Barnstorm

by Page, Wayne;

  Safely sequestered behind the hugging Trip, Buzz said, “You must be Maggie. And yes, I’m taken.”

  “Do I smell pie?” Trip asked.

  “Hope you don’t mind paper plates,” Gerty apologized as she led everyone to the intoxicating smells of her kitchen. “We’re in a bit of a mess.”

  It took some searching through the scores of boxes to find what she needed, but the apple pie was up to Gerty’s blue-ribbon standards. After seconds, thirds for Trip, the foursome settled back to discuss Trip’s plan.

  “You would do that for me?” Gerty gasped.

  “Sure,” Trip smiled.

  “Robinson had me doin’ a fly-over, scouting out your farm for some developer,” Buzz added. “We’ve got a little event scheduled in two weeks. Restored some old biplanes. Invited some guys from Illinois over for a one-day, fly-in air show”

  Her interest piqued, Maggie asked, “Illinois guys, do they bring their wives?”

  “Ignore her,” Gerty sighed.

  “Trip’s idea,” Buzz continued. “Use an air show as a fundraiser. Save your farm. Stop by the airstrip, work on some promo stuff with Deb. I think you know the way.”

  As Trip and Buzz rose to leave, Trip asked Gerty, “How is Dorothy?”

  Puzzled, Buzz asked, “Who is Dorothy?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The smell of frying bacon could generally mask, overwhelm any odor in the Sky Gypsy Café. Not so today. Even the grilling of a twenty-pound bag of onions destined for Deb’s secret recipe chili on the flattop paled by comparison. It was Crash’s doing. Every window, every door in the hangar was wide open. Except the door separating the hangar from the cafe. The repaired wind sock hung limply, no cross breeze to clear out the hangar.

  It was the smell of fresh paint that caused the headaches. It also caused the last two Stearmans to glisten, sparkle, pop. Buzz strictly enforced his ‘NO SMOKING’ rule. One match married to the paint fumes might divorce the hangar from the airstrip. He had already crashed one airplane. He wasn’t about to see his three biplanes go up in flames.

  The good news? Painting was the last step. The planes had all been fully restored. The champagne was on ice. There would be a celebration this afternoon. There would be more test flights. Without Deb’s participation. Buzz would be the test pilot as Bomber was still grounded. The Liar Flyer flight school would open the next day.

  The main activity in the cafe was not the one-contestant chili cook-off. Gerty, Maggie, Dorothy and a collection of young Girl Scouts were busy making posters and stuffing envelopes. The Girl Scouts were giving the older ladies lessons in grassroots marketing via texting and Facebook. There wasn’t much time to publicize the upcoming air show. Word-of-mouth in small places like Highland and Clinton Counties would be the main communication vehicle. News of Deb’s test flight with Bomber had increased traffic through the cafe three-fold. Rural gossip spread the word like wildfire. Within twenty-four hours, posters were nailed to telephone poles at every intersection; flyers littered windshield wipers in town, and the word was out.

  A first ever air show was coming to the Clinton County Airstrip.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  Carnies Rufus and Gomer were on time for their appointment. Not as if they had a busy schedule. One o’clock, Tuesday. Waffle House parking lot, east side of town. Still wearing their Goodwill wardrobe first modeled at the Highland County Fair shooting range, they waited patiently in Rufus’s dilapidated Cadillac convertible. Faded red with gray/black primer accents at rusted wheel wells, the carnies were proud of their hot ride. The top was down, because the fabric was so torn and tattered, it didn’t matter. Up or down, the wind on their greasy, unwashed hair was the same.

  Robinson was also on time. As he opened the door to exit the Waffle House, he frowned at the air show poster taped to the door. He wanted to rip it off, but he kept his cool. He walked by the Cadillac carnie miscreants and dropped a large envelope on the seat between them. He assumed they could read. A half-right assumption. No words were spoken. Task assigned, Robinson drove off in his Mercedes.

  Rufus and Gomer each reached for the brown envelope at the same time. A brief tug-of-war ensued. Good thing Rufus won, as he was the one who could read. The contents were simple, easy to understand. Even for Gomer. Gomer didn’t need to know how to read to grab one of the hundred-dollar bills that fell out of the envelope. It wasn’t every day that he had a Ben Franklin in his wallet.

  Rufus held an air show flyer in his hands. Initially perplexed, he flipped the flyer over. A few instructions written on the back were direct and to the point. Thousands of dollars, many more Ben Franklins were ripe for the picking.

  Smoke and gravel spewed from the back of the rusty Cadillac as the carnies drove off to plan their assigned escapade.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  It was show time.

  The circus had come to town, with airplanes instead of elephants. A Flying Circus. Popcorn and cotton candy had replaced the smells of paint. No exact count, but the airstrip was swarmed by hundreds of curious farmers, locals, and kids. It was the county fair on steroids.

  The tarmac hosted Screamin’ Deb, Ole Red, and 38 Dee. Each Liar Flyer stood beside one of the restored Stearmans. Hooker’s biplane was a shout-out to his Navy days–a Navy N25 “Yellow Peril.” The red instrumentation stripe on the wings and around the rear fuselage matched the blush of pride in his cheeks. Bomber’s Screamin’ Deb proudly wore the traditional blue-yellow colors of the PT-17 Army Air Corps. Crash was the one about to burst. He had commandeered the 450 horsepower engine and custom-built the engine cowling, masking the beast within. His Ole Red was fast–just like “what’s-her-name” in Minneapolis.

  The Liar Flyers beamed with pride as young and old alike admired their handiwork. A long line of kids snaked at each plane to take a turn sitting in a cockpit. These ex-stunt pilots–heroes of a bygone era–basked in the glory that was their barnstorming years. Truth be told, they were proud of something else, more important to them than the hot-rod collection of refurbished wings, struts, and taut wires. Buzz had recertified them all– Bomber, Crash, and Hooker. Once a pilot, always a pilot. After weeks of surprisingly good behavior and intensive study, they had each soloed and were once again certified pilots.

  While Buzz’s biplanes were certainly the center of attention, four other, much younger pilots had flown their restored Stearmans in from Galesburg, Illinois. Amateur stunt pilots all, they entertained the crowd with death-defying feats.

  Brett Hunter, in the Zombie Slayer from nearby Waynesville, Ohio, wowed the crowd with his three hundred thirty horsepower Magnum antics. While the Stearmans performed gentle, flowing maneuvers, Hunter’s competitive plane defied gravity, and pulled goosebumps out of the most stubborn of skin.

  Bomber was still peeved that he came in second in the flour bombing competition. While he congratulated the Galesburg winner, he still had a bone to pick with the obviously blind judge. Releasing his last sack of common kitchen flour, he was certain it had hit closer to the runway target than anyone else’s. The judge ticked him off when she’d said, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Bomber offered to take the judge up for a view from above, but she had heard of Deb’s previous test flight experience. She passed.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  Gerty had hoped she could attend the air show, but bank foreclosures and sheriff’s sales under court order were quite specific. There was a conflict. She was stuck at the bank, supported by Dorothy and Maggie. She didn’t know how much, but she knew that some cash must be flowing at the air show. There was a plan to get as much cash as possible to the bank a half-hour before the sheriff’s sale deadline. Even if only a few thousand dollars, a loan extension might be a possibility. Robinson wasn’t worried. He knew that the carnies would foil the air show plans.

  Gerty sat alone at the bank. Her back against a wall, literally. The ticking of the clock above her head broke t
he silence. A rhythmic break that created its own silence. Hypnotic. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Her farm, her life was ticking away. Thoughts of Lester. Luke. Tick, tock.

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  Seven Stearmans flew in formation. Red, white, and blue smoke trailed behind. Every neck craned, hands shading eyes from the late September sun. Perfection. Perfect for Rufus and Gomer. With everyone’s attention so focused on the stunt pilots above, no one was guarding his wallet. The air show was a pickpocket’s dream. Gomer would lift the treasures and transfer them immediately to a passing Rufus. The loot slipped into his backpack, Rufus would turn around, make another pass. Like taking candy from a baby.

  The air show was coming to an end. All of the biplanes had landed and were parked outside the main hangar. The Liar Flyers were exhausted by all of the attention. Hooker’s right hand had seized-up, gnarled and contorted from signing all of the autographs. Crash had run out of true stories, he was delving into his usual blather of the fictional. The kids didn’t care. Bomber was proud. Quiet. He shot one final evil stare at the flour-bombing judge, but he’d probably forgive her soon. It had been a glorious day.

  Then it happened.

  All of the pilots were posing for a group picture. The crowd didn’t particularly notice. It had been wowed by old-geezer stunt pilots and the present-day stunt guru Hunter’s Zombie Slayer. The crowd might not have paid much attention. Not so with the Liar Flyers. They all looked skyward when a yellow-winged Stearman PT-17, exactly like Screamin’ Deb buzzed the field. It waggled its wings and spewed white smoke in a snaking trail behind.

  “Oh, my God,” Bomber exclaimed.

  “Has to be,” Hooker said.

  “Who else could it be?” Crash exclaimed.

  “What’s going on?” Deb asked.

  Shading his eyes from the sun, Buzz announced, “Sweetheart, I think we’re about to meet Gus.”

  The remaining crowd ducked low as the new arrival buzzed the wind sock remnants fluttering over the hangar.

  “Nah,” Deb said. “Ole Gus? You’re kiddin’. You mean Gus actually exists?”

  “Appears so,” Buzz grinned.

  “Those barnstormin’ stories are true?”

  “Yep.”

  The yellow and blue Stearman taxied and came to a stop beside its kindred biplanes. It was as though the Army Air Corps had been called to active duty. The younger Galesburg pilots were sport enthusiasts. Some had been Air Force trained, flown missions over Vietnam, Iraq, or Afghanistan. They felt a certain level of pride and appreciated the history on the tarmac before them. However, it paled by comparison to the pride felt by the Liar Flyers. These has-beens really had been. They had been there. They were there when modern military aviation first took flight. The Liar Flyers and Gus were members of the same aviation fraternity.

  The Liar Flyers greeted Gus as he climbed out of his plane. The crowd kept its distance. Everyone seemed to know that this was a special, private moment. It was as though time had stood still. The smiles. The laughter. Wasn’t her name Doris? No, it was Lucille. St. Louis, right? Come on, had to have been Birmingham?

  Time might have stood still for Lucille and Doris. For Gerty, time was racing toward the 3:00 p.m. sheriff’s sale.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The bank wall clock above Gerty struck 2:00 p.m.

  Mel Smith took a seat beside Gerty. He stared straight ahead, silent. The awkward pause reminded him of calling hours at Drake’s funeral home. Wait in line, awkward. Every minute, take a step closer to the casket, the blurry-eyed widow. Rehearse something personal, appropriate like, I’m so sorry for your loss, or, I’ll always remember his laugh. After all of the practice, the best that flops around on the floor like a three-legged frog is, he looks so natural. Mel just sat there. He wasn’t about to step on any frogs. He reached over and patted Gerty’s hand. He didn’t need words.

  “I feel like Marie Antoinette,” Gerty said as she finally broke the silence.

  “You don’t have to be here,” he said as he held her hand. “It will happen by the book. Why put yourself through this?”

  “I want that jerk Robinson to look me in the eye.”

  As if on cue, the jerk entered the bank. He compared the time on the wall clock to that on his silver Rolex. Totally ignoring Gerty, Robinson addressed Mel, “Mr. Smith, shall we adjourn to the courthouse? Wall clock is slow–by three minutes.”

  ☁ ☁ ☁

  2:05 p.m.

  The airstrip was a mess. Fifty-five gallon barrels positioned not frequently enough around the tarmac each overflowed with two hundred gallons of trash. Paper cups were strewn about, tumbling in the mid-afternoon breeze. Wisps of cotton candy remnants melted into the hot asphalt tarmac awaiting the bottom of someone’s unsuspecting shoe. Pigeons must have sent out the word because every flying rat in Clinton County had been summoned to fly off with its beak full of popcorn. These aerial scavengers were actually performing a worthwhile service.

  The Galesburg pilots were taking off in formation. In four hours, they would be back home in Illinois. Bomber had considered snatching the flour-bomb trophy away from its rightful owner, but he and the other Liar Flyers were still arguing with Gus about some 1947 detail involving a rakish blonde in Detroit. Or was it Wichita?

  Buzz, Deb, and Trip had retreated to the cafe. All of the vendors had delivered their bags of cash and were cleaning up their booths. The concession revenue almost equaled the modest admission fees. It was a huge haul. Ones, fives, tens. Bills wadded up were straightened. Beer-soaked bills, with that yeast smell that might be more appreciated in a brewery, were counted and stacked. The level of accuracy and precision deteriorated with each passing minute. The trio needed to get the cash to the bank on a tight schedule. When the tabletops were cleared of their well-gotten loot, they crammed the last dead President into a canvas duffel bag.

  It had been a great day.

  “So, Trip,” Buzz smiled, “what’s it like knowin’ you’ve saved Gerty’s farm?”

  “Should I cry now, maybe later?” Deb asked.

  The cafe door to the tarmac slammed shut. Deb, Buzz, and Trip looked up simultaneously.

  “Cry now,” Rufus smirked. “Git it over with.” Rufus slapped a baseball bat into his palm as he approached the table. He raised the bat menacingly over his head and banged it, full force on the table. Even Gomer jumped, surprised by the sudden display of violence. Rufus pulled the canvas duffel bag toward him with the bat. Sliding the bag over his shoulder he announced, “Thanks for a great day, folks.”

  Buzz jumped to his feet, only to collapse to his knees as Rufus buried the handle of the baseball bat into his gut. Trip started to enter the fray but was intercepted by Deb.

  “Smart lady,” Rufus laughed. “You got a storeroom?”

  Knowing that they were out-muscled and seeing no alternative, Deb led the way to the storeroom behind the lunch counter. Rufus motioned for Trip and Gomer to drag Buzz across the cafe floor and dump him in the storeroom. Deb and Trip heard the door lock click. Deb cradled Buzz’s head in her lap. After waiting a minute or two, Trip banged on the door, “Help! Help!” Anyone who might hear was outside, on the tarmac.

  Rescue would not be quick.

  It had been a great day. For Rufus and Gomer.

  As the rust-red Caddy convertible sped through the backcountry roads of Clinton and Highland Counties, the driver and his passenger were elated. The backpack tossed in the backseat was full of wallets, cash, and credit cards. They hadn’t had time to survey the contents, but they knew it would top any take ever harvested at the county fair.

  The backpack was icing on the cake. The canvas duffel bag on the seat between them was the mother lode. They could care less about the measly Ben Franklins Robinson had given them. The canvas duffel bag probably contained thousands.

  Rufus zigged. Back a gravel road. Then he zagged. No way would they be found.

  ☁
☁ ☁

  “Help! Help!” Trip was getting hoarse. He took a break from his fruitless screams.

  The Liar Flyers and Gus did not hear Trip yell. That’s not why they entered the cafe. They were thirsty. Seated at the lunch counter, the reminiscing blather continued. Bomber snuck behind the counter and served up drinks. Crash pilfered the last of the donuts from the cake box at the end of the counter.

  It was Hooker who decided to get greedy. “Cherry pie, anyone?” he asked.

  “Deb’ll kick your butt,” Crash cautioned.

  “I don’t see any Deb,” Hooker laughed, as he spun off his stool. He limped round the lunch counter and failed as he tried to open the storeroom door. Locked. “That’s strange,” he said. “She never locks it in the middle of the day.”

  The turning of the door handle gave Trip his second wind. Rasped and raw, his voice could barely be heard. Startled by the pounding fists on the door, Hooker jumped back in surprise. The three Liar Flyers were unsuccessful in forcing the door open.

  It was Gus who took charge. “Stand back,” he ordered, as he grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall. With one motion, the bottom rim of the brass cylinder sliced off the door handle to the storeroom. As the door flung open, there was a tearful Deb, a semi-conscious Buzz, and a defeated Trip.

  It was over.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  2:10 p.m.

  A crowd was milling around the courthouse lawn. Sheriff’s foreclosure sales are commonplace. Actually quite boring. They usually last five minutes or less. A court official, generally the sheriff or a deputy, reads the required legal mumbo jumbo and plat map description of the property to be sold. The threatening phrase, I’ll meet you on the courthouse steps is hollow. No meaning. No one really settles a case on the courthouse steps. It means–at the last minute. Most foreclosure sales are in a courthouse auditorium, meeting room, or even court room. Nice sunny day, big emotional crowd, then yes, holding the auction outside might make sense.