Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (71 page)

T
he lights of Algiers shone over the water, reflecting in the dark surface of the Mississippi. Was Algiers a separate town or just a faubourg, as they called it here? Mitch couldn't remember. There were a lot of things he couldn’t remember. Like most everything the last time he'd been in New Orleans.

Mitch leaned on the rail that normally kept people from boarding the ferry until they were allowed. Now, in the middle of the night with the ferry not in, muddy water swirled around just beyond and six feet down. Nothing stopped the river, not now, not ever. Mother of Waters, someone had said once. It sounded like something the Indians would have called the river, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it. It didn't matter. One more thing he didn't remember, like how long he'd been here, or why he'd left.

Mitch pitched his bottle in the water. It was empty. It had been full, once. Of something. Not sure what. It made a loud splash, bobbed and righted itself on the current.

It wouldn’t take much to go after it. And why not? There wasn't anybody in the world who would mind for long. His mother, maybe. She'd be sad. But he hadn't seen her in four years, and she had sons aplenty, sons who were right there with wives and children and who sang Christmas carols around the tree and ate poundcake and smoked on the porch and talked about how the country was going to hell. Alma and Jerry would be sad, but they'd get over it. Jerry would understand. Jerry of all people would understand and not be surprised at all. There was only so long you could keep smiling.

Besides, Jerry was better now. No, he'd never have exactly the life he'd wanted, but scholarship was coming back. He was writing articles, doing peer reviews. If he'd ever get out of Colorado Springs he'd meet somebody, and yeah, the guy wouldn't be Gil, but there was probably somebody out there in the big world, somebody who would really go for Jerry. He had options.

Just a step or two. It wouldn't even hurt. They said drowning was the easiest way to go. The hard part would be not to swim. That would be hard.

"Yoo hoo!" a cheerful voice squeaked behind him. "Yoo-hoo! Darling! What an amazing coincidence to run into you here!"

Mitch turned around. It was a little difficult to get his eyes to focus right.

The countess whose name was really Stasi was teetering up the ferry dock on high heels at a brisk jog, silk flapper dress blowing around her in the river breeze, waving for all the world as though it were perfectly normal to run into someone on a ferry dock in the middle of the night. He gaped.

"Darling!" she said, gaining his side and twirling him around like an ingénue, putting herself between him and the river. "It's so lovely to see you!"

"It's nice to see you too," Mitch said politely. The world seemed very tippy when she twirled him around. "I thought I left you in Flagstaff."

"You did, but I'm here now." She tucked her hand through his arm and steered him back down toward Canal Street. "My goodness how busy you've been!"

Mitch tried to focus on her face. "You're after the necklace," he said.

"Well, it would be better if you handed it to me just now."

"I don't think so," Mitch said. His voice was very slow and he enunciated carefully. "I'm pretty sure you stole it and hid it on the plane."

"I did, but that's all in the past," she said. She looked at him more critically in the light of the first street light. "Mitchell Sorley, you're drunk!"

"Absolutely blotto," he said.

"Honestly," Stasi said. She shook her head. "All this time you've been on a bender."

"All what time?"

"All the time that you've been missing."

Mitch frowned. "For seven months?"

"For seven hours," Stasi said.

Which didn't make sense, because he was sure it was much longer than that. He grasped for something he could be sure of, further off in the dark. "Gil wired me," he said.

"Who's Gil?"

"He wired me. Last week."

"Fine," Stasi said, steering him down the street. "I'm so happy for you. Where have you been?"

"Bourbon Street. Storyville. There were some other places too." It all blurred together, like the scent of jasmines after rain. "They're going to worry about me," he said.

"Yes," Stasi said.

"They're all going to worry. In Eden."

"What?"

Mitch shook off her arm. "I've got to get back to Eden. They're going to worry."

Stasi blinked, looking around like she was wishing for a payphone. There wasn't one in sight. "What's Eden? How do you get there?"

"On the St. Charles streetcar," Mitch said.

L
ewis and Alma stopped outside a bar on Basin Street in the block between Iberville and Canal. "We've got to check again," Alma said.

Lewis shook his head, moving to block what she was doing from the windows of the bar. The lights of a theater marquee provided some light as she swung the ring over the map on its thread, her eyes half closing. He hated doing this in full sight of any passer by. And there were still plenty at nearly two in the morning in New Orleans. It took Alma longer than he expected, and he watched her face tense, strained with not only the long night but the continued effort. The ring swung wildly, refusing to settle, tracing a long tangent to the southwest.

"How is he moving so fast?" Lewis asked. Not another taxi. His wallet was nearly empty from the amount they'd spent on taxis tonight, not to mention the problem of telling a taxi driver to go thataway with no idea where they were going or how far.

"I don't know," Alma said, opening her eyes and folding the ring back into her hand. "A car, maybe."

"Where would Mitch get a car?"

"I don't know. But it's that way." Alma pointed. "And here we go again."

"Surely he's got to get tired sometime," Lewis said.

J
erry ducked into the men’s room to try to freshen up. He was horribly late, and hardly dressed for the sponsors’ party, the biggest social event of the entire race. All the teams were supposed to be there — he’d bet money the Harvard boys had packed black tie for the occasion — and it looked like hell for the leaders to be missing. He could probably plead some kind of problem with the Terrier, Henry would back him on that, he thought. But it didn’t look good at all.

He wet his pocket comb and ran it through his hair, sleeking it back into good order, and carefully redid his tie. The suit was respectable, old-fashioned enough in cut to look faintly formal, and well enough made that a few hours dashing around the French Quarter hadn’t rumpled it too badly. His stump was burning, but there was nothing to be done about that right now. Well, maybe a quick drink, he couldn’t believe the party would be dry, but he needed to keep his wits about him. He glanced at his reflection a final time, adjusted his cuffs, and walked back into the lobby.

There was a bellman in uniform at the door, checking tickets, and a hatcheck girl beyond, who flashed him a smile as she handed him the metal disk. The ballroom itself was packed, about two-thirds of the couples in black tie and evening dress, the rest — mostly the teams and their connections — in their nicest suits and dresses. The crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, each in its own segment of the coffered ceiling, brilliant against the honey-colored marble walls and the darker gold pillars that made parallel rows down the length of the room. They were marble, too, but set in square bases covered with fleurs-de-lys and crowned with acanthus-leaf capitals; the floor was marble inlay, patterned like an oriental carpet, and the portraits on the wall were of men and women from the beginning of the eighteenth century — and utterly genuine, if he was any judge.

He rested his weight on his good leg, easing his stump, and looked around for Henry. No sign of him, but at least there weren’t as many reporters. It looked as though the organizers were only admitting the more respectable ones, the ones with bylines for the national papers. And Carmichael, of course, but for the moment he seemed busy with one of the boys from Harvard’s team — yes, in a tuxedo, and seemingly unworried by Carmichael’s jabs. Good luck to him, Jerry thought, and turned toward the bar. He really needed something for his leg, and it was as likely a place to find Henry as any.

“Dr. Ballard!”

He didn’t know the voice, but turned anyway to face a stout man in a tuxedo that had been tailored for a younger self. There was a woman on his arm, her lilac dress far more flattering to her round figure and matronly rolled hair, and Jerry recognized her as Mrs. Paul Altner, a feature of the western society pages. That meant the man was probably Paul Altner, majority owner of Texas Aviation Fuels and one of the major sponsors of the race — yes, that was a TexAv pin on his lapel. Jerry forced a smile. “Mr. Altner?”

“We’ve been waiting for Gilchrist all evening,” Altner said. He was smiling, but there was a definite edge to the words. “Glad to see you’ve made it.”

“Ah.” Jerry kept smiling, though his hand tightened on the cane. “I’m afraid I’m the only one here yet. Mrs. Segura found a problem with the plane…”

“Oh?” Altner’s attention sharpened, and Jerry could almost see the calculations flickering through his mind. Gilchrist was popular, yes, but if they were having mechanical issues, that would give the other teams a chance to catch up, open the chance of a fight to the finish. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the problem?”

“I really don’t know,” Jerry said. He turned up his free hand. “I’m afraid I’m not a mechanic.” He glanced past Altner’s shoulder, saw Henry moving toward the bar. “Would you excuse me? I’ve got a message for Mr. Kershaw.”

“Of course,” Altner said, and his wife echoed, “Good luck, Dr. Ballard!”

Jerry made his way across the marble floor as quickly as he dared, the knob of his leg skittish on the polished surface. The last thing he needed was to go sprawling and draw any more attention to who was here and who wasn’t.

“Henry,” he said, and caught the other man’s sleeve.

“Christ!” Henry visibly bit back whatever else he was going to say, his expression murderous. “We need to talk.”

“Yes,” Jerry said. “But I want a drink first.” He pushed past Henry to the bar, nodding to the nearest bartender. “Is the scotch drinkable?”

“The bourbon’s better, sir. Less you prefer a cocktail.”

“Bourbon on the rocks,” Jerry said. “Make it a double.”

The bartender grinned and poured. Jerry laid a dollar on the counter, and turned away with the drink in hand. Henry caught him by the elbow before he had a chance to take even a sip, steering him firmly toward the wall and away from the milling crowd.

“What the hell is going on? Where’s Alma? For God’s sake, everyone’s waiting to talk to them.”

“We’ve got a problem,” Jerry said. He took a quick swallow of the bourbon, letting it burn its way down to his stomach. “Mitch has done a bunk, and Al and Lewis are looking for him, but we haven’t the foggiest where he’s gone.”

“Christ,” Henry said again. “Well, if worst comes to worst, you can fly with two pilots —”

“Al’s not going to leave him,” Jerry said. “No more will I.”

“I’ll stay and search,” Henry said. “I’m not saying abandon him. What do you think I am? But there’s a race to win.”

“Al’s not going to go for that,” Jerry said. “And anyway, I don’t know where they are. They were heading for Storyville when I left them.”

“Of course they were,” Henry said. “What the hell is Sorley’s problem?”

“Your damn necklace,” Jerry said. “That’s the problem.”

“My necklace?”

“The one that got stolen the night before the race,” Jerry said. “The one with the curse.”

“That thing’s dangerous,” Henry said, and looked genuinely alarmed. “And if it’s here — it’ll only be stronger here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Wait — if you had the necklace — how did you get the necklace?”

“It’s a really long story,” Jerry said. “We don’t have time.”

Henry looked as though he wanted to pursue the matter, then shook his head. “All right. Have you talked to anybody?”

“Mr. Altner buttonholed me when I came in,” Jerry said. “I told him Alma was dealing with a mechanical problem.”

“Goddamnit,” Henry said. “They’ll know she wasn’t at the field.”

“You got a better idea?” Jerry glared at him.

Henry took a breath, visibly tamping down his anger. “No.”

“We’ll think of something else to tell the reporters in the morning,” Jerry said. He took another gulp of the bourbon. “And Al’s the most level-headed woman I've ever met. She’ll call the hotel as soon as she knows anything.”

“She’d better,” Henry muttered.

“She will,” Jerry said, and hoped it was true.

Chapter Fifteen

W
ell, Stasi thought, I'm on a streetcar in the middle of the night with a lunatic.

At least it wasn't possible to throw oneself in the river while riding a streetcar going somewhere random but apparently away from downtown. He certainly wasn't the only guy on the streetcar who'd had way too much to drink, nor was she the only woman trying to get some sizzled guy home without a disaster. Would that they were going home, or at least back to his hotel! Instead they were going somewhere named Eden where Mitch insisted he was missed. And he still had the necklace, though it was too much to hope he'd just hand it over to her.

He leaned on her a little and said in a quiet, conspiratorial voice, "You're pretty. What's your name?"

"Stasi," Stasi said.

He appeared to think about it hard. "Milly will be jealous."

"Is Milly your wife?" It was a guess in the dark, but worthwhile.

He laughed, a brittle kind of sound without any drunken joy in it. "No. Never had a wife. Always thought there was time, before. And then there wasn't any. That's how it goes." He picked up her hand and examined it as if looking for the traces of a wedding ring under the glove. "You married?"

"No," Stasi said.

Mitch looked abashed. "Oh right. He was killed in the war. I'm sorry."