T
hey were last onto the field, a bit past three in the afternoon, the sun seeming to hang just above the western pylon. That would make things a bit more difficult, Lewis thought, but at least the breeze had died to almost nothing. Weather tomorrow, he was willing to bet, but he shoved that thought out of his mind. The only thing that mattered now was the mail drop and the pylons.
The engine sang as he lined the Terrier up on the main runway and opened the throttles, the big plane lifting easily with its light load of fuel. There would be ample for the race, but they’d left the tanks half empty to spare the weight. Mitch swore the Terrier would dance Swan Lake with this load, and Lewis hoped it was true.
He leveled off at two hundred feet, circled back toward the hangars, getting the feel of the air. The sun was awkward, but not as bad as he’d feared, and he swung back over the course, mapping the long oval.
“Yellow flag’s up!” Alma yelled from the cabin.
Lewis nodded, easing the Terrier into a gentle descent, heading for one-fifty, and Mitch shouted back, “Ok.”
They had one practice lap after the yellow flag, and then the green went up and the timer started. Lewis shoved the throttle forward, searching for the line. This was the easy way, a wider loop around the pylon, thirty degrees of bank and then steady down the course, the sun turning the sky white with glare. There was the flag, the second pylon, and this was the turning point, the Terrier hard over. Maybe she wouldn’t dance Swan Lake for him, but she was quick and light under his hands as he straightened for home.
“Green flag!” Alma shouted.
“Ok,” Mitch answered.
Lewis pushed the throttle forward just a little more. There was no point in trying to get up to speed just yet, not with the mail drop to come on the next lap. Instead, he focused on the most efficient path, the exact moment to begin the turn. The Terrier heeled, swung to face the sun, and he leveled out again.
“Next lap,” he said, and Mitch repeated it.
This time as he rounded the pylon and flattened out, he dropped lower still. He kept his eyes on the eastern pylon, but he couldn’t help picturing Alma crouched in the cabin’s open door, the mail bag ready at her feet. She wore a harness, of course, but even so it was dangerous… He shoved that thought aside, throttling back just a little as they approached the drop zone.
“Bag’s away!” Alma yelled, and Lewis shoved the throttle forward.
“Hang on,” Mitch shouted.
Lewis ignored them both, the geometry suddenly clear. No need to gain altitude, they’d waste time and upset the Terrier’s balance. Instead, he picked the point of his turn, closer than before, letting the Terrier tip up to sixty degrees, turning on her downward-pointing wing. And then they were past the pylon, flashing into the sun. He leveled her, engines howling. No more power, she wouldn’t take it, just the steady rhythm of the course, the turn made just here, just that deep, standing her on her wingtip to rotate past the pylon and then out again. The sea in his eyes, and then the sun, and the sea again, and then at last Alma was yelling from the cabin.
“Yellow flag! We’re done! Yellow flag!”
Lewis aborted the last turn, let the Terrier bore on out over the water, gaining height and shedding speed for a decorous run back to the field.
“Nice flying,” Mitch said, and when Lewis glanced warily at him, the smile was genuine. “Hell of a nice job.”
Alma leaned in the cockpit door, her hands braced on the frame. “My God, Lewis. Beautiful.”
“Let’s see what our time is,” Lewis said, and would have crossed his fingers if he could.
He brought the Terrier down neatly onto the main runway, taxied back to the hangars at standard speed in spite of the desire to rush, to see where they’d finished. The reporters were waiting, of course, flashbulbs popping as Alma lowered the steps and they climbed out of the plane. The air was hot and still, the last of the breeze vanished, and Lewis felt the sweat standing out on his skin. Alma kissed his cheek for the reporters, and he managed a game smile, but his eyes were fixed on the board where one of the referees was chalking up the new results.
Second place. Second place behind the Corsair, and fourteen seconds ahead of the next competitor. Twenty-eight minutes off their time. It was better than nothing. It was a lot better than nothing, twenty-eight minutes off meant that they were only an hour and five minutes behind. But — Mitch might have been right, that might just be too much to make up on the last long leg into Coconut Grove.
Alma would think of something. Surely. He glanced at her, tired and dirty, her hair held back by a faded kerchief, no sign of the sexy world traveler haircut she’d worn from Hollywood. But she was still Al. She’d find a way.
T
he reporters claimed Alma for her promised interviews, and Mitch and Lewis followed her, but the hangar was still buzzing with reaction to the Harvards’ crash and the results of the pylon race when the referees began collecting the passengers for the suitcase race. Jerry couldn’t help flinching— one more reminder that he was a cripple — but he schooled himself to impassivity and offered Miss Rostov his arm. She had managed to find a dress of Alma’s that would fit her, and though it hung loose on her skinny body she moved like the countess she claimed to be.
Not that Jerry believed that for a second. A cheap grifter, getting too old to get by on looks alone, so why not try a different con? Spiritualism was a good game, especially when you could tie it to exotic Russia. Except that her talent was real. That was one of his gifts, to recognize talent in others, and he could feel it in her, humming in her fingertips where she rested them lightly on his crooked elbow. Real, and she knew it, used it knowingly and with care: there was none of the tangling, the static, he felt when someone tried to use their gift without understanding what they had. She wasn’t trained in his traditions, but she knew what she was doing. The stream of her gift ran straight and clear.
She looked up at him, not smiling, the circles dark under her eyes. “Well, darling, do you like what you see?”
You could take that half a dozen ways, Jerry thought. “How’d you find Mitch?”
She blinked once, and then a penciled eyebrow rose. “I asked the Dead. They know everything, darling, especially in New Orleans.”
She expected him to scoff, he realized, but in fact he did believe her. It was probably the first thing she’d said to him that he did believe. “You must have made some pretty promises for that.”
She looked away, one corner of her painted mouth quirking up in a wry smile. “Not that it really matters, but, yes, I did.”
“I’m curious,” Jerry said. And he was: what had she thought it worth, and why?
“I told them I would be their medium,” she said. She must have seen his expression change, because she shrugged, tossing her head without disturbing her jet-black hair. “So, yes, darling, I’m in for a few days of tedium when this is all over.”
“I reckon so,” Jerry said, startled out of his careful vowels and proper grammar. That was more than tedious, it was hard work, hard as digging ditches except that there was always the chance that some discorporate soul might try to take up permanent residence. And it was also a bargain easily broken, at least in the beginning. All right, Miss Rostov was probably planning to keep her end of the deal primarily out of self-protection, but there were plenty of mediums who’d try to weasel out of it.
They had reached the area in front of the tower where bleachers had been set up, and he swallowed any further questions as a referee bustled up to them.
“Dr. Ballard,” he said, consulting his clipboard. “And — Miss Rostov, is it?”
“That’s right.” Stasi favored him with a wide smile.
“Oh, Dr. Ballard.” That was Miss Saltonstall, hurrying toward them, her sensible heels clicking on the pavement. “I wondered — oh.”
She flushed to the roots of her hair, and Jerry tipped his hat, giving her a careful smile. “If it’s what I think,” he began, and she shook herself.
“I thought — since we had to withdraw I thought I might be able to run in your place. If that would be helpful.”
“It’s very kind of you to offer,” Jerry said, and suppressed a curse as Carmichael came to a stop beside him.
“An embarrassment of riches, Doc,” he said. “You’re quite the ladykiller.”
Jerry flinched at that, and Miss Saltonstall lifted an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was cut crystal, Brahmin to the core.
Even Carmichael seemed momentarily taken aback. “I just —”
Miss Saltsonstall swept on without waiting for him to finish. “Dr. Ballard is a friend — a former colleague — of my Uncle Philip, the current Senator. I’m sure you’ll excuse us if we have a private conversation.” She hooked her hand through Jerry’s free arm and drew him away, Miss Rostov following gracefully like a kite on a string.
“Neatly done,” she said, nothing put out, and Jerry nodded.
“Is he a senator? Your uncle, I mean.”
Miss Saltsonstall grinned. “A state senator. But he did used to teach classics before he went into politics, so you’re sort of colleagues.”
“Thank you,” Jerry said.
“I should have guessed you’d have made arrangements,” she said, and smiled at Miss Ivanova, all embarrassment overcome. “I’m glad.”
“Miss Rostov was kind enough to volunteer,” Jerry said, feeling clumsy again. Harvard had taught him to move in good society, but nothing had ever taken away the sneaking sense of fraud every time he tried it.
He made the introductions, and when Stasi offered her case, lit cigarettes for both of them. He lit one for himself as well, inhaled the smoke as though it might help somehow. “How’s McIsaac doing?”
“Better.” Miss Saltsonstall sounded grateful to be on more solid ground. “His wrist’s broken in a couple of places, but the doctor thinks it will heal cleanly. If he doesn’t put stress on it too soon.”
“And your brother? And Mr. Newhouse?” Behind her, Jerry could see the organizers laying out the suitcases and the contents.
“Bruised and shaken up,” Miss Saltonstall answered, “but not seriously hurt, thank goodness.” She held out her hand. “Good luck, Miss Rostov.”
“Thank you, darling.” The two women clasped hands, and Miss Saltonstall moved determinedly away.
“Are you ready?” Jerry asked, and glanced down at her feet. She was still wearing her black pumps with the high heels that she’d been wearing at the Hotel Denechaud. “I mean — can you run in those?”
Miss Rostov extended one foot, considering it critically. “Darling, all I’ve been doing in these shoes is running.”
Jerry grinned in spite of himself.
“Besides,” she said. “The point isn’t to go fast. It’s to show lots of leg and make the photographers happy. And be faster than the others.”
“We need the time,” Jerry said. If they hadn’t, he would never have let her do the job. For an instant, he wished he could call Miss Saltsonstall back. He trusted her, which was more than he could say for the so-called countess.
“Darling, don’t worry,” she said. “They don’t want to see my legs.”
Jerry couldn’t help laughing at that. She waggled her fingers at him and went to join the others.
The race itself didn’t take long. Jerry leaned heavily on his cane, easing his stump, while the announcer ran through the rules. When the starter’s gun went off, each passenger had to pack her suitcase — the table was stacked with clothes and shoes and what looked like an alarm clock for each of them. Once packed and secure, they were to take off for the opposite end of the course, where they had to hand over the suitcase to a referee to confirm that everything was there, and run back to the starting point. And if any of the alarm clocks went off — the announcer sounded almost indecently gleeful at the idea — that person had to stop and turn it off before she could continue. Silly season, Jerry thought, and remembered Pelletier’s comment at the beginning of the race. Games for dames. He was shamefully glad he didn’t have to play.
The passengers took their places, four women and one man, all that was left of the teams who had started the Great Passenger Derby. The trouble was, they’d lost enough time that they were still behind some of the teams who’d dropped out. They’d pass them tomorrow, but — that only put them into fifth, out of the money. Jerry shook the thought away, and the starter lifted his gun and fired.
The passengers leaped into action, tossing clothes into the cases, jamming the lids down and fumbling with the old-fashioned straps that held them closed. Pelletier got his fastened first, swung away, only to have the alarm clock go off with a muffled clamor. Jerry saw him swear, but he dutifully stopped and silenced the clock before moving on. Miss Rostov was third away from the table, but she made up time as she ran, the suitcase banging at her knees. Mrs. Jezek took three steps with her suitcase, stopped, and kicked off her pumps, to start again at a better pace. The girl from Consolidated was ahead of her and gaining, holding her skirt out of the way with one hand.
Jerry swore under his breath. All they needed was for Consolidated to get more bonus time — but then her alarm clock went off, and Miss Rostov surged past. She was first at the referee’s table, smiling and vamping as he went down the list, then snatched up the suitcase, empty now except for the alarm clock, and darted for the finish line.
“Come on,” Jerry said, through clenched teeth. He felt like he was betting on a long shot at Santa Anita. “Come on…”
The alarm clock went off. Miss Rostov stopped, glanced over her shoulder to see Pelletier and Consolidated coming fast, and banged the suitcase on the ground. The alarm clock went dead, and she sprinted for the finish.
“It counts,” Jerry said. “Oh, God, let it count…”
Miss Rostov swung the suitcase onto the table with a triumphant cry. The nearest referee opened it, looked at the alarm clock, and nodded.
“First place to Gilchrist Aviation!” The announcer’s voice crackled from the loudspeaker. “First place, and the fifteen minute bonus, for Gilchrist Aviation!”