by Anne Stuart
"But no one's building airships anymore," Angela pointed out.
Parsons shook his head and the rain that had collected on the wide flat brim sprayed around him. "Only Germany's sticking with the thing, and I intend to be in on it. The Hindenburg's proven everybody wrong—they've already made two trans-Atlantic crossings with as smooth and safe a flight as anyone could hope for, and they've just started on the third. When it docks in New Jersey in a few days, I intend to be there, to offer my services. Eckener himself is rumored to be aboard. I know if I can just talk to him, I can give him a few pointers on how to solve the airships' vulnerability to lightning and storms."
"You'd move to Germany? You'd work for Hitler's crew, when you know all the trouble they've been causing?"
"Hitler doesn't want war any more than we do," Parsons said flatly, his opaque glasses fixed unnervingly on Angela's face. "He just wants to scare everybody into leaving Germany alone. And part of his plan is to spend a fortune on defense, including airships. He'll never use them."
"What if he does. Won't you feel like a murderer?"
"Miss Hogan, I worked at the Lockheed factory in Burbank, building bombers for this country and half the countries in the world. If the Great War wasn't really the war to end all wars, then I'll already have done my part to add to the death toll."
"But..."
"And Hitler's not our enemy, at least not yet. If that happens to change, then I'll hightail it out of Germany. In the meantime, if this country's too shortsighted not to keep working on airships, I have no choice but to turn to the one country with the vision to do so." He squatted back down and poured himself another cup of coffee, ignoring them.
Angela watched him for a moment, the trembling hands, the obscured face. "You didn't answer my question," she said quietly.
He glanced up at her again, his face inscrutable through the heavy glasses and beard. "No, I don't drink all the time. I'm just like anyone else—I have a bad night now and then. God knows there's not much else for comfort in my life."
"I still don't understand why you're here. If you're the best mechanic in the world, why aren't you working?"
"Get her out of here, Clancy," Parsons snapped in his harsh voice. "You can fill her in on the rumors during your trip back to Evanston."
Something wasn't right, but Angela couldn't quite figure out what it was. "How'd you know we came from Evanston?"
"It stands to reason. Most of the small airfields around Chicago are in Evanston. I know the business, Miss Hogan. I just chose to leave it. Now would you leave an old man in peace?"
Angela opened her mouth to speak, but Clancy once again forestalled her. "Any chance you'll change your mind?"
Parsons glanced up at him. "I've been kicking around this mean old world long enough to know that you never say never. I'm heading down to New Jersey in a couple of days. The Hindenburg's due to dock at Lakehurst on Tuesday and I want to be there to watch it land. If by any chance Eckener doesn't want me, maybe I'll give you a ring. Then again, maybe I won't."
"I guess we'll have to settle for that." Clancy held out his hand and after a long moment, Parsons took it.
"I'd like to say I appreciate your coming all this way," he said in his raspy voice.
"But you don't," Angela piped up, moving her frozen mud-encrusted feet with some difficulty. "You wish we'd left you the hell alone."
The rusty sound Parsons made could have almost passed for a laugh. "You got it, girly. Have a nice trip back."
"Let us know if you change your mind," Clancy said, taking Angela's damp arm in his. She was too cold and miserable to object, slogging through the mud feeling like a foot soldier from Parsons's Great War. They were about to turn a corner, disappear from sight in the great rabbit warren of shacks and tents, when something made her stop.
She turned, expecting to see Parsons's fire deserted. He was still standing there, watching them, his face almost completely obscured by his hat brim. But she somehow got the impression of longing, of an aching need that couldn't be filled.
The moment he saw her watching him, he disappeared, diving into his shanty without a backward glance. And Angela wondered whether she'd ever see him again.
"What's holding you up?" Clancy tugged at her arm.
She started moving again. "He was lying."
"Yeah? What makes you say that?" Clancy's voice was carefully neutral, but she had the impression he knew far more than he was saying.
"He hasn't given up on airplanes. He wanted to come work for us, I know he did. I could feel it."
"Don't tell me you're some kind of fortune teller, Red! If so, I'm going to find myself a shack and stay right here."
"No, I mean it. Couldn't you feel it, Clancy?"
"I couldn't feel anything but cold rain down my neck and annoyance that we came this far for probably nothing."
"What do you mean, probably?"
"Parsons might still show up. You're right, you know. He hasn't given up on airplanes. He thinks they've given up on him. There's a reason why he's been riding the rails. He's had a rough few years. He was in that fire in the Lockheed factory a few years back. Got badly burned, including his eyes. A bunch of men died, and when Parsons recovered, he just took off. He's worked since, but he's had a run of bad luck. Nothing was ever his fault, but there've been too many crashes, and he's got the reputation of a jinx. I think he needs to start a new life."
"I suppose we don't want a drunkard and a jinx hanging around," she said slowly.
"I don't think he'd drink if he had a job. And I don't believe in jinxes."
"Neither do I."
Clancy stopped, looking down at her with a lopsided grin. "Well, will wonders never cease? We actually agree on something."
"We agree on something else," Angela said wearily "These clothes were a stupid idea."
"You know, Red, there's hope for you yet. You look like a drowned kitten. Let's go find a nice warm restaurant with a good juke box and soup that comes from a back burner and not a can. We've got a long wait before the Twentieth Century comes back through."
And Angela, remembering the upper berth and what had happened in it the night before, was suddenly filled with foreboding. It wouldn't do to get too friendly with Jack Clancy. She already got in enough trouble when they were practically enemies.
"Drowned kitten, eh?" she managed to squeak out.
"Don't worry, kid. I won't tell anyone you ever admitted you were wrong. Now let's get the hell out of this rain." He took her arm again and began hauling her through the muddy paths of the shanty town. And while she knew she should protest, try to manage on her own two muddy feet, it was nice to have something strong to hold on to. For balance, she told herself righteously, clinging tight. Just for a few moments. And then she'd stand on her own again. As always.
*
The restaurant across from the railroad station had terrific coffee, oxtail stew, Vienna Roast with beans and fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie. The jukebox had the latest Benny Goodman, Count Basie and Artie Shaw, the cigarette machine had fresh Luckies, and by the time Angela changed into her jodhpurs and leather jacket in the ladies' room, brushed her sopping hair into a semblance of order and even went so far as to put just a slash of lipstick on her pale mouth, she was feeling much more in charity with the world. She even thought she could face the trip back without any danger of traveling between berths.
That is, if Clancy continued smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking cup after cup of coffee and staring out the window into the dreary Albany weather. Angela was almost sorry they weren't fighting. At least that would have been more interesting than picking at the crust of her pie and listening to "Harbor Lights" for the seventeenth time.
"Penny for your thoughts," she said finally, desperate. Clancy lifted his head, his dark eyes momentarily abstracted, and then they focused on her.
"You wouldn't want to know," he said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the crumpled pack.
She put her hand
over his, stopping him, and immediately regretted her gesture. He had hard hands, strong hands, disturbing hands. She pulled away quickly, reaching for her lukewarm coffee. “Haven’t you smoked too many of those things?"
"When did you appoint yourself my mother? They help me think."
"What are you thinking about?"
He grinned then, and she flushed, knowing he was deliberately taunting her. “Don't give me that. You weren't thinking of anything pleasant."
"Who says sex is pleasant?" he countered, lighting the cigarette with deliberate defiance.
"I wouldn't know," she said in her frostiest voice, and immediately regretted it. Of all the stupid things to say, to him of all people! She wished she could kick herself under the table.
"Oh, really?" He leaned across the table with that charming smirk that she wanted to slap off his face. "You know, I guessed that might be the case, given your lack of experience in kissing. Sparks said you were engaged to Ramsey. What'd you do, keep him on a leash? Or did he have some old war wound I never heard about?"
"You're disgusting," she said furiously.
"Yeah?" He blew a smoke ring with a casual expertise Angela would have envied if she weren't so angry. "Well, sister, there's a word for women like you, and it's not a nice one. I won't sully your sweet little virgin ears with it, but I bet you can think of it all by yourself if you put your mind to it. Or I can always enlighten you—"
She did slap him then. The sound was loud in the deserted cafe, over the muted trumpets of "Harbor Lights." She knocked over her coffee cup when she'd slapped him, and the small amount pooled on the table between them.
"Do that again, Red," he said between his teeth, "and I'll knock you halfway across the room."
She was tempted to do just that, to call his bluff. The problem was, she didn't think he was bluffing. The tired looking waitress wasn't around, but even her presence wouldn't have stopped Clancy if Angela pushed him too far.
She sat back against the banquette, knowing she should apologize, knowing she'd die before she did so. "What are we going to do about a mechanic?" she said instead.
"It's still we, is it? You aren't going to tell me to take my ill-bred presence from your sight?"
"You aren't going to walk out in a huff?" she countered. She could see the mark of her hand on his strong, tanned cheek, and she felt ashamed. And still angry.
"I never back down, Red. Not from a challenge, not from a dame. I told you I'm in it for the duration. We'll find a mechanic. I'll put out the word and see what I can come up with. But I still wouldn't count Parsons out. I have a feeling he's going to show up in Evanston before long."
"What makes you say that? Don't you think the Germans will want him?"
"They'd be fools not to. But I'm willing to bet he won't be on the Hindenburg when it flies back to Berlin."
"How much?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"How much are you willing to bet?" she repeated patiently.
Clancy slouched back in his seat, a speculative expression on his face. "So the lady likes to gamble? You could have fooled me. I would have taken you for a girl who doesn't take chances."
"I'm a flier, Clancy. Every time I climb in an airplane I'm taking a gamble. I do what I can to minimize the risk, but it's still a matter of odds."
"That's right, I keep forgetting. You'll have to take me up sometime, Red, so I can check you out. Maybe then I'll be able to keep it straight."
"I thought you didn't like to fly with other people."
"I don't. But if I'm tying up with you for a while, I'd better know what kind of talent I'm getting involved with. If you're just a fancy amateur with heavy hands, then the deal's off. If you're any good at all, then we have a bargain."
"What do you think?"
He glanced at her through half-closed eyes, and the effect was oddly unnerving, deep in the pit of her stomach. When would she learn not to ask leading questions of this disturbing man?
"The truth, Red?" he asked, stubbing out his cigarette.
"Always, Clancy."
He grinned. "Then I hate to admit it, but I expect you're one hell of a pilot. Maybe almost as good as I am. Sparks says you are."
"And you'll take his word for it?"
"He'd be the one to know. But no, I won't. That's why we're going up together as soon as we get the Lockheed in working order. That jake with you?"
"Certainly."
"And then you can check out my talents. See if I'm overrated."
"We're talking about flying skills, I trust?" Her voice was caustic.
Clancy's expression was positively angelic, belied by the glint in his dark, devilish eyes. "What else, Angel? What else?"
*
She was a damned dangerous woman, Clancy thought, listening to her rustle around in the berth beneath him as the Twentieth Century barreled its way back toward Chicago. And if she did turn out to be a terrific pilot, things were going to get even worse. He liked his women compartmentalized. Pilots were pilots, dames were dames, and the two weren't supposed to cross over. Not that he had anything against women pilots. He just didn't want to be attracted to one as he was attracted to Angela Hogan.
He wasn't going to waste any more time denying his attraction. The fact that she was still a virgin made her even more of a challenge, a challenge he wasn't about to accept. She was the kind to tie a man down, to weep and wail when he had a dangerous flight, to make him settle down and raise a family and get strangled with a mortgage and a dog and a backyard.
He'd figured long ago that that sort of life wasn't for him. And a woman like Angela Hogan wasn't for him. The problem was, she was making him forget that.
He could hear her sliding out of her pants in the narrow bunk, and that finished him. He swung his legs over the side and dropped down on the floor with a thud, almost landing on a bath-robed matron with curlers in her hair. She gave a frightened little shriek and dove into her berth.
"Sorry, toots," he said to her disappearing feet.
Angela stuck her head out of her berth, her long dark hair rumpled from having pulled her nightgown over it. He could see the white lace of its high collar, and he remembered the soft feel of it, the feel of her body beneath it, sleeping in his arms. "Where are you going, Clancy?" she hissed.
"To the bar car. Just for your peace of mind, Red, I'm going to spend the night there. You might have to pour me off the train, but at least your virtue will be safe."
She opened her mouth to object, and then shut it again. A trace of her bright red lipstick lingered, and he wanted to lean over and kiss it off her mouth. "That's probably a wise idea," she said.
"Afraid you can't resist me, Red?" he taunted.
"No, Clancy. I'm afraid you can't resist me." And with an impish grin she disappeared back behind the green serge curtains of her lower berth.
He almost dove in after her. If it weren't for the matron with her curlers peering out at him, he would have done so.
"Go back to bed, toots," he snapped at her, and the woman disappeared promptly. And then he headed off for the bar car, knowing he'd better not hesitate any longer. Angela was right. When you were a pilot you always took risks. But you learned to minimize those risks if at all possible, and spending even another moment near Angela Hogan was a risk not worth taking.
Maybe the bar car had one-hundred-fifty-proof rum. And maybe the night wouldn't be endless. But he wasn't about to count on it. Not for a moment.
Chapter Eight
Clancy straightened up, running his grease-stained hands down the legs of his coveralls. Sparks was on the other side of the Wasp engine, tinkering with the manifold, and Clancy stepped back, thinking he might step outside for a cigarette, when the sound of the radio penetrated his abstraction.
It was evening, past seven, and they were all working late. Angela usually kept the volume turned up loud enough for them to hear it if they weren't testing an engine. At first he thought she'd turned on a soap opera, Helen Trent or something of
that ilk, when the voices began to coalesce into something he didn't want to hear. His eyes met Sparks's for a moment, and they stood there, listening.
"I'm going to turn that damned thing off," Sparks said hoarsely, dropping the wrench with a loud clatter on the cement floor.
"I'll do it," Clancy said.
Angela sat frozen at her desk, her fingers gripping a broken pencil as she listened with blind concentration. The newscaster was sobbing in horror and in the background, through the static, she could hear the screams of people in pain, people dying, people plunging to their death from an airship that was disintegrating.
She didn't look up when his shadow darkened her office door. It was early evening on May 6, and she was listening as the Hindenburg, the pride of the German airships, crashed and burned. She should have switched the station when they began covering the landing, but curiosity had stayed her hand. She'd been wondering whether Will Parsons was in that crowd of onlookers at the New Jersey hangar, whether he'd get a chance to work on the huge dirigible.
And then, in a matter of moments, triumph had turned to disaster as fire and death rained out of the sky onto the tarmac below. And Angela was too sickened to move, an unwilling prisoner to the radio, as she listened while terrified victims faced her worst nightmare.
Suddenly the sound cut out and Angela looked up at Clancy. He'd switched off the radio. For a moment he kept his back turned, and she could see the tension thrumming through his body. And then he faced her, his expression remote and unreadable. "Tough break," he said. "I wonder whether Parsons was hurt."
It took all her energy to say something and her voice came out hoarse and strained. "Maybe he didn't make it down there."
"He was there, all right. He's the sort of man who does what he says he's going to do. Listen, Red, why don't you go home? This has shaken you up—hell, it would shake anybody up. You should see Sparks. His hands are shaking so hard he can't even light a cigarette."
She didn't say anything for a moment. A small, very tiny part of her wanted to do just that, to get in the old Packard and drive straight home, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.