by Kim Newman
Charlie noticed that as each lucky pair went up to the stage, Peggy Sue was applauding and cheering loudly. "Gee, Mr. Kerouac," she spoke across Charlie, making him feel uncomfortable again, "don't you think it's wonderful? Are you married Mr. Kerouac?"
"No chicklet. I'm not married just now. No lady in her right mind would want a hipster like me. And I don't especially desire a radio that plays nothing but propaganda all the day and night, either."
"Are you a recidivist?" she asked, half-sternly, half-mockingly.
"Actually, like they say, I believe in freedom and fair shares. Cool stuff, you know. It's just that I also believe a radio should be for digging decent music. Jazz and jive, baby, bebop-ba-bop-bop."
Peggy Sue laughed.
LeMay returned to the microphone, also a drink past his best, by the look of him. His tie was skewed around his collar, his top shirt button was undone, and sweat was pouring out from under his helmet. He looked like a shifty cap subversive in one of the Hollywood movies J. Edgar Hoover liked to sponsor, / Was a Capitalist for the FBI or / Married a Capitalist. The characteristic half-smoked stogie poked from the corner of his mouth as he requested the presence of Osgood Yandell.
"I have here, Comrade Party Chief," he began, "a gift for the people of Roseville from Chairman Capone himself."
There were cheers from the audience as he tore brown wrapping paper from a rectangular object. The present was as a framed colour print, depicting a matronly woman in turn-of-the-century clothes standing at the rail of a ship, holding her baby up to see, looming in the distance, the Statue of Liberty. It was Norman Rockwell's famous impression of the arrival in the Land of the Free of the infant Capone. LeMay presented it
S]
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
to Yandell to be hung in the town hall. Yandell made a brief speech of startled gratitude and then announced that the party was to begin. On cue, the town band struck up a waltz.
"Come on, Charlie, and you too, Mr. Kerouac," said Peggy Sue, pulling both of them. "My mother's baked some of her special pies."
She dragged Charlie and Jack over towards a food-laden table where other members of the Roseville proletariat were congregating. In the opposite corner of the field, the roast ox was being devoured by Party officials and their families.
Charlie, Jack and Peggy Sue were sitting down to apple pie and cream as a shadow came up on them from behind.
"Whaddya hear, whaddya say, ace?" said the shadow's voice.
They turned. It was Howie.
"Howie, most esteemed cat. You busted out of the doghouse I see. I'm sore afraid I finished off all the hooch."
"Shit," said Howie, not noticing Peggy Sue's presence. "Suppose I'll just have to drink some of this godawful cider. Jeez, this'll be the ruination of my liver."
"So how'd you contrive to skip the joint, Howie?" asked Jack.
"Piece of cake. I was being guarded by this motor-pool sergeant and the crummiest bunch of GI Joes you ever saw. I won out in a poker game."
"Howie, I'd like to introduce mes amis. The chicklet is Peggy Sue. You encountered her big sister this morning, remember. And this is Charlie-cat, the coolest corn-fed Pioneer in Kansas."
"Pleased to meetcha, pilgrims. I'm gonna go requisition me a drink, and see if I can get me some of that cow on a stick they're burning over in the VIP area. Think I'll pass muster as a Party official?"
Howie grinned, showing his ravaged teeth. He stank of booze and aviation fuel. Close up, with his tall, skinny frame and filthy grey hair, the last thing he looked like was a Party official. He reminded Charlie of a scarecrow, only not so well dressed.
"Check, Squadron Leader," said Jack, "but take care how you go. LeMay is still out there, and I presume he still wants you refrigerated."
"LeMay? Fuck 'im—pardon my French ma'am."
Howie hawked and spat a stream of brown juice at the grass.
"Say kid," he said to Charlie, "you think these famous fly-boys are something special?"
"Of course," said Charlie, "they're the best pilots living in America today. Probably the world."
m
Back in the USSA
"Hogwash and flapdoodle. None of those old blowhards could fly for chickenfeed. Sure, they can drive an airplane, any damfool can drive an airplane. I wouldn't give you a torn lunch coupon for any of them. 'Cept maybe Lindbergh. He had it once, he had the stuff. But not any more."
"But what about their war records..." protested Charlie.
Howie grinned cynically. "Lindbergh, yeah, I'd believe his. But the rest of them are feeding you a line, kid. Specially Lafayette Hubbard...Listen, I gotta get me some chow and a drink..."
He sniggered to himself and turned to go.
"By the way," he added, "when I was on my way over here, I walked by that stage up there and tripped up. Clean put my boot through that picture of the broad showing the brat Miss Liberty. Big hole in the brat's face. I get the feeling the picture was important, so if anyone asks, it wasn't me, okay?"
"It's hard to remember exactly how I felt. You always look back on love affairs like they were songs—'True Love Ways', you know—and forget the pain. I liked Jack but he was scary, troubling. He was weird, but he meant what he said, unlike a lot of the non-weirds I knew. I even kind of liked being 'Charlie-cat'. It was better than being 'Pioneer Holley' and certainly beat 'Texas faggot'. But Howie was dangerous, crazy. If he wasn't on McCarthy's lists, then he ought to have been. I'm not saying he was a cap, but he sure was a subversive element. Remember Mr. Lowe, the things Howie was saying could have got him shot. And me and Peggy Sue shot too, or put in a work-camp, just for listening.
"Next, Patsy turned up. She kept out of Howie's way, but took a Texas shine to handsome Jack. Peggy Sue might be working up to her badge in eyelash-fluttering but Patsy was unchallenged tri-county champion. And as a ladies' man, Jack was faster on the draw than Wyatt Earp. Being around him when he was pitching woo was a complete education. A lot more useful than Enemy Aircraft Recognition. As Jack took Patsy out into the field to dance, I managed to nerve up to take Peggy Sue and follow them. I had my badge in dancing. After a few numbers, Jack left Patsy for a moment and went over to the band-leader, a coloured boy from Fort Baxter. There were more than a few negroes in his orchestra, but because there was still segregation in the army they had to sit apart. Jack and the band-leader had a short, intense conversation and parted with a slapping handshake. Jack came back smiling with half his mouth, and took Patsy by the waist while new orders were issued. A
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
couple of whites with brass instruments stood down, and a black bassist lost his bow. Then, the band played the kind of music you didn't hear on the radio. Jack showed Patsy how to dance. The rest of the crowd couldn't fit their moves to the rhythm and stood around, not offended, while Jack showed them how. Then, everyone—including Peggy Sue and me—was dancing. It wasn't my stuff, exactly, but that jazz combo cum hootenanny sounded different. And it was exciting. The Young America medal didn't mean so much any more..."
Charlie was enjoying himself. And he knew Peggy Sue was enjoying herself. At the end of a dance while the musicians were wiping away sweat, he bowed with a flourish and kissed her hand just as Clark Gable had Tallulah Bankhead's in Gone With the Wind.
"Oh Charlie," giggled the girl, "you're getting mushy."
Charlie looked at Peggy Sue's pleasantly flushed throat as she fanned herself, trying not to stare. Was she beautiful? Check. Was he in love with her? Tricky. Was he on the slippery path into sexual incontinence? No. Well...
"Bay-aby!" grunted a voice. "Howsabout having a li'l fun with the air force. Let's get with this jungle bunny jive. Decadent cap crap, of course, but it gits the juices flowin'."
Peggy Sue turned around and cringed as Major McCarthy shoved his leering face at her. He grabbed her waist and puckered up his lips. Charlie was not sure what he should do. McCarthy's left hand was going for Peggy Sue's bottom, fingers splaying out to
dig in violently.
"Charlie..." she cried as she tried to escape.
Charlie tapped McCarthy's shoulder politely. "Excuse me, sir..."
McCarthy turned, eyes red. "Bug off, kid! Can't you see I'm fuckin' engaged on official business."
"Pardon me, Comrade Major McCarthy, sir," Charlie stood his ground. "But I don't think the young lady wishes to do business with you. Further, sir, she is fifteen years old."
"Who asked your opinion, kid?" McCarthy let Peggy Sue go and pushed his booze-reeking face into Charlie's. "You look like a filthy cap..."
"Nobody asked my opinion, sir. But with respect, you did not ask the opinion of the young lady as to whether she wished to, ah, dance with you."
McCarthy began shaking, like a movie volcano about to explode.
"I'm a fuckin' war hero kid, I can do what I fuckin' please."
m
Back in the USSA
With no further warning, he swung his right fist in a long, fast arc, connecting with Charlie's face.
Charlie fell backwards, tasting blood, glasses flying. McCarthy shouted at him, calling him names. Charlie groped for his glasses as the crowd, then the band fell quiet. Peggy Sue was sobbing like a lost child.
"Come on then, revisionist kid. Fuckin' get up, fuckin' put yer mitts up. Mess with Bomber Joe and see what you get..."
Someone helped Charlie to his feet. His view of McCarthy was suddenly blocked by the shape of Jack.
Jack threw a series of short, powerful punches at the Major's face. McCarthy was powerless to stop or parry the blows. The hero's fists flailed about uselessly as he screamed abuse.
McCarthy slid to the ground, floored by a combination of punches and punch. Black blood fell in large drips from his nose.
Men in uniform pushed their way through the circle that had gathered. Hubbard and Morrison grabbed Jack, pinning his arms behind his back. He did not struggle. LeMay strode up, with Osgood Yandell a respectful three paces behind him.
"What the hell's going on here?" he asked quietly, removing the cigar butt from his mouth to spit away pieces of tobacco.
"I can explain, Comrade General, sir," volunteered Charlie. "Major McCarthy grabbed hold of the young lady. She didn't like it and I asked him to stop. Then he hit me. Then the comrade here..."
"Is that so, Comrade Major?" asked LeMay.
He was still sitting on the ground trying to staunch his nose. He had reached into a pocket for a handkerchief, but had come up with only his list of card-carrying capitalists. The list was thoroughly bled-on.
Before McCarthy could answer, there was another stirring in the crowd.
"Make way for a war veteran, war veteran coming through," said Howie, striding towards Jack, noticing nothing but his friend, "Hya ace, I got us some of that burned cow. Said I was an FBI agent in disguise on a special investigation. I got some booze from the VIP tent as well.. .Oh, shit. Good evening Comrade General LeMay, sir. Would you like a drink? Say, could you spare me one of them cigars?"
Instinctively, LeMay drew both his fancy revolvers, the ones Capone had given him. Howie grinned as the General levelled his weapons at him. Simultaneously, LeMay pulled the triggers, and, simultaneously, the pistols misfired, burping smoke. Howie laughed.
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
"Hubbard," LeMay snarled, his face bright red, "go and fetch some MPs. If you can't find any, then get me a gun. Any kind of gun. Understood?"
"Sir, yes sir!" snapped Hubbard, leaving Jack to Morrison.
"Hold up there a minute, Comrade General," said Howie, "I didn't escape or anything. I earned my freedom. Besides, if you want to have me shot, which I'm sure is entirely within your rights, ain't there certain due processes of the socialist law that have to be gone through first?"
"It may have escaped your attention," said LeMay, "but we are the socialist law. And just as soon as that moron gets back with a gun I'm going to shoot you without any further questions."
Charlie looked around, wondering where Lindbergh was, hoping he'd turn up to calm the General down.
Howie bit ferociously into a piece of meat. "In that case," he said, "you wouldn't wanna deny a man on death row one last request."
LeMay looked shiftily at the crowd around him, not sure how to take this. "Of course not," he said as loudly as he could manage, "let it never be said that the American Communist Party is inhumane. Name your request."
"I'd like a few minutes of everyone's time, that's all."
Charlie looked at Jack, whose face was a blank. Things had stopped being funny.
"You see, Comrade General sir, I'm a flier like you. I don't have any of these fancy birds from American Motors or Progress Dynamics. All I've got's a ship I made from the parts on up. I designed the H-l myself, put it together with gum and prayer. I'm just a bum with wings, but I can out-fly any of you pilots any day of the week with a y in it."
"Yeah!" shouted Morrison, letting Jack go and squaring up massively to Howie. "That'll be the dayl"
"Darn right it will, Duke," said Howie, looking the tall man in the eye. "You guys don't scare me. 'Cause at sundown, you're all shit and wind. Take you slobs out of your uniforms, and you'd be nothing. And your so-called war-records are nothing. I coulda been the best fighter jock in the Navy or the Air Force, but when the War came along they told me I was too old and 'not politically correct'. I told 'em that wasn't important, but no, they wouldn't have me. I ended up a bus-driver, flying Gooney Birds to Pacific Islands. Then, I did hop and skip runs behind our lines in Europe. But it was something, I was in the service..."
a
Back in the USSA
He raised his voice, talking not just to LeMay but to the whole crowd.
"Do you know something, ladies and gentlemen, I didn't hear about a single one of these aces all that time. I met all the real ones, the real heroes, Dick Bong, Jimmy Stewart, Doolittle. But they never talked about any of you. Except General LeMay, of course. You all know about him. He must have personally shortened the War by about six months when he hopped on that plane and flattened that Black Dragon Suicide Squad, getting there before his own troops, saving everybody from that horde of kill-crazed, fight-to-the-last-man Japs. I saw Stone Age Carpet here in '45 in Tinian Island. He spent a whole day behind the stick of the Boeing that dropped the incendiaries on Tokyo. He was being filmed for the news reels. While this was going on, I talked to his crew. They were riled up that some gloryhound pushed in and took over from their regular pilot. Plus, it seems the General was more enthusiastic than accurate when it came to dropping the payload. Seems he just plain missed the fortifications he was supposed to be destroying and heroically blew up a hospital, a Buddhist shrine and a children's playground. Of course, them sick folks, priests and schoolkids could've put up a hell of a fight, lengthened the War some. That Black Dragon Division? Well, it seems there wasn't one. That was just a bit of left-over Jap propaganda, trying to discourage our boys."
LeMay just stared, jaw muscles working.
"So what about the rest of them?" continued Howie. "The way I hear it, McCarthy spent most of the War visiting his sick mother in Canada. Duke here was in all the main theatres of combat, with the newsreels long after the fighting had moved on to somewhere else. Lonesome Lafayette's record is a joke. The only thing he ever sunk was a tug. One of our own. He thought the Japs were invading Catalina and strafed it. After that, the only thing the Navy would let him do was write adventure stories for Leatherneck. That's the Marines paper, by the way. The Navy didn't even trust him to write dime novels for their own pulp..."
"Comrade General, I've got a gun," came Hubbard's voice. He was pushing through, dragging Colonel Hall. "D'you want to shoot him now?
"Lieutenant Hubbard," said Howie, "we were just talking about you."
"You can see the fix LeMay was in. If he had Howie shot now, it'd look like the bum had been telling the truth about their war records.
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
Also, he was mad as hell
about losing face in front of people who were supposed to respect him. It ended with LeMay challenging Howie to a flying contest at sun-up the next day. I suppose he must have figured Howie for an old madman who'd be a pushover. The arrangement was that first they'd outfly Howie, then they'd take him out and shoot him. It suited Howie fine. So long as he got the chance to show Roseville what 'pudknockers' the RFS were, they could do what they liked to him. Then, Lindbergh arrived. Standing nearby, I heard McCarthy, who had sobered up fast, tell him what had happened. Lindbergh was floored. McCarthy was favour of the contest, telling him what a hoot it'd be, but Lindbergh said it was too risky. They all were in danger of losing their privileges, and if they screwed the pooch they'd end up drilling for oil in Alaska. He flatly refused to have anything to do with the deal. But the rest were gung ho to restore their reputations. So, Howie formally accepted the challenge..."
"Jack, is Howie crazy?" asked Charlie. Jack and Patsy and Peggy Sue and Charlie were sitting out back watching the moon and the stars.
"No idea, Charlie-cat. Why don't you ask him?"
"I would, but we don't know where he's got to."
"Do you think they've got him locked up somewhere?" asked Patsy.
"No, heartbeat. I don't think they'll dare do that."
Charlie's parents had seen everything that had happened earlier. Dad had come over when the shouting was finished and had ordered him home at once. Mom, on the scene shortly afterwards, had taken an immediate liking to Jack and had invited him, and Peggy Sue and Patsy, back home for supper, and had eagerly pumped Jack with questions about what was happening in other parts of America. Dad hadn't been too pleased about having the glamorous recidivist in their midst. It could get them into trouble. But he didn't call the shots in the Holley household.
"Jack, how come they won't dare to lock Howie up? Or you?"
"Because they'd like us to take a breeze before the big showdown. None of those squares is a natural flier the way Howie is. What they're hoping is that Howie'll be so piss-scared at the idea of being shot he'll skedaddle. That way they might not have the kick of killing him, but it'll save them the possible humiliation of losing the challenge. And it would also kinda prove to cats round here that Howie was talking moonshine all along. Thing is, I reckon Howie can outfly the best of them. Zoom, zoom."