I squinted hard to focus on the numbers as I drew closer, blinking repeatedly as I bit off on false depth perception cues created by the fog. As I neared the field, the wind sheared away to port, striking the aircraft with several unpredictable gusts that rolled off Mt. Orizaba like rogue waves. I gripped the throttles tight, prepared to cob the engines up for a go-around at any time.
On short final, a wicked downdraft pushed the lumbering DC-3’s nose below the end of the runway, down into the marine layer. Haze enveloped the aircraft, a thick mist wiping out my forward vision.
And just that fast I was in the hurt locker—below ground level at night and in the soup.
Instantly, I fed in back pressure on the control yoke and ramped up the power toward the firewall, pulling the aircraft out of the fog and back on glide path, squeezing the throttles hard enough to choke ’em.
It was a white-knuckler all the way.
The field boundary flashed beneath me, and I chopped the power as the aircraft entered ground effect and began to float. Then the wind swung full-around behind the tail, and the plane took off like the 20th Century Limited toward the far end of the short strip. For good measure, I sank into the scud layer again as I neared the ground. My brain said go-around, but my gut said wait one more second. My gut won, but it was the longest second of my life.
Just as I reached to push the power up to reject the landing, the plane shot through a break in the fog and I got a visual with the runway. I double-checked the throttles to idle and pushed down hard.
The wheels hit the pavement with a screech, and I jumped on the brakes. The big bird tried to skid on me twice, but I reeled her in both times by backing off the brake pressure as much as I dared.
When I got below 20 mph, I pushed in left rudder and led her off the runway. As the Gooney Bird sloughed through the turn, the end of the strip appeared in the mist barely a hundred feet ahead. The cliff edge lurked unseen just beyond.
I exhaled heavily and whistled low when I made the taxiway, calculating the seconds I’d had to spare on one hand and hoping that wasn’t a harbinger of what lay in store for me on Catalina.
* * *
I parked the plane in front of the only hangar on the field, then took off my holster and stashed it and the .45 ACP under my seat. I couldn’t take a gun into Avalon, not with Sheriff Ruggles on my ass every time I set foot on the island.
I stepped down to the ground, slid into my flying jacket, and made for the brown corrugated steel building thirty yards away, the peeling paint letters that spelled SAGEMAN AVIATION coming into view as I approached.
Clint Sageman took care of the field and maintained the motorcycle I kept on the island. It was a pretty good deal—Clint kept it gassed and running, and we both had something to knock around with on the wild switchback roads that encircled the island. It was a good bike, too, a war-surplus flathead Indian, with a whole stable of horsepower.
Nobody locks anything on Catalina so I called Clint’s name a few times, then strolled right into the hangar. The bike was right where it always was, in the back corner, behind an unskinned Jenny that Clint had been refurbishing for about twenty years. I brushed off a few cobwebs and wheeled it out. After three kicks, the engine roared to life, found its timing, then settled into a throaty ummmmm.
I switched on the headlight, shifted into first, and goosed the throttle. The bike lunged forward, and I burned a quick figure eight on the tarmac to get the feel, then rolled her over the wooden bridge at the field boundary and set off down the mountain road, spinning around the bend toward Avalon.
Catalina’s roads are unlit and feature the same widow-making drop-offs as the airport. I checked my watch and saw that I wouldn’t have to risk my neck like I did on landing to make the ten miles to my destination by closing time.
The salt air was brisk as I rode. I flipped the collar of my jacket up and gave the zipper a quick yank, then lowered my head and set my chin for the ride ahead.
The road was empty but familiar, and a comforting feeling settled in me as I zigzagged down the hills. I recalled the many nights Helen and I had ridden this same motorcycle along this darkened highway, her hair blowing wildly in the wind.
I cracked open the throttle subconsciously and leaned into the turns, the bike picking up speed. I could almost feel her holding on to me the way she used to when there was nothing but us, the moon, and the muffled exhaust of the Indian on this winding asphalt strip far above the sea.
35
It was past ten when I pulled into Avalon. Most of the bars were closing due to the hour and time of year, but a few stalwarts manned the stools at scattered saloons along Crescent. Small clusters of people were wandering the streets as the night wound down, their laughter blurring with jukebox music as I zoomed by. They were in search of any open gin joint, but I had just one in mind—Barbi’s.
I made a right on Catalina Avenue and pulled up several buildings in on the left side. The lights were still on, as I knew they’d be. I parked the motorcycle and headed toward the entrance, Barbi’s voice audible long before I reached the door, telling some rummy to shut up and pay his tab.
Barbi Bettendorf had been on Catalina as long as anyone could recall. She’d been running her bar since she won it in a poker game back in ’46. She kept late hours and mixed company, chain-smoked her Viceroys, and had been arrested at least once, on a charge of indecent exposure. She swore better than any sailor and didn’t shy away from their brawls, the tattoo bearing her first husband’s name flashing through the air on her taut right bicep as she flailed away with an old Shore Patrol nightstick.
Four Stack Jack had been her only true love, but he went down on the Reuben James back in ’41. There was talk that Barbi had once slugged a tourist who said that our own navy—and not a German sub—torpedoed the destroyer.
She had the cut of a warship herself, sporting a body that could have sunk the Bismarck and looks that had been hot enough to melt steel about the last time the Cubs won the pennant. The years and the booze had taken their toll, but even today, that face could still put a solid hurt on better grades of tin. Barbi was no Emily Post girl, but everyone on the island loved her, and if anybody knew anything, or anyone, on the island, she did.
I wanted to slip in quietly and ask her if she knew anything about Helen’s whereabouts. That plan got as far as the threshold.
As I stepped into the pub, she shouted out from behind the bar, “Joe Bones, how in the hell are you, honey? Come over here and give Barbi a kiss.”
Every face in the joint looked over at me. Quietly was no longer an option.
A whiskey shot hit the bar before I reached the rail. Barbi leaned over and hugged me until I thought my ribs were going to break. As she did, she whispered, “Let’s talk … five minutes,” into my ear.
I smiled in acknowledgment and picked up my shot glass.
Barbi made the usual sailor’s toast: “To our wives and our lovers,” she said, “may they never meet!” following with a smoker’s guffaw that could have doubled as a foghorn.
I drank the shot, caught the bottle of Anchor Steam she threw at me, then walked toward the open shutters at the front of the bar. I put the beer down to let the foam subside, lit a smoke, and leaned against the corner door post, staring out into the darkened streets of Avalon.
Two cats were reenacting the Battle of Guadalcanal in the adjacent alley, their growls and shrieks gouging pieces out of the still night air.
When the cigarette was gone, I stubbed it out and took a pull of the Anchor Steam.
“That fucking Tommy,” Barbi said as she walked up behind me. “He’s clawed up every other cat on the island. Christ, he’s tougher than Patton! Hey … did I ever tell you about the time the general and I—”
“Yeah, honey, you did.” I smiled at her, did a double swivel of my head out of habit, then said under my breath, “Barbi, I’m looking for Helen—my Helen. Can you help?”
“Angel Eyes? Some hot number arrived in sunglasses
yesterday morning. Dark hair, great gams. Tits like this,” she said, holding her hands out to make the point.
“Sounds about right,” I said, smiling in recollection. “Face?”
“Hard to tell under the sunglasses. She did seem familiar but that dish looked a little too spicy to be from the Midwest. Tell you one thing, that gal was spooked. That was Helen?”
Relief flooded through me. I was sure it was.
“I don’t know, sweetie, but I hope so.”
“You hitting that again, Sky King?”
“Honey, this is serious.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You gonna start all that ‘I Cover the Waterfront’ shit again? What goes, Joe?”
“I don’t know, Barbi, but it’s bad and getting worse. I’ve got to find her—she’s in trouble.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So you are hitting that again. Thought so. Doc Walling’s still—”
I grabbed her hand. “Not that kind of trouble. Real trouble. Bad guys, guns.”
She gave me a knowing smile, intoning, “Ahhh. Buonomo trouble—that checks. One of my spies told me someone was asking about you today down at the Marlin Club. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“You don’t say? Friend or foe?”
“Dunno. About forty, stocky, loud Hawaiian shirt. East Coast accent. Some kind of William Bendix wannabe, God help him. Didn’t sound like he was one of your closest friends.”
This didn’t come as a big surprise but was disturbing just the same. Somewhere a faint memory of a guy like that struggled to surface in the black pool of my brain, then drowned.
I managed a profound, “Hmmmm,” took another swig of the beer.
She shrugged, turned her palms up. “That’s all I got on him.”
“Let’s go back to the dish. Any idea where she’s staying?”
“She got off the ferry alone and sashayed out of sight. Not many places to hide that body on Catalina, though. You try the Wizard?”
“No, you’re always my first stop. I’ll head over there next. Think he’s in?”
She stared at me as if I were a five-year-old.
“He’s been in for fifty years, Joe. He spends all his time in that castle making that crazy goddamn artwork. Yeah, I think he’s in.”
I wiped my mouth, parked the beer bottle.“Okay, I’m off. I’ll be staying at Clint’s tonight. You let me know the second you see her—and don’t let her move an inch if you do.”
“Okay, hon.”
I had a flash of inspiration. “They still have a late feature at the Avalon?”
“Think so. Nine thirty. Be over soon.”
“What’s playing?”
She gave me a look. “Who am I, the L.A. Times?”
I shrugged. “Just a thought. Thanks, baby.” I started to leave, then paused. “Say … Barbi?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
I grabbed her cheeks and planted one on her. She actually blushed. I’d never seen that before.
“Get outta here, you crazy guinea,” she said, swatting my arm.
I stepped outside toward the motorcycle, feeling pretty good about things on Catalina so far.
I made maybe three steps before it all went into the spittoon.
36
The saloon shutters were still swinging when a voice behind me boomed out, “Hold it right there, Buonomo!”
I didn’t have to turn around. It was Sheriff Ruggles.
There was no such thing as a good time for running into him, but this was easily a personal worst.
I kept my hands down at my sides as I turned to face him.
“Sheriff,” I said through gritted teeth, nodding slowly.
“Rink” Ruggles stared at me, but he did not smile. Instead, he spit a little tobacco juice into the street, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and puffed out his barrel chest, marking me with the small dark eyes commonly seen on raccoons.
He was wearing his trademark flannel shirt and yellow-striped ranger pants. Those pants were fully bloused and tucked smartly into his highly polished cowboy boots, one of which was propped up on a bench, his crossed hands planted on the raised knee above it. He had a look of restrained malice on his face, and I could tell that he was just dying for me to make some kind of move, any move.
We were five hundred miles from Tombstone, but there was little doubt that Hubert “Rink” Ruggles fancied himself the toughest sheriff in the territory, a territory that consisted solely of Avalon, winter population one eighty, and the village of Two Harbors at the far end of the island, numbering between seven and thirty, depending on how many boats were tied up that night at the marina.
Rink had been on me for years, ever since a barroom brawl got a little out of hand at Barbi’s. He regarded me as an undesirable “provac-a-teer,” although I’d always suspected he was jealous of my war record since he’d spent his time as a machinist’s mate, third class, repairing motor launches in San Diego.
He told it differently, though, painting himself as a member of the 1st Marines when they stormed Peleliu. I’d lost too many good friends in the war to suffer through a bullshit artist glomming on to the suffering of the men who died on that miserable rock. I knew the truth about Rink—and he knew I knew.
We had an uneasy truce wherein he hassled me only so much as he needed to look tough and I didn’t tell anyone on Catalina what a complete fraud he was. Something in his face told me that tonight he felt like pushing the ball across the fifty-yard line.
He stepped toward me, a smirk bending the corners of his lips.
“I see you’re about to get on that motorcycle of yours after leaving a drinking emporium,” he said, grandstanding loudly enough for anyone on the street to hear. “The citizens of Avalon expect me to keep their streets clear of drunken yaa-hoos. You want to play Marlon Brando, son, you’d best do it over in that cesspool they call the City of the Angels.”
I just didn’t have the time or the inclination.
“Sheriff,” I said without emotion, “how about you and I go sit down there in Barbi’s with those two merchant marines drinking cheap whiskey. I know you know Jimmy in there—the guy who lost an arm when his freighter was sunk in the Formosa Strait. Let’s have a drink with them and discuss the attack you led on Japan—from a whorehouse in the Gaslamp District. What say, Hubert, shall we?”
He stiffened visibly, then his face fractured into a scowl. He leaned in close enough that I could smell the Brylcreem. “Listen, Buonomo, you’d be wise to fly on offa my island while I’m still smilin’.”
“You’re not smiling, Sheriff.”
He reddened.
“I’m gonna be watching you. I’m up for reelection in a couple of weeks and I’m not going to have any hooligans like you running around town makin’ me look impotent.”
I just smiled at that one.
“If you’re still here tomorrow,” he sneered, “you’re going back in the can.”
“Charges to be determined?”
“You’re goddamn right. I got enough on you right now to hold you for a week. Consorting with coloreds, mafi-atin’ with that Sinatra fella, busting air traffic regulations—”
“Air traffic regulations? Aren’t you a little out of your territory, Rink?” I asked, grinning. “And, by the way,” I continued, waving my arm toward the waterfront fifty yards away, “doesn’t your ‘territory’ pretty much end at those floaty things at the beach there?”
There was a little growling noise in his throat, and I saw his fists tighten at his sides. Then he puffed up his chest again and planted his hands on his hips, above where his riding gloves stuck out of his pockets.
“Don’t push it, tough guy. Now get out of my sight and remember what I told you—any trouble whatsoever and you’re going down.”
I matched his stare for several seconds, then climbed onto the motorcycle and cranked her over.
Somewhere in Hollywood, a studio was missing a cardboard sheriff.
37
&
nbsp; The Wizard lived up a dark road at the back edge of Avalon. Children said that he’d been there since the island rose out of the sea, maybe longer. Truth was, he was an artist named Wes who had come to Avalon around 1920. His actual age was a mystery, but he was eighty if he was a day, and he had the history of the world in his eyes. If he had a last name, I didn’t know it.
Wes’s home wasn’t so much a house as a series of open terraces strewn across a high ridge, each one a work platform for one of his different artistic talents. From the road, it resembled a series of fortresslike bulwarks sloping down the rock outcropping. The lighting was by torch or oil lamp, and the plumbing was outdoors, fed by a trickling creek that ran down the hill and meandered through the ramparts. I suppose he had a bed somewhere, but I’d never seen him sleep.
Of all the very unusual people I’d encountered in my travels, Wes was the most arcane—and kindest—with a long-standing reputation for taking in society’s flotsam and jetsam. Helen didn’t know him as well as I did, but I guessed that she might seek him out for shelter.
After I put the sheriff behind me, I cut down Tremont, made a left on Avalon Canyon, and drove out past the ball field, out toward Divide. Small piles of leaves kicked up as I whooshed by the corners, fluttering crookedly through the air around me.
Nearing Wes’s place, I ran up the speed, cut the motor, and let the bike coast the last two hundred yards until the incline of the hill slowed it. I parked on the side of the road well short of Wes’s property, scanning the wooded hillside while my eyes adjusted to the dark. Out of habit, I patted my chest with my left hand to confirm that my weapon was secure, which it was—under my seat on the floor of the DC-3. I gave that some brief consideration, then pressed on.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t have been so cautious, but the Bendix thing didn’t play well. I wasn’t even sure that Helen would be there—let alone any heavies—but it wouldn’t hurt if I surprised anyone.
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