JC1 The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  "You wouldn't dare."

  "No?" I said. I held out my hand. McAllister gave me the Section 722 papers. I threw them over to Bernie. "It’s up to you. If you don't sell, these papers will be in court tomorrow morning."

  He looked down at the papers, then back at me. There was a cold hatred in his eyes. "Why do you do this to me?" he cried. "Is it because you hate Jews so much, when all I tried to do was help you?"

  That did it. I went around the table, pulled him out of his chair and backed him up against the wall. "Look, you little Jew bastard," I shouted. "I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Every time you offered to help me, you picked my pocket. What's bugging you now is I won't let you do it again."

  "Nazi!" he spat at me.

  Slowly I let him down and turned to McAllister. "File the papers," I said. "And also bring a criminal suit against Norman and his wife for stealing from the company."

  I started for the door.

  "Just a minute!" Bernie's voice stopped me. There was a peculiar smile on his face. "There's no need for you to go away mad just because I got a little excited."

  I stared at him.

  "Come back," he said, sitting down at the table again. "We can settle this whole matter between us in a few minutes. Like gentlemen."

  * * *

  I stood near the window, watching Bernie sign the stock transfers. There was something incongruous about the way he sat there, the pen scratching across the paper as he signed away his life's work. You don't have to like a guy to feel sorry for him. And in a way that was just how I felt.

  He was a selfish, despicable old man. He had no sense of decency, no honor or ethics, he'd sacrifice anyone on the altar of his power, but as the pen moved across each certificate, I had the feeling his life's blood was running out of the golden nib along with the ink.

  I turned and looked out the window, thirty stories down into the street. Down there the people were tiny, they had little dreams, minute plans. The next day was Saturday. Their day off. Maybe they'd go to the beach, or the park. If they had the money, perhaps they'd take a drive out into the country. They'd sit on the grass next to their wives and watch the kids having themselves a time feeling the fresh, cool earth under their feet. They were lucky.

  They didn't live in a jungle that measured their worth by their ability to live with the wolves. They weren't born to a father who couldn't love his son unless he was cast in his own image. They weren't surrounded by people whose only thought was to align themselves with the source of wealth. When they loved, it was because of how they felt, not because of how much they might benefit.

  I felt a sour taste come up into my mouth. That was the way it might be down there but I really didn't know. And I wasn't particularly anxious to find out. I liked it up here.

  It was like being in the sky with no one around to tell you what you could do or couldn't do. In my world, you made up your own rules. And everybody had to live by them whether they liked it or not. As long as you were on top. I meant to stay on top a long time. Long enough so that when people spoke my name, they knew whose name they spoke. Mine, not my father's.

  I turned from the window and walked back to the table. I picked up the certificates and looked at them. They were signed correctly. Bernard B. Norman.

  Bernie looked up at me. He attempted a smile. It wasn't very successful. "Years ago, when Bernie Normanovitz opened his first nickelodeon on Fourth Street on the East Side, nobody thought he'd someday sell his company for three and a half million dollars."

  Suddenly, I didn't care any more. I no longer felt sorry for him. He had raped and looted a company of more than fifteen million dollars and his only excuse was that he had happened to start it.

  "I imagine you'll want this, too," he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and taking out a folded sheet of paper.

  I took it from him and opened it. It was his letter of resignation as president and chairman of the board. I looked at him in surprise.

  "Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No," I said.

  "You're wrong, Mr. Cord," he said softly. He crossed to the telephone on the table in the corner. "Operator, this is Mr. Norman. You can put that call for Mr. Cord through now."

  He held the phone toward me. "For you," he said expressionlessly. I took the telephone and heard the operator's voice. "I have Mr. Cord on the line now, Los Angeles."

  There was a click, then another, as the call went through on the other end. I saw Bernie look at me shrewdly, then walk toward the door. He turned and looked at his nephew. "Coming, David?"

  Woolf started to get out of his chair.

  "You," I said, covering the mouthpiece with my hand. "Stay."

  David looked at Bernie, then shook his head slightly and sank back into his chair. The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I expect any more from my own flesh and blood?" he said. The door closed behind him.

  A woman's voice came on in my ear. There was something vaguely familiar about it. "Jonas Cord?"

  "Speaking. Who's this?"

  "Ilene Gaillard. I've been trying to locate you all afternoon. Rina— Rina— " Her voice broke.

  I felt an ominous chill tighten around my heart. "Yes, Miss Gaillard," I asked, "what about Rina?"

  "She's dying, Mr. Cord," she sobbed into the telephone. "And she wants to see you."

  "Dying?" I repeated. I couldn't believe it. Not Rina. She was indestructible.

  "Yes, Mr. Cord. Encephalitis. And you'd better hurry. The doctors don't know how long she can last. She's at the Colton Sanitarium in Santa Monica. Can I tell her you're coming?"

  "Tell her I'm on my way!" I said, putting down the phone.

  I turned to look at David Woolf. He was watching me with a strange expression on his face. "You knew," I said.

  He nodded, getting to his feet. "I knew."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "How could I?" he asked. "My uncle was afraid if you found out, you wouldn't want his stock."

  A strange silence came into the room as I picked up the telephone again. I gave the operator Morrissey's number at Roosevelt Field.

  "Do you want me to leave now?" Woolf asked.

  I shook my head. I had been neatly suckered into buying a worthless company, shorn like a baby lamb, but I had no right to complain. I'd known all the rules.

  But now even that didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing that did was Rina. I swore impatiently, waiting for Morrissey to pick up the phone.

  The only chance I had of getting to Rina in time was to fly out there in the CA-4.

  5

  The brightly lit hangar was a frenzy of activity.

  The welders were up on the wings, their masks down, their torches burning with a hot blue flame as they fused the reserve fuel tanks to the wings. The pile of junk beside the plane was growing as the mechanics stripped her of everything that added weight and yet was not absolutely essential to flight.

  I checked my watch as Morrissey came toward me. It was almost twelve o'clock. That made it near nine in California. "How long now?" I asked.

  "Not too long." He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand. "With everything stripped off her, we're still fourteen hundred pounds over lift capacity."

  The Midwest was completely locked in by storms, according to our weather checks. If I wanted to get through, I'd have to fly south around them. Morrissey had figured we'd need forty-three per cent more fuel just for the flight itself and at least seven per cent more for a safety margin.

  "Why don't you hold off until morning?" Morrissey asked. "Maybe the weather will lift and you can go straight through."

  "No."

  "For Christ's sake," he snapped. "You'll never even get her off the ground. If you're that anxious to get yourself killed, why don't you use a gun!"

  I turned and looked over at the pile of junk beside the plane. "How much does the radio weigh?"

  "Five hundred and ten pounds," he answered quickly. Then he stared at
me. "You can't dump that! How the hell will you know where you are or what the weather is like up ahead?"

  "Same way I did before they put radios in planes. Dump it!"

  He started to walk back to the plane, shaking his head. I had another idea. "The oxygen-pressure system for the cockpit?"

  "Six hundred and seventy pounds, including the tanks."

  "Dump that, too," I said. "I’ll fly low."

  "You'll need oxygen to get over the Rockies."

  "Put a portable tank in the cockpit next to me."

  I went into the office and called Buzz Dalton at the Intercontinental office in Los Angeles. He'd already left so they transferred the call to his home. "Buzz, this is Jonas."

  "I was wondering when I'd hear from you."

  "I want you to do me a favor."

  "Sure," he said quickly. "What?"

  "I'm flying out to the Coast tonight," I said. "And I want you to have weather signals up for me at every ICA hangar across the country."

  "What's the matter with your radio?"

  "I'm taking the CA-4 out nonstop. And I can't drag the weight."

  He whistled. "You'll never make it, buddy boy."

  "I'll make it," I said. "Use the searchlight blinkers at night, paint the rooftops during the day."

  "Will do," he said. "What's your flight pattern?"

  "I haven't decided the pattern yet. Just have all the fields covered."

  "Will do," he said. "Good luck."

  I put down the telephone. That's what I liked about Buzz. He was dependable. He didn't waste time with foolish questions like why, when or where. He did as he was told. The only thing he cared about was the airline. That was why ICA was rapidly becoming the largest commercial airline in the country.

  I took the bottle of bourbon out of the desk and took a long pull off it. Then I went over to the couch and stretched out. My legs hung over the edge but I didn't care. I could grab a little rest while the mechanics were finishing up. I closed my eyes.

  I sensed Morrissey standing near me and opened my eyes. "Ready?" I asked, looking up at him.

  He nodded.

  I swung my feet down from the couch and sat up. I looked out at the hangar. It was empty. "Where is she?"

  "Outside," he said. "I’m having her warmed up."

  "Good," I said. I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes past three. He followed me into the john. "You're tired," he said, watching while I splashed cold water on my face. "Do you really think you should go?"

  "I have to."

  "I put six roast-beef sandwiches and two quart Thermos bottles of black coffee in the plane for you."

  "Thanks," I said, starting out.

  His hand stopped me. He held out a small white bottle. "I called my doctor," he said, "and he brought these out for you."

  "What are they?"

  "A new pill. Benzedrine. Take one if you get sleepy. It'll wake you up. But be careful with them. Don't take too many or you'll go through the roof."

  We started out for the plane. "Don't open your reserve fuel tanks until you're down to a quarter tank. The gravity feed won't pull if she registers more than that and it might even lock."

  "How will I know if the reserve tanks are working?" I asked.

  He looked at me. "You won't until you run out of gas. And if she locks, the air pressure will keep your gauge at a quarter even if the tank is dry."

  I shot a quick look at him but didn't speak. We kept on walking. I climbed up on the wing and turned toward the cockpit. A hand pulled at my trouser leg. I turned around.

  Forrester was looking up at me with a shocked look on his face. "What are you doing with the plane?"

  "Going to California."

  "But what about the tests tomorrow?" he shouted. "I even got Steve Randall out here tonight to look at her."

  "Sorry," I said. "Call it off."

  "But the General," he yelled. "How'll I explain to him? He'll blow his stack!"

  I climbed into the cockpit and looked down at him. "That's not my headache any more, it's yours."

  "But what if something happens to the plane?"

  I grinned suddenly. I'd been right in my hunch about him. He'd make a first-rate executive. There wasn't an ounce of concern about me, only for the plane. "Then build another one," I shouted. "You're president of the company."

  I waved my hand, and releasing the brakes, began to taxi slowly out on the runway. I turned her into the wind and held her there while I revved up the motor. I pulled the canopy shut and when the tachometer reached twenty-eight, I let go of the brakes.

  We raced down the runway. I didn't even try to lift her until my ground speed reached a hundred and forty. We were almost out of runway before she began to chew off a piece of sky. After that, she lifted easily.

  I leveled off at four thousand feet and headed due south. I looked over my shoulder. The North Star was right in the middle of my back, flickering brightly in the clear, dark sky. It was hard to believe that less than a thousand miles from here the skies were locked in.

  I was over Pittsburgh when I remembered something Nevada had taught me when I was a kid. We were trailing a big cat and he pointed up at the North Star. "The Indians have a saying that when the North Star flickers like that," he said, "a storm is moving south."

  I looked up again. The North Star was flickering exactly as it had that night. I remembered another Indian saying that Nevada taught me. The quickest way west is into the wind.

  My mind was made up. If the Indians were right, by the time I hit the Midwest, the storm would be south of me. I banked the plane into the wind and when I looked up from the compass, the North Star was dancing brightly off my right shoulder.

  * * *

  My back ached, everything ached — my shoulders, my arms and legs — and my eyelids weighed a ton. I felt them begin to close and reached for the coffee Thermos. It was empty. I looked at my watch. Twelve hours since I had left Roosevelt Field. I stuck my hand into my pocket and took out the box of pills Morrissey had given me. I put one in my mouth and swallowed it.

  For a few minutes, I felt nothing, then I began to feel better. I took a deep breath and scanned the horizon. The way I figured, I shouldn't be too far from the Rockies. Twenty-five minutes later, they came into view.

  I checked the fuel gauge. It held steady on one quarter. I had opened the reserve tanks. The fringe of the storm I’d passed through in the Midwest had cost me more than an hour's supply of gasoline and I'd need a break from the wind to get through.

  I turned the throttle and listened to the engines. Their roar sounded full and heavy as the richer mixture poured into their veins. I leaned back on the stick and began to climb toward the mountains. I still felt a little tired so I popped another pill into my mouth.

  At twelve thousand feet, I began to feel chilly. I slipped the huarachos back on my feet and reached for the oxygen tube. Almost immediately, I felt as if the plane had just jumped three thousand feet I looked at the altimeter. It read only twelve four hundred.

  I sucked again on the tube. A burst of power came roaring through my body and I placed my hands on the dashboard. To hell with the gasoline! I could lift this baby over the Rockies with my bare hands. It was only a question of will power. Like the fakirs in India said when they confounded you with their tricks of levitation — it was only a question of mind over matter. It was all in the mind.

  Rina! I almost shouted aloud. I stared at the altimeter. The needle had dropped to ninety-five hundred feet and was still dropping. I stared over the plane at the mountain creeping up at me. I put my hand on the stick and pulled back. It seemed like forever until the mountain began to fall beneath me again.

  I lifted my hands to wipe the sweat from my brow. My cheeks were wet with tears. The strange feeling of power was gone now and my head began to ache. Morrissey had warned me about the pills and the oxygen had helped a little, too. I touched the throttle and carefully regulated the mixture as it went into the motors.

  I still
had almost four hundred miles to go and I didn't want to run out of gas.

  6

  I put down at Burbank at two o'clock. I had been in the air almost fifteen hours. I taxied over to the Cord Aircraft hangars, cut the engines and began to climb down. The engines were still roaring in my ears.

  I stepped to the ground and a mob surrounded me. I recognized some of them, reporters. "I'm sorry, men," I said, pushing my way through them toward the hangar. "I’m still motor deaf. I can't hear what you're saying."

  Buzz was there, too, a big grin on his face. He grabbed my hand and pumped it. His lips were moving but I missed the first part of what he said, then suddenly my hearing was back.

  "... set a new east-to-west coast-to-coast record."

  Right now that didn't matter. "Do you have a car waiting for me?"

  "Over at the front gate," Buzz said.

  One of the reporters pushed forward. "Mr. Cord," he shouted at me. "Is it true you made this flight to see Rina Marlowe before she dies?"

  He needed a bath after the look I gave him. I didn't answer.

  "Is it true that you bought out Norman Pictures just to get control of her contract?"

  I made it into the limousine but they were still popping questions at me. The car began to roll. A motorcycle cop cut in front of us and opened up his siren. We picked up speed as the traffic in front of us melted away.

  "I’m sorry about Rina, Jonas," Buzz said. "I didn't know she was your father's wife."

  I looked at him. "Where'd you find out?"

  "It's in the papers," he said. "The Norman studio had it in their press release, together with the story about your flying out here to see her."

  I shut my lips tight. That was the picture business for you. They were like ghouls hovering around a grave.