"You'll have to give me a cigarette first," Stasi said. She crossed her legs nonchalantly.
He grinned. "You don't have any?"
"Did you notice a cigarette case when you patted me down?" She held out her hand. He slid one between her fingers and she bent to light it. Her ruby nail polish was chipped, and she took a deep inhale, puckering her lips on the paper. "Oh, that's good," Stasi said. "I've been simply dying for hours, darling."
"I'm surprised you're not halfway back to LA," Mitch said.
"Well." She reached for his drink but he scooted it back out of the way.
"I don't suppose you came in here thinking that you could get one of the other teams to give you a ride along to San Angelo," Mitch said, holding his drink firmly.
"You're so suspicious."
"Let's just say I think you're resourceful."
She turned her head and gave him a brilliant smile. "That's so sweet of you!"
"Well, it must have taken a certain amount of moxie to escape the Russian Revolution," Mitch said.
"Yes, terribly," she said, arching her neck and waving for the barman. "Yoo-hoo! I'll have what he's having."
"The hell," Mitch said, but he let it ride. There are some stories worth seventy-five cents.
Stasi took another draw. "I'm sure I would have been killed if not for my Uncle Vanya. He smuggled me out of the country in a sled, darling. Simply covered in furs! We were pursued by howling wolves. It was utterly terrifying."
"In Minsk?"
"This was before Minsk, darling. We escaped down the Volga on the cutest little houseboat."
Mitch took a sip of his bourbon. "Playing the balalaika and wearing furry hats."
"Of course not." She downed half hers in a gulp. "The balalaika upsets the reindeer."
Mitch nearly inhaled his bourbon, which would be a pity, as it was way too good to inhale. "Eight of them, no doubt."
Stasi beamed. "How did you guess?"
"Traditional number for a reindeer team. Go on. I'm riveted."
"So there we were, galloping across the snow, just me and my dear Prince Andrei…"
"I thought it was Count Bezukhov in the book," Mitch observed. She gave him a dirty look over the rim of her glass and he shrugged. "I did read War and Peace too."
"What is it about you Americans?" Stasi demanded. "Have you all read War and Peace?"
Mitch shrugged. "I wouldn't think so. I read it during the war. It was about the only book in the billet, and I think the whole squadron read it twice each."
"Western Front?"
"Veneto," Mitch said, touching his glass to hers. "Over on the other end against the Austrians in Italy and the Balkans."
"Which would explain why you can find Budapest on a map," Stasi said.
"Can I?"
"I imagine you can." She shook her ash into the ashtray. "Are you really an ace?"
"Where'd you hear that?"
"One of the other teams."
"You shouldn't trust everything the other teams say," Mitch said.
She tilted her head back, dark eyes roving over his face for a moment. "I expect that's true though. Is it?"
"Yes." Mitch took another sip of his bourbon. It seemed to be disappearing very quickly. "So I gave you one truth. You give me one. Why are you still here?"
"Did you find a wallet when you were rummaging around in my pockets?" Stasi asked. "I was jumping on the plane for a moment to get the necklace back, darling. I didn't bring luggage."
"Oh." Mitch frowned. "You mean you're flat broke."
"Not a penny. No cash, nothing." Stasi took another draw and then stamped out the end of her cigarette. "Not a dime for a telegram." She looked around the other teams in the speakeasy. "I hoped someone would be…obliging."
"Oh." Mitch felt a slow flush creeping up his neck. "Well. I suppose I could let you have five dollars for the train back to LA. I mean, since it was my fault."
"Your fault?" Her eyebrows rose.
"I locked the hatch."
Her lips parted in a long, wide smile. "I suppose it was your fault at that, darling. I'd be extremely grateful. Especially since I have no place to stay."
"I don't have the necklace," Mitch said. "And I'm sharing a room with Jerry. So don't even get on that bus."
Her eyes widened. "How could you think! Why, I should be so insulted that I'd never speak to you again!"
"Before I give you the money for the train?" Mitch asked.
She smiled again, and Lord that smile was 100 watts. "After, darling. I'm only insulted after."
Mitch shook his head. "Good policy." He opened his wallet and of course there was only a ten, and it would have been awkward to ask the barman for change, never mind that it was most of what he'd figured he'd spend on the whole trip, money being tight as it was. But if they won he could afford it and if they lost they'd be so screwed it didn't matter, so he handed it over with a shrug.
Stasi frowned. "What's the extra for?"
"Breakfast," Mitch said, getting up. He drained the last of his bourbon and put the glass on the counter. "Train doesn't leave until seven. I expect you'll want some."
"Where are you going?"
"To get some sleep," Mitch said. "I've got a race to fly in the morning." She was still frowning after him when he turned the corner to the elevator at the end of the hall.
Chapter Eight
If it had been her choice, Alma thought, they’d have taken off as soon as the sun was well up, flying east into the rising light, into quiet early morning air before the promised wind came up. But the start times were set for the newspapers and the public, the first takeoff at 9:30, so that the reporters could wire their stories ahead, setting up their colleagues in San Angelo with the latest standings and gossip, and the fans had a chance to take their coffee breaks early to see the planes leave. She leaned against the hotel window, feeling the warmth already rising through the glass. A beautiful day for flying…
“Al?” Lewis put his arms around her waist, and she leaned back into his embrace.
“It’s going to be a gorgeous day,” she said.
He tightened his hold. “Looks it. And, I hate to say it, we should get breakfast.”
Alma sighed and nodded. “Right. Are Mitch and Jerry up?”
“I don’t know. I said we’d meet downstairs at seven.”
Alma glanced around the room — spacious but unnaturally tidy, their bags already packed and ready for the bellhop — and nodded. “Let’s go. You’ll probably have to wake them, though.”
To her surprise, the others were ahead of them, settled at a corner table as far from the other teams as they could manage. Lewis nodded to the guys from Comanche as they passed, and pulled out Alma’s chair for her when they reached the table.
Jerry looked up from his paper long enough to nod, and Mitch said, “American got in about nine last night, and they’ve been working all night to make permanent repairs. Sounds like they’re out of it.”
“Well, that’s good news for us,” Alma said. The waitress appeared, and she placed her order, eggs and toast and bacon, accepted her cup of coffee with a grateful smile.
The food was good and plentiful and — best of all, to Alma’s way of thinking — on the race organizers’ tab. It was all too quickly finished, however, and a referee appeared to herd them onto the waiting bus. The three actresses greeted each other with hugs and giggles, posing even without the cameras watching as the bellhops loaded the bags.
“I’ve never been to New Orleans,” one of the girls said. “It’s — mysterious, isn’t it?”
“Hot city, cool jazz,” one of the Harvard boys said, with a cheerful grin that encompassed all of them without quite being a leer.
The girl from Consolidated shook her head. “I’ve been there on tour, and what I saw was hot and dirty. People selling magic dust in back alleys. Strange place.”
“It’s full of voodoo,” another one said, drawing out the vowels. She was smaller and rounder than the others, h
er platinum hair carefully waved, scarlet nails to match her scarlet lips. She smiled at Mitch. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Sorley?”
Mitch removed his hat. “Isn’t what right, Miss James?”
“That there’s voodoo in New Orleans. Black magic.”
Something crossed Mitch’s face like a shadow. “There’s no such thing,” he said, shortly, and visibly caught himself. “A lot of good music, though.”
Alma linked her arm through his, not liking the change of mood. “Pity we won’t have time to hit some of the clubs,” she said. “I remember you sent us a telegram from New Orleans once, before you came out west. Gil laughed at all the words you spent on the music.”
“Did I?” Mitch’s frown deepened. “I don’t really remember.”
Oh, dear, Alma thought. The last thing she wanted was to make things worse. “But maybe they’ll have some good bands at that party we have to go to.”
She felt Mitch’s arm relax under her hand. “There are plenty to choose from.”
They filed aboard the bus, the Harvards leaving the front seats for Jerry and the rest of Gilchrist without making a fuss about it. Alma settled herself next to him, turning to look at Lewis and Mitch behind her. Lewis looked almost placid, and Mitch’s taut expression had eased again: a good thing, Alma thought. She was flying the first leg, and had planned to have Mitch as co-pilot before he took over from the refueling stop in Albuquerque. Maybe Lewis should fly shotgun the whole way? She put the thought aside. Mitch was looking like himself again, and he was the one who could get the best out of the plane at the finish. They’d stick with the plan.
There was a small crowd gathered by the terminal, and the starlets waved gracefully to them, drawing cheers. The pilots copied them, sheepishly, and there were more cheers and clapping as the bus drew up at the entrance to the main hangar. A couple of newsreel photographers were set up, grinding away as the teams made their way off the bus. Alma clutched at her hat in the rising breeze, glad she’d worn slacks, and the starlets laughed and made a production of showing their legs while pretending to try not to. Lewis grinned appreciatively, but Mitch looked away, rolling his eyes.
“That wind’s going to be a nuisance.”
“If it stays,” Alma said, and glanced over her shoulder at the windsock on the terminal’s tower. It rose and fell, rippling gently, stretching toward the northeast. “It’s a tail wind, though.”
“That’s something,” Mitch said.
“I’ll get the weather report,” Lewis said, with a quick glance at Alma, and hurried away. Jerry had fallen behind as well, folding his paper into a neater package, and Alma gave Mitch a stern look.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Mitch said, but he didn’t meet her eyes.
“Mitch.”
He sighed then, and managed a rueful smile. “I’m ok, really. Just nerves. And it was a hard day yesterday.”
Alma nodded. It had been, and Mitch had been brilliant, coaxing every bit of performance out of two engines. “Lewis could take the first leg,” she offered, “and I could land her.”
“No,” Mitch said. “No, I’m fine. I promise, Al.”
She studied his face, his stance, and nodded again. “All right.”
“Let’s get started,” he said, and sounded entirely himself again.
They ran through the preflight with practiced ease, call and response down the clipboard. Across the hangar, Alma could see American’s team still working on their main engine, shook her head without comment. As far behind as they were, it had to be tempting to just drop out, spare the plane — but then, it was a company plane, and the publicity was probably worth the effort.
Across the hangar, an engine coughed to life: TWA, first in, and first out. United followed suit, and then Bestways, and then the race referee was waving at them. Alma hit the priming gun, then waved for Lewis to turn over the propellers, drawing fuel into the lines. Mitch moved the throttle back and forth, and after a moment Lewis gave a thumbs-up from outside.
“Go,” Mitch said, and Alma hit the starter on the port engine. It coughed, steadied, and she started the starboard engine and then the center as Mitch adjusted the throttles. They sounded good, a solid, healthy roar, and she grinned, unable to suppress the sheer joy she felt every time she got ready for another flight. It was still hard to believe she’d been this lucky.
“All secure,” Lewis reported, leaning in past the open door of the cockpit, and Mitch looked over his shoulder with a wry smile.
“Did you check the baggage compartment?”
“Twice,” Lewis answered, and backed away.
The referee waved again, motioning for them to taxi out. Alma advanced the throttle and released the brakes, letting the big plane follow in Bestways’ wake. As they made their way along the edge of the runway, TWA took off, rising into the sun. A few minutes later, it was United’s turn, and then Bestways made the turn onto the runway. It seemed to take the Fokker forever to lift, and she frowned.
“They look heavy.”
“They do,” Mitch said. “Wonder if they’re trying to carry extra fuel?” Or an extra body. If Miss Ivanova or whatever her name was had taken his money and not caught the train to LA. But she wouldn’t try the stowaway trick twice. Surely.
“All the better for us,” Alma said. The flagman waved them forward, and she turned the Terrier onto the runway, lining up into the steady breeze.
“All clear,” Mitch said, and she released the brakes. The Terrier lurched into motion, the tail popping up, and she pulled back on the wheel, lifting the big plane gently into the air.
She let the Terrier climb steadily to the west, gaining altitude before she turned back, searching for the compass line. She gave the field a wide berth, seeing Comanche lift from the runway as they passed, banking into a tight turn before they were more than a few hundred feet in the air. The Ford straightened, still rising, arrowing into the rising sun. They’d gotten a jump on her with that maneuver, taking a risk she wasn’t prepared to take just yet. She scowled, checking airspeed and heading, and Mitch leaned forward in his seat.
“Is that —? Damn.”
Alma opened the throttle just a notch, feeling the tail wind beginning to take hold. It was rougher than she’d expected at this altitude, and she eased the wheel back, searching for calmer air higher up. It was better at nine thousand feet, just under the edges of the cloud cover they’d been warned was waiting for them.
“It’ll be better at ten thousand,” Mitch said.
“How’s your dead reckoning?” Alma asked.
Mitch shook his head. “I’d rather have landmarks.”
“The tail wind will help us,” Alma said, with more confidence than she actually felt. Far ahead, sunlight glinted briefly, a hot pinpoint of light against the thickening haze. Probably Bestways, she knew, and settled herself for the long chase into Albuquerque.
They passed United three hours in, the Ford laboring at a lower altitude, and arrived over Albuquerque with no other planes in sight. She circled the field, lining up for the landing, while Mitch pressed his nose to the side window.
“One plane on the ground. Son of a bitch!”
“What?”
“That’s Comanche. How the hell did they get ahead of us?”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Alma said, and eased the Terrier toward the runway.
They took off from Albuquerque under a cloudless blue sky, eighty-four degrees, wind out of the southwest at 8 mph — ideal flying weather. They'd been on the ground twenty-two minutes, long enough for the refueling truck and a necessary pit stop. United's Ford trimotor had landed eighteen minutes behind them, the pilot pacing around outside with his cigarette while he waited for the truck to finish with them, four extra minutes lost waiting.
Lewis hopped into the shotgun seat beside Mitch, watched him taxi and get up to altitude with a steady hand. As he circled around, turning dead east for the flight to San Angelo, Lewis craned his nec
k looking out over the right wing. "There's another trimotor coming in," he said. The shape was plain against the distant line of desert, even if he couldn't tell the markings. "Blue on white, maybe? It might be Consolidated's?"
Mitch shook his head, giving the Terrier a little more power.
"They'll be twenty minutes behind United," Lewis said with satisfaction. "They'll have to wait on the truck too."
"I'm not worried about who's behind me," Mitch said. "I'm worried about who's ahead of me. That damn Comanche shouldn't have passed us in the first leg!"
"They're good pilots," Lewis said. "I met that guy, Rayburn, at a Legion meeting one time. I thought he looked familiar. He was a Signal Corps pilot in France. Now he flies for the Reserves in Oklahoma. Real good pilot." Lewis shifted in his seat. "And this is his home turf." Lewis glanced out at the shapes of canyon and desert, a thousand shades of red and ochre. "I bet he knows every thermal."
"They're the team to watch," Mitch agreed. "And TWA. I don't know how they got out in front so far on the first leg."
"A little something extra in the tank," Lewis joked. "Put some moonshine in there with the aviation fuel. Just give it that little something."
"Both Ford trimotors, though," Mitch said. "We'll get them in the next leg. You wait. Tomorrow's going to be our day. We need to get as far forward in the pack as we can on this leg, and tomorrow we'll leave them in the dust. We'll pick up close to an hour not having to refuel. If we can be less than that off the lead…"
"I'm game," Lewis said. The field at Albuquerque was no longer visible. Down there on the ground the United pilot would be gnashing his teeth, wanting to get back in the air. Every minute he spent on the ground was a mile and a half they lengthened the lead. "And once we get past Little Rock, those Oklahoma guys probably won't have flown the route before either." He shaded his eyes against the sun, looking out. "I've never flown it, anyway. Have you?" He couldn't see the Comanche plane ahead, but it was awfully bright. Mitch didn't answer, and Lewis glanced at him. "Have you? Flown that route before?"
"I dunno," Mitch said. There was a crease between his brows but his sunglasses hid his eyes completely.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 47