Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (95 page)

"It would be a pleasure," Jerry said, and meant it. Whether or not the patent was practical, Alma would get a huge kick out of talking about it, and she was hard-headed enough to refuse a purchase that she didn't want. He took the card — it showed an alarmingly phallic dome-topped tower surrounded by bolts of lightning, largely overshadowing the chaste name and address — and produced one of his own.

To his rather pleased surprise, Tesla made a point of drawing him into a larger conversation about flying and then about travel and his work in the Middle East before the War. The young man who'd fetched the drinks turned out to have spent some time in Alexandria, while the middle-aged woman in the plain blue gown had spent some time driving across the American Southwest with her husband, and had acquired a significant collection of Navajo artifacts. Hutcheson joined them after a bit, bringing with him a man he introduced as Alexander Mockridge, from the British Museum, just back from Persia, and Jerry was careful not to mention anything later than the faience necklace when Mockridge brought up the Rosenthal collection.

"Ballard!"

Jerry turned, not sure if he was grateful for the interruption or not, and Pridmore nodded to the others.

"My wife reminded me. You are going to be able to make it to the Cape for Thanksgiving, aren't you? It'll be a lovely party."

Full of the same people who were here tonight, Jerry thought, the same people who couldn't spare a nickel, never mind a dime. He should do it, of course, it was the sort of invitation that meant connections now and patronage later, but he wasn't at all sure he could keep his mouth shut. Offending Pridmore outright would be far worse than avoiding him. He forced a smile. "I'm sorry, it turns out there's just too much left to do. I really need to stay in the city."

"Oh, too bad."

Behind Pridmore, Hutcheson was frowning, looking puzzled, and Jerry willed him not to say anything.

"Ruth will be disappointed," Pridmore went on.

Jerry murmured a conventional answer, swallowing an odd lump in his throat. Twenty years ago, he'd have given almost anything to be invited somewhere for the holidays, especially by someone as important as Pridmore.

"I'm sorry, too," Mockridge said. "I'd hoped to have a chance to chat further. I very much enjoyed your article on Hellenistic survivals in later Roman Egypt. I wondered if you had any thoughts on further influences — perhaps even into the Renaissance."

"That's not really my period," Jerry answered, abruptly wary. That sounded almost as though Mockridge was hinting at Hermetic connections, and that was something he very much didn't want to discuss in this company.

"Nothing formal," Mockridge answered, and Hutcheson laid his hand on Jerry's shoulder.

"There you are. If you'll excuse me, Sandy."

Jerry let himself be drawn away, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg was starting to hurt, and he thought it was probably late enough that he could make his escape soon.

"You know, Ballard, if you want to go," Hutcheson began, and Jerry shook his head.

"Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay and work." He paused. "And I'd rather not talk too much to anyone from the British Museum until I've had a chance to finish with the collection."

Hutcheson gave him a sharp look. "Sounds like you and I need to have a chat."

"There are one or two interesting items," Jerry said carefully.

"I'm not in the office until Monday, but let's talk then."

"Definitely." Jerry made his way back to the bar to collect another cocktail. Iskinder loomed up out of the crowd, elegant in a Savile Row suit, and Jerry gave what he suspected was the first real smile of the evening.

"Quite a crowd."

"Oh, yes." Iskinder's smile was wry. "I gather Pridmore wants to buy up some of that collection you're valuing."

Jerry nodded. "At a bargain price, of course. But —" He stopped, biting his tongue. "That will be up to Herr Rosenthal himself, of course."

"Quite." Iskinder set down his empty glass. "I was about ready to head back to the Club. Would you care to share a cab?"

"God, yes." Jerry took a last swallow of his own drink, set it down half-finished. "Whenever you're ready."

They made their excuses, Jerry feeling as though his face was going to split from too much smiling, and trailed at last out into the chilly dark. The doorman whistled for a cab, and Jerry hauled himself into the passenger seat. He saw the driver frown as Iskinder climbed in the opposite side, weighing faultless suit and cashmere coat against black skin, and said, "The Harvard Club, on West 44th."

That decided the driver, as Jerry had hoped, and he pulled decorously away from the curb. Iskinder leaned back against the split cushions, sighing.

"Well, it was good to see Peter Judge, at least."

"I didn't know him that well," Jerry said, and Iskinder smiled.

"We played doubles together quite a bit."

Jerry nodded. He himself had never had the money or the time to play sports, but Iskinder had thrown himself into the games with undeniable enthusiasm.

"He's doing good work at Teachers College," Iskinder went on.

Jerry nodded again, letting the words wash over him. He was tired but not ready for sleep. He wanted another club, another — well, maybe not another drink, but another crowd entirely, company that was congenial in an entirely different way. As the cab pulled up at the door of the Harvard Club, Jerry leaned forward.

"I'll be going on from here, cabbie."

Iskinder paused, the door half open. "Jerry?"

"I want a little night life," Jerry said.

There was a moment of silence, Iskinder's face unreadable in the dark, but then he swung himself out of the car. "Be careful," he said, not as lightly as he intended, and slammed the door behind him.

The cabbie looked in his mirror. "Where to, Mister?"

"Times Square."

The theaters were getting out, their audiences spilling into the neon-lit streets. The cab let him off at the Morosco, and a tipsy businessman claimed it almost before Jerry could finish paying his fare. The glowing clock at the center of the Pepsodent sign proclaimed it quarter of eleven, and steam was rising from the sidewalk vents; the air was damp, the sky pale above the neon, promising rain later. He walked south down Broadway, mingling with the crowd, and turned onto 44th, where the ushers were closing up the Shubert lobby. Beyond the Shubert, the Majestic was dark, but a single light glowed above a basement entry. He let himself down the steps, careful of the worn stone, and rapped sharply on the door. After a moment, the peephole opened, and he gave the password. There was another pause, the bouncer still looking him over, and then the door swung back.

The club was long and narrow and mostly nameless, but it was already crowded, and a trio of musicians struggled to be heard over the shouted conversations. A gang of young men from one of the theaters had taken over four of the front tables, their hairlines still touched with makeup and mascara still on their lashes; toward the center of the room, carefully posed beneath the lights, an angular evening-gowned person with platinum finger waves was holding court, waving a cigarette holder as though conducting. She wiggled her fingers as he passed, and Jerry tipped his hat, but kept on toward the bar.

There were more seats open there, and he found a place, nodding to the bartender. "Manhattan, please."

"Sure thing, Doc." The stocky man slid the drink across the polished wood. "Thirty-five cents."

Jerry laid three quarters on the bar. "Keep 'em coming."

"You got it."

Jerry took a careful sip, and turned on his stool to survey the room. God, he'd missed this, and even if all he did was have a drink or two in congenial company, it would be enough…. He surveyed the crowd, considering a wiry man in a plain brown suit, then a fair-haired boy in an argyle sweater under a jacket. A chorus boy, almost certainly. It was the chorus boy's friend who returned his look, however, a little older than the blond, darker and more muscular in build. Jerry let his gaze linger a little longer, and the other man detached himself from his group, came to lean on the bar at Jerry's side.

"Nice night," he said, as though he was just waiting for the bartender.

Jerry lifted his glass. "And getting nicer."

The young man — he had to be an actor, too; there was still a hint of eyeliner smudging his eyes, giving him a faintly exotic look — smiled back. "Come here often?"

"When I'm in town," Jerry answered. It was a risk, it was always a risk, but he'd been starving since Gil died, and now that he could… "Buy you a drink?"

"Why, thank you." The young man's smile widened, showing very good teeth. "I'm Steven."

"Jerry." They shook hands, and the bartender slid another drink across the scarred wood. Jerry pushed the coins in his direction, and the man vanished with a nod.

"The Dubarry or the Varieties?" Steven asked, nodding to the tuxedo visible beneath Jerry's coat. "They're the big openings."

"Neither, sadly. A very dull party."

"I hope the night's improving."

"Very much so," Jerry answered. He'd missed this more than he'd realized, the chance to let his hair down almost as much as the sex, though he'd missed that more than he'd been willing to admit. How in hell he was going to stand going back to Colorado Springs — but that was something to worry about in the morning, not now. He lit Steven's cigarette, Steven's fingers hot on his hand, steadying the lighter against an intangible breeze.

"I'm guessing you're in lodgings, too," Steven said.

"I'm afraid so."

"Pity." Steven exhaled a lungful of smoke as though coming to a decision. "Still — there's out back."

Jerry nodded. "I'm only fussy about the company."

"Flatterer." Steven tossed off the last of his drink and slid from his stool. "Come on."

Jerry collected his hat and stood, resting his weight on his cane, and saw Steven's eyes flicker. But then he was smiling again, and Jerry followed him through the maze of tables. They ducked out the side door that opened into a hallway lit by a naked bulb, and Steven grabbed his sleeve, pulling him close. Jerry returned the caress, but said, "Here?"

Steven caught his breath, but broke away. "No."

He pushed open a second door, tugged Jerry through after him into the relative dark of a passageway between the two buildings. Jerry braced his back against the wall, bricks solid beneath the layers of coat and jacket, and caught Steven by the lapels, drawing him in for a thorough kiss. Steven responded with gratifying eagerness, hands busy on Jerry's buttons, then sank to his knees. Jerry gasped, closing his eyes. It wasn't Gil, it would never be Gil, but it was better than nothing, better than anything he'd had in years. He let his head fall back, and gave himself over to sensation.

Chapter Three

November 24, 1932

Colorado Springs

L
ewis was surprised to see lights on in the kitchen at six am on Thanksgiving morning. Nobody else in the household was an early riser on the best days, and on a holiday he didn't expect anyone else to be stirring before nine, including Alma. Even more surprising, it was Stasi in the kitchen, her hair pinned up and a big baggy shirt on over her black dress, the coffee already made in the coffee pot and perking on a back burner while she ground something in the coffee grinder. Lewis pushed the door open and went in. "Good morning."

She looked up. "Hi, Lewis." She turned the grinder over, shaking out the white powder into a big mixing bowl.

Lewis went to get a coffee cup out of the cabinet. He wouldn't have bothered to make it just for himself, but if there was some he might as well. He glanced back at the mixing bowl, already full of about three times as much powder as would fit in the coffee grinder. "Almonds?" he said.

Stasi looked pleased, lifting up a big sack of them and refilling the grinder. "Almonds," she said. "For the cake. It needs almond flour and there isn't any to buy anywhere, so I'm grinding it myself just like my father always did."

"My mami did too," Lewis said, pouring a cup of coffee. "She said it was better anyway. For Pastelitos de Boda."

"Wedding cookies," Stasi said.

"Yeah." Lewis leaned back against the edge of the stove. "You speak Spanish?"

"Menu Spanish," Stasi said, grinding away. "I lived in Tijuana for a while."

"Rough town," Lewis said.

Stasi snorted. "Tell me about it. You ever been to Tijuana?"

Lewis nodded. "Oh yeah. I'm from San Diego, so sure. Lots of times. Though Mami wouldn't let me go down there when I was a kid. She said it was no place for a decent boy with all the gambling and horseracing and whores. It just got worse with Prohibition." He took a drink and then put the cup down. "I did one job as a hired pilot right after the war, bringing in booze for a bootlegger. Got shot at taking off and landing, and I said enough of that! No way I'm going to get shot at when I'm unarmed just to haul in somebody's load of whiskey from Mexico when I wasn't even getting a cut! Not without shooting back."

"Yes, well." Stasi didn't look up. "There's a lot more than booze coming in, darling. I finally got out of Tijuana by paying a guy to bring me along with his load. Otherwise I suppose I'd be buried there now."

That was risky business, risky for the guy and whoever owned the plane. "How much did you pay him?"

Her eyes never left the almonds. "I don't recall, darling."

"Oh." It occurred to him what kind of payment it might take, and a flush began to climb the back of his neck. He opened the icebox hurriedly, looking for the turkey. "So you don't have any papers?"

"Of course not," Stasi said. Her voice was perfectly even, so maybe he was just imagining worse things than the truth. "I'm completely and utterly illegal." She dumped another cup of almond flour in the mixing bowl and stood up. "Get me the milk while you're in there, darling."

Lewis passed her the glass bottle from yesterday -- no milk delivery this morning, since it was Thanksgiving and even the milkman got Thanksgiving off. He manhandled the turkey out and onto the other end of the table, all twenty-eight pounds of it. They were going to need all of it, after Alma's impulsive invitation last night. Rayburn and his co-pilot were back in town to retrieve their plane, Thanksgiving being a holiday for pilots as well as milkmen, and Al had invited them to dinner. But they would manage, something else to be thankful for. "What are you making anyway?"