Lost Things Read online

  “That’s one of her aspects,” Alma said. She took the coin, replaced it in its box, then, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped the box into her pocket. “We’ll talk more, I promise. But —”

  Lewis nodded. “Los Angeles.”

  He rode down to the field in the back of Alma’s Ford, crammed in with the suitcases, their corners jabbing him on the turns, and he was glad when they pulled to a stop beside the Gilchrist hanger. The big doors were already open, the Terrier drawn out into the sun, Mitch on a ladder under the port wing fiddling with one of the cylinders of the radial engines.

  “Everything Ok?” Alma called, pulling past him into the hanger. Mitch lifted a hand in answer, and she hauled up on the parking brake and shut off the engine.

  “Just checking the magneto.” Mitch brought the ladder back into the hanger, leaned it against the wall. “I talked to Joey, and he said he’d take care of the Allens and anything else that comes up while we’re gone.”

  Lewis turned his attention to the luggage. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jerry hauling himself out of the front seat, the wooden leg slipping on the grass, but he knew better than to offer to help. Instead, he carried the bags out to the plane, Alma’s pretty blue case and his own battered satchel, Mitch’s plain brown suitcase with his initials in brass beside the handle and patches where he’d scraped the stickers off after each trip. Jerry’s suitcase had the faded remains of a dozen steamer tags, and frayed stitching in one corner. It was as heavy as if he’d stuffed it with rocks, and Lewis gave him an annoyed glance.

  “What’s in here, cement?”

  “Books.” Jerry was carefully, even elegantly dressed, his neat blue suit perfectly pressed, scarlet tie in an impeccable Windsor knot, his hat brushed, the brim curled just so. Lewis’s smart answer died unspoken. Alma heard, though, and glanced over.

  “Jerry, are you sure you need all of that?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Jerry said. “There are references I’m going to want that I know Henry won’t have.”

  “I heard there were some pretty good libraries in California,” Mitch said, dropping down off the ladder.

  “Apparently Henry’s not talking to the DeChance people these days,” Jerry said.

  Lewis tugged open the Terrier’s rear hatch. It was a compromise of a machine, designed to carry mail or passengers or both, but as compromises went, it was pretty elegant. The rear bulkhead could be moved, offering seating for six at its furthest extent, or it could be shifted forward, and the space filled with mail bags or other cargo. Or a spare fuel tank, he remembered, but there was no need for that on this run. Nets and straps lay ready; he secured the suitcases, Jerry’s in the center, along the plane’s midline, and backed out of the tail, latching the hatch behind him. The others were standing at the base of the Terrier’s stairs, but as he approached, Jerry tucked his cane under his arm and began dragging himself up the metal steps.

  “The weather’s supposed to be good all the way,” Alma said briskly. “We’ll have high clouds to start, then clearing toward the coast.”

  “Ok.” Lewis couldn’t help looking at Mitch. He’d thought the Terrier was Mitch’s baby. The other man shrugged. “I thought you might like to ride shotgun, at least the first leg.”

  “Yeah,” Lewis said. “Thanks.”

  Alma smiled, and in spite of all the weirdness and undercurrents, Lewis felt his spirits lift. “I figure we’ll refuel at Gray and then Las Vegas, and that should get us into Grand Central around seven-thirty or so. It shouldn’t quite be dark, and they’re set up for night landings anyway.”

  “Ok,” Lewis said again. He glanced automatically at the sky, the thin high clouds, and the pale blue between. “We might get a bit of a headwind there at the end.”

  Alma nodded. “That’s why I thought we’d stop in Las Vegas, which should give us a decent cushion.”

  “Be a good time for those supplemental tanks Gil was talking about,” Mitch said. “Did Jerry tell you where Henry’s put him?”

  Alma gave him a wary look. “No.”

  “The Roosevelt,” Mitch said. “Henry’s paying for him, mind you, but not us.”

  “That’s Henry all over,” Alma said. “Well, we’ll just have to hope there are some cheap rooms —”

  “I’ve stayed there,” Mitch said. “We can pretty much afford one room. And one of us ought to share with Jerry anyway.”

  “Well,” Alma said. For the first time since he’d known her, Lewis thought she looked a little flustered.

  “Look,” Mitch said, with a fair assumption of man-of-the-world insouciance. “It’s Mrs. Ballard or Mrs. Segura, Al. I know which one I’d rather be.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Lewis said.

  Alma smiled at that, her expression lightening. “Of the choices, I’d rather be Mrs. Segura. But, Lewis, this is a company expense —”

  “No, no, I’ll pay —” Lewis stopped, embarrassed. Alma’s cheeks were pink, but she managed to breathe a laugh.

  “You pay, and I’ll pay you back half. It’s only fair.”

  “And I get to be Mrs. Ballard,” Mitch said, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ready, Al?”

  “Whenever you are,” Alma said, and swung herself aboard.

  Chapter Three

  Mitch had left the cabin set for four, two pairs of wicker basket seats screwed to the decking facing each other, and a reasonably generous aisle between them leading to the cockpit. Jerry had already settled himself into a back seat so he could face forward, and he’d pulled up the varnished folding table, too, sat with his leg outstretched and book in hand, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Mitch grabbed the cushions from an empty chair and dropped them into the seat across the aisle from Jerry. There was a picnic basket and a thermos in the seat facing him, and Alma gave him a nod.

  “Good thinking.”

  “There’s not much at Gray,” Mitch answered. “And it’s a long way to Las Vegas.”

  “Yep,” Alma said, and tugged open the cockpit door. She folded it back, latching it open, and took her place in the pilot’s seat. Lewis joined her, fastening his belts, and followed her instructions to get the engines started. There was no tower here, and not much traffic, and Alma advanced the throttle, easing the big plane out onto the grassy strip.

  “Clear,” Lewis said, raising his voice to be heard over the engines, and Alma nodded. The windsock at the end of the field was nearly motionless; she kicked the rudder, adjusting their line, and opened the throttle. The Terrier rumbled forward, tail popping up almost at once, the three engines howling, and even as Lewis felt the plane go light, Alma hauled back on the yoke, lifting the Terrier into the air. It rose smoothly, delicate for such a big bird, and Lewis could feel his own fingers tingling just a little, anticipating the plane’s motion.

  She leveled out at 8500 feet, and put the plane into a gentle turn, straightening once the sun was at their backs. Mitch had filled in a flight plan, Lewis saw, even though he and Al had made this trip a hundred times. He collected the clipboard, glancing at the flimsy with the weather report, and folded it back to check the landmarks. A long day, he thought, but not a bad one, as long as the weather held. And there was a lot to learn about the Terrier.

  They’d been flying for just over two hours when Alma leaned across, raising her voice to be heard over the engines. “Want to take her for a bit?”

  “Sure,” Lewis shouted back, and there was the usual shuffle while they swapped control. He concentrated on getting the feel of yoke and rudder, keeping everything steady, making sure he had a sense of how the machine would react before he tried a couple of smooth, gentle turns. He’d only flown a trimotor a handful of times before, and most of that had been in Fords. The Terrier was smaller, lighter, with what felt like just as much power at his fingertips. That made it tricksy, for a big plane, the same barely-leashed feeling he’d had with the rotary engine fighters, the sense that one wrong move would flip the machine out of his control.<
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  “She’s not as touchy as you think,” Alma shouted, and he gave her a wry smile. He supposed he should resent that he was learning from her and not from Mitch — that he was working for her even while he shared her bed — but the time for that had passed a long time ago. Victoria would have hated teaching him anything, needed him to be all-knowing, always in charge, and at the same time she’d seemed angry when he did try to manage things for her. Splitting with her was probably the smartest thing he’d ever done.

  Alma took the controls back for the descent into Gray, and he watched the way she handled the landing, impressed once again by her strength. The Terrier pulled like a bigger plane, but she kept it neatly in line, and brought it to an easy stop on the edge of the tarmac. They all climbed out to stretch and grab a smoke, even Jerry, while Mitch paid for the gas and supervised the lanky kid who drove the fuel truck. There wasn’t much at the field, just hangers and an office and the fuel trucks, but Alma walked across to check the latest weather reports, and came back with a shrug and a smile.

  “No change. Want to take this leg, Lewis?”

  He hesitated, wanting to say yes. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful — and she wasn’t, really, not like a movie star, anyway. She was certainly pretty, even in the mannish slacks and the camp shirt that showed the sweat under her armpits, but it wasn’t just her looks that made him want to show off. It was the competence, the strength and the strong common sense, too, and that was what made him shake his head. Screwing up was not going to impress her. “I’m not ready to land her, not in Vegas,” he said.

  Alma smiled then, tapped his shoulder lightly, as much affection as she ever showed in public. “Fair enough. How about you get us mostly there, and Mitch or I will take the landing?”

  “I’d like that,” Lewis said. The fuel truck pulled slowly away, gears grinding, and Mitch came around the tail to join them.

  “You want me to take this leg, Al?”

  “Lewis’ll do it,” Alma answered. “And you can take us into Grand Central.”

  Mitch’s nod was absurdly gratifying. “Ok. Want a sandwich before we take off?”

  Alma glanced at her watch. “I’ll eat in the cockpit. We’ll be cutting it a little close at the end anyway.”

  Lewis ground out the last of his cigarette, and climbed into the plane. Alma had already taken the co-pilot’s seat, was fastening her belts. Lewis settled himself into the pilot’s seat, and began running down the checklists again. Mitch appeared in the cockpit door, handed a pair of sandwiches over Alma’s shoulder, and disappeared again. Lewis thumbed the ignition switches one after the other, and the engines rumbled to life, propellers blurring to invisibility. He taxied slowly onto the runway, scanning the sky for traffic, then checked the windsock a final time and opened the throttle. The Terrier lurched forward, not as smoothly as under Alma’s hands, but then he felt the tail lift, the plane steadying under his touch. The airspeed was good; he tugged the yoke back, and the Terrier rose sluggishly, then faster, rising into the wind. Lewis grinned — there was nothing in the world like flying — and banked to settle the Terrier on course before beginning the climb to cruising altitude.

  The weather was still good, the few wisps of cloud below him barely thick enough to obscure the ground. There was nothing to do but hold the Terrier steady, learn the feel of her in his hands and feet. After a while, Alma poked him, held out a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.

  “I’ll take her for a bit, if you’re hungry.”

  He was, he realized, and nodded. “Thanks.”

  He wolfed the ham and cheese, feeling how Alma’s touch differed on the controls, then took over again. The landmarks unreeled below them: highways, a river, a big white building in the middle of a green field. Mitch came forward with the thermos, and they shared a cup of the coffee, thick and sweet, before Alma took the controls back and began the descent to Las Vegas. It was an impressive sight, Lewis thought, an unexpected splotch of green in the middle of the desert. The field was well on the outskirts, though, and Alma brought them down in a swirl of dust, bouncing across the concrete in the sudden crosswind. The controller waved his flags, signaling them to get off the runway, and Alma brought the Terrier to a gentle stop between two hangers. She’d left plenty of room for the fuel truck, Lewis saw, peeling himself out of the pilot’s chair.

  The heat was like a blow. Lewis checked in the doorway, and Mitch squinted up at him from the shade of the wing. “Lovely, huh? Let’s hope we can get fueled up quick and get out of here.”

  He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of a biplane revving its engine, and another plane was circling the field, waiting for the controller to wave it down. Lewis made a face. At this rate, they’d be on the ground at least an hour, and the cabin was going to be an oven.

  Alma handled the refueling this time, and somehow charmed the fuel truck operator into servicing them first, but even so it was almost forty minutes before they could get the engines started again. Being a passenger was something to be endured, even when he trusted the other pilot. He stretched out in the wicker seat, trying not to pay attention to every shift and jostle as the Terrier made its way onto the runway. He could see the flagman as Mitch turned for take-off, the go-flag held up and out, and then the engines picked up speed and the Terrier rumbled forward. He felt the tail lift, and then the ride evened out as the plane left the ground. He glanced out the window, watching the ground drop away, then made himself slump further in his chair and close his eyes. Might as well try to rest, he told himself, and didn’t expect to manage it.

  He drifted off to sleep after a bit, an uneasy doze that broke every time the Terrier dropped a few feet. The air was choppier now, probably because they were over the Sierras, but he refused to look. He hadn’t been a passenger since — well, since right after the War, and he’d realized right away that it was a bad idea. That was the end of 1918, or maybe the beginning of 1919, and the details were a blur, just the panic remaining. He turned his mind firmly away, shifted to a more comfortable position against the thin cushions. He must remember to tell Alma to replace them before they carried passengers, he thought, and drifted off again.

  He dreamed he was back in France, back in the air, crouched in the back cockpit of the Salmson 2 as they circled over the German lines. He knew what was coming, and he pounded on the fuselage behind Robbie’s cockpit, trying to get his attention, banging and pointing to the gun the size of a house that was slowly, inexorably lining up on them. They were so low he could see the Germans frantically turning their aiming wheels, could see the blue-striped shell that they were manhandling into the breech. Machine gunners had seen them, too, were standing up in their holes to fire at them. He tried to return fire, but he couldn’t depress the Lewis gun far enough, and wasted ammunition firing at nothing. And still Robbie flew slowly on, while the giant gun tracked them, mouth open to swallow them —

  He jerked awake, aware in an instant of his surroundings, and that the Terrier was steady in flight. The light had changed: they were chasing the sun now, flying into evening, and he glanced surreptitiously at Jerry, hoping he hadn’t noticed. The other man seemed to be drowsing, too, his book face down on the fold-out table, and Lewis leaned back again. The sound of the engines was like a drug, dragging him back into sleep.

  This time, he was back in the shattered wood behind the German lines. It was probably the only scrap of unshelled land for miles, barely enough to land in, surrounded by trees that had been blasted in some earlier offensive. A few of them were starting to send up green shoots, and a part of him knew that was wrong, just as it was wrong for it to be night, without moon or stars to light his way.

  There was something out there, he knew suddenly, something hungry, and he rummaged in the cockpit until he found a signal flare. He lit it, and the stark light cast a sputtering circle around the damaged plane. Robbie was unconscious in the forward cockpit, and he knew he needed to get him out, drag him into the back so that he could fly the
m home, but the thing that circled outside the light was just waiting for its chance. He drew his revolver with the other hand, put his back against the fuselage, but the thing came around again, so that he turned, gasping, only to see empty air. Something moved at the edge of his vision, a shadow crawling like gas; he flung himself around, revolver ready, but the thing had moved, was behind him again.

  And then a dog barked, high and distant, and then another and another, baying now like hounds in a pack. The moon broke through the clouds, and he snapped awake, gasping for breath.

  Jerry looked at him, one hand in his pocket. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” Lewis shook himself, shaking away the residue of the dream. It was just a nightmare, nothing to do with the other dreams. It was just a lesson: never fall asleep while flying. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Mitch brought the Terrier into Grand Central in the thickening dusk, just before the moment where the tower might have waved them off while they got the field lighted up. They taxied up to the brand new terminal, stucco so white it almost seemed to glow, tower jutting against the purple sky, and Mitch insisted on unloading them before he took the plane to the rented hanger space. Alma wasn’t sorry to have the chance to freshen up — a movie star could arrive at the Roosevelt grubby and sweating, but not an ordinary mortal — and she wasn’t surprised to find that the Ladies’ Lounge had a dressing room. She left Jerry and Lewis at the coffee shop and lugged her suitcase up to the second floor. The attendant didn’t seem surprised to see her, just shuffled off and came back with a damp washcloth and a towel that actually looked as though it would do some good. Alma washed her face and hands gratefully, and ran her wrists under the cold water until she felt almost human again.

  The attendant pointed her to a changing room, and she dug her blue frock out of the suitcase and stripped out of shirt and pants. She stood for a moment in her bare feet and combinations, savoring the cooling air, then hastily pulled on stockings and pumps and slid the dress over her head. The matching cloche was dented; she pressed it out, and settled it to hide her untidy hair. Powder was pointless, with her complexion. Instead, she craned to see that her seams were straight, then clicked the suitcase closed, left a nickel in the attendant’s dish, and headed back down to the main lobby.