Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (117 page)

"The Taft!" There was definitely something wrong there, and Alma's frown deepened. "Wait, Iskinder's here, and he wants to say hello."

"Jerry, what on earth —" She realized she was speaking to empty air and stopped.

"Alma," Iskinder said, his voice instantly recognizable despite the years. "Welcome to New York. By any chance is Mr. Segura with you?"

"He had to stay in Colorado, unfortunately," Alma answered. "Why —"

"That's too bad. I'd made arrangements for you to stay at the Astoria — a late wedding present, if Mr. Segura was here, but you might as well enjoy it. Why don't you come straight to the club, and we can have tea before we get you settled? I'm sure you must be starving."

What's wrong with the Taft
? Alma swallowed the words, not wanting to ask in front of the listening operator. "That does sound good," she admitted. "All right, I'll take a cab and see you soon."

There were no cabs at the Terminal building — the manager explained apologetically that the airlines didn't land here, so there was no real need — but one appeared promptly in response to a telephone call. Alma let herself and her luggage be loaded into the cab and settled back for the ride.

The cabbie took the shore route, past Coney Island and along the banks of the upper bay, and then eased into the lines of traffic making for the Brooklyn Bridge. Alma craned her neck like any tourist, staring at the massive double-arched pillars that held up the span, then peering through the windshield at the skyscrapers rising in Manhattan. The traffic was remarkable, cars filling the span, and when at last they crossed into Manhattan, they were in an early twilight, the westering sun cut off by the towering buildings.

The sidewalks were just as busy, crowds on every corner as the cab picked its way slowly uptown. Alma couldn't help staring, amazed at the sheer number of people. Men in neat topcoats and well-brushed hats rubbed shoulders with deliverymen and errand boys in flat caps and men in jackets that looked too thin for the cold wind. The women were just as various, secretaries in cheap smart coats and thin stockings, here and there another fur, once a woman in a neat maid's uniform with two little girls in velvet coats, one on each hand. Alma's hand flattened for an instant against her stomach, but she refused to let the thought take form. Down a side street, a line snaked up the sidewalk from the door of a church, mostly men, hands in their pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold; outside an apartment building, a gold-braided doorman whistled for a cab, while a woman in an enormous fur clutched a tiny dog to her bosom. And that was New York for you, a soup kitchen a block away from luxury, and each pretended the other couldn't see.

The cab pulled to the curb outside the Harvard Club, where a crimson flag with a gold-bordered white H waved on equal footing with the stars and stripes, and the cabbie and the doorman freed her suitcase and carried it into the entrance hall. Alma tipped them both, hoping she looked like someone who did this every day, and the doorman promised to see her suitcase stored until she called for it. Dr. Ballard as in the hall, he added, with Ras Iskinder.

Alma thanked him and followed the crimson runner to the main lobby. A fire was lit in the oversized fireplace, a cheerful crackle and the scent of woodsmoke; the paneled walls glowed in the soft electric light, and a pair of old men sat in armchairs barricaded behind identical newspapers. She hesitated, and Jerry rose from another chair and came to meet her, Iskinder at his heels.

"Al. It's good to see you."

Alma embraced them both, and only then wondered if that had been wise. The old men lowered their newspapers for a startled instant, then retreated again. "Oh, it's so good to see you both — especially you, Iskinder. You look wonderful."

"Thank you. So do you." Iskinder smiled down at her. "Is that the coat Jerry told me about?"

Alma stroked the collar. "It is. He won it fair and square."

"And it's not as though I had a use for it," Jerry said.

"And I certainly do," Alma finished, laughing. Except that it wasn't so funny when the gossip columnists tried to make a scandal of it, receiving presents from a man who lived in her house but definitely wasn't her husband.

"It's very beautiful," Iskinder said. He glanced past her and smiled. "And I believe our table is ready."

A punctilious headwaiter settled them at a corner table, not so private as to be questionable, but far enough from the others that they could talk freely, and Jerry placed their order, tea and sandwiches and a chocolate cake that the waiter promised was a particular specialty. That finished, he checked his watch and pushed himself away from the table.

"If you'll excuse me for a minute, I have to make a quick phone call."

"Of course," Alma said, but she was frowning as she watched him go. "Is everything all right?"

"Museum business," Iskinder said. "You're looking very well. I don't have to ask if you're happy."

Alma shook her head. "I've been incredibly lucky," she said. "Lewis — he's nothing like Gil, nothing at all, but he's an amazing pilot and a good man and —" She knew she was blushing, but forged on anyway. "And I love him. I can't believe I've been this lucky twice."

"Gil would have wanted you to be happy," Iskinder said. "He wanted you happy when he was alive."

"I know." And she did know that. If Gil had lived — well, they would have made it work, somehow, changed the bedrooms around again and moved on. For a moment, she could almost see the hospital room outside Venice, watery sunlight filtering through the curtains, the spotless sheets folded just so around Gil's emaciated body. Jerry had been gone by then, sent back to the States, his last words echoing in her ears: take care of him, Al, and write me… Write me when he's gone, Jerry had meant, and she'd just nodded, not able to trust herself to speak. But then Gil had rallied, and the nursing staff was about to be sent home as well, and Mitch and Iskinder had showed up grinning, chaplain in tow, papers in hand, and a pair of plain gold rings in Iskinder's pocket. She'd gone from Alma Sullivan to Alma Gilchrist with a whisper and a pair of shaky signatures, and never regretted it for an instant. She wouldn't regret Lewis, either, no matter what Diana demanded of him. "I'm just — I've been so lucky."

"I can see. I'm sorry not to have the chance to meet him."

"I'd have liked to have him along," Alma answered. "It's a long flight. But —" She lowered her voice. "The problem that we're having — I don't know how much Jerry told you?"

"Dr. Tesla and his death ray," Iskinder said, equally quietly. "Which, by the way, he's already tried to sell to my government."

"I can't believe it's a death ray," Alma said. "That's not the sort of thing Dr. Tesla did. But, whatever it is, it's been causing enough problems that we decided Lewis and Mitch had to stay behind in case the Reserves were called out again. You have to have two people for search and rescue."

Iskinder nodded. "Jerry said there had been crashes."

"Three so far. The terrain's bad enough, but the weather's been dicey. Lewis — he's a clairvoyant, working with us now, and he's been able to find the crash sites."

"That's good. It's good to share the work."

"Amen."

Iskinder's gaze shifted, and Alma glanced over her shoulder to see Jerry limping toward them, his face drawn into a scowl.

"Anything?" Iskinder asked, and Jerry shook his head.

"No word."

Alma looked from one to the other. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

"Problems at the Met," Jerry said. "They've decided not to buy the collection I was supposed to appraise —"

"Oh, Jerry!" Alma swallowed any more sympathy, knowing it wouldn't be welcome. But it wasn't fair to take this job away from him just when he was starting to get back on his feet.

"That's not the worst of it, actually," Jerry said. "The item that Miss Rostov's friends were looking for was part of the collection, and I think this is another attempt to get hold of it."

"Damn it." Alma winced, knowing she needed to be more ladylike, but Iskinder nodded in agreement.

"I am attempting to put in a bid of my own, but so far my man hasn't been able to speak with Rosenthal's agent in New York. I hope it's merely the press of business so close to the holidays —"

"But we can't count on that," Jerry said.

"What is this thing?" Alma asked. "You said a medallion?"

Jerry nodded, then stopped as the headwaiter led another quartet to the table next to theirs. "I'll give you the full story later, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Alma answered, though she could have kicked the headwaiter. "All right, answer me this, then. What's wrong with the Taft?"

Jerry grinned, and Iskinder said, "It's — it has an unfortunate reputation."

"A lot of hookers work the lobby there," Jerry said. "It's even a pick-up line — 'staying at the Taft, dearie?'" His voice rose in mimicry and Alma laughed.

"Oh, dear. No, that would never do."

"Not after all those pictures in the paper," Iskinder said. "During the race, I mean."

"No, indeed," Alma agreed. "Thank you for rescuing me, Iskinder. It's really sweet of you."

"It's very much my pleasure," Iskinder answered, with the slightest of bows. "We'll finish our tea, and then get you settled. I've also reserved a room for dinner, if that's all right with you."

"Say yes," Jerry said, with a grin that was almost genuine, and Alma laughed again.

"All right. And — truly, thank you."

The room at the Astoria was both grand and comfortable, with her own private bath and the bed tucked into an alcove so that the sofa formed its own tiny sitting room. There was a radio as well, and she left it on while she bathed and changed for dinner, dance music playing softly as she brushed her hair and powdered her nose. It was a shame about Jerry's job, she thought. At least he was supposed to be asked back in January, and he'd sworn up and down that he believed the offer was sincere, but it was still an abrupt and unhappy ending. Even without the problem of this medallion. Jerry had given her a little of the story on the way over, though she knew he'd left out most of the interesting details. New York had been good for him: he looked sharper, smiled more readily — he'd lost some of the melancholy that had hung around him since Gil's death. She just hoped the Met would keep its word and hire him back.

She crossed her fingers once, then turned her attention to getting the last of the lipstick out of the tube. It was the color Mabel Kershaw had given her in Los Angeles, before the race, and easily the most flattering shade she'd ever owned. Maybe she could find more in New York, if she could find time to look, though somehow she didn't think this was something she could find at the corner drugstore. And not that she was likely to have the time to spare, between Dr. Tesla and his device and whatever Jerry and Iskinder could manage to do about the medallion. She checked her seams in the mirror, then switched off the radio and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Neither Iskinder nor Jerry was anywhere in sight, and she paused for a moment, scanning the crowd. It was a sedate and expensive-looking bunch, a few couples in evening dress and even a woman with diamond clips in her hair, and she wished she could have worn her mink. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man detach himself from the front desk, and turned to face him as he lifted his hat.

"Mrs. Segura. I hadn't heard you were coming to New York."

"Mr. Winchell," she said, with some dismay. There was no mistaking the columnist, though at least he was speaking at a more normal speed than he used on his radio broadcasts. "I had some business to take care of."

"Yes, they told me over at Floyd Bennett that you flew in today solo, in a brand-new Kershaw special." Winchell cocked his head like a malicious sparrow. "I don't suppose you'd care to give me the exclusive?"

"It's a matter of business," Alma said warily. "Confidential. Though if you'd like to talk about the Frontiersman, I'd be happy to tell you all about it —"

Winchell's eyes shifted, and she swallowed a curse. She glanced back as casually as she could, and was unsurprised to see Jerry and Iskinder moving toward them.

"I see Dr. Ballard's in town," Winchell said.

"He's been working here since the end of the summer," Alma said, and forced a smile. "Gentlemen, we have company."

"Mr. Winchell and I have met," Iskinder said, pleasantly enough, and Winchell gave a toothy grin.

"Indeed we have, Prince. Mrs. Segura, you're moving in exalted circles these days. Just be careful he doesn't carry you off — the Ethiopians still have slavery, you know."

"Ras Iskinder and my first husband were in the war together," Alma said, her voice as bland as she could make it. "As was Dr. Ballard, of course."

"Quite a reunion," Winchell said. "Is Mr. Segura in town, by any chance?"

"As you said, I flew in alone," Alma answered. "I wish he were here, but he was needed in Colorado."

"Oh, too bad."

"Yes," Alma said. "It is."

Winchell gave her a smile that boded badly, and looked at Jerry. "And where's your fiancée the countess, Dr. Ballard? She couldn't make it either?"

"Who?" Jerry said, his face blank, and Iskinder cleared his throat.

"If you'll excuse us, Mr. Winchell —"

"That's news, Dr. Ballard," Winchell said, as though the other man hadn't spoken. "After all that talk of an engagement —"

"I'm not engaged," Jerry said. "And that's all I have to say."

"Which almost makes Mrs. Segura's visit entirely kosher." Winchell's smile widened.

Oh, dear, Alma thought. She linked arms with both men, and gave Winchell a smile of her own. "As I said, Mr. Winchell, I'm here on company business. Dr. Tesla — Dr. Nikola Tesla, the famous scientist — has offered to sell me the rights to one of his aviation patents. But of course that's all confidential."

"And if you'll excuse us," Iskinder said again, "our table is ready."

This time Winchell let them turn away, tipping his hat politely, and Alma did her best not to look over her shoulder.

"Oh, Jerry, did you have to?"