Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (15 page)

“Not the brightest,” Mitch said.

“No. But there will almost certainly have to be a hearing, and I just want to try to arrange it so Al doesn’t have to testify.”

“You think that’s likely?” Mitch sounded dubious, and Jerry shrugged.

“I’m going to try.”

Back in the cool of the lobby, Jerry stopped at the front desk, more to rest his leg than because he expected there would actually be any messages. To his surprise, the clerk turned away from the pigeonholes with a slip of paper in his hand.

“Yes, Dr. Ballard, there was a phone call for you. The gentleman said it was urgent.”

Jerry looked at the note — Henry Kershaw, please call as soon as you get this — and then looked where the clerk was pointing, to the row of telephone booths tucked into a side hall.

“Thanks,” he said, and stumped off toward them. The others caught up to him quickly, and Mitch gave him a look.

“What’s up?”

“Henry wanted me to call him.” Jerry wedged himself into one of the narrow booths. His leg didn’t bend right, stuck out awkwardly, and he tried to pretend that he was propping the door open on purpose. It was probably about the hearing, he thought, and braced himself as he lifted the receiver.

“Number, please.”

He glanced at the paper, read off the number there.

“One moment.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Alma asked. Her voice was a little high, and Jerry guessed she was thinking about the hearing, too. He shook his head, wishing he could be more reassuring.

“Just to call.”

Voices spoke in his ear, the operator and Miss Patterson. He gave his name, but Miss Patterson didn’t noticeably thaw. Then Henry’s voice crackled in his ear.

“Jerry! We’ve got a problem.”

“About last night?” Jerry felt something cold settle in the pit of his stomach. If he couldn’t keep Alma out of this….

“What’? No, no, that’s not important —”

“It kind of is to me,” Jerry said. This was the Henry who’d always driven him nuts.

“I told you, George will take care of all that,” Henry said. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I’m thinking about Al,” Jerry said.

“Listen,” Henry said. “Bill Davenport’s done a bunk.”

“What?” Jerry blinked at the telephone as though the cabinet had suddenly sprouted wings.

“You heard me.”

“Yes, but —” Jerry stopped, reordering his thoughts. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve got a man on retainer,” Henry said. “A private investigator. After you called last night, I thought I’d have him check up on Bill. He’s skipped town, and cleaned out his bank account, and I bet I know one person he paid out of it.”

Jerry paused again, digesting the other man’s words. “You think Davenport had something to do with this.”

“It’s not a bad neighborhood where you were,” Henry said. “And George said the guy you shot was hired muscle. And Davenport picked you to attack at the Ploiaphesia. The thought crossed my mind.”

“Son of a —” Jerry stopped himself. Ok, it was possible, possible that Davenport and/or whatever he was working with had decided they were enough of a threat to warrant an attack. But he couldn’t see what he’d done to frighten them…. The tablet, of course. Davenport knew he was one of two or three people in the country who could both translate it and recognize it for what it was. But that didn’t get them much further. “What happened?”

“My guy went to Davenport’s office at the college, and he hasn’t been there since he got back. They’re not real happy with him, either, by the way. He was supposed to give an opinion on some bronzes they had, and he never showed.”

“Henry.” Jerry closed his eyes, prayed for patience.

“So, anyway,” Henry said. “He checked the apartment Bill kept over in Glendale and called me from there. He said it looked like Bill left town in a hurry.”

“Hell.” If Davenport was gone, and had taken his dubious ally with him…. No, he still couldn’t make it make sense. “Ok, what now?”

“I want to talk to you about that,” Henry said. “Can you come to the house? Right away?”

Jerry frowned at the cabinet’s polished veneer. “Why?”

“I want to put the tablet somewhere safe,” Henry said. “And I think we need to figure out what to do about Davenport.”

Both points were inarguable, and Jerry sighed. “All right. We’ll take a cab, be there as soon as we can.”

He hung up the phone, turned to face the others. “Davenport’s skipped town.”

“That’s interesting,” Mitch said. “I wonder — well, I wonder where and why?”

“I wonder how,” Alma said. Her face was intent.

“Henry said his apartment is in Glendale,” Jerry said. “I wonder.…”

Mitch nodded, comprehension dawning. “Maybe Lewis and I should check it out?”

“Check what out?” Lewis asked.

“Grand Central’s in Glendale, actually,” Alma said.

“Oh.” Lewis nodded. “Yeah, Ok, we could probably find out if he caught a plane.” His voice trailed off as though he wasn’t sure why they’d bother.

“If he’s run,” Mitch said, “he’s not just Henry’s responsibility anymore.”

Jerry nodded. “Henry wants the tablet back, and I think I’d be happier if he had it. And he wants to talk with us. Al, why don’t you and I deal with Henry, and let Mitch and Lewis check out the flights?”

“Yes,” Alma said, and looked at Lewis. “Let’s do that.”

T
hey took a cab from the hotel up and over the Hollywood hills, wound down past the trees of Griffith Park toward Glendale. There were a dozen questions Lewis wanted to ask, most of them some variation on ‘what the heck do you think we can do about this Davenport guy anyway,’ but he knew better than to say anything like that with the cabbie listening in. He still wasn’t quite sure he believed in possession, in demons — well, except that the Church said they were real, and Father Mira had certainly believed in them. Lewis could still remember the scandal from when he was six, his best friend Nelo dragged stumbling into the church with his mother calling down the Virgin’s wrath on the woman with the evil eye who had cursed her son. He’d followed to see what was wrong, and she’d turned on him, proclaiming that it was his fault, because his father was a Bolshevik and a heretic and his grandmother was a witch and he was a child of evil.
But Grandmother goes to Mass every day
, he’d protested, and Nelo’s aunt had hissed at him,
because she needs to
.

Father Mira had straightened things out, though. He’d blessed Nelo, given him prayers to say to ward off the weakness in his legs, and told Mrs. Gabarra to take him back to the settlement house, too, and give him more milk like the ladies there said.
It’s not the evil eye that’s at issue here
, he’d said,
it’s the evil tongue. That’s how the demons catch you, they tempt you to say things you’d never mean if you only drew breath before you spoke. The next time you would say such a thing, recite an Ave first. Our Lady will protect you from evil.
A part of him, the part of him that would always be six years old, standing in the beeswax-and-incense-smelling nave while the grown-ups shouted, and wished the priest were still alive to ask about all of this. Except that then he’d have had to explain about Alma, and that Father Mira would never have tolerated. Especially since Lewis couldn’t honestly say he repented of anything about it.

The cab pulled into the circle at the end of the terminal, and they both climbed out, Mitch leaning back to pay and add a tip that made the cabbie touch his cap before he pulled away.

He straightened, looking up at the tower, and Lewis said, “Ok, now what?”

Mitch gave him a crooked smile. “Isn’t this where we go beat somebody up?”

“I think it helps to know who to hit,” Lewis said, and Mitch laughed.

“I’m kind of off hitting people anyway, after last night.” He tipped his head to one side. “Let’s talk to Nomie first, he pretty much knows everything.”

“Nomie?”

“Nomie Jones,” Mitch answered. “He manages the hangars here. He was Gil’s mechanic, he’ll take care of us.”

“Ok.” Lewis trailed after him through the terminal, listening with one ear to the drone of engines overhead. They found Nomie in the hangar’s main machine shop, supervising a boy with a face red from sunburn and acne as he broke down the motor of a ratty-looking Jenny. Jones himself was a skinny dried-up little man with the weathered face of a jockey. He gave the red-faced boy a last dubious look, but stepped willingly enough into the relative cool of the hangar itself. A steady breeze came in the open doors, cool on the skin: out of the southeast, Lewis knew without thinking, and perfect for flying. There had been three or four bright shapes against the clear blue as they crossed the tarmac, and at the far end of the hangar, a girl in jodhpurs was standing with her hand on the wing of a bright yellow two-seater, nodding her head earnestly as the pilot gave last-minute instructions. Jones saw where he was looking and gave a cackle of laughter.

“Listen, Nomie,” Mitch said, before the older man could say anything. “I need a favor.”

“What’s in it for me?” Jones asked, but Lewis thought there was a certain wariness beneath the teasing tone.

“My undying gratitude,” Mitch answered, and Jones grinned, but the wariness didn’t leave his eyes.

“Then I’m your man.”

“I need to find out if a particular person caught a flight east, probably yesterday,” Mitch said. “But maybe today. You know anybody who’d be able to tell me that?”

“Maybe,” Jones said. “You want to tell me what this is about?”

“We had some trouble night before last,” Mitch said, carefully, “and that led to some more problems last night. Major Ballard ended up shooting a man.”

“No shit,” Jones said. He sounded impressed, Lewis thought, but not particularly surprised. “I know a guy in the DA’s office might be able to help with that.”

“Thanks,” Mitch said. “I’ll take you up on that. But right now we’re trying to find out about the guy who set us up.”

Jones paused. “Janie might know.”

“Can we ask her?” Mitch asked.

“I’ll introduce you,” Jones said dubiously. “She’s a nice girl, Cap.”

“And I’m a nice guy,” Mitch said. “And so’s Lewis.”

Janie turned out to be a nicely-rounded brunette in a pretty flowered frock and high-heeled pumps tied with rose-colored ribbons that matched her nail varnish. The flower in her hat was the same delicate color. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and Jones handled her like a kitten that hadn’t quite found its feet. She worked in the tower, she said, in answer to Mitch’s careful questions. Oh, not in the
tower
, just in the office, but all the tickets came through there. Mitch gave her his best smile, and she allowed as how she could probably check that for him, see if Mr. Davenport had taken a flight.

“Give me five minutes,” she said, with a smile that would have put most movie stars to shame, “and as soon as Miss Barnes is out of the way, I’ll check the flight logs.”

“And I’ll buy you your milkshake,” Mitch said. “Since you’re missing your break for me.”

“Chocolate, please,” she said, with a giggle, and skittered away. Mitch watched her go, his expression almost wistful.

“She’s a nice girl,” Jones said again, and Mitch gave him a look, his expression suddenly weary.

“I’m not likely to forget it, Nomie, am I? Let’s get the kid her milkshake.”

Lewis trailed after them through the lower level of the terminal, feeling distinctly useless. Mitch was a lot better at making nice with pretty secretaries — they liked him better anyway, all soft southern accent and courtly manners, the easy charm of a born gentleman. Lewis didn’t have the looks to pull it off, too swarthy, too foreign, with none of the suave grace of a Valentino to mitigate it.

Outside, the engine noises changed, and he stopped under one of the open arches to watch a big trimotor line up on the runway. The pilot was good, brought her down with only a single bounce, and taxied sedately up to the terminal. The door popped open, stairs unfolding, and the passengers began to clamber down, while a couple of guys in company coveralls began hauling suitcases out of the baggage compartment in the tail.

“Western from Salt Lake,” a voice said at his elbow, and he turned to see a tall man in a green work shirt, his tie tucked into the buttons. He was obviously a pilot, and Lewis nodded.

“Nice landing.”

“Frank’s good,” the other man said, with only a hint of envy. “Who are you with?”

“Gilchrist Aviation,” Lewis said. “Out of Colorado Springs. Yourself?”

“Milton Air. I’m on the San Francisco run.”

Ok, Lewis thought. Status established. “Fokkers?”

“Fords. We’ve got one Kershaw Terrier, but those babies are expensive.”

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. But solid. Easy on the passengers.”

The other man gave him a second look. “You guys fly one? I’m Steve Garvey, by the way.”

“Lewis Segura.” They shook hands, and Lewis went on, “My boss says they’re cheaper to maintain in the long run.”

“Wish I could convince Landis of that,” Garvey said.

“Say,” Lewis said. He could feel himself tensing, made himself relax and smile. “I don’t suppose you were flying yesterday.”

“Yeah.” Garvey gave him a curious look.

“Did you take an older guy, wavy hair going a little gray? Sharp dresser?” That was a guess, since he’d only seen him in the white robes of the ritual, but Lewis was willing to bet Davenport dressed every bit as well as Jerry. “Traveling alone.”

“Nope, not me.” Garvey shook his head for emphasis. “How come?”

“He talked to us about passage back east,” Lewis said. The lie came easier than he’d expected. “We gave him a fare, but he hasn’t gotten back in touch. I’d like to know if we should wait around or not. Otherwise we’re going back empty”

Garvey shook his head again. “I haven’t carried anybody like that. But one of the other guys might have.”

The story seemed to work, and Mitch and Jones were still sitting at one of the little tables, Janie between them trying to look grown up. Lewis wandered back through the hangars, stopping in every bay, but none of the other pilots remembered carrying anybody matching the description. One of the mechanics, a gangling redhead, allowed as how he might have seen a guy like that at the telegraph office, but that was all. Lewis thanked him anyway, and started back toward the terminal. The telegraph office was still open, and he hesitated by the door, but couldn’t come up with a good excuse for asking. Western Union guarded its patrons’ business.