The Rocketeer Page 2

  Then Wooly had pulled up beside him. The cop car was already in motion, and Fitch, presuming that the cops were radioing for an ambulance, ran around and leapt into the passenger seat.

  The cop car roared forward, siren blazing, and the car carrying the G-men fell in right behind it.

  Fitch shook his head. “The blonde was in on it. Can you believe it?”

  “Maybe you’re right about what you were saying before,” said Wooly. “I mean, if you can’t trust gorgeous blondes, how can anyone trust Hitler?”

  Wilmer held the wheel tightly, watching the road while at the same time glancing fast and furious into the rearview mirror.

  “Just keep your eyes front!” snapped Lenny. “Let me worry about the cops and feds, okay?”

  “Sheila, Lenny . . . poor Sheila. I’m so sorry,” said Wilmer. “I mean, your girlfriend, Lenny. She was your girlfriend . . .”

  Lenny shrugged and slammed a fresh drum of ammo into his weapon. “I got lots of girlfriends. She was a better shot than most, but otherwise she’s a kiss-off. Now, eyes front, I said! I don’t want anything, and I mean anything, screwing this up!”

  2

  There was an ominous rumble that echoed through the otherwise silent Chaplin airfield. It was the sound of a hangar door opening, and light flooded through into the darkened building. It was an eerie feeling. One almost expected bats to come pouring out.

  The two men who had pushed open the hangar door did not chatter or waste time with idle movements. They were grimfaced, energized, excited, and trying not to show it. Part of it was professionalism, part superstition. They were mutually concerned that if they displayed too much enthusiasm, there might be some sort of arcane evil eye watching the proceedings that would feel constrained to cause that morning’s activities to end in tragedy.

  The two men scurried back into the comforting darkness of the hangar and then, moments later, were helping two other men wheel out what appeared to be an airplane. “Appeared to be” was a particularly effective term, for actually it was little more than a flying death trap. Many pilots had stormed their last barn attempting to master the intricacies of this particular model. This rather depressing statistic was not going to deter yet another pilot, this beautiful morning, from trying his hand at braving the skies in a plane nicknamed the Blind Bulldog.

  It was, in fact, a racing plane called a GeeBee, painted black and yellow, sunlight gleaming off its propeller and fresh paint as it was rolled out onto the tarmac. It bore the number four on its tail. The stubby GeeBee was little more than a gigantic radial engine with wings and a cockpit; a hunched, aggressive animal ready to pounce.

  Nearby, about a dozen fliers and mechanics had turned out to watch the plane’s flight. Every single one of them was pulling for the pilot to accomplish his goal, although some wouldn’t have minded this morning’s pilot being taken down a peg. He was the best pilot around; he knew it, and they knew it, and they hated knowing it. It would be a nice kick in the old ego for the plane’s pilot if he had a rough time of it.

  However, not a man on the field for even a moment wanted anything fatal or even near-fatal to happen. Annoyingly self-satisfied and cocky the pilot may be, but he was still a pilot. They were a fraternity, a brotherhood, and one did not wish ill on someone with whom such a bond was shared. A good scare, maybe, but not ill.

  The four men who were pushing the GeeBee were dressed in greasy overalls and looked like they’d been up all night, which of course, they had. Pushing on the left-hand side was lanky Goose Taylor, and grease monkey Eugene Turner was huffing and puffing on the right. Skeets Moran, who still proudly went by the name of the Loop King, was guiding the tail. And in the front, not really pushing, actually, so much as making a fairly big production of calling out, “Over here! This way! Watch it! Watch it now!” was pudgy, red-faced Malcolm Willis.

  Of the four men there, Malcolm was the most envious. Then again, of all the pilots there on the Chaplin field tarmac, his career as a flier was over. His best years were behind him, and Malcolm had an unfortunate tendency to look fixatedly back at those times. And while he was looking back, he had nasty habits of tripping over things in front of him, such as the bottles of booze that he’d developed a nasty habit of crawling into.

  But in the back of his mind, Malcolm knew that even in his prime, he would have thought long and hard about going up in a widowmaker like this one.

  Not Cliff though. Old Cliffie, he probably hadn’t given it so much as a second thought. Old Cliffie, he was that good. Or that stupid. Or maybe a little of both, thought Malcolm.

  He remembered the time when Bigelow, the overstuffed, obnoxious businessman who ran the Bigelow Air Circus, where they all worked, reamed Malcolm out for some offense that Malcolm had not committed. He docked Malcolm a day’s pay for it, and old Cliffie had gotten so hopped up about it that he’d snuck into Bigelow’s office that night and removed all the screws from Bigelow’s chair. The resulting crash the next morning and shouted profanities could be heard all over the airfield. From that moment on, Malcolm felt eternally indebted to Cliff. Most people wouldn’t care about some washed-up old rummy, but not Cliff. He cared about everybody.

  That’s the way Cliff was. A guy who was willing to carry the weight of the world on his back.

  As Malcolm guided and the others huffed and puffed, pushing the racer, two figures converged on it from the far side of the airfield. Malcolm glanced up and smiled. It was them all right. Cliff and Peevy, together as always. Practically joined at the hip.

  Cliff Secord was a handsome young flier, the way that Malcolm wished that he’d looked in his prime. He sported his customary brown leather flight jacket with the silver buttons that lined the flap across the top and down the sides. His white jodhpurs were crisp and clean—he was always excessively fastidious the night before he made an important flight, although he was a perfectly decent slob the rest of the time—and his brown boots were slickly polished. Secord moved with the easy stride of a natural athlete.

  Beside him strode Ambrose Peabody, who was called that by his mother and maybe his priest. Everyone else called the bespectacled, weather-beaten, and quick-tempered man Peevy. Peevy had been a part of the aviation scene for as long as anyone could remember. Now in his late fifties, he was more than a mechanic, more than an engineer. He was Cliff’s friend, father confessor, conscience, all of it rolled into one.

  Matching Cliff’s stride, Peevy was talking quickly and with controlled excitement. Cliff, for his part, was calmly chomping away on a piece of chewing gum. It might have appeared to the uninitiated that Cliff Secord was not paying the least bit of attention, and Cliff might have even claimed that he wasn’t. He was, in fact, taking in every single word. He’d just be damned if he gave Peevy the satisfaction of knowing it.

  “. . . and keep her straight and level,” Peevy was saying. “Don’t let me catch you gettin’ fancy first time up.”

  “Who, me?” said Cliff, the picture of innocence. He was busily pulling on black leather gloves, and he worked the gum faster.

  Peevy ignored the pure-at-heart act and continued. “Remember, she stalls at around a hundred. Keep your air speed up or she’ll wallow all over the sky. If those ailerons start to shimmy on ya . . .”

  “Peevy, I have flown a plane or two, you know,” Cliff said with a laugh.

  The mechanic was starting to get annoyed. It was hard to tell with Cliff if what you were saying penetrated that hard head of his. “Not like this one, dammit! She’s a handful! You gotta concentrate on her every second! Sneeze once and you’ll be tail up in the bean field!”

  They had reached the plane, and Cliff exchanged terse greetings with the four men. He seemed faintly distracted, as if his mind were already in the clouds, just waiting for his body to follow. Absently, he removed his chewing gum and stuck it on the rudder, and then moved toward the cockpit. Peevy stopped, staring in appalled amazement at the wet wad that was now affixed to the plane’s tail. “That’s fresh paint,
dammit!” he said.

  Cliff glanced at him, looking slightly hurt. “You want me to crash?”

  “You and your lamebrained superstitions,” said Peevy, shaking his head. “Chewin’ gum ain’t gonna keep your ass in the air.” He didn’t bother to add that he himself was wearing his lucky socks and that they would be more than enough to keep Cliff airborne. Gum. Honestly. Kids nowadays.

  Cliff slung his leg over into the cockpit and hoisted himself up. He settled easily into the tight pilot’s seat and smiled. A perfect fit. It was like the plane had been measured specifically for him. Of course, he grimly reminded himself, you could say the same about a coffin.

  Goose prepared to lower the canopy over Cliff when Peevy stopped him and looked Cliff straight in the eye. All of the required posturing and role-playing was put aside for a moment as Peevy said with utter sincerity, “Cliff . . . treat her right and she’ll fly us all the way to the Nationals,” referring to the National Air Races, the premier event for fliers.

  At first Cliff nodded solemnly, but he couldn’t hold it. His roguish smile spread across his face. “Let’s make some history,” he said.

  Peevy couldn’t help but smile back, and he dropped down off the wing, shaking his head. Kids. In the final analysis, it was amazing that anyone lived past thirty.

  Peevy stepped back a few paces and flashed a thumbs-up to Cliff, who confidently returned the gesture. Then Cliff lowered his goggles and spoke the two words they were all anticipating and even dreading a little bit. His voice was slightly muffled, but clear enough as he called out, “Switch on!”

  “Crank ’er up, Skeets!” shouted Peevy.

  A ripple of excitement went through everyone on the airfield as Skeets stepped up, spit into his palms, took hold of the propeller blade on the front, and pulled down hard. For a moment Peevy held his breath. Two or three failed attempts to get a plane started never bode well on a maiden flight. Please, he thought, give us a good omen, give us a—

  The engine caught on the first turn of the propeller and roared to life. The thundering power of four hundred fifty horses turned the surrounding area into an instant hurricane.

  The others backed away quickly, shielding their eyes as Cliff revved up the throttle. The only one still nearby was Peevy, who, satisfied that Cliff wasn’t watching, snatched the gum off the tail and flicked it away. No stupid piece of mouth candy was going to ruin his paint job. He rubbed his thumb over the paint to clean the spot, and then backed away along with the others.

  The GeeBee turned and slowly began to taxi down the runway, throbbing with barely contained, pulsing power, like a prime race dog pulling against the leash and quivering in anticipation of the release. Peevy and the ground crew quickly crossed the runway to watch from the bleachers, where the other air jockeys had gathered. There were quick handshakes and nods and words of approval. Thumbs-up all around. Peevy and the others accepted the accolades, although Peevy felt uncomfortable doing so. Never a good idea to count chickens, etc., etc.

  From the cockpit Cliff tossed a quick glance to make sure everyone was clear. Then he scanned his instrument panel, checking all the dials and nodding in brisk approval at what he was seeing. Finally his gaze lit on his real talisman. The gum was what kept him in the air, but what he was looking at now was what put him up there in the first place.

  It was a postcard-size picture of a stunning young woman. She had a mouth that looked beautiful when it was smiling or when it was pouting. Right now it was smiling, generating more power than all the GeeBees in the world put together. Her eyes sparkled in a “come-hither” look, and her beautifully angled face was surrounded by a cascading array of black hair. She was draped in a satin gown that she’d worn when she was an extra in a party scene during My Man Godfrey two years earlier, in 1936. It was her very first job in a movie and she’d been thrilled that day, more so than Cliff could ever remember. She’d chattered on for hours that day about William Powell—she referred to him as Bill—and Carole Lombard, whom she’d said was beautiful beyond all belief. Cliff merely watched her chatter on about Lombard and thought to himself that no one could possibly be more beautiful than the excited little actress right across the table from him. One day she’d managed to sneak her costume off the set and Cliff photographed her in it.

  He was glad he had. It was the only chance anyone had to see her in it, because her part had wound up on the cutting room floor, although she swore if you looked real hard you could see her for a second passing behind Alice Brady.

  That was the photo he was staring at now. And it had been signed, “With love from your Lady Luck, Jenny.” As always, Jenny had drawn a heart with an arrow through it around her name. It was an affectation she’d developed to make her autographs more memorable. She dreamed of the day someone would ask her for one.

  Cliff’s gloved fingers brushed across the photo, and then he opened the throttle up. Jenny seemed to wink approvingly.

  The indicator needles jumped. The plane began to pick up speed and then surged forward. Cliff gasped slightly as the sudden thrust of power shoved him back into his seat. It was nothing he wasn’t prepared for, but nevertheless he felt a brief thrill of surprise at the power of it. He felt like he was sitting on top of a powder keg with wings.

  On the bleachers, the pilots and technicians held their collective breath as the GeeBee hurtled forward. The fixed landing gear skittered over the asphalt. It was incredibly loud, filling the entire airfield with a sound like thunder. Peevy crossed his fingers, flexed his toes inside his lucky socks, and suddenly wished for some bizarre reason that he’d left the damned gum on the rudder.

  The GeeBee picked up speed. At first it had displayed the grace of a sick tortoise, but then it began to move faster and faster until it was barreling across the tarmac. The landing gear bounced once, twice, and then the GeeBee lifted and angled its way skyward.

  A triumphant war whoop went up from the spectators and, for the first time, Peevy allowed himself a self-satisfied smile as several rough hands clapped him on the back.

  In the cockpit of the GeeBee, Cliff watched with satisfaction as the air speed gauge passed two hundred miles per hour. His grin widened and he glanced down at the airfield that he was circling, already dwindling, the occupants receding from the status of coworkers to the lowly position of ants. “Watch this, Peev!” Cliff declared, and moved the stick with long-practiced skill.

  The GeeBee angled downward, back toward the spectators, and came barreling down on the deck in a run across the field. The bleacher bums put their arms in front of their faces to shield themselves and the GeeBee rocketed directly overhead with a thunderous roar. Their heads whipped around as they watched the powerful little plane climb upward, ever upward, slowing only for the briefest of moments to tip its wings in a victory salute. Then, under the steady hand of Cliff Secord, the GeeBee angled upward, leveled off, and sailed in the general direction of the surrounding foothills.

  On the ground, even the pilots who had been conservative and cautious in their initial enthusiasm now cut loose, cheering and yelling. Peevy was bounced around like a rubber ball, but he still managed to stay calm, allowing only a smile at a job well done. All around him was jubilation and cheering and—

  As the GeeBee climbed up into a glorious cloud-scape and accelerated away, almost disappearing from view, Peevy suddenly looked down to discover a sticky tangle of chewing gum on the sole of his shoe.

  3

  The tan Ford roadster whipped down the narrow cliffside road, and Lenny crouched in the rumble seat as the sounds of sirens alerted him to the proximity of their pursuers. He whipped around his tommy gun and opened fire. Wilmer, gripping the wheel for all he was worth, was made nervous by the fact that his gaze barely cleared the dashboard. The blasting of the tommy gun drowned out the sirens, and for that he was appreciative. He also floored it, trying not to think about the fact that one curve taken too quickly would mean the end of this little adventure, his freedom, and quite possibly his life.


  He glanced only once at the case that sat on the passenger seat next to him. Cripes, enough was enough. After this little escapade, he was going to turn in his resignation. He’d put in enough good years with Eddie Valentine that he figured (hoped, prayed) that he’d be entitled to some sort of decent compensation. Eddie was a mug and all, but he dealt square. And Wilmer was simply getting the sudden feeling, deep in his gut, that maybe he’d been pushing his luck a little hard lately and now might be the time to get out while the getting was good.

  Of course, all he had to do now was get away from the feds and cops who were breathing down his neck. That’s all. Just get away from them, and then he’d never pull another job again. That’s all. Just this one more time.

  Lenny, in the meantime, was undisturbed by such considerations as alternative career paths. For him, nothing beat the feeling of what he was doing right now: firing on the representatives of the law with everything he had. Cops and feds and judges and everyone in the system, they always acted so high and mighty. They always came across as if they were so much better just because they drew paychecks while he drew blood. Well, bullets were the great equalizers, and Lenny felt very much in the need of some serious equality right about then. The tommy gun spit out bullets in rapid succession and he chortled, the image of the girl on the road completely gone from his mind.

  Wolinski gripped the wheel of the Plymouth ferociously and cast an annoyed glance at Fitch, who was hanging out the window and trying to take careful aim. “Hey, Fitch!” snapped Wooly. “You trying to save on ammo?”

  “I can’t get a clean shot!” Fitch shouted back in frustration. “I wish that black-and-white would get out of our way!”

  At that moment a volley of tommy gunfire shredded the cop car’s front tires. The car spun out, careening off the road like a top, the sounds of the policemen screaming drowned out by the screeching of the rear tires and the constant barrage of machine gunfire. Fitch and Wooly ducked as bullets ribboned across their windshield, blowing it out in a shower of glass.