Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (51 page)

Alma tugged nervously at the hem of her dress. It was India ink blue, spangled with stars, her best dress rescued from the wreck of the airship
Independence
two years ago, and it was the nicest dress she'd ever had. Compared to the ones she saw going by, she might as well have been wearing a sack.

"It's ok," Henry Kershaw said under his breath. "You look great." He took her elbow with an expansive and leonine smile. On her other side, Lewis looked as spooked as she did. Maybe more spooked. "I just want to introduce you to some people," he said, steering her through the crowd. "Aviation people. Our crowd."

Alma refrained from saying that somewhere in the last ten years Henry's crowd had diverged a lot from hers. They'd all been in the same lodge once, all stood pretty much as equals when Henry and Gil had both left the Army Signal Corps at the same time, Gil to start a little air passenger service in Colorado and Henry to start one in California. Gilchrist Aviation was still a skin of the teeth operation, while Henry’s Republic Air had grown and branched and grown again. Apparently hobnobbing with Hollywood stars was now all in a day's work for Henry.

"You've got to meet this guy," Henry said, steering Alma around a white-jacketed waiter, Lewis following along. He tapped a slight man with glasses on the shoulder. "Floyd! Glad you could make it, buddy!"

The other man turned around, champagne glass in hand, breaking off conversation with the pretty twenty-something brunette beside him. "Had to come take a look at the competition, Henry," he said with a grin, shaking Henry's hand. "My boys are going to lick yours, you know."

"Bah," Henry said good naturedly, pumping his hand. "Not with a Ford Trimotor, they won't! Why don't you put up a team flying your own plane instead of a Ford?"

"Because you can't land a sea plane in the desert?" The other man grinned. "The Catalina's going to be big, Henry. You wait a year or two. The Catalina is going to dominate the market for flying boats."

"But not much use in the desert," Henry agreed. "Floyd, I want you to meet my team captain. This is Alma Gilchrist — Alma Segura, she is now. She owns and operates the Terrier that's going to bring home the cup. Alma, this is Floyd Odlum."

"Pleased to meet you," he said.

"A pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Odlum," Alma said smoothly, hoping her nerves didn’t show on her face. She could have swatted Henry for not warning her. Floyd Odlum was the owner of Consolidated Aircraft, one of the biggest manufacturers in the country, and also a part owner of RKO Pictures. In aviation you didn't get much bigger.

Odlum looked her up and down with a smile that was distinctly appreciative. "Much prettier than my team captain! Call me Floyd."

"Floyd, then," Alma said, dragging Lewis to the fore. "This is my husband, Lewis Segura."

"Mr. Segura." More handshakes.

"Lewis won the DSC in France, and he'll be flying part of the race."

"Flying together then?" The brunette beside Odlum spoke up, her smile for Lewis quite genuine, her eyes on Alma's face. "I can't imagine anything better than sharing the skies."

Odlum put his arm around her waist. "This is Mrs. Cochran. Jackie flies too, don't you darling?"

The brunette nodded. "Yes, but I've never entered a race."

"Perhaps you will," Alma said. "We need more women in the air."

"That's what I think too.” She lifted her chin, a surprisingly strong jawline on such a pretty face. "Are you going to win?"

"Yes," Alma said simply.

Odlum laughed. "Well, Henry, I'm glad to see your team has confidence."

"And I have confidence in them," Henry said smoothly. "There's no better team out there. Mitchell Sorley is the third member, and he's a genuine ace. Mark my words, they'll bring home the prize."

Odlum offered his hand again. "Well, good luck to you. May the best man win!"

"Or woman," Jackie said, and her eyes met Alma's with a smile.

Henry steered Alma off into the crowd again, Lewis trailing after silently. Alma hoped she didn't look as nervous as Lewis did. "Is she Odlum's wife?" Alma asked.

"His protégé." He managed not to put a sneer in it. "She worked in a hair salon in New York. No idea how Floyd ran into her, but now she's flying his planes and sharing his house." Henry shrugged. "You know I could care less about other people's domestic arrangements."

He'd certainly overlooked hers at various points, though Lewis bristled a little. He'd shared Alma's house and bed for months before they were married, and Henry hadn't said a word about them sharing a cabin on his airship. Of course he'd been possessed by a demon at the time, but he wouldn't have minded even if he hadn't been.

"Smile!"

Henry turned around, half pulling her around with him, a big smile on his face. "Hello boys."

The newspapermen grinned back. "How about a big smile for the paper, Mr. Kershaw? Is this your team?"

"Two of them," Henry said genially as Alma tried to plaster a smile on her face too. "This is Alma Gilchrist Segura and her husband, Lewis Segura, of Gilchrist Aviation. They'll be taking my Terrier to Miami and bringing home the prize."

"Smile!" one of them said, the flash going off blindingly enough that Alma saw spots. "Smile!"

"Where is Mitch anyway?" Lewis muttered.

"Hiding," Alma said under her breath.

L
ewis finally escaped the throng of reporters on the pretext of getting Alma a drink. There was a bar set up by the pool and a couple of guys waiting for the bartender's attention, which at least gave Lewis a minute to think and cool off. Trying to be perfect every moment was nerve wracking, but apparently this was how the game was played. He couldn't help but wonder how much better Gil would have been at this than he was. It seemed like everybody had liked Gil, one of those guys who somehow effortlessly moves between different groups of people who can't stand each other and leaves everybody thinking he's a good guy. And after all, it must have taken some diplomatic skill to be married to Alma and carrying on with Jerry at the same time with everybody happy as a clam. Lewis couldn't figure out how anybody in the world could do that. After that, dealing with hordes of reporters would probably be child's play.

Not that Alma ever compared them. She never said Gil would have done better. She never implied that Lewis wasn't up to standards. But still it was pretty clear that this was a world he'd never be at home in, one where he'd never be acceptable. No matter what he did, he'd be Alma's gigolo in the eyes of all Gil's old friends.

There was a prickle at the edge of his consciousness, like a faint sound too low to hear, a prickle he was learning to associate with his sight. The last time he'd been to one of Henry Kershaw's parties all hell had broken loose on a psychic level, so Lewis started around, looking for the source of the trouble. Or was it trouble? More like a manifestation of some kind, work being done quietly and skillfully.

There was another terrace down from where they'd set up the bar, screened from above by big bushes, but when he stepped away from the bar and the music Lewis could hear faint voices, two women talking. Another step and he could see.

They were sitting at a cast iron table, chairs pulled close together. One of them was their hostess, Henry's wife, Mabel. The other was perhaps thirty-five or so, shorter than Alma and very thin, with black hair and long scarlet nails and a black dress. Her eyes were outlined in black like Theda Bara playing a vampire, and her face was powdered pale. She bent over the cards laid out on the table, a cigarette in a long holder in her hand, a little black handbag lying on the table by the cards.

"I really can't tell anymore, Mabel," she said, peering at the cards. "As far as I can tell his ventures are just fine." She turned another over, showing the picture to Mabel. "See?"

It was the cards, Lewis realized. The prickle was the cards and whatever she was doing to manipulate them. They were a focus for sight, just like Alma's pendulum was a focus for her affinity with earth. He'd seen old women tell fortunes with playing cards, but the pictures on these were unbelievably more complex, a full language of rich symbols rather than rudimentary forms. He wanted to see them, to handle them and get a better look.

She looked up, the black haired woman, and her ruby lips parted in a wide smile. "We have company, Mabel."

Mrs. Kershaw turned around, momentary alarm flitting across her face. She relaxed when she recognized Lewis. "Oh! Mr. Segura." She beckoned for him to come down the last two steps. "I was just asking the Countess to read on Henry's wagers on the air race."

"Um?" Lewis said.

"It looks very good," Mabel said reassuringly. "The stars seem favorable."

"I hope Mr. Kershaw bet on us," Lewis said.

"Of course!" Mabel said. "Henry would never bet against his own team. I just couldn't resist asking the dear Countess to give me a teensy weensy peek into the future. She's absolutely the best medium in town, you know. Much better than those overpriced Hollywood ones." Her voice dropped confidentially. "You know she faces a terrible exile for her talents."

Lewis blinked. "Do you?"

"Oh yes." The Countess put her elbows on the little table, gloved hands clasped together with the cigarette holder between. "I was trained by Rasputin himself. And so of course when the Revolution came I had to flee for my life, darling! Of course I would have anyway, because of my rather distant kinships with dear Nicky. The Czar, of course. I called him Cousin Nicky. We were all so familiar at those rustic retreats at the dascha, just family and Rasputin!" She closed her eyes rapturously.

"What do you do?" Lewis asked.

"She reads the cards," Mabel said. "And she speaks with the Dead."

"It causes me great suffering," the Countess said in her throaty voice. "But it helps set those poor souls at rest. What else can I do except put myself through the most excruciating agonies if it will bring them peace?"

Lewis felt a chill run down his spine. It wasn't that he didn't believe it was possible. But surely of all magics that was the one that should be played with the least, the awesome and horrible act of disturbing the rest of those laid in consecrated ground, or of listening to the torments of those who did not rest in peace. He looked at her, frowning. He'd felt the frisson of real power. She was doing something. But speaking with the dead?

No, he thought. She had to be a fake. There were charlatans, that he knew, and Alma had warned him there were those who sought membership in a lodge to legitimize their own schemes. Speaking with the dead was for priests, for those who were most serious about their spiritual vocation, not for would-be dragon ladies who apparently charged for card readings, vamped up in black dresses and too much makeup!

The Countess smiled at him stiffly, as if she'd read every thought on his face. "But I don't believe you need my little talents, do you, Mr. Segura?"

Lewis swallowed. "There isn't anyone dead I need to talk to." And he sincerely hoped there wasn't anyone dead Alma wanted to talk to either. He glanced down at the cards again. They were beautiful. And there was no way he was going to ask to see them, not if he had to ask her.

"How nice for you," she said, casting her brilliant smile on Mabel Kershaw again. "Then shall we go on, darling?"

"I just came out to get Alma a drink," Lewis said. He took a step away. "I'll do that, if that's ok."

"Of course," Mabel said.

H
enry cast en eye over the crowd, checking the progress of the party. So far, so good: they’d had photos by the Terrier, which had been pulled out into the middle of the field with the Republic name large on the hangar in the background, Alma had given an excellent interview, and at the moment it looked as though the aviation people, the money people, and his carefully selected friends from the various lodges were mingling amicably. In fact, Odlum might owe him a favor or two, if the look on his face was any indication. Greg Potts still had money to lend, and that was saying something, these days.

He turned toward the bar, pausing to exchange a polite remark with Reverend Fell, who was a sometime member of the Los Angeles lodge and a chaplain to the stars. He didn’t much like the man, but his presence meant that certain others might make an appearance, and that was worth it for the extra publicity. The bartender had his drink ready before he asked for it, a Manhattan cocktail poured over extra ice, and Henry took a sip before nodding in approval. The bartender grinned and turned to serve someone else.

In spite of himself, Henry’s eyes turned to the Terrier, the white paint almost glowing in the dark beyond the pool. It was a risk, putting up the money, especially now, when no one was flush any more. He was tapping capital, and had been since
Independence
crashed; if he didn’t get the cash flow moving in the right direction soon, he was going to be in trouble.

He scowled into his drink, all too aware of the irony of his thoughts. For him, “trouble” meant selling a house, if he could find a buyer, or closing a shop, or Rose not being able to spend next year at Julliard. There were too many people for whom “trouble” was no work and no money, foreclosure and water soup. But if he had to close a shop, he’d just be adding to the problem. Eight hundred dollars to keep the San Angelo shop open, or Miami: it was worth it. And Gilchrist would come through. They were damn good flyers, all of them, and having Alma in charge was a pleasing novelty that would keep the press interested. Of course, nobody could guarantee there wouldn’t be a mechanical failure, or just damn bad luck, but on balance it was worth the risk.

“Quite a party, Mr. Kershaw.”

That was one of the reporters, a stocky, sandy-haired man with a better suit than most of his peers and a bright and cynical eye. Carmichael, his name was, Henry remembered, and he was a source for Walter Winchell. And that made him dangerous: Winchell’s gossip column was carried in newspapers nationwide, and his Sunday night radio show reached tens of thousands all across the country. And Winchell made very sure it didn’t pay to get on his bad side.