Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (59 page)

Nothing that a shot of whiskey wouldn't solve. "I'll be back in a little bit," Mitch said. He snagged the room key off the top of the dresser. "Night, Jerry."

"Night, Mitch."

He closed the door behind him and locked it so Jerry wouldn't have to get up, went down the hall to the elevator. The cage opened and the attendant looked out. Mitch stepped in. "Down to the bottom if you please."

"The Lounge, sir?"

"If that's where they keep the Kentucky bourbon," Mitch said.

The attendant chuckled. "That it is, sir."

A
lma came out of the bathroom in her combinations, her robe loose on her shoulders. She’d needed that bath, the long soak that washed away not just the sweat and dust but the lingering fear. They’d come through, safe and sound, and were in good shape for the long leg to San Angelo in the morning. That was more than she’d expected in those hours over the desert.

She didn’t need to be thinking about that again, not when she’d finally managed to stop replaying all her choices, all the chances she’d had to spot the stowaway, and she slid onto the bed next to Lewis, who looked up with a smile. He hadn’t bothered dressing after his own bath, was propped up against the headboard in his underwear, the stubble heavy on his chin. His hair had come out of its careful pomade, lay in heavy dark waves threaded here and there with gray, and she leaned against his shoulder. His arm went around her, settling her more comfortably, and she sighed in content. He looked a bit like Ramon Novarro, mostly the dark eyes and the stubbornly curling hair, and she rubbed her cheek against his.

“I really couldn’t call the police,” she said.

“Jerry really wanted to,” Lewis said.

“I know.” Alma moved to sit up, but Lewis tightened his hold, and she subsided willingly. “It would have taken too long, though. The last thing we need is to be tangled up with the police.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lewis shifted again, tucking her into the curve of his shoulder. “She was at the party, you know. I mean, I saw her there.”

“Oh?”

“She was telling Mrs. Kershaw’s fortune,” he said. “That was kind of a surprise. I didn’t think Mrs. Kershaw went in for that sort of thing.”

“She’s not involved in lodge business.” Alma shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have other interests. I suppose fortune-telling, being a medium, that sort of thing, would be a good way to get into a house like Henry’s.”

Lewis nodded. “Makes sense.”

“A bit more excitement than I was hoping for today all around,” she said.

“Me, too.” Lewis frowned, and Alma sat up, catching the change in mood.

“What?”

He looked away, his gaze fixing on his flight jacket where it hung over the back of the ladderback chair in front of the desk. “Henry’s necklace.” He stopped then, shrugging in his turn. “I don’t like it.”

Alma’s content vanished. “What do you mean?”

Lewis shook his head. “I don’t — I’m not really sure? It’s a strange thing, and I think I was — warned away from it.”

“Let’s take a look,” Alma said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Lewis grimaced. “I believe Henry when he says it’s cursed, that’s for sure.”

“All the more reason to see what we’re dealing with,” Alma said. “If Diana warned you away, no, we won’t do anything except take a quick look.”

“All right.” Lewis got up with visible reluctance, came back with something bundled in his handkerchief. He undid the knots, opening the fabric to reveal a strand of blackened metal flowers. It didn’t look like much, Alma thought, just a jumble of iron, but she trusted Lewis too much to risk touching it.

“I don’t feel anything,” she said.

“Neither do I,” Lewis admitted. “I don’t know, maybe I was imagining things?”

“I doubt it,” Alma said. She eyed the tangle of metal dubiously. Maybe they should take it to Jerry, see what he had to say — but it was late, the end of an exhausting day, and they had an early start in the morning. “Well, we can give it back to Henry when we get to San Angelo. Then it’s his problem.”

“I won’t be sorry.” Lewis bundled the handkerchief back over it, returned it to his jacket pocket. “Better him than me.”

I
t was a real nice speakeasy. The little tables had white cloths and there were actual waiters, a small stage off to one side for live shows, a placard propped on an easel saying that the Fantastic Fernando Mariachi Players were on at 11. A bar ran the full length of the other side of the room, mirrors behind it reflecting hanging amber lamps. It must cost a pretty penny in bribes to keep the joint open, but Mitch wasn't complaining.

Several of the other teams were in evidence, the Fair Harvards at the far table, a couple of guys from Comanche at another with a guy who might have been one of the Bestways pilots. One of the reservists tipped a wave to Mitch and he responded in kind, but didn’t go over to join their table. Instead he slid onto one of the barstools at the far end by the empty bandstand. "Kentucky bourbon," he said. "With a dash of soda if you please."

It wasn't even raw stuff, but oaky and smooth, either left over from before the war or… Yeah, that was it.

"Seventy five cents, sir," the barman said and Mitch put it out without complaining. It's what he'd spend on a whole bottle of regular stuff, but this must be aged twenty years, sure as shooting. He took another sip, savoring the taste. Smooth, rich as amber.

"Can I get a light, stranger?" She slid onto the stool next to him without looking at his face, just meeting his eyes in the mirror behind the bar, still in the same black slacks and black blouse.

"I suppose," Mitch said, fishing out his Ronson automatic and flipping it open.

"You'll have to give me a cigarette first," Stasi said. She crossed her legs nonchalantly.

He grinned. "You don't have any?"

"Did you notice a cigarette case when you patted me down?" She held out her hand. He slid one between her fingers and she bent to light it. Her ruby nail polish was chipped, and she took a deep inhale, puckering her lips on the paper. "Oh, that's good," Stasi said. "I've been simply dying for hours, darling."

"I'm surprised you're not halfway back to LA," Mitch said.

"Well." She reached for his drink but he scooted it back out of the way.

"I don't suppose you came in here thinking that you could get one of the other teams to give you a ride along to San Angelo," Mitch said, holding his drink firmly.

"You're so suspicious."

"Let's just say I think you're resourceful."

She turned her head and gave him a brilliant smile. "That's so sweet of you!"

"Well, it must have taken a certain amount of moxie to escape the Russian Revolution," Mitch said.

"Yes, terribly," she said, arching her neck and waving for the barman. "Yoo-hoo! I'll have what he's having."

"The hell," Mitch said, but he let it ride. There are some stories worth seventy-five cents.

Stasi took another draw. "I'm sure I would have been killed if not for my Uncle Vanya. He smuggled me out of the country in a sled, darling. Simply covered in furs! We were pursued by howling wolves. It was utterly terrifying."

"In Minsk?"

"This was before Minsk, darling. We escaped down the Volga on the cutest little houseboat."

Mitch took a sip of his bourbon. "Playing the balalaika and wearing furry hats."

"Of course not." She downed half hers in a gulp. "The balalaika upsets the reindeer."

Mitch nearly inhaled his bourbon, which would be a pity, as it was way too good to inhale. "Eight of them, no doubt."

Stasi beamed. "How did you guess?"

"Traditional number for a reindeer team. Go on. I'm riveted."

"So there we were, galloping across the snow, just me and my dear Prince Andrei…"

"I thought it was Count Bezukhov in the book," Mitch observed. She gave him a dirty look over the rim of her glass and he shrugged. "I did read
War and Peace
too."

"What is it about you Americans?" Stasi demanded. "Have you all read
War and Peace
?"

Mitch shrugged. "I wouldn't think so. I read it during the war. It was about the only book in the billet, and I think the whole squadron read it twice each."

"Western Front?"

"Veneto," Mitch said, touching his glass to hers. "Over on the other end against the Austrians in Italy and the Balkans."

"Which would explain why you can find Budapest on a map," Stasi said.

"Can I?"

"I imagine you can." She shook her ash into the ashtray. "Are you really an ace?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"One of the other teams."

"You shouldn't trust everything the other teams say," Mitch said.

She tilted her head back, dark eyes roving over his face for a moment. "I expect that's true though. Is it?"

"Yes." Mitch took another sip of his bourbon. It seemed to be disappearing very quickly. "So I gave you one truth. You give me one. Why are you still here?"

"Did you find a wallet when you were rummaging around in my pockets?" Stasi asked. "I was jumping on the plane for a moment to get the necklace back, darling. I didn't bring luggage."

"Oh." Mitch frowned. "You mean you're flat broke."

"Not a penny. No cash, nothing." Stasi took another draw and then stamped out the end of her cigarette. "Not a dime for a telegram." She looked around the other teams in the speakeasy. "I hoped someone would be…obliging."

"Oh." Mitch felt a slow flush creeping up his neck. "Well. I suppose I could let you have five dollars for the train back to LA. I mean, since it was my fault."

"Your fault?" Her eyebrows rose.

"I locked the hatch."

Her lips parted in a long, wide smile. "I suppose it was your fault at that, darling. I'd be extremely grateful. Especially since I have no place to stay."

"I don't have the necklace," Mitch said. "And I'm sharing a room with Jerry. So don't even get on that bus."

Her eyes widened. "How could you think! Why, I should be so insulted that I'd never speak to you again!"

"Before I give you the money for the train?" Mitch asked.

She smiled again, and Lord that smile was 100 watts. "After, darling. I'm only insulted after."

Mitch shook his head. "Good policy." He opened his wallet and of course there was only a ten, and it would have been awkward to ask the barman for change, never mind that it was most of what he'd figured he'd spend on the whole trip, money being tight as it was. But if they won he could afford it and if they lost they'd be so screwed it didn't matter, so he handed it over with a shrug.

Stasi frowned. "What's the extra for?"

"Breakfast," Mitch said, getting up. He drained the last of his bourbon and put the glass on the counter. "Train doesn't leave until seven. I expect you'll want some."

"Where are you going?"

"To get some sleep," Mitch said. "I've got a race to fly in the morning." She was still frowning after him when he turned the corner to the elevator at the end of the hall.

Chapter Eight

I
f it had been her choice, Alma thought, they’d have taken off as soon as the sun was well up, flying east into the rising light, into quiet early morning air before the promised wind came up. But the start times were set for the newspapers and the public, the first takeoff at 9:30, so that the reporters could wire their stories ahead, setting up their colleagues in San Angelo with the latest standings and gossip, and the fans had a chance to take their coffee breaks early to see the planes leave. She leaned against the hotel window, feeling the warmth already rising through the glass. A beautiful day for flying…

“Al?” Lewis put his arms around her waist, and she leaned back into his embrace.

“It’s going to be a gorgeous day,” she said.

He tightened his hold. “Looks it. And, I hate to say it, we should get breakfast.”

Alma sighed and nodded. “Right. Are Mitch and Jerry up?”

“I don’t know. I said we’d meet downstairs at seven.”

Alma glanced around the room — spacious but unnaturally tidy, their bags already packed and ready for the bellhop — and nodded. “Let’s go. You’ll probably have to wake them, though.”

To her surprise, the others were ahead of them, settled at a corner table as far from the other teams as they could manage. Lewis nodded to the guys from Comanche as they passed, and pulled out Alma’s chair for her when they reached the table.

Jerry looked up from his paper long enough to nod, and Mitch said, “American got in about nine last night, and they’ve been working all night to make permanent repairs. Sounds like they’re out of it.”

“Well, that’s good news for us,” Alma said. The waitress appeared, and she placed her order, eggs and toast and bacon, accepted her cup of coffee with a grateful smile.

The food was good and plentiful and — best of all, to Alma’s way of thinking — on the race organizers’ tab. It was all too quickly finished, however, and a referee appeared to herd them onto the waiting bus. The three actresses greeted each other with hugs and giggles, posing even without the cameras watching as the bellhops loaded the bags.

“I’ve never been to New Orleans,” one of the girls said. “It’s — mysterious, isn’t it?”

“Hot city, cool jazz,” one of the Harvard boys said, with a cheerful grin that encompassed all of them without quite being a leer.

The girl from Consolidated shook her head. “I’ve been there on tour, and what I saw was hot and dirty. People selling magic dust in back alleys. Strange place.”

“It’s full of voodoo,” another one said, drawing out the vowels. She was smaller and rounder than the others, her platinum hair carefully waved, scarlet nails to match her scarlet lips. She smiled at Mitch. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Sorley?”

Mitch removed his hat. “Isn’t what right, Miss James?”

“That there’s voodoo in New Orleans. Black magic.”

Something crossed Mitch’s face like a shadow. “There’s no such thing,” he said, shortly, and visibly caught himself. “A lot of good music, though.”