The Hot Pilots (6 page)

He decided that it made no sense to stand outside wondering about it, and used the key she had given him to enter into the
dark vestibule. “Linda?” he called out uncertainly, groping in the shadows for the light switch. He found it and flicked it
on.

He wandered into the small living room, and saw her straw beach bag on the tan sofa, and a yellow and black garment of some
kind lying crumpled on the peach carpet.

“Linda—?” He went into the galley kitchen, and was putting the champagne in the fridge when he heard hushed murmurings. He
went back into the living room. The whispering was coming from behind the closed bedroom door. As he stared at it the bedroom
door opened and Linda came out.

“Jesus Christ, Don!” she gasped. Her hair was mussed. She seemed flushed. She was wrapped in a sheet that left her shoulders
bare. “What the hell are you doing here—?”

“That’s a hell of a way to greet me.” He laughed, walking toward her, spreading his arms wide to give her a hug.

His smile faded as he got closer. “Oh, Christ,” he whispered, recoiling as he smelled her within the warm, close confines
of the living room.
A bitch in heat
, flashed through his mind, and then he glimpsed movement in the bedroom through the partially opened door.

“Who’s in there, Linda?” he demanded fiercely. “Who—?”

The words died in his throat as the door swung open and Steven Gold, wearing just a pair of bathing trunks, stepped into the
living room.

“Linda?” Don stared at her. Despite his rage he desperately hoped that she might tell him something to make this all right;
to make everything not be ruined …

“I’m sorry, Don,” Linda murmured, looking away.

He nodded. “There’s some champagne in the refrigerator,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady as the waves of humiliation
and loss washed over him. “You two enjoy yourselves …” He could hear the trembling in his voice. He looked down at his hands.
They were shaking. It seemed that not only Linda, but also his own body was betraying him …

“Look, Don,” Steven Gold said, taking a step toward him. “I want to—”

“Oh?” Harrison cut him off fiercely. “You want to apologize for
being
here, or maybe for my
catching
you here?”

“Don—” Steve began again.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Harrison said flatly. It seemed to take forever for him to make it to the front door, to open
it, to step out, and to shut the door behind him. As soon as that door was closed he broke into a run down the stairs. He
had his fists clenched, and was shaking his head, willing himself not to cry. It would be even worse if he let himself cry.

He ran to his car, started it up, and pulled away, ignoring the outraged horns and squealing brakes of the drivers he cut
off. He came around the corner onto Sunset on two tires, and then floored the Commodore, getting it up to fifty, wildly swerving
to miss the cross traffic as he ran red lights, as if he could outrun his shame.

And as he drove through the soft California night he saw clearly that it was Steven Gold who had stolen his girl. He knew
that he could not physically compete for Linda with a man like Steve. He supposed that he should have known that all along.
His father could have certainly told him …

But there would be other arenas in which to confront Steven Gold, Harrison knew. He would think about it. He was an engineer,
possessing a creative and logical mind. He would distract himself from his pain by thinking about this the way he might think
up a solution to an aeronautical design problem.

And he would come up with a blueprint for getting even.

Linda Forrester watched Steve stare at her front door.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was Don you were going with?” he demanded.

“What good would that have done?” she asked dejectedly. She was feeling cold, and pulled the bed sheet a little closer around
her bare shoulders as she slumped on the sofa.

“Well, for starters, I could have told you that he didn’t go to Washington with my old man,” Steve said.

“Touché.” She laughed thinly as he went to the sideboard where she kept her liquor.

“You want a drink?”

“A big one,” Linda murmured.

He poured two generous scotches, straight up. He brought them over, sitting down beside her.

“I’m sorry, blue eyes,” he murmured. He set the glasses on the coffee table and gently took her hand in his. “I guess I screwed
things up for you … I’m really sorry—”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I invited you here, remember?” She smiled grimly. “Anyway, you’ve done a good deed tonight …”

“How so?” Steve asked, puzzled.

“You saved Don, right? He’ll never know what a favor you did him by putting him off a woman like me …”

“Don’t say that—”

“Why not?” she began curtly. “It’s true, isn’t it? I had that poor chump by the short hairs, but now he can thank his lucky
stars he found out about me before it was too late. Maybe now he can find himself a
nice
girl. A
good
girl. Not a
tramp
like me—”

“You’re no tramp,” Steve said, picking up his drink. “I don’t want to hear you saying that, because it isn’t true.”

She had to smile then. “I guess that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me … Thanks …
pal
,” she added softly, taking the other scotch and clinking her glass against his. “We’re two peas in a pod, you and 1.”

“How so?”

She took a long pull of her drink. “We’re not the marrying kind.”

Susan Greene was at her desk outside Don Harrison’s office when her telephone rang. It was the main switchboard. Mr. Gold
was calling long distance from Washington to speak to Mr. Harrison.

“Good morning!” she said when her father came on the line.

“Good morning to
you
, maybe,” he replied. “But it’s lunchtime
here
, and hot as blazes …”

“Poor you,” Susan said. “When are you coming home?”

“I’ve got another couple of days here, I’m afraid.”

“It’s a long trip this time around …”

“Yeah. Something’s come up. A new project. The meetings are endless …” She could hear his exasperation. “Honestly, the way
they like to have meetings, it’s a wonder the government gets anything done …”

“Well, the world can’t be run like GAT,” she teased.

“And why not?” he asked jovially.

Susan laughed. She looked around to make sure that no one could overhear her, and then said, “Come home soon, Daddy. I miss
you.”

Sometimes the secrecy made her feel silly, but there was a point to it. She used her married name at work to keep people from
knowing that Herman Gold was her father. She wanted people to relate to her for herself; not because she was the boss’s daughter.

“I miss you, too, sweetie. Put Don on the line for me, would you?”

Susan hesitated. “Um, he’s away from his desk …”

“Oh …” Gold said, sounding disgruntled. “He knows I call every morning about this time. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“All right, then. I doubt that I’ll be able to call later. I’ll be tied up in these damned meetings. I’ll call tomorrow. Good-bye.”

Susan hung up the telephone, feeling guilty that she had lied. Everything wasn’t all right. Don hadn’t come to work this morning.

For anyone else to miss a day of work was one thing, but since Don had started at GAT a couple of years ago he hadn’t missed
a day. He’d even come in that time he was so sick with that terrible cold and the company nurse finally had to come around
to insist that he leave so he wouldn’t risk infecting the rest of the department. What’s more, she was his secretary, so even
if Don had decided to take a day off, he certainly would have called to let her know … Not that he would ever remotely consider
not coming in when her father was away, as well …

Calling Don at home had only compounded the mystery. There was no answer at his apartment, but when she called the apartment
building’s front desk the concierge said that Mr. Harrison was at home …

She’d been wondering what to do when her father had called, and had decided not to tell him of her concerns. There was nothing
he could do about it all the way across the country, and anyway, he’d sounded like he had enough on his mind without her further
burdening him with her female intuition …

She reached for the telephone, thinking to call back the concierge and ask him to use his pass key to see if Don was all right.
The telephone at the other end was ringing when Susan thought,
How embarrassing if the man rushed up there, perhaps with the police, and Don was only sleeping
—

Linda Forrester popped into her mind.
And what if Don wasn’t sleeping alone?

“Lyndon Tower Apartments,” the concierge answered.

Susan quickly hung up. Don had a girlfriend, let
her
check on him …

She went back to her work, but she couldn’t concentrate. After another half hour of fretting and watching the clock she decided
to try Don’s apartment again.

She was listening to his telephone ring, and thinking that if she didn’t hear from him by noon, she’d just have to grit her
teeth and call Linda Forrester at the
Gazette
to see if she knew Don’s whereabouts—

The telephone rang and rang. He wasn’t home. She was about to disconnect when he picked up.

“Hello? Hello?” he mumbled anxiously as though he were half-asleep. “Linda?”

“No …” she replied, feeling peeved and angry and hurt, the way she’d felt months ago when after only a few weeks of dating,
Don had abruptly jilted her in order to pick up with Linda Forrester. “It’s Susan …”

He didn’t reply. What an indignity to have to add, “… at the office—?”

“Oh … Susan …”

“No need to sound so disappointed,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “I was worried about you …”

“Yeah …” he grunted.

“Don, what’s wrong?” she demanded, concerned all over again because the way he was acting was just not like him. “Are you
sick?”

“Yeah … Sick …”

“I’m calling a doctor—”

“No! I don’t need a doctor,” he said quickly. “I need …”

“What? What is it? What do you need?”

“Company. Would you come over—?”

She hesitated, thinking,
Where was Linda Forrester?

“Please, Susan … I need someone to talk to.”

“All right. I’ll come. At lunchtime. See you then.”

It was a little after one in the afternoon when Susan found a parking space on Wilshire Boulevard, a block down from Lyndon
Tower. She didn’t immediately get out of her lemon yellow, bug-eyed little Triumph TR2; she just sat there by curbside, lightly
gunning the motor, wondering if she had the nerve to go through with this.

On the drive over she’d put the pieces together, remembering how Don had answered the telephone bleating “
Linda? Linda?
” like some goddamned, lost little lamb. Okay, so he’d had a romantic setback; it happened to everyone, God knew. Likely it
was just a lover’s spat, but wasn’t it just like Don to take it so seriously?

The question was did she really want to be his shoulder to cry on? Could she bear to be relegated to that status, considering
her own, simmering resentment over the way he’d dumped her for that sexpot?

But then again, she supposed that she had to go to him. She’d said that she’d come, so now he was expecting her, she told
herself as she got out of the Triumph. And anyway, she’d already arranged for one of the other girls in the department to
cover her telephone until she got back …

Lyndon Tower was a Spanish-influenced, art deco building, rising up eight stories behind the palm trees lining the boulevard.
The apartment house was painted a pale lavender, and frosted like a wedding cake with statues and modernistic friezes. It
was a ritzy address, with all the amenities, including a uniformed doorman who tipped his cap to Susan as he held the door.

The lobby was done in an Oriental motif by way of
Terry and the Pirates
and the Technicolor division of the prop department at MGM: Everything was brilliantly lacquered orange and red, with lots
of green porcelain dragons and burnt sienna lions cluttering up the place. There were groupings of armchairs and low tables
with fanned-out arrangements of newspapers in the lobby, and as Susan strode past on her way to the concierge a couple of
men looked up from their reading to watch her go by.

Susan smiled. When Don had jilted her it had made her feel drab and frowsy, but in her saner moments she was objective enough
to know that she was a pretty, brown-eyed blonde. It was true that she was a big girl, with a full figure, but she’d always
been big, just as she’d always been athletic. Now, at thirty-one, her body was still as sleek and youthful as when she’d been
a teenager, thanks to a rigorous routine of tennis, swimming, and golf. Strangers she met were always shocked to find out
that she had a ten-year-old son.

She knew she looked especially good today, thanks to her new suit. Its gray silk ankle-length skirt and belted jacket fit
her curves so well that she’d made the quickest little detour home in order to change into it before seeing Don. (She was
not above rubbing salt in Don’s wounded heart by showing him just what he’d missed out on by taking up with that skinny little
Linda Forrester who was giving him so much grief.)

At the front desk she said that Mr. Harrison was expecting her, and then waited as the concierge telephoned upstairs.

“Sixth floor, apartment D, miss,” the concierge told her. “The elevators are just around the corner…”

She had butterflies in her stomach as she rang for the elevator, and then during the ride up.
What the hell was she going to say when Don started in whining about his beloved Linda—?

“Sixth floor,” the operator said, sliding open the elevator door, and then Susan was walking like a condemned prisoner on
the last mile down the carpeted, sconce-lit corridor to apartment D.