Hollywood Buzz (14 page)

Novara’s eyebrows lifted; the tapping came to a halt.

“The B-17 Flying Fortress is impressive—it’s one of our biggest bombers—I’ll bet I can arrange—”

Novara purred, “Tell me more about the fighters.”

The interruption threw me, but I was able to give him a rundown on the preliminary arrangements I’d made for flying the P-51 Mustang at March Field. Novara’s nod of approval and the sly curl of his mouth indicated he understood that getting film of a prototype fighter in action would be a feather in his beret.

“Good work,” Sam said out of the corner of his mouth.

I looked over and smiled, then turned back to Novara. “I’ll know this afternoon whether we’ve got the go-ahead.”

“When you get word, tell Sam,” Novara said. “Sam, you’ll call a film crew boss, yes?”

Sam nodded switched gears. “What about reshooting the target towing scene, Pucci?”

Too bad I’d been so gung-ho the other day. “Uh, I’m working on that. Still haven’t been able to get the necessary clearance.” In truth, a call to Miss C was on my agenda later. Max did not want me to do the sequence while a saboteur was on the loose. I needed to get Miss C’s take on the level of danger, hear what she would advise.

I moved on. “WASPs are assigned to 130 bases around the country. In addition to ferrying and artillery training, we’re doing test piloting and instructing. Those areas are neglected in the current script as well.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Novara wagged his head from side to side in rhythm with the words. “You don’t expect me—or an audience—to get excited about that.”

The reaction wasn’t a surprise. Covering new material meant more effort, more time.

Sam piped in, “Just a minute, Roland. Test piloting
could
be sexy stuff.”

I wouldn’t have picked the same descriptive, but at least he’d piqued Roland’s interest. The floor was mine again.

“WASP pilots test planes after they’ve undergone major overhauls. They run the repaired planes through their paces before the ship can be assigned to a male pilot.”

A faint smile played on Novara’s lips and I guessed the implication that we are expendable met with his approval.

“These ladies have colorful—and brave—tales to tell,” I continued. “One WASP, while checking the spin characteristics of an AT-6 at 11,000 feet, suddenly realized all the controls had been hooked up backwards.” I paused for effect. “She pulled out at 500 feet then had to stay up in the air until she could figure out how to bring the plane in.”

Novara and Sam continued staring blankly at me as though they didn’t get it. Did I have to spell out everything? “It’s the makings of a gripping pilot interview!”

Novara flicked a mountainous ash at the ashtray, sending cinders spilling onto the table. Sam twisted his pencil in his hands.

“Say,” Novara said, suddenly. “Mae West was a hit demonstrating how to accomplish a basic flying maneuver, eh, Sam?” Sam had no chance to reply. “Pucci, sweetheart, try to follow what I’m saying here. Maybe it’ll give you an idea of what we’re going for.”

I took a deep breath and clenched my hands together in my lap.

“Okay now, picture Mae West up on the screen in all her glory.” Novara held his hands out, thumbs touching, framing the scene he was about to describe. “She talks—her hands seductively tracing the contour of her figure while slooowly describing how, in order to achieve the ‘Lazy 8,’ you have to use a ‘slow and easy’ hand on the controls—” He looked at me pointedly. “
Heh, heh.
Then she sings, ‘I Like a Guy Who Takes His Time’ as animated sequences demonstrate the correct technique for making the maneuver. At the finish, her gravely voice low and slow, she tells trainees: ‘When you’ve learned how to do your Lazy 8s, come up and see me some time!’” He winked and began a rude cackling.

Novara’s crass behavior didn’t trouble me. I expected as much from him. Sam’s chuckles on the other hand, however restrained, did.

I understood the humor of the Mae West piece and realized that a seductive movie star had value in training films—for grabbing attention and driving home important instruction. Still, the technique would be completely inappropriate for a documentary like ours. I hadn’t expected Sam to join the laughter.

Before he could notice my dagger eyes, Novara’s secretary popped her head into the room.

“Sorry,” she said, pinching her face into a contrite expression. “Lou’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent.”

Novara took the receiver. From the way he furrowed his brow as he listened, I guessed the urgent news was not good. Novara’s side of the conversation went something like: “Yes.” “Uh-huh.” “I don’t believe it.” “Try again.” “Air pouch, then.” “Call me the sec the plane lifts off.”

Novara hung up, propped his elbows on the desk, then rubbed his temples for a minute. “Damn goldbrick in Orlando forgot to fill my reconnaissance order. Let’s wrap this, okay?”

“We fly P-39 and P-63 fighters painted with the red Russian star—the Texaco sign, we call it—from the factory in Buffalo to a base in Great Falls, Montana for delivery to Russian women pilots. Part of the Lend-Lease program to help the Russians rebuild their air force. It was decimated by the Nazis, you know.” I cleared my throat, fighting a rising giggle. The condescending remark had slipped out inadvertently but, oh, did it feel good! And, though I risked overwhelming Novara with just how much a woman was equipped to handle, I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “The Russian women fly combat, can you imagine! One even flew while five months pregnant.”

Novara began biting on a fingernail.

“The final suggestion I have involves the B-29 Super Fortress.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “That plane’s a monster.”

I hadn’t decided yet whether to forgive Sam for his earlier transgression of siding with Novara. I gave him the slightest of nods. “Seventy tons of armament and power. Biggest plane in our inventory. There’s been some problem with fire that’s getting the men nervous, but I just heard a couple of WASPs have been chosen to fly the B-29 as demonstration pilots to flight crews in transition to B-29s. Some footage of that would provide evidence that the plane must be safe. You know the patter: If women can do it, anyone can.”

Novara sat chewing his fingernail, saying nothing. “Jesus,” he said finally, “I’m at a loss here. What do you think, Sam?”

I turned to look at Sam. His jaw muscles began to work as he considered his thoughts. What happened next was a shocker. Sam reiterated the essence of my ideas, using slightly different language. He reviewed the rationale behind why the suggestions would have appeal, both to a wide movie audience and to Novara’s superiors.

After he finished, I expected compliments for my good work. Zip.

“You’re right, Sam,” Novara said. “The suggestions make good sense. Work with Lewis on writing them up, then call me. But do it fast. I needed to get this wrapped up yesterday.”

Huh? My mind was spinning. Novara had acted as though Sam deserved all the credit and Sam had taken it.

I got a handshake and we were excused.

My adrenaline was pumping as we walked out into the hallway. I had won some ground, but I wanted to bury Sam six feet under it.

Sam seemed oblivious.

My pent-up frustration exploded. “You’re a snake. No, a blood sucker. You sucked up my ideas…made them yours!” Hands on hips, eyes narrowed, I glared. “Why’d you do it?

“I had to go along with Novara,” he said, locking eyes with me. “I did it for you, don’t you see? It’s not in his nature to let a woman tell him what to do. Without that man-to-man stuff, without giving him the chance to accept direction from another male, I was afraid you wouldn’t have made any headway.”

My nose was bent out of joint, but I could grasp Sam’s reasoning. From the little I’d observed of Novara, I knew the outcome was a major coup, given I was a woman. Besides, Sam had been able to express the concepts in the movie jargon he and Novara understood. That also may have helped in selling him the ideas.

Sam’s eyes continued to hold mine. The pleading look in them was irresistible. Though I would have preferred captaining my own battle—or at least to have been in on the strategizing—I was on my way toward getting the kind of picture Miss C was after. And, more important, giving Frankie her just due. I put away my anger.

“I’m grateful for the way things turned out,” I acknowledged at last.

Before parting company, Sam and I agreed to have dinner together later to celebrate and to get started on putting the ideas for revising
Sky Belles
into script format.

***

In the hallway outside the typing pool, I waited beside the telephone. Ten minutes after the appointed hour, it rang.

“Why did I have to go through so many channels?” Miss C asked, steamrolling over the niceties. “I thought I heard the last operator say she’d have to ring you on a pay phone. Don’t you have your own phone?”

“No.”

“What! Why not?”

I had a mind to say:
Because I’m a woman pilot trying to advise a Hollywood director on how to do his job. That doesn’t merit a personal telephone.

But, fresh from a victory of sorts, I breezily said, “It’s no big deal,” then steered the conversation to what was. “I heard you called the hospital a few times to check on Frankie.”

“I’ve been concerned,” Miss C replied. “Uhm, and there have also been some financial matters to attend to. There’s no military assistance for hospitalization of a WASP, you know.” She cleared her throat. “I’m having to do some finagling.”

Her financial worries paled next to my sabotage concerns.

“The doctor’s troubled too. There’s been no improvement.”

“Yes. I know.”

“I bumped into Max.” I waited, giving her a chance to come clean about her source. In the lull, I heard the shuffling of papers. “Maxine Koslowski.”

“Hmm.” More paper shuffling.

“Miss C, Max told me about what she found. Sugar mixed in the fuel. She’s your source. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m in an awkward position…”

“You’re in an awkward position? What about me? I gave Koslowksi my word—”

I cut in. “Max doesn’t want me to do the target tow reshoot. Doesn’t think it’s safe. But I already volunteered.”

Because you told me to
. I didn’t say it, but I wanted to. My back pressed against the wall, I slid to the hard wooden seat and recapped my meeting with Roland Novara.

“Bravo, Lewis. I said you had the kind of can-do attitude to make this mission a success. Now you and that screenwriter have to come up with a new script Novara won’t be able to resist. You’ll do it. Keep me posted.”

“Uhm, what about the P-51 idea?”

“More good stuff. Wish I weren’t stuck here in Washington. Would love to fly that new hybrid myself. Seversky’s positively gaga over it. Maybe even a touch jealous. That Mustang’s more responsive than anything he’s got on the drawing board right now.” She was so cheerful, I could picture her grinning. “What an impression it’ll make on our movie audience, too,” she added. “Yup, brilliant idea, Lewis.”

“Max also has reservations about taking the P-51 up.”

“Why’s that?”

I breathed deep. “Miss C, there’s a saboteur on the loose. Max is an ace crash inspector. She’s certain whoever did this is out to damage our reputation, scare us. She’s advised me to stay on the ground. What do you think?”

“Now that we know about the sugar,” she said without hesitation, “Max can test the fuel before you go up.”

There were other ways to sabotage a plane. She knew that as well as I did. “You think I should do it then?”

“Look, Lewis, I know what I’d do. Someone tampered with a military plane on a military base. High-risk business. Get away with it once, you’ve pulled off a miracle. Try it twice? Ha! You’d be a fool, or a culprit with a death wish. And what are the odds of that? Besides, if Koslowski is right, and the villain is AAF, the point’s already been made. But I’m not there. It’s got to be your call. Trust your judgment.”

I gulped. Her faith in me was flattering.

“Whether you do the flying scenes or not,” she continued, “we need to get the person behind this. Any suspects?”

“Haven’t had much time to dig around. Max is our best source…” I brightened. “Tonight I’m having dinner with Sam…er, Mr. Lorenz, the screenwriter. He’s a friend of Frankie’s. He’s also spent time out at March. Worked on the
P-51 Flight Characteristics
picture with—” I hesitated. I’d been about to say Brody. Had Rask’s request for my assistance on his case wormed its way through channels and gotten to her yet? She’d have conniptions if she learned I’d gotten wind of the assignment before she did.

“Lewis, are you there? Worked with
who
? I didn’t hear you.”

“Ah, the director Derrick Brody? Heard of him?”

“Sure I’ve heard of him. We’ve never met, though—”

She’d spoken of Brody in the present. She hadn’t seen the request. If the cogs continued to churn at this rate, Rask’s case would be solved before I could even get involved.

Paper rustled loudly and I sensed the noise-making might be deliberate. “Listen, Lewis I better get back to—”

“Brody was murdered,” I blurted. “It’s in all the papers here.”

“Well,
we’re
in the trenches here,” she snapped. “I can’t keep up with my phone messages. Where do you think I’d find time to read newspapers?”

Before I could drop other hints, Miss C switched the topic.

“Things haven’t been going as smoothly as we’d like,” she said. “We’re up against several hard-core groups—a grassroots organization supported by the American Legion, a delegation of civil aviators, plus a contingent of displaced civilian male instructors. They’re all claiming the government’s wasting millions of taxpayer dollars training women in a frivolous program that’s taking jobs away from the men. It’s the same bogus argument, but they’re well organized. A smear campaign’s in the works, too, we’ve heard. Hopefully, they’re in the dark about Frankie’s crash.”

I barely heard her running through the other highlights of days of meetings with Congressional representatives and other influentials. I knew it was important. On another occasion, I would have been glomming onto every word. Now, however, I had my own agenda. How could I let her know about Rask and his case?