Aces

by T. E. Cruise

  Gold and Erica stood arm in arm, watching as Teddy got into his truck and drove away. “Well, I guess I’d better get you home,” Gold said reluctantly once they were alone.

  “Not yet,” Erica said. She took him by the hand and led him over to the tarp, bunched on the ground beneath the Jenny’s wing. She settled down onto the soft, billowed canvas and then pulled him down beside her.

  “Erica—” he began, but she quieted him with a kiss, her mouth pressing against his, her tongue darting. He pulled away, his body throbbing, his mind in turmoil. Her taste, wet and sweet, was now indelible in him.

  “I want you to make love to me,” she said.

  He could see her clearly in the moonlight. Her glistening lips were parted. Her dark eyes were intent, almost somber, as she gazed at him.

  What was he to do? What was his responsibility here? He wanted her, desperately, but what should he do? She was too important to make a mistake.

  She kicked off her slippers and began to unbutton her dress. He watched her rise up on her knees to shrug the dress off over her head. She wore no corset. She didn’t need one. Her camisole and brief knickers of white satin laced with pink ribbon shimmered in the moonlight.

  “I’ve never been with anyone,” she whispered. “But I guess you know that.” She laughed nervously. Her eyes searched his. “Have you?”

  He thought about the prostitutes of Berlin, and the New York City whores he had infrequently visited. Those sexual encounters had nothing to do with this. “No, I’ve never made love,” he said sincerely.

  She began to unbutton his shirt. He tried to speak, to ask her again if she was sure that this was what she wanted, but she kissed him and kissed him and when she stopped he no longer had the will to question.

  She slid his shirt off, running her hands across his back, making him shudder. She undid his belt, working the buttons along his fly—

  Gold panicked. His passion had kept him from thinking clearly. He couldn’t let her see him naked. He was circumcised—

  He had never told her that he was a Jew, but now she would know. He should have told her before this, he realized in despair, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to reveal the truth to her, afraid her affection would turn to revulsion.

  She had peeled down his trousers, and his undershorts. She was running her fingers along the length of his erection.

  “So this is what a man looks like,” she breathed. She lowered her head to kiss him there.

  She doesn’t know— At first Gold couldn’t believe it, but then he remembered her innocence. She’d never been with a man, didn’t know what men looked like, or about circumcision. She didn’t know anything…

  He pulled off his boots and kicked off his trousers, then turned to her. Erica shivered like a bird as he untied the bows of her camisole. Like a small child being undressed, she raised her arms to allow him to remove it. He stared at her breasts. When he touched them she flinched. He pulled back, newly uncertain. Erica, smiling, shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it, but I’m frightened. I’ll try not to be, but…” Her voice faded as she took his hands and placed them on her swollen nipples.

  He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her, then gently laid her back on the tarp. The whores in Berlin had taken a shine to him. They had taught him things that they said women found pleasurable. He did those things now. His own excitement increased in measure to Erica’s initial bewilderment as he slid the silky, damp knickers from her supple hips and she finally surrendered, abandoning herself to his caresses.

  When he entered her she clutched at him, then seemed to relax, her arms and legs wrapping around him. When she climaxed she cried out, a touch of shrill panic in her voice, but just as quickly she murmured, “Oh my love,” her breath scalding his cheek as she clung to him. When he exploded inside of her he had a fleeting vision of them as if seen from the starry sky: two feral, naked creatures in the silvery moonlight, twisting together in their canvas nest beneath the wing of the scarlet Jenny, a benevolent mother bird sheltering her progeny in the midst of this vast field.

  After, she lay curled beside him, hushed and trembling. He felt droplets on his chest and realized she was crying. Gold was frightened. He had never been with a virgin—What if he had somehow hurt her inside?

  “Are you all right?” She didn’t answer. “Erica! Are you—”

  “Shhh, yes,” she whispered. “I didn’t know how it would be. I’d imagined it, of course, but I had no idea…” She propped herself up on her elbows to look at him. Her eyes were shiny and soft in the moonlight. “What about you, are you disappointed?”

  “No!” Gold exclaimed. “Are you?” he asked, concerned.

  “No…” she sighed contentedly, resting her head on his chest. “I hope we did right,” she murmured. “I thought before that this would make it easier to be apart, but now I think it’s going to make it worse…”

  “I love you very much, Erica.”

  “I know, my love.” She laughed. “You can’t have any secrets from me.”

  Secrets, Gold thought. He felt so dishonest, so dirty. He had to tell her he was a Jew. She had to know if they were going to be married…

  Gold knew that Erica and her mother belonged to the Lutheran Church, but that her father had dropped out, his faith shaken by the loss of his son to the war. Carl Schuler was presently involved in a Unitarian congregation that believed in mankind coming together for social betterment and universal peace.

  “Herman, you know, you’ve never discussed your religious beliefs with me,” she said softly.

  He flinched. It was amazing how often she seemed to pick up on his thoughts. “This is hard for me to tell you,” he began. “Don’t be angry with me, please… Try to understand…”

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  Gold panicked. So often in his life had the truth cost him; people changed toward him after he’d revealed his origins. What if his being born a Jew caused Erica to reject him? He couldn’t bear that.

  “Herman? What’s wrong?” She was beginning to sound alarmed.

  He had no intentions of ever practicing Judaism. None of the barnstormers knew he was a Jew. Why did she have to know? Why did anybody? It was totally up to him, he abruptly realized. He could reveal his past, or right now put it behind him, forever.

  “What I’m trying to say is, don’t be angry with me, Erica, but I’m not very religious.”

  She nodded. “But you do believe in Jesus?”

  “I guess I don’t believe in anything very much,” Gold evaded. “I mean, I think I believe in God, but…” He trailed off helplessly. “I just haven’t given it that much thought.”

  “Does it bother you that I believe in Jesus?” Erica asked.

  “No!” Herman blurted.

  “Well, then,” Erica said, kissing him. “That’s all settled.”

  “It’s all right?” Gold asked. “You don’t mind? What about your mother and father?”

  “Papa might understand,” Erica said thoughtfully. “Between us, I don’t think he believes much, since the war. But Mama would be upset…” She shrugged and smiled. “So we just won’t tell them. It’s none of their business anyway, Herman. I’m the one marrying you, not them.”

  Gold nodded, grateful the ordeal was over, thinking that it was right to keep this one harmless secret from her, to ensure their happiness.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  (One)

  San Diego, California

  10 September 1921

  Gold stood out on the ferry’s deck, inhaling the salty air as they approached the mainland. He was smiling. San Diego was his idea of paradise.

  Captain Bob had his barnstormers performing at the military airfield at North Island, in San Diego Bay. After the show Gold and the rest of the pilots would come across the bay to the mainland.

  The ferry bumped against the pilings, tying up near where the fishing boats were unloading their day�
��s catch of tuna. Gold and the Stiles brothers left the boat and killed an hour wandering the twisty, adobe-lined streets of Spanish Old Town. They hailed a taxi and headed for the Mexican community along the southern shore, where they ate tamales and barbecue. After dinner, while they were cabbing it back to the downtown area, their driver told them about a speakeasy in the basement of an office building near the waterfront.

  Gold and his friends had no trouble getting past the guard at the speak’s peephole door. Inside it was dimly lit, crowded and smoky. They were shown to a small corner table near the bandstand, where a half dozen Negro musicians done up in gaudy striped serapes and floppy straw sombreros were performing serviceable jazz.

  Hull ordered tequila for the table. The speak had everything —scotch, rye, even Irish whiskey and French champagne—but a double shot of tequila, served with salt and lime wedges, was the cheapest, most potent drink you could get in San Diego. The dusky, dark-eyed Spanish girl who served them their drinks ran her fingers through Gold’s hair as she left.

  “That’s one horny señorita.” Lester Stiles nudged Gold. “You going to do something about it?”

  Gold blushed. He had no problem resisting the waitress’s charms. Erica was the only one woman for him now. “You guys just don’t get it,” Gold replied. “I’m already in love—”

  “Herm,” Lester patiently replied. “Love is not the issue at the moment.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Les.” Hull chuckled. “Herm, you’re the goddamndest monogamous sonofabitch I ever laid eyes on. I just hope that virgin of yours is ready for it when you finally do get her into the sack.”

  Gold took the ribbing good-naturedly. When he’d confided in his friends that he was engaged to a girl he’d met back in Nebraska, the brothers had grilled him for what they’d called “the juicy details” concerning his relationship with his fiancée. Not willing to compromise her honor, Gold had told them that his relationship with Erica had not gone beyond a chaste kiss. Hull and Lester had found that hilarious. They never missed the opportunity to kid him about it.

  “The problem with you, Herman, is you worry too much,” Lester said.

  Gold shrugged. He knew what he wanted: to establish his own aviation business so that he could settle down and support a wife. The problem was, he had no money and no idea what that business should be. Gold’s instincts told him that California, where the climate favored flying throughout the year, was where he’d find his opportunity, but when it came knocking he would have to move quickly to take advantage of it. He would need start-up capital.

  “Oh, shit,” Lester groaned. “Herman’s got that faraway look of his.”

  Hull rolled his eyes. “We’d better order another round.”

  “I don’t see the waitress,” Lester said, standing up. “I’ll go order at the bar.”

  Hull waited until they were alone. “Is it being away from your girl that’s got you so down?” he asked softly.

  “I miss her very much,” Gold said. “It’s been two months, but it’s funny. In a way I feel like I saw her yesterday, and in a way, like I haven’t seen her for a hundred years.”

  “Do you write her?”

  Gold frowned. “I try, but I can’t seem to put down what it is I want to say on the paper.”

  He’d tried just last night, so desperately wanting to describe to Erica the magnificent blue of the Pacific, as constant and overwhelming a presence as the blue Nebraskan sky. He wanted to promise that someday he would take her to hear jazz; to eat tacos; to see the funny Japanese huts built on stilts over the water. He wanted to write about the smell of the sea, and the citrus; what the desert looked like, and cactus, and palm trees, and mountains. His thoughts, like his love, were vivid inside him, but the words just wouldn’t come.

  “The few lines I manage to scribble look so puny,” he complained to Hull. “I think to myself that I can’t send such a letter to Erica, it would be like an insult…” Gold sighed ruefully. “I get so frustrated and upset I end up tearing up the paper and sending nothing.”

  Lester was returning to the table. “Hey, see that Mexican guy over there by the bar?” he asked excitedly.

  Gold looked. The Mexican was standing with his back to the bar. He was wearing a baggy linen suit, an off-white shirt, and a dark brown tie. His slicked-back hair was as shiny as black patent leather.

  “Where’s our drinks?” Hull demanded.

  “Coming,” Les said irritably. “While I was ordering them that Mex came up to me. He asked if I was one of the pilots from the air show. I said I was, and get this: he asked me if I wanted to make some money flying hooch across the border!”

  “Bootlegging?” Gold asked, pausing. “What kind of money do you think the guy was talking about?”

  “Don’t even think about it, Herm,” Hull said. “It’s night flying, and these bootleggers can be tough customers—and there’s the law to worry about.”

  Gold nodded. Prohibition was a federal law, and he’d been in America only fourteen months. If he got caught the authorities would probably deport him—after his jail sentence. He’d never see Erica again.

  On the other hand, what were his chances of being with Erica as things stood? If he wanted to get married he would have to leave the troupe. Captain Bob was firm in his rule against married stunt pilots. Gold was saving all the money he could. In the two months since he’d rejoined the troupe he’d accumulated a little over three hundred dollars, stuffed into a sock, buried at the bottom of his valise. At that rate, building up a nest egg large enough to both capitalize a business and support a wife was going to take a long, long time. What if his opportunity came along sooner rather then later, and he wasn’t ready? What if Erica met someone else?

  What if he went to jail? he reminded himself. Or got shot dead? He decided that he would take the chance. What it boiled down to was big dreams required big risks.

  Gold stood up. “Wish me luck.”

  “You’re really going through with this?” Hull frowned.

  “I’m going to go talk to that guy about it.” Gold shrugged.

  He walked over to where the Mexican was standing. “I understand you’re looking for a pilot,” he murmured.

  The Mexican regarded him with interest. “Please come with me, Señor.”

  Gold glanced back to where his friends were watching him and looking very concerned.

  “Come!” the Mexican said, amused. “Are you afraid, Señor?”

  Gold followed him around behind the bar, through a beaded curtain, and down a hallway lined with liquor crates to a substantial-looking metal door painted pale green. The Mexican knocked once, a peephole opened, and the Mexican said something in Spanish. The peephole closed. Gold heard a number of locks being clicked, and then the door swung inward.

  “Go in, Señor.” The Mexican in the linen suit stepped back to let Gold pass.

  Gold was met by another Mexican, also well dressed and wearing a tie, but this man had his suit jacket off. Gold tried not to stare at the automatic pistol in the man’s shoulder holster. The Mexican closed and locked the metal door. As it clanged shut the sound made Gold think of jail cell doors.

  He was inside what turned out to be a brightly lit, windowless storeroom that smelled strongly of spilt liquor. The man with the shoulder holster led Gold through a maze of stacked liquor crates and tables loaded with chairs turned upside down. At the far end of the storage room five men, all with their suit jackets off and all wearing guns, were seated at a round table, playing cards. Off in one corner, at a table covered over with papers and ledgers, a man in a plaid shirt, corduroy trousers, and straw cowboy hat sat working at an adding machine. As Gold approached, the man in the cowboy hat stopped punching the keys of his machine and looked up. He was middle-aged and heavyset, and had a pencil-thin moustache. The man with the shoulder holster spoke rapid-fire Spanish.

  The man seated at the table nodded. “You are a pilot?” he asked Gold in thickly accented English. “You are with the
flying show?”

  Gold nodded. “My name is Herman Gold.” He could just hear the speakeasy’s jazz band playing. He wondered if his friends were still out front. He hoped so; the thought of them nearby made him feel much less alone.

  “I am Hector Ramos,” the man wearing the cowboy hat said, pushing back his chair and standing up to shake hands with Gold. Ramos was wearing high-heeled cowboy boots, but even with them he was no more than five feet, seven inches tall. “I saw the air show, Señor; would I have seen you perform?”

  “I play the part of the Red Baron—”

  “Si!” Ramos exclaimed. He spoke Spanish to the men playing cards, punctuating whatever it was he was saying to them by grabbing his testicles. The card players nodded, smiling at Gold.

  “You are a very brave and excellent pilot, Señor Gold. Please, sit down.” Gold pulled over a chair from a nearby table and sat. “Would you care for a drink?” Ramos asked, settling back into his own chair.

  Gold noticed that none of the men in the room were drinking. “Perhaps after,” he demurred. “When our business is concluded.”

  “Very good,” Ramos approved. “Let us talk business, then. Quite simply, I am in need of a pilot to fly cases of liquor across the border from Mexico.”

  “You have an airplane?” Gold asked.

  “A Standard E-l.” Ramos nodded. “And two well-hidden airstrips, one in the Chula Vista section, a few miles from here, and one in the desert, on the Tijuana side. I have been running this operation for quite a while, and it works smoothly. It is a ten-mile round-trip. At dark you take off, you fly into Mexico, and you land. My people there will load up the airplane. The bottles are specially packed in cushioned cardboard tubes to withstand the journey and fit most efficiently into the airplane’s cargo hold.

  “You’ve obviously got all the details worked out,” Gold said. “But you mentioned that you’ve been running this operation for a while. What happened to the last pilot?”

  “A fair enough question, Señor. There was a group here in San Diego who wished to become partners with me in my business. I refused their offer,” Ramos smoothly explained. “Regrettably there was some violence, and my pilot, he was shot dead.”