by Eric Nylund
“How have you been, Matthew?” Paladin’s right hand eased from his lap to the holster on his right hip. He quietly unfastened the snap.
“I’m lousy, thanks for asking.” Matthew filled the highball glasses to their brims-downed one, then the other. “You know what happens if word of us talking gets out? No decent bootlegger will get within spiting distance of me.”
“Sorry to be a such an…embarrassment to you,” Paladin said and set his hands on the table.
“You want to tell me about Flora?”
“I guess we really don’t have anything to talk about but her.” He slumped into his chair. His eyes met Paladin’s for a second; he opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then blinked and looked away.
“Flora?”
“Yeah, Flora. You know she’s always been in trouble-not the kind of trouble you and I get into, but booze and men and all that high society stuff.” Matthew poured himself another shot. “Well, I guess it’s not so bad when you stop to think about it.”
“Uh huh,” Paladin remarked.
Matthew was wrong. Flora had not always been trouble. Once, she had been enrolled at Smith College with plans to go on to law school. Then their father had died and nothing mattered to her, except trying to forget. She wrapped herself in vice and extravagance.
Liquor and men were just a start. She often indulged in things much more
“sophisticated”…and much more unsavory.
But Flora was always everyone’s darling. She entered the room and instantly became the center of attention. Everyone loved her. They couldn’t help it, not even Paladin.
“This time,” Matthew whispered, “she’s in real trouble, little brother…I mean, she’s in way over her head. She got mixed up with a New Orleans crowd.”
“Last I heard she was in Paris.”
Matthew snorted a laugh. “A year ago. She’s spent time in London since then, and South Africa. I got a postcard from her last week to meet her for Mardi Gras.”
Paladin winced. The only time Flora ever contacted him was when she needed cash. “And?
You saw her?”
“Kind of.” Matthew gazed into his glass. “She said she could only get away for an hour. She looked scared. And not for her…for me.”
Matthew furrowed his brow, struggling to find the right words. “I followed her after she left and got a glimpse of her new friends. I asked the locals a few questions about them. I had to get rough before they coughed up what they knew.
“These friends of hers have money and hired muscle. Their kind buy and sell things, doesn’t matter from where or from who. Guns, booze, narcotics-” Matthew paused, then added,
“Well, you name it and they can get it for a price.”
A smuggling outfit? Paladin could see why Flora would be with that crowd. Exotic delicacies and fast times would, for her, outweigh the danger involved.
“They call themselves ‘Derpsins,’ or ‘Diespines’-something like that,” Matthew said. “Thing is, when Flora’s ready to move on, I don’t think these people will let her go. She knows too much.”
“You wired me because you think I can get her out?”
“You’ve got the guns and the men to go in there. Hell, you did it when you were in the Pinkertons-for strangers. You should be able to do the same for your own flesh and blood.”
“Working with the Pinks was different,” Paladin said. “I did all the wrong things for the right reasons. And, it was a long time ago.”
“Well, there’s another reason it’s got to be you. If I get Flora out, then what? How do I tell her to clean up? I’m no angel. She’d laugh in my face and have every right to do it.”
Matthew drank his shot of bourbon. “But you’re squeaky clean, a businessman. Hell, you’re a hero if you believe the newspapers. She’ll listen to you.”
He was right-it had to be Paladin. Matthew would use a sledgehammer when a light touch was needed. He’d go in with guns blazing and get everyone killed. Paladin knew the odds that he could convince Flora to change her ways were long, but there was another way to help her. Dasheill had connections with a hospital in Santa Barbara that dried out studio starlets. That might do the trick.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Paladin stood. “Thanks for telling me, Matt.”
“I knew you’d do it.” Matthew stood, too, and held out his hand.
Paladin stared at it. He wanted to reach out and clasp it. He tried to move his arm, but it might as well have been made of lead. Matthew was his brother, his blood, but he was also everything that Paladin had sworn to fight.
“There’s one last piece of business between us, Matthew. You’re coming back with me.
You’re wanted in Hollywood, Texas, and a dozen other places for larceny, theft, murder-take your pick.”
Matthew retracted his outstretched hand. He looked his bother up and down, then laughed.
“You think you can take me? With five of my crew to back me up? You’re a hoot, little brother.”
How fast could Matthew draw his gun with a quarter bottle of bourbon in him? Probably too quick for Paladin’s liking.
“I mean it, Matthew. You come with me now, the easy way…or later, the hard way.”
Matthew’s smile vanished. “Get out of here. Get out of here and get Flora-or don’t. I don’t care anymore.”
“Everything okay, boss?” Matthew’s crew stood silhouetted in the frame of the back door.
“Get back inside,” he growled at them. “This is none of your businesses.”
Matthew then turned back to Paladin and whispered, “If I ever see you again, on the ground or in the sky, I’ll kill you. Brother or no brother.”
“That’s good to know,” Paladin said. “It looks like we do have something in common.”
He stared at his brother-years of drinking and hard living had made Matthew’s eyes sunken and his skin pallid. In the shadows, Matthew’s head looked more like a skull than human flesh. Paladin didn’t know the man anymore-no, that wasn’t right. He knew him, he just wished he didn’t.
“Goodbye, Matthew.”
Paladin turned his back on his brother and marched back to the runway. He climbed into his Devastator and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He had promised his father he’d get every last pirate in the air. But what would Dad say about this? Which of his sons would he disapprove of more? Matthew for his murdering and thieving or Paladin for wanting to bring his own brother down?
That didn’t matter. His father was long dead, and Paladin was his own man, with his own reasons for fighting.
Paladin flipped the ignition switch, cranked the Devastator’s engine, and taxied onto the runway. He pushed the throttle full open and shot into the sky. The moon rose past the edge of the mountains, casting silver and shadows into the valley. He climbed to three hundred feet then banked and headed back toward Durango Field.
Sometimes, he thought, you need a light touch to solve your problems. This wasn’t one of those times.
Paladin lined up with the runway and dove. He opened fire, peppered the Corsairs on the ground with .30-caliber bullets, then launched rockets one and four.
He pulled back on the stick. He risked a quick glance, and saw two planes explode as men and woman ran onto the airstrip. Paladin circled back for another pass, but the remaining Corsairs were already taking off.
Chapter Three: In the Shadow of the Black Knight
Paladin Blake pushed the stick forward and sent his Devastator into a dive, right toward the runway-and straight at the first two Corsairs gathering speed on the field. Just as their wheels cleared the ground, he opened fire.
His Devastator’s .40-calibers stitched a hail of gunfire across their tails and canopies. The Corsairs dropped to the earth, bounced, and crashed into the trees at the end of the landing strip.
Had one of those been Matthew’s plane? A sickening heaviness settled in his gut. Paladin pulled back on the stick and banked for another pass.
His radio
crackled. “Shooting men on the ground, huh?” It was Matthew’s voice. “So the great Paladin Blake isn’t the hero the papers say he is. I knew you’d show your true colors.”
Paladin didn’t bother replying; it had been four-against-one with him on the short end of that deal. He didn’t gamble with odds like that…especially when the bet was his life.
He made another pass over Durango Field. He spied the glint of reflected moonlight off the wings of the two remaining Corsairs-now aloft and behind him. Paladin had survived two-on-one dogfights before…but not flying against Matthew.
He pushed the throttle to full, started to bank right, hoping the pirates would follow. Paladin quickly reversed and pulled hard to the left.
Corsairs were notorious for their high engine torque-which made starboard turns easier, but port turns more difficult. Paladin had, hopefully, bought himself a little maneuvering room.
He glanced back. One of the pirates had fallen for the feint; the enemy pilot broke right and was trying to recover and find Paladin. The other Corsair was still on his tail. That had to be Matt.
Matt-who learned to fly in the Great War-would never be eloquent with words, or successful with the ladies, but he was a brilliant pilot. He’d shot down five Germans in Europe-all of them aces-and never had the favor returned. Paladin knew he was outclassed.
“Give it up, brother,” Matt said. “Land and I’ll let you walk out of here-that’s the best offer you’ll get from me.”
That was a lie. No one crossed Matthew Blake and lived to tell about it.
Paladin dove, weaving back and forth, skimming over the tree line.
Matt was right on his tall.
A burst of .50-caliber fire peppered his Devastator’s wing. Paladin pulled up.
The Corsair followed-less than a hundred feet behind him and closing.
He was toying with Paladin. Matthew couldn’t miss at this range. One machine gun burst or rocket would shred his plane to confetti.
Rocket? Paladin thought, struck with sudden inspiration. He risked a glance at his port wing.
It was still there: the tail of Tennyson’s aft-facing rocket.
Matthew couldn’t miss at this range…but neither could Paladin. He squeezed the trigger, twice fast.
The number one rocket launched forward as expected. The second rocket’s control flashed brightly, forcing Paladin to look away. A few seconds later, Paladin saw the blue-white starburst of the rocket’s detonation.
Bits of metal pinged off his canopy as Paladin pulled into a step climb. His Devastator shuddered; the tip of his port wing was gone, still smoldering where the rocket had ripped away the hardpoint.
He inverted and looked for his brother. Matthew’s plane was far below…trailing smoke and fire, but still aloft.
The Corsair banked, slowly climbed, and headed southwest.
Paladin began to dive towards his brother. His Devastator’s canopy-starred by bullet holes-exploded inward, and bits of glass slashed his cheek. Paladin looked about wildly and saw tracers spitting from the other Corsair at nine o’clock.
He ignored Matthew, righted the Devastator, and headed toward the immediate threat.
The Corsair turned to face him. A head-to-head attack? Paladin’s Devastator was outgunned against the Corsair’s .50-calibers. He couldn’t out-shoot him; he’d have to out-fly him.
Paladin cut the throttle to half and let the Corsair close. A half-mile out, it opened fire.
Stupid. Matthew was a pilot of unparalleled cunning, but he apparently hadn’t passed any of that skill on to his wingmen.
Paladin pulled back, started to climb, then cut the throttle. He stalled and dropped like a rock-he fought the stick to keep the nose pointed straight up. The Corsair rushed over him.
Paladin rammed the throttle to full power; the engine roared to life, and slowed his fall.
He fired rocket number three. A trail of smoke connected the two planes-followed by a brilliant flash as the rocket impacted on the Corsair’s undercarriage. The Corsair’s port wing-severed at the fuselage-fluttered away in freefall. What was left of the Corsair plummeted to the ground.
Paladin quickly shoved the stick forward, sending his plane into a shallow dive before leveling off-another few seconds and his unconventional maneuver would have been unrecoverable.
He exhaled, trying to relax. The fight wasn’t over. He still had to deal with Matthew.
He nosed his plane south, and followed the stream of black smoke from his brother’s plane.
The remaining Corsair attempted to evade as best as it could, trying not to let Paladin’s line up on his six. Matthew wasn’t going anywhere, though. A smear of oil fanned out from his plane’s nose and along the wing.
Paladin cut his throttle back to a quarter power and easily caught up.
Matt’s voice crackled over the radio. “Nice trick with the rocket, little brother,” he chuckled and coughed. “You did it. You got me.” There was a burst of static, then, “Now you’re going have to finish me, too. You’re not taking me in alive.”
Paladin clicked off his radio, and then dropped behind the Corsair.
He had to take him out. If he didn’t, Matthew would keep bootlegging…and worse, he would keep killing. He was just another pirate that had to be shot down, or every death Matthew caused from now on would be on Paladin’s conscience, too.
Paladin’s squinted, lining up his shot.
His finger tightened on the trigger-
-then, reluctantly, relaxed.
What was the matter with him? Was it because he had used Tennyson trick rocket to take Matthew out? No. Fairness in dogfights was a luxury Paladin could rarely afford.
Matthew would have shot Paladin down if their positions were switched. Paladin couldn’t bring himself to shoot, though. Maybe that was the biggest difference between them. And Matt, like it or not, was his brother. Like Flora, Matthew was a part of him-no matter what kind of man he was.
Paladin flicked on the radio. “Get out of here,” he said. “I’ll get back to you soon enough.”
He broke off, opened the throttle to three quarters, and banked east, towards New Orleans.
“I’ve got better things to do right now. Like save our little sister.”
Paladin cradled his coffee and stared at his black reflection at the bottom of the cup. He had gotten nowhere fast. It had been twenty-four hours since he landed at Pontchartrain Aerodrome. Since landing, he had canvassed the city searching for Flora-and her new smuggler friends.
He had rented a room, cleaned up and bought a suit, and then hit the high-class joints: Four Aces, Bourbon Beach, and King’s Retreat. His questions about importers only got him leads on a legitimate French textile manufacturer and an invitation to the Banker’s Cotillion.
His luck changed as he worked his way down the lists of reputable bars and jazz clubs to places like Furious Fists, The One-Legged Dog, and Le Petit Scandal, establishments where the bouncers frisked everyone as they entered and handed out receipts for confiscated sidearms.
Paladin got plenty of leads on importers, illegal and otherwise, especially since he was buying drinks for those talking…until he mentioned the name Matt gave him, “Derspins.”
When Paladin dropped the name, the flow of information vanished like water into sand.
Whoever this guy is, Paladin thought, he values his privacy.
He had stopped on his way back to the hotel for coffee at a tiny bar called Officer’s Roost located atop a three-story colonel on Cataouatche Avenue. The interior was decorated with polished copper and brass ship fixtures and had open balconies overlooking the Mississippi with a view beyond of the brightly canopied storefronts and gas lanterns of Jefferson Heights. An occasional barge drifted by on the river, almost serene if you ignored the antiaircraft guns mounted on their prows.
“More coffee?” The bartender refilled Paladin’s cup before he could reply. He was in his in mid-sixties, had a slight Creole accent, and a slick of long black hair s
treaked gray. He jerked his head to the back of the bar, “Or would monsieur prefer something stronger?”
“No, I don’t-” Among the rainbow colors of aperitifs, brandy, and bourbon decanters behind the bar, Paladin spotted two bottles of Dark Knight whiskey. That threw him for a moment, remembering Matthew and his sister and how much trouble they were. “No,” he said.
“Thanks all the same.”
The bartender followed Paladin’s gaze. “You have a taste for the best.” He retrieved the square-bottomed bottle. “This is my personal favorite as well, particularly the rather elegant smoky aftertaste. But almost to expensive to keep in stock, non?”
“I don’t see why.” Paladin said and took a sip of his coffee. “That quart cost thirty cents to make. Even if it got marked up for a tidy profit you still shouldn’t pay more than two or three dollars for it.”
” Mon Dieu!” The bartender leaned closer. “If you can get a bottle for that price, I would very much be interested.”
A new angle to the search for Flora dawned on Paladin. He had been looking for these smuggler friends of hers by asking questions, by playing at being a cop. That wasn’t working…so maybe he could make them come to him. Or at least meet him half way.
And the best way to make a smuggler come to you was with a high profit margin.
Paladin asked, “What do you pay?”
“Twenty-five francs, gold standard, when such a bottle can be found. It is very popular.” The bartender then leaned even further across the bar top and whispered conspiratorially, “You said you could find such a fine whiskey for three dollars a bottle?”
“I should say so.” Paladin smiled. “I make the stuff.”
The bartender raised one eyebrow and examined label on the bottle. Matthew’s name was there, listed as chief refiner and president of the “company.”
” Monsieur Blake? Matthew Blake?”
There was an element of risk to this. Anyone who knew Matt would not only see that Paladin was an imposter, but they might see enough family resemblance to figure out who he really was.