Aces (32 page)

He got out of the Stutz as Hull’s black Chevrolet sedan pulled up. Hull shut off the engine and got out of his car. He was
wearing his old flying clothes: dark moleskin trousers, boots, a faded, plaid flannel shirt and a leather jacket.

Hull listened quietly as Gold told him what had happened last night, and what he wanted to do this evening in order to even
the score. When Gold was done, Hull said, “I think we’d better take my car. If someone should see us my Chevy’s a hell of
a lot less recognizable than that turquoise and scarlet battleship you drive.”

“Good idea,” Gold said. “I’ll get what we’ll need out of the trunk.”

Another pair of headlights turned into the parking field. “Who would that be?” Hull asked sharply.

“Someone else who will be helping out tonight.” Gold told Hull about Campbell as the latter parked his car and came over.

“I guess you haven’t changed your mind about this?…” Campbell asked dolefully. He was wearing dark gray, twill work clothes.

Gold shook his head. He introduced the two men to each other, and then went around to the back of the Stutz and opened up
the trunk. Inside was the same red and yellow gas can, newly filled, that had been left at his house, and a long, blanket-wrapped
bundle.

“Let’s stow this stuff in Hull’s car,” Gold said.

“What’s in the blanket?” Campbell asked as he carried the gas can to the black Chevrolet.

Gold laid the bundle in the Chevrolet’s trunk and unwrapped it. The moonlight glinted on a pair of shotguns of dark-blue steel,
with varnished walnut stocks.

“They’re not loaded,” Gold said as Hull picked one up. “There’s a box of shells for them in the trunk.”

“Jesus, guns,” Campbell muttered, shaking his head. “This fucking escapade is getting worse by the minute.”

“Where’d you get these?” Hull asked Gold.

“I bought them today,” Gold said. “You know about these things, I don’t. Are they any good?”

Hull worked the action on the gun. “This one sounds smooth enough. They’re Marlin, twelve gauge, pump actions. I guess they’ll
do fine.” He shrugged. “Unless they blow up when we fire ‘em.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to fire them,” Gold said. “I brought then along just in case.”

“Then I’d better show you how to shoot them, just in case,” Hull said.

“Show him, not me,” Campbell muttered, backing away as Hull thumbed shells into the shotguns. “I hate guns. I
hate
violence.”

The short ride to Clover Field passed silently. Gold sat up front, beside Hull, who was behind the wheel. Campbell sat in
the back, chain-smoking. Clover was less developed than Los Angeles’s Mines Field. There were no lights, and the few buildings
bordering the field were spaced far apart. Hull killed his headlights as they slowly drove past the open gates that led to
the SCAT facility. The deep, squat hangar was set in about thirty yards from the road, its big, double doors facing out at
them. Parked to the rear, along the side of the hangar, was a Reo two-ton truck with canvas sides. Everything looked dark
and quiet. There was nothing stirring but the tall weeds bending in the breeze, and no sound except that of the crickets.
Hull pulled over once they were past the facility.

“I made some calls this afternoon,” Gold said. “They’re still overhauling their new planes, so everything they own is inside
that hangar.”

“What about night watchmen?” Campbell asked nervously.

“They don’t have any private security,” Gold replied. “They rely on the regular police patrols.”

“Oh, shit,” Campbell worried from the backseat. “What if the police catch us?”

“What
if
?” Gold replied irritably. “Let’s just do it.”

Keeping his lights off, Hull put the Chevrolet in gear and made a U-turn, driving back to the SCAT hangar. He drove in through
the open gates and then swung around so that the nose of the Chevrolet was pointed out toward the road. He shut off the engine.
All three men sat quietly for a moment, listening to the crickets and the tick of the car as it cooled in the night.

“It’s funny,” Hull said quietly. “I figured we’d have to crowbar a padlock, or something, to get in—”

“Me, too,” Gold said. He felt tense, and wondered if he should just forget the whole thing while it wasn’t too late; tell
Hull to start the car and drive them back to Santa Monica. “Well, maybe we’re getting lucky.” He opened his car door. “Let’s
get it done.”

Hull got out, opened the trunk, and took out the gas can. Gold grabbed one of the shotguns. He chambered a round and pushed
off the safety.

“Could you really shoot somebody if you had to?” Campbell asked softly.

“It isn’t going to come to that.” Gold scowled, evading the question that Campbell had asked, and that Gold was asking himself.

“I’ll wait here by the car,” Campbell pleaded. “You know, keep an eye on things. Watch out for the police.”

Gold nodded, suddenly feeling sorry for Campbell. He’d dragged the poor guy here. This wasn’t Campbell’s fight. Campbell wasn’t
even an old friend, the way Hull was. This was one hell of an initiation to put a man through before giving him a job. “Okay,
Tim,” he said, and tried his best to smile reassuringly. “You keep lookout for us.”

Gold and Hull walked to the hangar. Gold stood and watched, the shotgun pointed toward the ground, as Hull sloshed gasoline
against the side of the building.

“All set,” Hull said. “I’ve got a match here. You want to do the honors, or should I?” He turned toward Gold, and froze. “Oh,
shit,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” Gold began.

“
I’m the matter
—”

Gold turned his head. Behind him, pointing a revolver at him, was the same fat bastard who’d tried to burn down his house
the night before.

“I had a feeling you might try to even things up tonight, so I decided to stick around here.” The fat man grinned. “By the
way, drop the shotgun.”

Gold ignored the order. “Who are you? What do you do for SCAT?” he asked, playing for time.

“I was hired to be freight manager, but I let it be known I was willing to do other sorts of work, and my employers took me
up on it.”

“You mean arson.” Gold nodded.

“There’s the pot calling the kettle black.” The man laughed. “You’ve got nothing on me to prove what happened last night,
and just look at what
I’ve
got… I’ve caught you red-handed, haven’t I, Mister Gold? All I need do is wait for the cops to come rolling by, then turn
you and your friend over to them, and wait for the reporters to come around.”

He said “friend,” not “friends,”
Gold thought. Did that mean he didn’t know about Campbell? Gold resisted the urge to glance toward the car.

“It seems like I’m going to be a hero,” the fat man was saying. “And you’ll be behind bars.” He extended the revolver toward
Gold. “Or you’ll be dead, if you don’t drop that shotgun. Capturing an arsonist alive, or killing one in self-defense,” he
shrugged philosophically, “it makes no difference to me…”

Where the fuck was Campbell? Had he run off to save himself?

“I’m not going to say it again,” the fat man sneered. “Drop it, Jewboy—”

Fuck you
, Gold thought, swinging around the shotgun and firing it one-handed in the general direction of the fat man, who was darting
sideways. The shotgun made a dull, flat report, and kicked hard in Gold’s hand, hurting his wrist.

Gold realized he’d missed. The fat man was raising up his pistol when Campbell appeared with the other shotgun. The fat man
saw him. His revolver wavered, and began to dip toward the ground. “I give up,” the man said. He dropped his revolver.

“Herman, we can’t leave him to identify us,” Hull said.

“I know that,” Gold said. He chambered a fresh round into the shotgun.

“Jesus, don’t!” The fat man turned and ran, heading toward the truck parked alongside the hangar.

Gold followed after the fat man, who had reached the Reo and was swinging up into its high cab. He noticed Campbell standing
off to one side, his shotgun held loosely in the crook of his arm.

“What are you intending?” Campbell asked, looking frightened.

Gold ignored the question. Behind him, Hull was scooping up the fallen revolver. In front of him, the fat man was grinding
the truck’s starter. The engine caught. The Reo’s headlights flashed on. The glare almost blinded Gold. The truck began to
roll forward. It was about ten yards away when Gold braced the shotgun against his hip and fired. One headlight winked out
in a tinkle of shattered glass. The truck kept on coming, gears clashing as it picked up speed. Gold worked the pump action
on the shotgun and fired again. This time he must have hit one of the front tires. The truck suddenly veered left, smashing
into the hangar. It stalled out with its front half buried within the splintered wall. Gold hurried toward the wreck, his
shotgun ready. When he reached the truck he saw flames coming up from the Reo’s hood, sending sparks spiraling into the night
sky. He saw no movement within the cab. A second later, the flames flared up as the truck’s canvas sides abruptly ignited.
The Reo was now curtained from view by a wall of fire.

Gold backed up to where Hull was standing. “You think the guy’s still alive?” Hull asked.

Gold, watching the flames, shook his head. In the distance he could hear sirens wailing; they were still faint, but growing
louder.

Hull gripped Gold’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

They moved quickly, throwing the gas can into the flames and dumping the shotguns and the revolver into the trunk of the Chevrolet.
Hull threw several small objects into the trunk, as well. “The three shell casings you fired,” he explained.

Gold nodded dumbly. They climbed into the car. Hull started the engine, spun his rear wheels jackrabbiting through the gate,
and then swung around in a wrenching turn, down the road the way they’d come. They’d gone maybe a quarter mile when they heard
a blast and saw a fireball rise into the night sky behind them.

“Lots of flammables in your average airplane hangar,” Hull said conversationally. “Won’t be much left of that truck, or the
fellow in it.”

“Are we clear of it?” Campbell asked frantically. “Think we’ll get caught?”

A police car and several fire engines, sirens wailing, passed them racing in the opposite direction, toward the fire.

Hull shook his head. “Assuming anybody heard those shots, which I doubt, they’ll be written off as car backfires. The rest
of it turned out terrific, considering. It looks like our friend the fat man—”

“I never even knew his name,” Gold muttered.

“Who cares?” Hull demanded. “He’s dead now. Anyway, what I was saying is that the authorities will figure he started up the
truck, lost control, plowed into the hangar and caused the fire. Nice and simple.”

“Except that I killed someone,” Gold said.

“Tough shit!” Hull snapped. “You’re the one who wanted to do this, right? Once we were into it, you had no choice but to kill
him! If you’d left him alive it would have been the end of us! Now it’s done! It’s too late to regret any of it! And you’re
damned lucky it came out the way it did!”

Gold nodded. He twisted around toward the backseat. “Tim, I want to thank you. You appearing when you did stopped him from
firing back at me. You probably saved my life.”

“I’m sorry I took as long as I did,” Campbell said sheepishly. “I told you before, I’m not used to guns, and…” He hesitated.
“What can I say? I was scared shitless. I almost couldn’t move at all. I felt like my feet were rooted to the ground…”

“Well, you found your balls when you had to,” Hull said. “Welcome to Gold Aviation—”

“Gold Aviation and Transport,” Campbell mildly corrected him. “But thanks for the welcome. Let’s hope things calm down from
here on in.”

“You said it,” Hull muttered. He glanced at Gold. “Why so quiet, Herman?”

Gold, staring out the windshield, shrugged. “I was just wondering… Whatever happened to that kid?” He turned in his seat to
look at at Hull. “The one who used to go out of his way to shoot down enemy planes without harming their pilots?”

“Isn’t that funny?” Hull replied, his eyes on the road, his face hidden by shadow. “I was wondering the same.”

Hull dropped Gold and Campbell off at their cars. Gold felt quiet and composed as he took his time driving home. He also felt
vibrantly alive, and acutely aware of his surroundings. Everything—the cool night air against his face, the sound of the tires
on the asphalt, the smell of the Stutz’s leather upholstery, the feel of its varnished wooden steering wheel—was making its
impression on him. He realized that what he was experiencing now was the same sort of feelings he’d had years ago, after flying
a combat mission. There was nothing like being close to death to make you acutely aware and thankful that you were alive.

As he pulled into his driveway he noticed that the lights were on in the house. He’d stopped home earlier in the evening,
to change his clothes. He must have turned the lights on then, and forgotten to shut them off.

He parked the Stutz, went inside the house, and knew instantly that Erica and the kids had returned. It was quiet inside.
There was nothing to give it away—no coats or suitcases lying about—but as soon as he stepped into the front hall he knew
that his family was back.

“Hello, Herman.”

He turned. Erica was standing in the living room. She was wearing a green wool dress. It had a knee-length pleated skirt,
a high collar, and long sleeves. She had on blonde stockings and dark-green leather pumps. She couldn’t have been home very
long, Gold thought. She still had on her jewelry. She was wearing gold hoop earrings, a gold wristwatch with an alligator
strap, a gold-link bracelet, a gold and emerald clip on her dress, and the diamond engagement ring he’d given her on their
third anniversary to go with her wedding band.

“Look at you,” she said fondly. “You’re wearing that old hat you used to wear. You look the way you did back in Doreen, when
you used to come calling for me on that motorcycle Teddy lent you…”