Fangs Out (5 page)

“You don’t see colors like that in nature,” Mrs. Schmulowitz marveled as we watched the movers she’d hired unload the toilet and kitchen sink in the alley that day. “They were practically giving them away. Can you imagine?”

I could. Easily. Anyone could have, with the possible exception of Mrs. Schmulowitz, who was recovering from cataract surgery at the time.

I finished my exercises, threw on a clean white polo shirt emblazoned with my flight school logo, laced up my Merrells, and went looking for my cat. There was no sign of him anywhere in the neighborhood.

Mrs. Schmulowitz emerged from her back door as I returned through a side gate. She was wearing lime green Nikes, pink satin running shorts, and an oversized T-shirt illustrated with a drawing of Muhammad Ali flattening Joe Frazier. With her birdlike legs and profusion of spiked, thinning hair (this week’s color: harvest gold), she could’ve easily been mistaken for Woodstock from the cartoon strip
Peanuts,
had Woodstock been an octogenarian great-grandmother from Brooklyn.

“You’re up early, kiddo.”

“I can’t find Kiddiot. You haven’t seen him around lately, have you, Mrs. Schmulowitz?”

“Can’t say that I have. And lemme tell ya something, a cat that fat is hard
not
to see. He’s a porker, that cat.”

“The only reason Kiddiot is overweight is because you insist on feeding him like he’s training to be a sumo wrestler.”

“So he doesn’t care for the slop you serve him,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said dismissively. “What am I supposed to do, tell him no when he stares at me with those sad little eyes and that cute little nose of his? What, you want him to
die
from malnutrition? The cat has to eat already! Trust me, Bubeleh, I’d do the same for you.”

I told her I would be going to San Diego for a few days. Would she mind keeping an eye out for Kiddiot and feeding him until I got back?

“Would I mind? What, you have to ask?” Mrs. Schmulowitz patted my cheek. “Don’t give it another thought. Go. Have a marvelous time.”

She crossed her feet and slowly reached down to touch her toes, stretching for her morning run. “I’ll tell you one thing, he likes what he likes, that cat of yours. Reminds me of my second husband.
Oy,
that man could eat. Loved frankfurters like they were going out of style. Tells me one day he’s entering the big hotdog-eating contest on Coney Island. I tell him he’s
meshuga.
Does he listen to me? Mr. Leave Me Alone I Know What I’m Doing? Never! So, of course, he ends up in the emergency room at Bellevue, getting his stomach pumped.”

“Was he OK?”

“Oh, he was fine. But they had to cancel the contest. By the time he got done stuffing three hundred hotdogs down that big mouth of his, they had none left. Completely out. It was a new world record.”

“And if you expect me to believe that, Mrs. Schmulowitz . . .”

“Look it up on the Googles, you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you mean Google, Mrs. Schmulowitz. It’s singular.”

“Not on my Blueberry Blackberry it isn’t.”

I smiled and drove to the airport.

M
Y
COMPANY
, Above the Clouds Aviation Flight Training, Whale Watching and Aerial Charters, may have been teetering on insolvency, but my one-to-one pupil-teacher ratio was beyond compare. As was the enthusiasm of my only student, Jahangir Khan, a fresh-scrubbed, twenty-two-year-old electrical engineer from Punjab who scribbled down every word I said as if I were the combined embodiment of Orville and Wilbur Wright combined.

“The four forces that act on an airplane in flight are lift, drag, thrust, and weight. Weight is also known as gravity which, for your information, Jahangir, isn’t merely a good idea, it’s the law.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Lift, drag, thrust, and the law of gravity. Check.”

He was hunched over a spiral notepad, sitting in one of my plastic Kmart lawn chairs, while I stood before an upturned sheet of construction grade plywood that passed for a makeshift chalkboard, using a two-foot length of rebar to point out various relevant aviation illustrations I’d printed out from the Internet.

“To maintain position and direction of flight, a pilot controls rotation around three perpendicular axes that all intersect at the aircraft’s center of gravity.”

“Three perpendicular axes. Copy that. May I ask, Mr. Cordell, when will I be permitted to pilot the airplane without your kind assistance?”

“Not for awhile, Jahangir. You’ve only logged an introductory flight. First we’ve got to get through the basics of ground school.”

“The . . . basics . . . of . . . ground . . . school,” he jotted down my words verbatim. “Got it. Roger, Maverick.”

The kid had somehow convinced himself I was Tom Cruise. Far be it from me to disappoint him. I let him know that I was going out of town and hoped to be back the following week. We’d go flying then.

“Call the ball,” Jahangir said.

I had no idea what he meant. I’m not sure he did, either, but it sounded good.

Y
OU
DON
’
T
salute generals and admirals when you hold a Medal of Honor. They salute you. You receive a monthly pension, free license plates, free travel on government aircraft, an engraved invitation to Presidential inaugurals, and a reserved burial plot at Arlington. Being a military rock star also means you rarely have to cover your own bar tab. Men have been known to sprout giant honking egos fertilized by such perks. They start believing in their own mythical greatness, tossing around their weight, acting like total fools. Hub Walker was none of that. He was a true unaffected hero, a shy, unassuming man who stared at his own shoes when he spoke. And when he did look at you straight on, what you saw was not ego, but anguish. The pain of his daughter’s murder festered in his deep, sad eyes like an open wound.

“I gathered up a few names and telephone numbers, people for you to call,” he said.

We’d met for coffee at a café within walking distance of the airport-convenient Marriott where he and his former Playmate wife had spent the night. He handed me a slip of paper taken from a hotel notepad along with a check for five grand made out in my name.

“Like I said last night, I don’t expect you to reinvent the wheel. Just find me some info I can feed the newshounds to prove that Munz was lying about Greg Castle having anything to do with what happened to Ruthie. I’ll give you the other five thousand when the job’s done. Plus expenses. Sound fair?”

It sounded more than fair. It sounded like robbery. But considering that my rent was due, the radios in my aging airplane desperately needed refurbishment, and my flight school was on economic life support, I told him thank you very much and pocketed his money.

Hub’s list of contacts was all of five names long. It included Greg Castle, CEO of Castle Robotics; Ruth’s co-worker, Janet Bollinger, whose testimony had helped convict Munz; Assistant U.S. Attorney Stephen Tassio, who’d prosecuted Munz; and Munz’s defense attorney, Charles M. Dowd.

“Munz’s own attorney is willing to call him a liar?”

“Mr. Dowd got awful bent out of shape with some of the holes in Munz’s story that came out during the trial. I think it’s safe to say he was pretty well embarrassed.”

“Lawyers don’t get embarrassed, Colonel. That would require them to have feelings and a central nervous system. Either would disqualify them from taking the bar exam.”

The last name on Walker’s list, Eric LaDucrie, was one I recognized. A former major league pitcher known for his knuckleball and ultra right-wing politics, LaDucrie—the “Junkman” to his fans—had ended his career with the San Diego Padres, then gone into politics. After several unsuccessful Congressional runs as a Libertarian, he’d formed “Eye for an Eye,” a San Diego-based lobbying group devoted to preventing the courts from outlawing the death penalty. Anytime any criminal anywhere in the country was about to be executed, you could find the Junkman making the rounds on the morning news shows, spouting his hellfire advocacy.

“You want me to talk to Eric LaDucrie?”

“He should be the first one you talk to,” Walker said. “Eric went on TV when some of these other people started protesting Munz’s execution and said he had every confidence Munz was guilty. Those were his exact words—‘every confidence.’ The man’s got an entire network of folks out there that feed him inside dope all the time. Liberal media, they won’t report what he says because of his politics. You find out everything he knows and hasn’t said, and I’ll pass it on to the press myself.”

Walker handed me a business card and repeated his wife’s offer to let me stay in their guest room when I got to San Diego.

“She wanted to have coffee with us this morning, but I let her sleep in. She was fairly shook up over what happened yesterday.”

“You mean the emergency landing, or Larry wanting her to sign his stomach?”

“The landing was no big deal. My wife knows enough about airplanes. She’s a cool customer when it comes to flying. She just can’t stand it when people bring up the ‘old her,’ the things she had to do back then just to eat, like posing for that magazine. Ever since we got married, all she’s ever wanted to be is respected, a pillar of the community. She told me once she’d rather die than have to go back where she came from.”

I knew the feeling well. People from the wrong side of the tracks—or, in my case, the feedlot—can spend a lifetime over-compensating, struggling to attain the kind of acceptance and respectability in general society denied them at birth. Crissy Walker hailed decidedly from that camp.

Walker finished his coffee and stood. “I’d like to get on over to the field, see how Larry’s doing on the repairs to my plane.”

“That’s assuming Larry’s even at the airport,” I said, “and not at your hotel, trying to get your wife to sign who knows what.”

Walker grinned.

We walked along a frontage road to Larry’s hangar. The gray overcast had lifted a thousand feet or so, still low enough that it obscured the ridgelines of the coastal Rancho Bonita Mountains to the north. I watched a Great Blue Heron standing motionless in a field adjacent to the runways, its long sharp beak tilted earthward over a gopher hole, waiting patiently in ambush. The bird reminded me of how I once hunted terrorists.

“You mind me asking you a question, Hub?”

“Shoot.”

“What was it like, getting that medal?”

He thought about it for a couple of seconds. “It’s like strapping into an airplane, only you ain’t flying it. You’re just along for the ride. You got all these people telling you how great you are, tears in their eyes, thanking you for your service, all that happy horseshit, when you know the
real
heroes are the ones who didn’t make it home.” He dug his hands in his front pockets. “The truth of it is, that medal didn’t mean a whole lot to me before, not really. Now, it don’t mean a damn thing. I’d trade every decoration I ever got in a New York minute, everything I ever owned in this life, if I could have my daughter back for just one day.”

“I read once that all the stars in the night sky are really openings in Heaven, so that all the people you’ve ever loved and have gone before you can shine down, to let you know they’re happy.”

“Wish I could believe that.” We walked in silence for awhile. Then Hub said, “You got any children?”

“My ex didn’t think I was ready. She said it wasn’t a good idea, having kids when you’re still one yourself.”

“They do make you grow up right quick, I’ll give your ex that much. I thought Ruthie was gonna be a boy. But you find out that don’t matter much, which flavor they come out. You love ’em all just the same.”

I told him Savannah and I were exploring a possible reconciliation, and that she was planning to come with me to San Diego.

“Well, I sure hope that works out for you, I really do,” Hub said. “Lucky in love. Best luck of all.”

I couldn’t discern an ounce of disingenuousness about the man. The ancient philosophers knew all too well that legends have feet of clay. They warned as much in the sage words they left for humanities majors like me to absorb centuries later. But I saw no such flaws in Lt. Col. Hubert Bedford Walker, USAF retired, one of fewer than one hundred living recipients of America’s highest military decoration. I was honored to be in his company and pleased to be in his employ.