Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (65 page)

Jerry frowned at the wheel. The prizes weren’t the real issue, the main thing was to keep Miss Ruby Lee of TWA from getting the one big fifteen minute bonus that was hidden somewhere on the wheel — beneath the radio, he thought. If the reporters wanted cheating, well, this probably was it, but he was determined to do his part to keep Gilchrist solidly in the lead. He’d always had a knack for games of chance, and Gil had taught him how to manipulate them on the fly — it was just a matter of concentration and focus. He could do this.

It was May Saltonstall’s turn — Harvard had managed to vault to fourth, on the strength of McIsaac’s piloting — and she stepped up to the wheel with a determined look.

“Give it a good spin, Miss Saltonstall,” the master of ceremonies urged. He was the president of the local Chamber of Commerce, a handsome, well-spoken man named Jewell, who was sweating under the twin obligations of keeping the competition moving and getting the prize donors’ names on the radio as often as possible.

May obliged, and the wheel spun, clicking loudly, to settle at last on a picture of a lady’s wristwatch. She smiled with what looked like genuine enthusiasm, and the two ball-gowned girls clapped politely.

“Congratulations,” Jewell said, leaning close to the nearest microphone. “That’s a beautiful lady’s watch, platinum set with real diamonds, from the Elgin Company, courtesy of Pfeiffer’s Department Store, Sixth and Main, right here in Little Rock!”

Ten minutes, Jerry thought. He was pretty sure the watch carried a ten minute bonus, and that was all right.

“Miss Laura Bainbridge of United!” Jewell announced. “Step right up, please, Miss Bainbridge. There are still some nice prizes left — that fine mink coat, courtesy of Gus Blass Company, or how ‘bout that radio, from O.K. Houck?”

The mink was five minutes, and so was the ladies’ dresser set, Jerry thought; the money all carried ten minutes. It was the radio they had to worry about. He focused his will as the blonde reached for the wheel, and Pelletier nudged him in the ribs.

“Not bad, huh?”

Jerry winced, concentration broken, and forced a smile. “Not bad, no.”

The wheel clicked to a stop on the radio.

“And that’s the cabinet radio from O.K. Houck — don’t worry, Miss Bainbridge, Houck ships nationwide!” Jewell waved for a helper to trundle the radio forward, three feet of polished maple inlay on elegant clawed feet. “But, if you’d like, there’s always the chance to trade. Look around, see if there’s something out there that you like better.”

Miss Bainbridge made a production of looking up and down then line, then shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Jewell, but I quite like what I have. It’s a lovely piece.”

“Huh,” Pelletier said, with a sideways grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stuck on the Harvard girl.”

“Miss Saltonstall is very nice,” Jerry said, his voice prim. Inwardly, he was seething. All right, it wasn’t so bad that United had the time, but there was still room to trade…

“From Transcontinental and Western Air, Miss Ruby Lee!” Jewell waved her forward, and she posed for a moment beside the wheel before reaching for the lever. The wheel spun, and it seemed to take forever before it began to slow. It clicked toward a stop, past ten dollars, twenty, and settled at last on the mink coat.

“A beautiful mahogany mink coat cut to the latest fashion,” Jewell announced, as another assistant brought out the gleaming fur and laid it gently in Miss Lee’s arms. “From Gus Blass, in the 300 block, Main Street. It’s a gorgeous coat, Miss Lee, but — you always have the chance to trade it for something better. Will you keep it, or will you trade?”

Miss Lee stroked it, looking up and down the line, and then leaned close to the microphone. “It is beautiful, Mr. Jewell, but — I’m a California girl.”

Not the radio, Jerry thought. Not the radio.

Miss Lee stopped in front of May Salstonstall. “Sorry, honey,” she said, “but I sure like that watch a lot.”

“A trade!” Jewell announced, as the women exchanged items to a smattering of applause. “Miss Lee takes the watch, and Miss Saltonstall gets the mink. I don’t think anyone loses there.”

“And last but not least — last because he’s first — Dr. Jerry Ballard. Let’s have a hand for Gilchrist Aviation!”

Jewell beckoned, and Jerry managed a smile, leaning on his cane as he stopped beside the wheel.

“Go right ahead, Dr. Ballard, give it a whirl.”

Jerry took a last look at the wheel. The hundred dollar prize was still there, and it carried a ten minute bonus. He focused his will, and pulled the lever hard. The wheel spun noisily, slowed, and settled onto the hundred-dollar space.

“One hundred dollars!” Jewell said. “One hundred dollars and a time bonus! But before we find out just how much time our contestants receive, we have one last round of trades. Ladies — and gentlemen — are you satisfied with what you have?”

There was a moment of silence, everyone looking to see what the others would do, and then Miss Saltonstall stepped forward.

“I want to trade, Mr. Jewell.”

“Miss Saltsonstall wants to trade.” Jewell looked up and down the line. “Anyone else?”

Mrs. Jezek was biting her lip, teetering on the edge of a decision, and Jerry couldn’t resist. Just a little push, he thought. Just a nudge toward the extra time, which would help Corsair and not hurt them. Pick the radio. Choose the radio.

“Yes,” Mrs. Jezek said. “Yes, I would like to trade.”

“And Mrs. Jezek wants to trade,” Jewell repeated. “Anyone else? No one? All right, then. By the rules of this contest, the lowest ranking team chooses first, so that’s you, Mrs. Jezek.”

“Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “I would like the cabinet radio, Mr. Jewell.”

She held out the money she’d won to Laura Bainbridge, who took it cheerfully enough, and one of the assistants pushed the radio over to her. The audience applauded happily.

“And you, Miss Salstonstall?” Jewell asked. “What would you like instead of that gorgeous mink?”

Miss Saltonstall’s grin was utterly mischievous. “One hundred dollars, Mr. Jewell.”

Before Jerry could react, she was holding out the coat. He took it, helplessly, the audience laughing and clapping. Miss Saltonstall took the hundred dollars and the envelope with the time bonus and returned to her place, her heels snapping on the wooden stage.

“And that’s today’s modern woman, folks,” Jewell said, to more laughter. “Entirely practical! And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the time. You’ll each find an envelope attached to your prize. Have you all got it? Everyone? Then it’s time. Open your envelopes, please!”

Jerry wrestled the heavy fur into the crook of his arm — God, it was an awkward bundle — and used both hands to tear open his envelope. As he had expected, the slip read “five minutes” and he held it up to the audience. The others did the same, Mrs. Jezek with a little bounce of pleasure as she showed fifteen minutes, and Jerry couldn’t help smiling. It didn’t hurt him, and Corsair could use all the help it could get.

After that, the contest wrapped up quickly, Jewell urging everyone to come out to the field to watch the take-off in the morning. Jerry hoisted the unwieldy coat onto his shoulder and levered himself down the stairs to the tiled lobby. It was crowded, even this late at night, and he recognized several of the reporters who had been following the race. Beyond them, Alma and Lewis stood by the doorway of the hotel’s restaurant, obviously waiting for a table, and Jerry started toward them.

“Dr. Ballard!”

Jerry turned to see Winchell’s stringer Carmichael grinning up at him, notebook open in his hand.

“So, your wife is going to love that baby.”

“I’m not married,” Jerry said. There was no good place this conversation could go, and it took all his willpower to hold a pleasant smile.

“That’s probably good enough to get you engaged,” Carmichael said. “That’s one expensive fur. Got a lady-friend you’re going to share it with?”

No good place, Jerry thought. He took a breath, looking for his best out, and saw Alma wave to him from the restaurant door. “This is all about the team, Mr. Carmichael,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He stepped around the smaller man, shifting the coat in his hands. The conversation had attracted attention from some of the other reporters, but he ignored them, smiling at Alma.

“I think this is yours,” he said, and set the coat on her shoulders. She blinked, surprised and then pleased, her hands going to the fur to stroke the collar. Lewis lifted an eyebrow, and Jerry shrugged. “What was I going to do with it?”

Flashbulbs popped, and Alma swore. Lewis glared at the photographers, his expression enough to discourage even the most persistent reporter’s questions, and Mitch came up beside him, looking from one to the other.

“What the hell?”

“Your table is ready, Mr. Segura,” the maitre d’ said from the door, and Jerry followed them into the restaurant. Somewhere, he thought, Gil was laughing.

L
ewis followed the others down the alley, Alma’s sleek new fur catching the light from the alley’s mouth. It was really too warm to need it, but it looked as though she wasn’t going to let it out of her hands until they got back to their room. Mitch had slipped the waiter a five-spot, and the man had let them out through the kitchen, directing them toward a “private club” two blocks from the hotel, and so far they seemed to have avoided the reporters. Not that Lewis cared if they were seen visiting a speak — who didn’t, really? — but he was thoroughly tired of the flashbulbs and the innuendos. The least they could do was take Alma seriously. She was the smartest pilot in the race, that much ought to be obvious to everyone.

They turned right onto Second Street, then left onto Louisiana, a streetcar rattling past in the distance. Lewis heard music, and then it was cut off as though a door had closed.

“There,” Mitch said.

Lewis looked where he was pointing, automatically offering Alma his arm as they crossed the street. It was an ordinary-looking storefront — no, not the storefront, but the steps that led down to a basement entrance, where imperfectly curtained windows let slivers of light onto the iron stairs.

Mitch led the way, and rapped briskly on the door. Lewis could hear music again, not quite stifled by the door and the heavy curtains, and after a moment, a peephole opened.

“Yeah?”

Mitch held up the card he had gotten from the hotel doorman, but the man shook his head.

“This is a private club, buddy.”

Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill, wrapped it around the card. “We’d like to become members.”

The doorkeeper snatched the card out of his hand. “Why didn’t you say so? Come on in, folks.”

Mitch signed the guestbook as “Smith” with an indeterminate squiggle for a first name; Lewis identified himself and Alma as Mr. and Mrs. John Jones, and drew a sardonic grin from the doorkeeper.

“Don’t get many Joneses around here, mister.”

“It’s an unusual name,” Lewis said, solemnly, and followed Alma into the main room.

It was hot and crowded, the air hazed with smoke. In one corner, a jazz trio tried to keep the music going without actually elbowing any of the dancers; the dancers, a good half-dozen couples, tried to keep from stumbling into the musicians or the tables that surrounded the postage stamp of a dance floor. Mitch checked at the edge of the crowd, looking for a table, and Lewis put his hand on Alma’s waist, less to steady her than to keep close to her.

“Are there tables?” he asked.

Before Mitch could answer, someone shouted, “Segura! Over here!”

Lewis peered through the smoke to see Comanche’s Rayburn half-standing, waving them over. His team had commandeered several tables, and they and the Harvard team were crowded around them, along with the pretty girl from Consolidated and one of the pilots from the Corsair. He didn’t see any other tables, so he shrugged and made his way toward them, still keeping his hand on Alma’s waist. Mitch followed more slowly, and they reached the tables just as the band finished its song.

“Nice job, Mrs. Segura,” Rayburn said, with what sounded like genuine admiration, and Lewis let himself relax a little.

One of the Harvard boys shot to his feet, offering her a chair next to Miss Saltsonstall, and Mitch managed to find chairs for the rest of them. The Harvard boy winked at Lewis, and offered his hand to the girl from Consolidated.

“I don’t suppose you’d do me the honor, Miss Gray? I’ve never had the chance to dance with a movie star before.”

She laughed, and let him lead her away, and Alma looked at Rayburn. “Thanks. But it was Mitch who did the actual flying,”

Rayburn nodded to him as well. “And a damn nice job. But that was a hell of an idea, putting in that tank. I won’t pretend I wasn’t mad when the judges said it was ok, but — hell, you beat us fair and square. And smart.”

“Thank you,” Alma said, and held out her hand. They shook on it, and Rayburn grinned.

“But don’t think we’re giving up. It’s a straight speed run tomorrow.”

“That’s going to be interesting, all right.” Rob Roy McIsaac leaned across the table, raising his voice to be heard. Lewis hadn’t had the chance to speak to him before, and looked him over curiously. Rumor said he’d been a rumrunner in the Gulf before Mobile and New Orleans got too hot for him, then headed north to take up the same business in New York and New England. “Any of you folks flown into New Orleans before?”

“Paulie’s been there a couple of times,” Rayburn said, nodding to his teammate, who grinned and lifted a drink. “Anything we ought to know about it?”

“Nothing that wasn’t in the race papers,” McIsaac answered. “Grass field, no tower, runway’s just a hair short for my taste. But no one’s going to be flying heavy this time.”

He grinned at Mitch as he spoke, and Mitch smiled back. “Thanks for the warning.”

A waiter appeared, and Lewis leaned back to order a round of cocktails for the three of them, on the theory that a mixed drink was somewhat safer than pure moonshine. By the time the man returned and Lewis had paid, the Consolidated girl had returned, perching on the Harvard boy’s lap because there was no chair to be found.