before they could make a move, they were gazing down the barrels of the guns that appeared in the gangster’s hands.
“Don’t,” said Rusty with studied calm, “interrupt his meal.”
Johnny sauntered along the counter, running his fingers along it. “Yeah. I like coffee with my pie.”
He grabbed a full carafe and threw it against the wall, spraying glass and hot coffee across all the photos of fliers.
The radio was blaring “Pennies from Heaven,” and Johnny turned toward it in annoyance and said, “It’s funny. I just don’t care for music when I’m digesting.” And he fired two rounds into the radio. There was a burst of static and electricity, and with a sizzle and burst of smoke, the radio went silent.
Becoming more concerned by the second, Peevy said desperately, “I’m tellin’ you, we don’t know where he is!”
Johnny contemptuously wiped his hands on a counter towel, nodding slowly. “Okay, dad,” he said softly. “Maybe we can refresh your memory.”
He nodded to Rusty, who seized Peevy from behind, twisting his arm. Peevy grunted as Rusty dragged him around the counter toward the grill. He forced Peevy’s head down so that it was a foot away from the hot surface and snarled, “Talk, or you get a facial!”
“Drop dead, weasel,” Peevy shot back.
Rusty grabbed Peevy by the back of the neck and shoved his face slowly, inexorably, toward the grill. Beads of sweat trickled off the forehead of the struggling mechanic and dropped to the grill, sizzling and dancing across the surface.
“Leave him alone!” shrieked Millie.
Cliff desperately groped on the counter behind him, and his questing fingers found a ketchup bottle. He grabbed it, about to whip it around like a club, and suddenly Mike’s gun was in his face. Cliff froze as Mike yanked the bottle from Cliff’s fingers. Mike made a tsk sound and said scoldingly, “Naughty boy.”
Peevy’s face was inches from the sizzling grill, and Rusty was chortling, “You’re starting to smoke, old-timer.” Within a second he was going to shove the old man’s unprotected skin right onto the surface that was hot enough to fry hamburger.
Cliff couldn’t stand it any longer. He opened his mouth, about to shout, Here! I’m the one you want! I’m Cliff Secord! and at that moment, Johnny suddenly said, “Hold it!”
Rusty kept a firm grip on Peevy, but lifted his face clear from the grill. Johnny, in the meantime, walked straight toward Cliff, and the flier realized that the thug must have known all the time. That he was sadistically toying with Cliff to see if he would own up. Cliff drew himself up, ready for whatever the thug might have in mind.
And Spanish Johnny walked right past him. Cliff frowned, confused. What was this guy playing at?
Johnny was walking straight to the phone, something on the wall having caught his attention. He nodded and pulled something out of his jacket, and Cliff gulped when he saw what it was: the autographed photo of Jenny.
Spanish Johnny held it up to the phone number that Jenny had scrawled on the wall the night before. On both photo and wall, the name Jenny had been written with the telltale heart around it. But the wall had something that the photo did not.
“Hey, lookee this, boys,” said Johnny with satisfaction. “Lady Luck left her phone number.”
Irma walked out to the ringing hall phone in the actresses’ boardinghouse, wearing her bathrobe and curlers, and picked it up on the third ring. “Hello?” she said.
A clipped voice came from the other end. “Hello, this is the, uh, florist. I have a lovely bouquet for Jenny, but I can’t read the address.”
“It’s the Stage Club, on Cahuenga.”
“Oh, yes, where all the actresses room. I know it well.”
She thought she heard snickering in the background, and wondered if this was some kind of prank call. “Who’s sending flowers?” she demanded.
“Let me see . . .” There was a pause. “Cliff Secord.”
Now it all was clear to Irma. There weren’t any flowers. Secord was too cheap. He was calling and checking up on her was what he was doing. Well, he was going to fry when he got an earful of this. “Is that right! Well, he’s too late, she’s gone to the South Seas Club with Mr. Neville Sinclair!”
There was a click.
“Hello?” She grinned. That had certainly knocked Mr. Cliff Secord for a loop, and not the kind he turned in those airplanes of his. Maybe now he’d begin to realize just what kind of future lay ahead for Jenny, and just how far behind he was going to be left.
At the Bulldog Café, a chuckling Spanish Johnny hung up the phone and turned to his cohorts. “Rusty,” he said to the man who had been laughing behind him, “this’ll slay ya. Guess where the dish went? She’s with the Limey . . . at the South Seas Club!”
Cliff shot Peevy a desperate look, but the thugs didn’t
notice. “Think fancy-pants is pulling a fast one on Eddie?”
“I dunno,” said Spanish Johnny suspiciously. “I don’t like it.” He turned to Jeff and Mike and said, “You guys stay here. Watch what walks in. We’ll call from the club.” Then he announced to Rusty, “Let’s go,” and they exited the Bulldog.
As the sounds of one of the sedans faded in the distance, Mike sauntered over to the counter and sat down, swiping a doughnut. As he spun on the counter stool, he played with the lever action on his gun. Not for a moment were they letting the pilots forget just who was in charge.
Jeff, gun held loosely, strolled down the wall of photographs, and Cliff suddenly paled. A few feet ahead of the thug was a photo of Cliff with his arm around Jenny, the Standard in the background, and even these bozos would be able to put two and two together. He had about five seconds to come up with something.
Jeff paused at a picture of Peevy in his early flying gear. “Swell outfit, dad,” he said sarcastically.
Now the others saw the imminent danger of Cliff’s identity being revealed. Millie’s hand strayed toward a large skillet on the grill. Cliff braced himself against the counter. Peevy silently, with his practiced mechanic’s eye, gauged the distance to Mike and his gun.
The tension hung there. In a second all hell was going to break loose.
Jeff walked right past the picture without noticing it.
Cliff was about to let out a sigh and checked himself as Jeff suddenly leaned back and stared more closely at the photo. “Hey, there’s Mr. Ketchup Bottle! That’s quite a doll you got there . . .” His voice trailed off and his mind started to work. He wasn’t used to it, which was why it took a while. “Wait a minute! That’s Lady Luck! So that makes you—”
He spun just in time to see Cliff’s fist smash right into his face.
Jeff crashed back into the wall and was kept pinned there by a furious flurry of lefts and rights lobbed alternately into his gut and face.
Mike was momentarily startled, for it had happened so quickly, but now he jumped off his stool—doughnut still in his mouth—and swung his gun up. But Peevy grabbed his arm from behind and yanked backward as hard as he could. Mike’s shot went wild into the ceiling as Skeets and Goose jumped on his back. He struggled in their grasp, blasting holes in the ceiling.
Cliff swung a fierce roundhouse punch that spun Jeff about completely, sending him crashing to the floor. He turned just in time to see the burly Mike shrugging off the combined efforts of Peevy, Skeets, and Goose. Mike once again aimed his gun at Cliff, who was too far away to do anything about it.
And that was when Millie swung her skillet in a manner that would have made Babe Ruth proud. It smashed into the side of Mike’s head with a ringing klonnggggg, and the thug crumpled, out cold.
“Dirty bastards!” shouted Peevy, fists balled and ready for more. Skeets grabbed up the fallen gun and held it on the moaning Mike.
“Millie, I’m sorry about this!” Cliff said in a rush. “I’ll take care of everything! I promise!”
And with that he raced up the ladder and hurried through the trapdoor.
Peevy followed Cliff up the ladder into the tiny storeroom, and there found Cliff swinging the rocket pack onto his back. Peevy grabbed his wrist. “Cliff, no! Not again!”
“Half the city’s lookin’ for us!” Cliff said, shrugging off the grip. “I can fly to that nightclub in five minutes and nobody can follow me!”
“Take a cab! The only place that rocket is goin’ is straight to the feds. We agreed!”
“Peev.” Cliff turned, taking the older man by the shoulders. He seemed desperately anxious to convince Peevy of what he saw as the only right course. “I’m sorry. I shoulda listened to you from the start. But Jenny’s in trouble now . . . and that girl means more to me than—” He paused, searching for the right words, and suddenly he felt very helpless, in the grip of the only force he’d ever experienced stronger than gravity. “I . . . I love her, Peev.”
Peevy was astonished. Cliff had never had the nerve to admit that before. “Does she know that?”
“I don’t know.” Then with certainty, he added, “But she’s going to.”
Peevy gave in to the inevitable. “Promise me one thing. When she’s safe, we give this damn thing back.”
“Brother, you got my word!” said Cliff fervently. “I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on it!”
He slammed the helmet on and raced onto the upper deck. “I’ll meet you back here!” he called out.
Peevy wrinkled his nose. Something didn’t smell right . . . or, rather, there was a familiar smell that shouldn’t be there. He glanced at the floor and saw a trail of splattered fuel.
Fuel . . . leaking from . . .
Cliff, who stood ready to blast off, his finger poised.
“Hold it!” screamed Peevy just as Cliff was about to trigger the flight. Cliff looked back in confusion as Peevy said, “You’re leaking fuel all over the place! Touch that button and we all go up!”
He rushed over to Cliff, who was shaking slightly at the abrupt close call, and fingered a crease in the rocket’s housing. “She caught a ricochet! Musta ruptured a fuel tank!”
“Can you patch it?”
“Yeah, if I had two hours!”
“Peevy, we’ve got only minutes!” said Cliff urgently. “We need something quick!”
Peevy paused, thinking furiously. Then he spotted the wad of “good luck” gum that he had stuck to the top of the rocket’s injector housing.
“How about a little luck!” said Peevy with amusement. He pulled the gum from where it was and jammed it over the fuel leak. Then, being cautious, he closed the door to the upper deck.
Cliff aimed his helmeted bronze face toward the sky. “Stand clear!” he called out in his muffled voice.
And Peevy, who was already standing clear and hadn’t caught what Cliff just said, poked his head out and said, “What’s that?”
There was the roar and a burst of light like an exploding star, and the Rocketeer streaked into the heavens like a comet. And once again Peevy was knocked on his ass, slamming into shelves of canned goods and wondering for the umpteenth time what in the world he was getting out of all of this, aside from being knocked around and having guns shoved in his face.
And as Peevy picked himself up from the café’s supplies, he heard the soft click of a gun’s hammer being drawn back and turned to find himself having a gun shoved in his face.
15
The searchlights scanned the night sky over the Chinese Theater, where limousines were lining the curbs and stars and fans were packing the forecourt.
In the forefront of all of this stood the theater owner with a striking young woman next to him who had a high forehead, large lips, a round face, and unbelievable eyes. Her blondish-brown hair was carefully coiffed, as befit the occasion. “Ladies and gentlemen, please . . .” He gestured for quiet. Or, at least, as close to quiet as the mob scene would allow. “Welcome the lovely Bette Davis”—he gestured to the woman beside him—“who will become part of Hollywood history by leaving the prints of her hands and feet in our world-famous Courtyard of the Stars.”
High overhead, on the theater’s roof, a spotlight man noticed a fiery streak in the sky. “What the heck?” he muttered. He swung the heavy light on its pivot, attempting to spot the streak in his huge beam of light . . .
And he saw a man. A flying man with a helmet.
“The Rocketeer!” he breathed, and kept moving the spotlight, trying to keep it angled on the soaring figure . . .
His foot slipped over the edge of the roof. He stumbled, sliding down the steep roof and rolling over the brink. Frantically he clawed out and his fingers seized onto a gutter. He was left hanging precariously over the forecourt and his fingers started to go numb.
Down below, no one was paying any attention to anyone other than the lovely actress who was standing before a roped-off pad of wet cement.
“Thank you,” said Bette Davis in that slight
ly breathless way she had. This ceremony couldn’t have come at a better time for her. She was still incensed at losing the lead in Gone With the Wind to that British bitch, and she needed something to restore her self-confidence. “It’s a great honor to be invited here tonight. I have all of you to thank, all my lovely fans—”
And then she was cut off by an alarmed scream from someone who, out of the corner of their eye, had noticed the dangling figure. “Oh my God! Look up there!” came the shout, and now all attention was upon the helpless man clinging to the theater’s main tower for dear life.
The other spotlights now swept over to illuminate him, and the spectators held their collective breath as the man tried to put his feet up against the side of the building to shove himself back up onto the roof and comparative safety.
And then it was too late. His fingers lost their desperate grip, and the helpless spotlight man plunged toward the pavement below.
That was when the blazing fire trail descended from above, and literally from nowhere the Rocketeer snagged the falling man just before impact. The rescued man felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and knew that he had just wrenched his arm, but that sure beat wrenching his entire body permanently.
The Rocketeer angled downward, just barely able to handle the additional weight, and dropped the man safely into the crowd.
A roar went up such as he had never heard in his entire life, and the Rocketeer decided to bask in the glory, just for a moment. He executed a loop and landed proudly, feet spread, hands at his side, cutting thrust with just the right timing to make it his best landing ever. The crowd went berserk and every spotlight, every camera, and every eye was on the Rocketeer.
It was then that he realized he’d landed in wet cement.
He looked down in annoyance at his smeared-up boots, and then there was nothing but shouting.
“It’s him! The Rocketeer!”
“Lemme through . . .”
“Press!”
“Move it!”