One for Our Baby

by John Sandrolini

  Astonished, I jerked my head toward the sound. It was, indeed, Ruggles, kneeling behind a sidecar motorcycle and bracing a rifle across the seat, a police spotlight on the handlebars stabbing out toward the gunman. The sheriff must’ve followed the crowd up the hill and coasted in behind the DC-3 during the standoff.

  “Come now, boy,” he added, “don’t make me shoot you. I’m a marine marksman.”

  Bendix thought it over a second. Then he unsheathed a great big carving knife smile and tossed the gun to the ramp.

  Sly like a fox, I thought. He made a simple calculation and determined there was nothing here worth dying over. That was cold comfort after all I’d been through.

  Ruggles advanced in grim determination, holding the rifle in a shooter’s position, almost the way a marine might. I had to admit, he looked good doing it.

  “You there, in the airplane,” he yelled. “Put that gun away, little lady, and come on down! Buonomo, you and your playmates here are in trouble—bigger than Dallas!”

  “Wait a minute, Rink,” I protested. “I don’t even know this guy.”

  He grinned at me, then looked at Bendix, then back at me again. “That’s the dirty bastard who stole my cruiser at the Casino!”

  Bendix made a play. Lunging sideways, he hauled another pistol out of his waistband and swung it toward the sheriff. I dove for him but was half a beat late.

  Gunfire whistled through the air, then Bendix spun around, grabbing for his arm as his pistol discharged into the tarmac, a lone bullet ricocheting away across the darkened taxiway.

  Then he was down, rolling over and clutching at his shoulder as blood began to seep out, doing absolutely nothing for his luau attire.

  I swooped down on him, ripping the gun from his feeble grasp and tattooing him on the beak with a straight left. His head banged off the asphalt, then his eyes rolled slowly upward into his head as the lids came rushing down. That was the end of William Bendix’s performance for the evening.

  While Rink was ratcheting the cuffs on that fallen ox, Helen stepped down from the plane—but without my gun. Smart girl.

  Rink did a double take when he saw her, then raked me with an envious look. “She’s the gal from Nightprowler! She played the gun moll.” Then to Helen, he added, “You were terrific, young lady.”

  Helen’s smile lit up the darkness. “Thank you, Sheriff. At least somebody here has seen one of my movies.”

  Then she gave me a look that could have doubled up Captain America. I grimaced in mock fright as she stared me down.

  “Help me wrassle this guy into the car, Buonomo,” Ruggles said, “And would you please get me a sheet or something, Miss … uh, Miss—”

  “DeHart. Lilah DeHart.”

  “Of course. Please, Miss DeHart, bring something so he don’t bleed all over my cruiser.”

  “Certainly, Sheriff. I’d be glad to help you,” she said, half curtsying, still flashing the red carpet whites and just burying ol’ Rink with Hollywood glam.

  Then he and I each grabbed an end, lifting the battered bruiser up.

  “Nice shooting, Rink,” I said, bestowing my first-ever nonsarcastic smile upon the sheriff of Avalon.

  He mumbled something that might have been a thank you and then shuffled off toward the car.

  Rink kept looking back at Helen, then me, while we walked.

  “Some guys have all the luck,” I heard him muttering under his breath.

  * * *

  After we got Bendix into the car, Rink said he had to hustle him down to get medical attention. I was expecting him to order us along for the ride, but he didn’t say anything else. When I started to offer some bullshit excuse for what had gone on, he just waved me off.

  I looked at him with curiosity. We both probably had a sense that our uneasy truce had been bolstered by this little engagement, and I could tell he was starstruck by Helen. She’d come back from the hangar with Clint and some shop towels for Bendix’s wound. Clint had his arm around Helen’s shoulder, his yellow teeth glowing in the night. “Don’t you ever lose this little gem again, Buonomo. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

  I patted him on the shoulder as I pulled her away and tucked her under my own arm. “Maybe just this once it did, barnstormer, but I do have to get her out of here tonight so she can be on set in the morning. We’ll come back soon to spend a couple of nights up here with you. Whatsay?”

  “I’d say it sounds like bullshit … but I’ll make up the spare room just in case.” He gave Helen a big wink and me a long, skeptical glance.

  I asked Rink if it was okay if we left and promised to give him a full statement by telephone within a day.

  “No problem,” he said. “Please do come on back soon to visit, Miss DeHart; we’d be honored to have you in Avalon.”

  Then he asked Helen if she could get him a cameo in a western with his hero John Wayne sometime. She said she’d look into it. I said I thought that was fitting. Clint just laughed. Then we all actually shook hands and said goodnight.

  It had been a very strange day.

  * * *

  The plane was empty so the takeoff roll was short. The marine layer still shrouded most of the field, but finding the sky above is a helluva lot easier than finding a runway below.

  We punched through the clouds, then I made a lazy climbing turn to starboard, laying the nose on a heading for Long Beach. As we rounded the island, I dipped a wing down and Helen and I both took a last, long look at Catalina, our island of lost dreams. Neither one of us said anything as we flew over the black hilltops that lurked quietly in the dark like brooding sentinels.

  Beneath us, the narrow highway we’d just raced up shone inky black through the gaps in the cloud base. Far below, a white ring of surf broke against the forbidding coastal rocks as we pulled away toward the mainland.

  I glanced across at Helen as she stared down in quiet detachment, wondering if I’d ever be back there with her after all.

  46

  We made Long Beach in fourteen minutes. There was no time for conversation as I was throwing levers or talking on the radio almost the entire time. I settled for a few smiles flashed in my direction.

  Helen looked just a bit tight. She was probably thinking about what she was going to say to Frank. I hadn’t given it any thought at all; I’d been too busy finding his girl to figure out how I was going to tell him she still loved me. I don’t know what good it would’ve done anyway; things like that can be thought out half to death but the telling doesn’t get any easier.

  It wasn’t going to be pleasant—for any of us—but it had to be done. Helen was going to have to spill the whole story to Frank and me, and she was going to do it tonight come hell or high water. For her sake I hoped it checked.

  * * *

  We touched down just after one thirty. Two minutes later I shut the plane down in front of the Nighthawk hangar.

  The palms were starting to bend a bit in the wind as we walked across the ramp. It was kind of balmy for an October night in Southern California, but I had no complaint with that.

  I stuck my head inside the hangar door, pulled on the light, and gave the whole place a long once-over for high-flying Chinese or anyone else who might be on the hunt for the world’s deadliest stag film. The Lockheed was parked and chocked inside, but otherwise the place was empty. I stepped in, Helen close in tow.

  “Oh, the Electra is here,” she exclaimed. “Thank God.”

  I turned to face her. “And Roscoe. He brought her back early, I guess. What’s the big deal about that old freight queen anyway?”

  She slipped an arm around my waist, cinching herself up close. “Well …”

  She was trying to be charming, but she was laying it on a little too thick. I held out a gentle stop sign with my hand. “Out with it, lady.”

  “Okay. I kind of hid the film in the back of it the other day.”

  “What?”

  “Honey, don’t get mad. I didn’t want to take it home any longer—I just
got a bad feeling about everything after we saw each other.”

  “That’s encouraging,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “No, I mean seeing you made me realize I’d made a terrible mistake.”

  “I’ve always thought so, too.”

  She slapped my hand. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. Okay, let me call Frank and then we’ll go get that damn movie—but I’m gonna torch that thing in the ashcan. It’s already caused a lifetime of heartache.”

  I walked over to my desk and Helen followed, watching nervously as I began to dial the number.

  “I’ll just let him know we’re coming up. He’ll be awfully relieved to hear your voice.”

  She reached out with a crimson fingertip, depressed the phone hook, then placed the finger under my chin, lifting it up.

  “Joe, darling,” she said, “please don’t put me on the phone with him. I’d like to think a few things through before I speak to him. You understand, don’t you?”

  I understood that she was working me, but I let it go. “Not really, but I’ve got to call him either way, then we’re heading up to his place, capisce?”

  She got my best stare after that so she’d know I was serious. Then I dialed Frank’s place in Bel Air.

  He wasn’t in. The houseboy said Mr. Sinatra had rushed out to Palm Springs a little earlier and that he was probably still en route. Now we’d have to fly out to the desert to see him. But that was a day at the beach compared to everything else that had gone down.

  I tapped the hook and massaged the stubble on my cheeks back and forth a moment, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Then I began entering the number for my message service but stopped middial when I looked over at Helen. She was fidgeting like she’d swallowed a sparrow, already burning her second cigarette since we landed.

  I tilted my head, made eye contact with her, teased, “You really want your film, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes pleading. “Can’t we please go check for it?”

  “Yeah. We gotta take that bird out to Palm Springs now anyhow—Frank took a ride out to the dunes. Let’s saddle up, Pocahontas.”

  I replaced the receiver. There was a message from Frank about Ratello’s whereabouts I might have wanted to hear, but I didn’t get it until I called again two days later—by which time I no longer needed it.

  47

  The hangar door let out its familiar groan as it rolled unhappily on rusting tracks. I let out one of my own as I muscled the Electra out onto the ramp with the tow bar, pushing it out into the alleyway between the hangars. Then I clanged the doors shut and locked them and marshaled Helen over to the plane.

  A rogue palm frond went skidding by as we walked.

  “Getting windy, isn’t it?” Helen remarked.

  “Little bit.”

  I opened the airplane door carefully so the wind wouldn’t snatch it, then held out a hand to help her up. She ducked her head and climbed onboard. Her eyes went right to the spot where she must have stashed the flick. Then she looked back at me for reassurance.

  “Go ahead, honey,” I said. “I sure as hell haven’t been fishing around back there.”

  She reached between the seams of the wainscoting, moving her hand back and forth several times. She started to give me a panicked look, then just as fast broke into a triumphant grin.

  “Oh, here it is!” she exclaimed, retrieving a small metal movie canister from behind the fabric paneling.

  I didn’t have the inclination to go back and open the hangar again just to destroy the damn thing. It was late and I wanted to get a move on. Long Beach, Palm Springs—what did I care where it burned—just so long as it did.

  “Enjoy it, hon,” I said, “’cause that’s going to be its last showing ever. That thing dies when we land.”

  “Fine, Joe,” she said absently, her eyes riveted on the pale-green aluminum can she held in her hands.

  * * *

  We sat down and buckled in. I listened to the field report and reviewed my charts, checking the elevations of the mountains that rise steeply on either side of the only pass through the San Bernardino range. The highest, Mt. San Jacinto, rises more than eleven thousand feet out of the sands at its peak. Hitting that could ruin your whole night.

  I hustled through my preflight checks, cracked the left throttle open half an inch, cleared the prop arc, and turned number one. When it stabilized at idle, I reached for the other starter.

  As I did, a kid in an Earl’s Flight Services cap ran to the front of the aircraft and waved for my attention. He was pointing to a clipboard and holding a pen. I snarled at him, reduced the propeller pitch to Low, then thumbed him on back.

  He came up to the cockpit, apologizing between gasps for air, and said no one had signed for the fuel bill when the plane came in. Over the exhaust of the engine, I told him I ran an account with Earl and paid by the month. He gulped upon hearing the words.

  Normally I’d have taken a good-size chunk out of his ass, but he was clearly new—just a kid. Looked like Mickey Rooney with his jug ears jutting out from under the cap. I suppose I’d been like him once about a hundred years ago.

  I signed the bill anyhow just to get rid of him. He apologized again and disappeared aft into the dark recess of the cabin, taking way too long to latch the door. Fucking new guys.

  I taxied out quickly, advancing the throttles for a rolling takeoff. At seventy miles an hour I hauled back on the controls and pulled the plane into the air. It hesitated just slightly, so I gave it an extra yank. Then the earth began dropping away beneath me and I brought the landing gear up.

  At five hundred feet I signaled my luscious copilot to raise the flaps. She gave me a knowing nod and flipped the lever up. Then I rolled the plane into a shallow bank, feeding in some rudder to keep her from slipping through the turn.

  As we climbed away, I thought over the sluggish takeoff. The Electra had made several flights since I last flew her so she may have developed low cylinder pressure again, although Roscoe hadn’t mentioned anything about it. Both engines checked within limits, though, so I pressed on, making a mental note to do a full engine run-up before leaving Palm Springs in the morning.

  But morning was still a long way off.

  48

  Helen didn’t say much as we climbed up to cruising altitude. Her face was a study in solitude, and I could see she was immersed in thought. Given the circumstances, it was hardly surprising.

  The ride was rougher than I expected so I dialed up an en route weather frequency. The broadcast said a ridge of high pressure was flowing through the west, channeling strong desert winds through the mountain passes. These were known locally as Santa Anas but there was nothing heavenly about the scalding winds that came howling through Southern California every fall, tearing down trees and breaking windows with their vicious gusts.

  After we leveled off, anxiety began creeping into my bones. Maybe it was the challenging weather ahead, or maybe I was just coming to grips with the vice and violence I’d been surrounded by for three days. Either way, I could feel a tide of uneasiness rising in me as we bored on eastward.

  “Joe,” Helen said quietly, almost inaudibly above the wind noise and the engines.

  I glanced over at her, saying nothing, my eyes inviting the question.

  “What do you do for Frank?”

  I looked out into the night, corrected the flight path, rolled in some trim.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought about what I was about to say for several seconds before speaking. Then I tore the lid off an old can of worms.

  “I fix things.”

  “Fix what? How?” she asked, uncertainty spreading across her face.

  “Just exactly what you think, my dear. I know my way around in the dark, and Frank’s famous, wealthy, and a bit careless. Every now and then some grifter tries to put him in a tight corner—”

  “And you help him out?”

 
; “Yes.”

  “But he’s got an army of agents and assistants, some of them with pretty broad shoulders.”

  “They can’t do what I do, not quietly at least.”

  She gaped at me, shock and disbelief flooding her face. “Dear God, you don’t kill these people, do you?

  I gave her the full eye roll for that one. “No, I do not kill people, Helen. Did you really just ask me that?”

  “But you are some kind of a troubleshooter, aren’t you?” she asked, turning cool as she spoke.

  “Not exactly. I’m a licensed private detective—fair and legal. Frank’s my only client. I rarely do anything for him and I don’t accept any pay for it. I help him because he’s my friend, okay?”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing this week, fixing something for Frank? Just tying up another loose end?” Her eyes were glimmering in the dark now like the northern lights—intensely green and glacier cold.

  “You know better, Helen. Do you think I’d go through all this for anyone else in the whole world? I do help him, but I have a personal stake in this case—a huge one, one with emerald eyes and a beautiful smile.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was softer, her face warmer. “But why do you feel you have to help him? Is this about your buddy Pete? Do you look out for Frank because of what happened to him?”

  I shrugged, deflected the question. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  She touched my hand, held it. “Yes, you have,” she said, her tone low and soothing. “That is why you do it, and we both know it. You’ve got to let that go, honey. It was a long time ago.”

  The props were out of sync. I bumped up the left one just a hair, merging the vibrations into one sound, thinking about an old friend while I did.

  I could see his face as I told her, “It was forever for Pete.”

  * * *

  Several minutes passed before either one of us spoke. Helen looked at me then, tension marring her features.

  “Baby, what are we going to do?”

  “About?”

  “Us.”