Trouble on His Wings (6 page)

“She said she thought
you weren't near as tough as you acted. She said . . . ”

“Shut up,” said
Johnny. “She goes, and that's the end of it!”

Chapter
Six

I
T
was very early morning—a time
of day abhorrent to newsreel cameramen. Johnny awoke and did not know why
except that he had a feeling that he had somehow done wrong. He fished
aimlessly around the dressing table beside his bed, almost dislodging the
phone. That near-accident served to bring him more clearly to himself and he
propped himself on one elbow while he found his pack and lighted a cigarette.
He was used to waking up in strange quarters and so his surroundings told him
nothing. He yawned and massaged his curly brown hair. He looked over at Irish,
who slept in the other twin bed, completely lost in a tangle of covers and
grinning idiotically in his sleep. Johnny wondered if he had had a row with Irish,
and then decided against it. No, something else was bothering him. Yes, he had
been fired, but that didn't seem . . .

The Jinx, that was it.
He'd told her to get out, come morning, and now morning was here. That was it;
and he lay back, puffing ferociously at his cigarette. He was in his rights to
make her beat it. Hadn't had a bit of luck since she had happened into his
life. He was glad he'd see her no more.

And then a small voice
within told him, “You can't trace a single bit of your bad luck to that girl,
and you know it. It was your own damn fault that you bought water-soaked film
on that ship. It was your own orders which made Irish go down too close to that
crown fire; you might have known that your engine would quit, in all that
smoke.”

“Yeah,” muttered
Johnny, “but just the same, I never had hard luck before.”

“That's why,” said the
small voice, “you had so much good luck you thought you were perfect, and so
you stopped taking precautions about things. You were the best flying cameraman
in the business and you always got the pictures. World News couldn't get along
without you. Yahhhh!” jeered the voice. “See how easy you were fired? You
didn't amount to so much. Guys like you grow on every bus.”

“Aw, lay off,” growled
Johnny to himself. “That doesn't prove anything. I was going good until the
Jinx came along, and just as soon as she leaves, things will be going good
again. Wait and see.”

“Yahhhh!” said the
small voice. “You're nutty. Things won't go good until you settle down to your
job again. You were flying too high, that's all. You just don't like the girl.”

“I do,” said Johnny.
“That's the hell of it.”

“I suppose you can
find girls as pretty as her anyplace.”

“I wish that was
true.”

“I thought you said
she was bringing all your bad luck and there you are trying to fall in love
with her.”

“Who, me?” snapped
Johnny.

“But that's all right.
You won't be worried about her long. Probably somebody will read that newspaper
story and know just where she is and as soon as you turn her loose, they'll be picking
her up in an alley with a bullet in her back. But that's all right, she's a
jinx! Yahhh!”

Johnny sat upright in
bed. “I don't believe it!”

“That story will get
all over the shop. Whoever is after her will be able to trace you and then get
her.”

“That's her hard
luck!” snapped Johnny to reinforce his flagging courage.

“Whatcha talkin'
about?” complained Irish.

“G'wan back to sleep,”
said Johnny.

Irish looked at the
clock and then gave Johnny an accusing stare, afterwards wrapping the blankets
around his head and burrowing down for another snooze.

Johnny sat holding his
knees and puffing on his cigarette. A knock, very light, sounded upon his door,
and he growled, “Come in.”

She entered cautiously
and he saw with some wonder that she had washed out the white flying suit and
helmet and had dried them with some magic or other. Further, she had
transformed her appearance with methods beyond Johnny's ken. She didn't look
like a boy, despite those overalls. For the first time since that morning she
had suffered the impact of his hangover he saw her without disguise. The helmet
dangled from her hand and her honey-gold hair poured down over her shoulders
like beaten metal. Her lips were full and red and sensitive and her eyes were
soft and blue. She stood just inside, as though afraid he would throw something
at her.

“Well?” said Johnny,
trying to keep up his resolve.

“I came to tell you
that I was going.”

“Goodbye,” said
Johnny.

His tone hurt her, but
she made no sign. “Is that all?”

“What more do you
expect . . . Jinx?”

“Johnny . . .” She
paused.

“Well?”

“Johnny, why do you
act so tough? You aren't that kind of a guy. You just put it on to keep people
from seeing that you aren't. You don't have to do that, Johnny. Gosh, I never
knew anybody that had the personality you've got—if you'd only use it.”

“Look,” said Johnny,
hit harder than he dared show. “It is too early for a lecture out of
Lord
Chesterfield
. You said goodbye.”

“Not yet,” said the
Jinx. She reached into the pocket of her overalls and pulled out a small wad of
bills.

“What's that?” snarled
Johnny.

“I had this in a money
belt and I don't need it—not now. There's two hundred dollars here—”

“I don't want your
money,” said Johnny, working very hard now to appear as ungracious as possible,
lest he break down. “Buy a ticket for Europe or Chile or some place.”

“I've saved enough for
a ticket and some clothes.”

Johnny's voice was a
threatening monotone. “If you don't put that money back in your pocket I'll
break your neck.”

“But . . . but I lost
you your job, Johnny. I brought you bad luck. . . .”

“Nuts,” said Johnny.
“Take your dough and get out of here, before I lose my temper.”

She hesitated and
then, afraid of his scowl, she put the money back. She edged out of the door.
“Goodbye, Johnny. I hope . . . maybe you'll have some good luck now.”

She was gone and he
sat staring at the door and feeling terrible. Why did he have to act that way
to her? Wasn't he human? Was his soul turning into a mass of celluloid? He got
up and threw his cigarette out of the window.

“Well!” She was gone
and he ought to feel relieved. She was dynamite—and she was a jinx.

But no matter how many
times he repeated it, he could not make it quite ring true and could not keep
himself from wanting to call her back and apologize.

The ringing phone
saved him. He picked it up and barked, “Hello! Johnny Brice speaking.”

The smooth, purr on
the other end alarmed him. As soon as the operator had said, “Here is your
party, sir,” Felznick said, “Oh, hello, Johnny.”

Johnny was upset.
Felznick calling this time of day—and then he recollected that it was noon in
New York. “Hello,” he said cautiously.

“How are you this
morning?” said Felznick. “Rested up, I hope.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“And how is Irish?
Fully recovered, I trust?”

“Look,” said Johnny
with great patience. “Either you're crazy or I am. The last time I talked to
you, I was fired.”

“Oh, that!” said
Felznick, with careless dismissal. “I was upset about my wife. You know, they
found Louise in Paris. She didn't sail.”

“Who is it?” hissed
Irish. “Paramount?”

“Shut up. . . . No,
not you, Mr. Felznick. Glad to hear your wife is safe.”

“Yes, yes, a great
relief, Johnny, especially since I got no publicity out of it. And, by the
way,” he added, falsely casual, “that was good going on your crash story. Made
page one in all the New York sheets. Had the angle, you know. Give your all for
pictures and then lose them. Good stuff, Johnny. They had you slated as dead
yesterday, after you failed to turn up for thirty hours.”

“I see,” said Johnny.

“Now if you're all
rested up,” said Felznick, “you might run down to
Frisco
and catch the
China
Clipper
. You've just about got time—”

“Wait a minute,” said
Johnny. “Maybe I want to stay fired.”

“Has Paramount been
after you?” said Felznick, severely. “Haven't you any loyalty? Is this the
thanks I get for teaching you all you know about the business? Now I'll—”

“But—” began Johnny,
out of honesty.

“I don't care about
any buts. I'll up your pay. How much did they offer?”

“They—”

“All right, I'll make
it three hundred a week, but not one cent more, and up Irish to two-fifty with
a recording rating. But not one penny more!”

“All right,” said
Johnny.

“Now, follow me
closely. Harrington was wounded yesterday in the fighting up on the
Amur
, which
means I'll have to replace him. You're furthest west, and the only one close
enough to the Clipper to catch it in time. And you got another break. The
Chinese ambassador-at-large, Mr. Sen Shu Wu, will be aboard that plane. The
Japanese would give anything to get his treaty papers and you might witness
some sabotage or an attempted murder or maybe even a murder. Think of that,
Johnny! You stay right beside Mr. Sen Shu Wu, and if anything happens to him,
put it in the can! I'm depending on you, Johnny.”

“Look,” said Johnny,
“is this an assignment, or a scheme to get us bumped off?”

“Hah hah!” laughed
Felznick. “Always the wit, eh, Johnny? Now pick up some cameras in San
Francisco, and don't fail to connect with that Clipper. Everybody gets bad
breaks sometimes, and you've had yours. Now we can count on you, I know. Good
luck, Johnny.”

Johnny hung up and
Irish looked searchingly into his face. “Did we get it?” said Irish.

“Pay raise,” said
Johnny. “You two-fifty, me three hundred. Boy, what an assignment this is!” He
sighed deeply and then, shaking off all extraneous thoughts was immediately
business itself. “Roll out! We got to get some clothes. If we're going to make
that Clipper, we'll have to step on it!”

“Gee,” said Irish.
“China! I wonder if those Japanese left anything at Mum's. 'Member that big
tall Russky? Maybe she's still there, Johnny. Think so? Gosh, I been prayin'
we'd get a crack at that fighting. Bet we can get some swell shots. Maybe get
some air-raid stuff, up close. Maybe, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny walked toward
the bathroom. He stumbled and grabbed his foot, swearing. When he looked down
he saw that a rock was the offender, and he almost kicked it again before he
remembered that he was in his bare feet.

“Wonder where that
came from,” said Irish.

“Somebody must have
thrown it in from the fire escape,” said Johnny, picking it up. “Look, there's
a note on it.”

Irish read it aloud,
from under Johnny's arm. “‘Brice; Take a friendly tip. You're monkeying with
dynamite. If you don't believe it, tip off the cops—any cops—that you're
harboring Jacquelin Stuart, and let them take her off your hands and collect
the reward besides. Your own office could tell you about her if you'd only
call. Stop being a damned fool and turn her in. If you don't, I'll have to take
other measures, not so pleasant. A Friend.'”

Johnny crumpled the
note angrily.

“Gee!” said Irish.
“The cops! Say, Johnny, what you know about that? She's wanted. Maybe for
forgery or counterfeiting or smuggling or something. Huh? What do you think,
Johnny?”

“Shut up.”

“But look, Johnny. It's
plain as day. This gang wants her, see? She double-crossed them and they tipped
off the police that she was guilty, and now they're scared to contact the cops
again. And if they bump her off, she bein' a criminal, nobody will ask too many
questions. Look, if we don't turn her over to the cops, they'll try to kill
her!”

“She's a jinx,” Johnny
was saying bitterly. “She leaves and my luck changes. She's a jinx and I'm
through—”

“You mean she's gone?”
gaped Irish.

“Yes, she's gone!”
yelled Johnny wrathfully. “Don't stand there gawping at me! Do something! The
kid's in trouble. You want to let the cops get her, huh? You want her to swing
for something she maybe didn't do? Get hold of her! Try the airport and the bus
station! Don't stand there like a fool! Get going!”

“But I only got this
yellow bathrobe . . .” wailed Irish.

Johnny booted him
through the door.