Bugs in his hair and his biggest fear was public opinion! Can you beat that? Ignog tried, told Lazard he had found out that the Spruce Goose was really made out of cedar. You sure? He said that if it didn’t fly he was gonna leave the country. But it did fly. For seventy-two seconds. Right, then he locked himself away, shut the door. Richest man in the country died of starvation. He watched Ice Station Zebra a hundred and seventeen times, Ignog offered. Not to be outdone, Lazard said the man wrote over one hundred memos regarding Jane Russell’s tits. Write it down. I already did. Fine. Clover Field, Santa Monica. Tomorrow at midnight. Be there. Lazard gave him a hundred dollars and Ignog caught the eight o’clock back to L.A.
Ignog was nervous; he didn’t have a plan, an approach. Usually dying didn’t work well for people, but for Howard it was different, and maybe that was an angle a journalist could use. This is more or less what Ignog was thinking as he waited on the tarmac at Clover Field at midnight the next day.
He saw it before he heard it. Two lights, then a third, in the sky, blinking yellow at the tip of each wing and winking white at the tail. It came in smooth and loud, hit the runway, ran to the end, turned, and taxied back to where Ignog was standing. The twin Pratt & Whitney radial engines suddenly got louder, then diminished to a thrum. Ignog stood there staring at it, an Abbott 71—cute, but butch, like a two-headed bulldog, low slung. The cockpit was at eye level, too dark to see the pilot clearly, but Ignog knew who it was.
A hatch slipped open. Ignog turned around and carefully backed into the opening. The bulkheads vibrated as the engines revved, the Bulldog swiveled, sprinted down the runway and into the sky, headed for the Pacific.
Howard had been in the air, been in the Bulldog, for thirty-eight years. Whatever it was that kept the tank full and the oil pumping crapped out about once every seven months. Seemed to happen when there was an eclipse or some other celestial irregularity. These things irked him, but south of the border, he had his special places. This time he was north, this time it was Clover Field, not far from his old plant. But the Bulldog needed no maintenance; he had come down to pick up a journalist.
Howard wanted a burger. His functionaries were well paid and followed orders. He tapped the memos out in Morse code over the two-way with the long nail of his left index finger. This journalist would come aboard, hopefully with a burger. But the idiot didn’t have one. Howard wondered whose fault it was and fought back a tantrum. He couldn’t eat anyway, just wanted to touch it, a sniff maybe, then toss it out the window.
Ignog belted himself into the copilot chair. At a hundred feet and climbing, Howard introduced a subject, a test really: the Napoleon complex. He wanted to know Ignog’s definition of it. A little man compensating for being small by acting big? Bingo. And what was it about Napoleon that made him so enticing to the inmates of loony bins? Ignog suspected it might be an invention of the movies, something to do with the outfit, especially the hat. He hoped that Howard liked that answer. Howard coughed. Encouraged, Ignog speculated that there were probably a lot more people who thought they were Jesus or Howard than Napoleon. He couldn’t tell if Howard was flattered or wasn’t; the man was not easy to read.
Approaching Catalina, a second question: Why did Ignog come into the plane backwards? It wasn’t voluntary; Ignog was suffering the first stages of Parkinson’s. Howard already knew this, but he wanted to hear Ignog admit it. He was glad to know somebody who walked backwards. Occasionally he did it himself, but didn’t want it to be official. Was it random coincidence that pilot and passenger shared a disease, or was it fate? If the former, who would profit by it? If the latter, how could sympathy be avoided or exploited? It irritated Howard to be uncertain on this.
At least the passenger was a tidy fellow. Howard was not, but they weighed the same. Ignog was balding and small, Howard hairy and tall. Ignog’s head barely reached the top of the back of the seat. The crown of Howard’s narrow head touched the roof.
Catalina approaching. The Bulldog flew over the northern tip of the island, then back again, circled. Howard said they couldn’t be seen, but they were there, below in the scrubland, eleven goats. Too dark to see, but Ignog took his word for it. Bill Grogan, a long-gone second cousin, had owned the old Catalina narrow-gauge railroad, Howard said, and the goats, back then, when there used to be more, were a hazard to the train. There was no train anymore, just those eleven goats were left, the mangy offspring of the originals. Interesting. And the Bulldog climbed.
Look behind you. Ignog did. He had already noted the clutter of jars full of yellowish liquid. He guessed it was just a way to get things started. You’re here to continue my moment, Ignog, and it better not be a question. I don’t take questions.
I would rather listen to a burro, a rooster, a sheep, scream in the slaughterhouse than the human voice, so address me without talking, write your questions on that pad you just got out of your pants.
Ignog’s teeth chattered. It’s cold in the Bulldog. A thin, two-buttoned coat and slacks aren’t enough. But Howard isn’t even wearing a shirt; just an old leather aviator jacket, unzipped, no pants. A wing-tip shoe on one foot, the other one bare.
Write down what you have to say, Ignog, then read it to yourself to make sure you got it right, then read it out loud to me. Understood? Ignog started to reply, but caught himself. He wrote YES on the pad, then pretended to read it to himself. Read it, Ignog! Ignog did. Ignog read it to himself, then said, Yes, understood. Okay, Ignog, let’s get started. On the pad, Ignog wrote, I have a tape recorder, and then read what he just wrote, then spoke what he just read. Let’s see it. He handed Howard the tape recorder. Howard had a quick look, dropped it, and stomped on it.
Watch this. Howard lifted his other foot, the shoeless one, to show Ignog a trick he could do with his toes. He crossed each toe, starting with the little toe, over the next toe, all the way to the big toe, without using his hands. How do you like that? Ignog was impressed and started to write. Just say it! I thought you didn’t want me to talk. It can’t be helped—and speak up, I’m hard of hearing.
Ignog asked his first official question: Is it true you can’t turn on a light without first washing your hands? Of course it’s not true. That’s ridiculous. Did you just challenge me, Ignog? Simple question, Howard. Howard was silent, he wanted to think about this. He had to wash his hands before he turned on the lights—it was true. A thorough washing, both hands wrestling in the slippery wet soap, in the dark. No reason to turn on lights in the daylight. The idea of having to turn on the lights in a place without a place to first wash his hands made him nervous. So far it hadn’t happened, but how would he manage if it did? One option was not to turn on the lights, remain in the dark till sunrise, or just not be in such a place. But why should he bother to explain this to Ignog?
Tell me, Ignog, are you honest? Yes, Howard, I am. Do I smell? Yeah, you do. Do I care? I guess you don’t. You guess?! Do you know why I don’t? Why you don’t care, or why you smell? The latter. Because you haven’t had a bath in twenty-six years?
It was phew city in the Bulldog. The cockpit smelled like cat piss. But if this was the price of admission, it felt like a bargain to Ignog.
Howard wanted to talk about surveillance and identity cards; he thought darkies, chinks, and beaners were victims who would turn on their betters if they were not kept an eye on. Howard didn’t trust anything or anybody who wasn’t Howard. He was an intolerant, overdeveloped excluder. Ignog was passive, underdeveloped, and excluded, and even in childhood could not abide intolerance or prejudice; yet here they were, flying through the night, their bodies almost touching, surrounded by Kleenex. A pilot and a copilot who couldn’t fly. But they both believed zealots of unconditional loyalties were wrecking the world. A crocodile and a gecko together in the sky, if they are not upset, have something to agree on. And Howard mumbled a story to Ignog about Nevada Smith, the only friend he ever had. Nevada had an older sister, long dea
d, who was briefly married to Bill Grogan—the man Howard had called his cousin? Interesting. But the subject seemed to darken his mood, and Howard was silent again. But not the Pratts; the cockpit was noisy.
Now Ignog noticed another sound, a thin, piercing whistle—no wonder it was so cold, there was a little hole, the kind an incoming bullet would make, a sharp-petaled crown like a distended aluminum anus, next to the trim tab handle just above him.
Howard hoped Ignog would ask how he navigated, but he didn’t. By the clouds, Ignog. What? Never mind. Howard and the Bulldog liked engaging clouds. There was a nice one a mile ahead, chalk on a blackboard, shaped like a reclining lady. The Bulldog suddenly banked and dove, tearing a hole through the middle of her. Howard screamed Wilko! and was nice again.
Were you surprised when they attacked us, Ignog? When who attacked us? You know who! We been sticking it to ’em since the pacification of Mesopotamia. And considering I’m part aviation and part skyscraper, I must know something about it—isn’t that what Lazard told you? Tricky Howard, always a step ahead. You mean the Twin Towers? The Twin Synagogues is what I call ’em. If our enemies won’t bend, we break ’em. That’s how it’s done. Finally they get fed up, retaliate, and we scream “Foul!” send in the troops, drop the bombs, and occupy. You know why? Why? Because we like to, that’s why. I don’t. Of course you don’t, but the question is, how can you prevent it? I don’t know, Howard, what’s the answer? The answer is not to acquire bizarro clients in the first place, because when everybody gets to the second place we gotta go over there and kill ’em. (Great stuff, Lazard would have to admit it, Ignog was coming home with the bacon.) Remember Watergate? Of course. I had that man in my pocket, Ignog. Then he turned into a frog. You can quote me on that. You’re talking about Tricky Dick? He wasn’t so tricky; all he wanted was more money. He tried to make a deal with the Devil.
Ignog didn’t believe in the Devil. The Devil is the one with the money, Ignog. You can’t come by much of it without him. Howard had once gone to a midnight event where the Devil spoke. The Devil told the audience that he hated his horns. An old millionaire in the first row asked how it was that he got ’em. The Devil said he needed a distinguishing feature. The back of his head was flattish and sloped. That too. And the goatee? A line of logic that started with his feet.
You’re not a Hebrew, are you, Ignog? Ignog wasn’t, but he had abiding admiration for Jews. The Devil’s playground is the monkey bars of guilt and pity, Ignog; either you fly or you fall. There’s nobody that won’t let you down. Not a system in the universe that won’t finally fail, at least the Jews know that. But the Bulldog will never let you down. Then Howard gobbled like a turkey and accelerated straight up into an inverted loop. Ignog felt weightless at the apex, apogee, or whatever it’s called, then they retroflexed, diving straight down. The port engine flared fire, the Bulldog snarled and rolled over into a corkscrew. Ignog sang a high C.
But Howard was one of the greatest pilots who ever lived, and since he was dead, how could he die? What was there to be afraid of? By and large, the man invented modern aviation—all the old hands knew it; he was better than Lindbergh, Rickenbacker, Amelia Earhart, and Yeager combined.
In his research Ignog found out that, blindfolded, Howard had once executed forty-eight touch-and-goes, landings, and takeoffs consecutively (one for every state in the Union) and had only crashed once, back in ’47. He got banged up pretty badly, but it wasn’t his fault.
I could never make enough to be repaid for what I’ve lost, Ignog. Nobody can. You probably think that “love” could do it, but you would be wrong. I didn’t say a thing, Ignog almost said, but didn’t; he knew Howard already knew he almost had.
Socratic irony was Howard’s weapon of choice, and Ignog could put it to good use. This thing would write itself. Lazard would love it. Starting with the laminated Rules of Conduct next to the bullet hole, riveted to the bulkhead.
English only.
Never touch the pilot or the Bulldog’s controls.
Behave well in turbulence; vomiters will be ejected.
Adjust your dress before leaving.
You familiar with the experience of not being able to make up your mind? Ignog was. Howard held up his left hand. On the one hand I think about cutting them, but on the other I want to see how long they’ll grow. He was referring to his nails. Ignog didn’t want to look. It was a recurring nightmare about a witch he had as a child. Henry, for that was his name when he was young, would find himself in the dead of night hunkered on the floor of his mother’s closet. He would feel a breath of cold air on his back and look up. The roof of the closet had opened like a trapdoor, and in the stormy sky above hovered a hag on a broom. Henry scrambled to get away, but with a shriek, the rod of her arm whooshed down and grabbed him by the neck. Her long-nailed fingers so tight around his throat he couldn’t scream. Then, like a fish on the hook of her hand, he was yanked off the floor and hauled into the night.
Now I’m gonna tell you my dream. And Howard made a buzzing sound. You hear that? Ignog did. Okay, the fly is loose! Free, can go anywhere, do anything it wants. Buzzzzzzzz! I’m the richest man in the world. That’s not true, Howard. Who’s richer? According to Schollup’s Book of the World’s Richest, you were twenty-second. Only in the United States were you the richest. Or used to be. Howard cackled. I killed a lot of flies! Look in the glove compartment. Ignog did. Look at those pictures. Ignog did. They were drawings of flies. No, they’re not, they’re photos. They didn’t look like photos. A page of pictures, pictures of flies engaged in valiant, mischievous, supportive, meddling, aspiring, interceding, collaborative activities. They look like drawings, Howard. They’re photos, Ignog. Who took them? Robert the Hungarian. Ignog hadn’t heard of him. He was that daring rascal who caught the death of that Republican soldier with his Enfield flung back behind him coming down that hillside in the Spanish Civil War. This was before poor Bob got creamed by a Commie land mine in Vietnam. He wrote me a letter. You know what it said? Two words: Terra Incognita. Can you beat that? It’s pretty good, Howard. What do you think it means? Other than foretelling his death? I think he was referring to you. You’re a smart boy, Ignog. Would you go to the cleaners for me? I’d be glad to. That’s good to know, Ignog.
But Howard changed his mind; he wasn’t ready for the cleaners. What he wanted was a sponge bath. Ignog wouldn’t do it. Howard wasn’t used to being denied—it hurt. And Howard couldn’t hide it. It’s nothing personal, I just can’t do it. Howard could understand it, but still, it hurt. He sulked. Perhaps this was a good time to ask a sensitive question. How come he never had any children? What makes you think I haven’t? Because no legitimate offspring have ever come forth to make any claims on your estate. Would you like to be that offspring, Ignog? Have me instruct a sum of money into your little mouse of an account? Of course you would. But what about something better, Ignog? Would you like to take a ride in the Goose? Sure you would. Are you serious, Howard? No. Well, maybe. We’ll see.
Howard was an expert at the upper hand. But Ignog had some tricks of his own. You piss in those jars, right? That’s why you keep the Kleenex around. That’s not why! You drink it? I ask the questions. And no, I don’t drink it. Is that what they think?
I don’t know what they think, Howard, but some people say it’s a remedy. Who says it’s a remedy? The Aztecs. Fuck the Aztecs. A remedy for what? Their ailments. I save it. For what? You’re never gonna know the answer to that, Ignog. I’m good with that. Howard didn’t like Ignog saying he was good with that. And don’t call me Howard. You think I care if they ridicule me? They tried to get me on that Watergate thing, but I can’t be gotten. That was a long time ago, Howard. Up here nothing’s a long time ago! And you’re never gonna fly in the Goose, Ignog. Whatever you say, Howard. Don’t call me Howard!
They’re in awe of you, Mr. Hughes. Howard wasn’t assuaged; he closed his eyes, dropped his hea
d, letting go of the controls. The Bulldog tilted, went into a dive. The only thing Ignog ever flew was a kite, but he grabbed the yoke. Howard shoved him away. Don’t ever do that!
Ignog needed to untie the knots in his stomach, but the plane was doing things that were making him sick. Vengeful Howard was pushing the Bulldog into transonic deeds. Ignog’s eardrums felt like water balloons. He leaned forward, tried to put his head on his knees. We’re going to China! Ignog said nothing. I took you for a man who was game to go. Ignog said nothing.
Are there two people in this plane, or just me? I’m right here, Howard. Prove it. The Bulldog settled down. Ignog lifted his head, looked at Howard. What about Jane Russell’s tits? What about ’em? Why were they so important to you? What makes you think they were? The memos. They sold tickets those tits. And Howard almost smiled. The world sits up for a secret, Ignog. Breaking the sound barrier was the last great thing that ever happened. That stupid moon landing was a gyp, a witch on a broom would have been better. So, breaking the sound barrier made Howard happy. It wasn’t me who broke it, it was Yeager, and it’s not about “happy”! Being on top is what winds the clock, Ignog. Reach me one of those boxes back there.
Howard’s Kleenex. To get at it, Ignog had to unbuckle. Soon as he popped the clip on his safety belt, his door flew open. A two-hundred-mile-an-hour wind whipped in. Fifty Kleenex boxes sped out into the night. Close it! Ignog is trying to, struggling to keep from being sucked out himself. Howard grabs him by the neck, strangling him. Ignog wrestles the door shut. You’re a cocky little wacko, Ignog! Wasn’t my fault, Howard! You wanna blame the plane?! I didn’t do it. Yeah, blame the plane, but if you hadn’t been here, it wouldn’t have happened! If you say so, Howard. Don’t call me Howard! Three-quarters of my Kleenex, gone! He figured Howard must have a secret button that opened the door. If so, he just tried to kill him. But also rescued him.
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