Barnstorm (17 page)

It was show time.

The circus had come to town, with airplanes instead of elephants. A Flying Circus. Popcorn and cotton candy had replaced the smells of paint. No exact count, but the airstrip was swarmed by hundreds of curious farmers, locals, and kids. It was the county fair on steroids.

The tarmac hosted
Screamin’ Deb, Ole Red,
and
38 Dee.
Each Liar Flyer stood beside one of the restored Stearmans. Hooker’s biplane was a shout-out to his Navy days–a Navy N25 “Yellow Peril.” The red instrumentation stripe on the wings and around the rear fuselage matched the blush of pride in his cheeks. Bomber’s
Screamin’ Deb
proudly wore the traditional blue-yellow colors of the PT-17 Army Air Corps. Crash was the one about to burst. He had commandeered the 450 horsepower engine and custom-built the engine cowling, masking the beast within. His
Ole Red
was fast–just like “what’s-her-name” in Minneapolis.

The Liar Flyers beamed with pride as young and old alike admired their handiwork. A long line of kids snaked at each plane to take a turn sitting in a cockpit. These ex-stunt pilots–heroes of a bygone era–basked in the glory that was their barnstorming years. Truth be told, they were proud of something else, more important to them than the hot-rod collection of refurbished wings, struts, and taut wires. Buzz had recertified them all– Bomber, Crash, and Hooker. Once a pilot, always a pilot. After weeks of surprisingly good behavior and intensive study, they had each soloed and were once again certified pilots.

While Buzz’s biplanes were certainly the center of attention, four other, much younger pilots had flown their restored Stearmans in from Galesburg, Illinois. Amateur stunt pilots all, they entertained the crowd with death-defying feats.

Brett Hunter, in the
Zombie Slayer
from nearby Waynesville, Ohio, wowed the crowd with his three hundred thirty horsepower Magnum antics. While the Stearmans performed gentle, flowing maneuvers, Hunter’s competitive plane defied gravity, and pulled goosebumps out of the most stubborn of skin.

Bomber was still peeved that he came in second in the flour bombing competition. While he congratulated the Galesburg winner, he still had a bone to pick with the obviously blind judge. Releasing his last sack of common kitchen flour, he was certain it had hit closer to the runway target than anyone else’s. The judge ticked him off when she’d said,
close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
Bomber offered to take the judge up for a view from above, but she had heard of Deb’s previous test flight experience. She passed.

☁ ☁ ☁

Gerty had hoped she could attend the air show, but bank foreclosures and sheriff’s sales under court order were quite specific. There was a conflict. She was stuck at the bank, supported by Dorothy and Maggie. She didn’t know how much, but she knew that some cash must be flowing at the air show. There was a plan to get as much cash as possible to the bank a half-hour before the sheriff’s sale deadline. Even if only a few thousand dollars, a loan extension might be a possibility. Robinson wasn’t worried. He knew that the carnies would foil the air show plans.

Gerty sat alone at the bank. Her back against a wall, literally. The ticking of the clock above her head broke the silence. A rhythmic break that created its own silence. Hypnotic. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Her farm, her life was ticking away. Thoughts of Lester. Luke. Tick, tock.

☁ ☁ ☁

Seven Stearmans flew in formation. Red, white, and blue smoke trailed behind. Every neck craned, hands shading eyes from the late September sun. Perfection. Perfect for Rufus and Gomer. With everyone’s attention so focused on the stunt pilots above, no one was guarding his wallet. The air show was a pickpocket’s dream. Gomer would lift the treasures and transfer them immediately to a passing Rufus. The loot slipped into his backpack, Rufus would turn around, make another pass. Like taking candy from a baby.

The air show was coming to an end. All of the biplanes had landed and were parked outside the main hangar. The Liar Flyers were exhausted by all of the attention. Hooker’s right hand had seized-up, gnarled and contorted from signing all of the autographs. Crash had run out of true stories, he was delving into his usual blather of the fictional. The kids didn’t care. Bomber was proud. Quiet. He shot one final evil stare at the flour-bombing judge, but he’d probably forgive her soon. It had been a glorious day.

Then it happened.

All of the pilots were posing for a group picture. The crowd didn’t particularly notice. It had been wowed by old-geezer stunt pilots and the present-day stunt guru Hunter’s Zombie Slayer. The crowd might not have paid much attention. Not so with the Liar Flyers. They all looked skyward when a yellow-winged Stearman PT-17, exactly like Screamin’ Deb buzzed the field. It waggled its wings and spewed white smoke in a snaking trail behind.

“Oh, my God,” Bomber exclaimed.

“Has to be,” Hooker said.

“Who else could it be?” Crash exclaimed.

“What’s going on?” Deb asked.

Shading his eyes from the sun, Buzz announced, “Sweetheart, I think we’re about to meet Gus.”

The remaining crowd ducked low as the new arrival buzzed the wind sock remnants fluttering over the hangar.

“Nah,” Deb said. “Ole Gus? You’re kiddin’. You mean Gus actually exists?”

“Appears so,” Buzz grinned.

“Those barnstormin’ stories are true?”

“Yep.”

The yellow and blue Stearman taxied and came to a stop beside its kindred biplanes. It was as though the Army Air Corps had been called to active duty. The younger Galesburg pilots were sport enthusiasts. Some had been Air Force trained, flown missions over Vietnam, Iraq, or Afghanistan. They felt a certain level of pride and appreciated the history on the tarmac before them. However, it paled by comparison to the pride felt by the Liar Flyers. These has-beens really had been. They had been there. They were there when modern military aviation first took flight. The Liar Flyers and Gus were members of the same aviation fraternity.

The Liar Flyers greeted Gus as he climbed out of his plane. The crowd kept its distance. Everyone seemed to know that this was a special, private moment. It was as though time had stood still. The smiles. The laughter.
Wasn’t her name Doris? No, it was Lucille. St. Louis, right? Come on, had to have been Birmingham?

Time might have stood still for Lucille and Doris. For Gerty, time was racing toward the 3:00 p.m. sheriff’s sale.

The bank wall clock above Gerty struck 2:00 p.m.

Mel Smith took a seat beside Gerty. He stared straight ahead, silent. The awkward pause reminded him of calling hours at Drake’s funeral home. Wait in line, awkward. Every minute, take a step closer to the casket, the blurry-eyed widow. Rehearse something personal, appropriate like,
I’m so sorry for your loss,
or,
I’ll always remember his laugh.
After all of the practice, the best that flops around on the floor like a three-legged frog is,
he looks so natural.
Mel just sat there. He wasn’t about to step on any frogs. He reached over and patted Gerty’s hand. He didn’t need words.

“I feel like Marie Antoinette,” Gerty said as she finally broke the silence.

“You don’t have to be here,” he said as he held her hand. “It will happen by the book. Why put yourself through this?”

“I want that jerk Robinson to look me in the eye.”

As if on cue, the jerk entered the bank. He compared the time on the wall clock to that on his silver Rolex. Totally ignoring Gerty, Robinson addressed Mel, “Mr. Smith, shall we adjourn to the courthouse? Wall clock is slow–by three minutes.”

☁ ☁ ☁

2:05 p.m.

The airstrip was a mess. Fifty-five gallon barrels positioned not frequently enough around the tarmac each overflowed with two hundred gallons of trash. Paper cups were strewn about, tumbling in the mid-afternoon breeze. Wisps of cotton candy remnants melted into the hot asphalt tarmac awaiting the bottom of someone’s unsuspecting shoe. Pigeons must have sent out the word because every flying rat in Clinton County had been summoned to fly off with its beak full of popcorn. These aerial scavengers were actually performing a worthwhile service.

The Galesburg pilots were taking off in formation. In four hours, they would be back home in Illinois. Bomber had considered snatching the flour-bomb trophy away from its rightful owner, but he and the other Liar Flyers were still arguing with Gus about some 1947 detail involving a rakish blonde in Detroit. Or was it Wichita?

Buzz, Deb, and Trip had retreated to the cafe. All of the vendors had delivered their bags of cash and were cleaning up their booths. The concession revenue almost equaled the modest admission fees. It was a huge haul. Ones, fives, tens. Bills wadded up were straightened. Beer-soaked bills, with that yeast smell that might be more appreciated in a brewery, were counted and stacked. The level of accuracy and precision deteriorated with each passing minute. The trio needed to get the cash to the bank on a tight schedule. When the tabletops were cleared of their well-gotten loot, they crammed the last dead President into a canvas duffel bag.

It had been a great day.

“So, Trip,” Buzz smiled, “what’s it like knowin’ you’ve saved Gerty’s farm?”

“Should I cry now, maybe later?” Deb asked.

The cafe door to the tarmac slammed shut. Deb, Buzz, and Trip looked up simultaneously.

“Cry now,” Rufus smirked. “Git it over with.” Rufus slapped a baseball bat into his palm as he approached the table. He raised the bat menacingly over his head and banged it, full force on the table. Even Gomer jumped, surprised by the sudden display of violence. Rufus pulled the canvas duffel bag toward him with the bat. Sliding the bag over his shoulder he announced, “Thanks for a great day, folks.”

Buzz jumped to his feet, only to collapse to his knees as Rufus buried the handle of the baseball bat into his gut. Trip started to enter the fray but was intercepted by Deb.

“Smart lady,” Rufus laughed. “You got a storeroom?”

Knowing that they were out-muscled and seeing no alternative, Deb led the way to the storeroom behind the lunch counter. Rufus motioned for Trip and Gomer to drag Buzz across the cafe floor and dump him in the storeroom. Deb and Trip heard the door lock click. Deb cradled Buzz’s head in her lap. After waiting a minute or two, Trip banged on the door, “Help! Help!” Anyone who might hear was outside, on the tarmac.

Rescue would not be quick.

It had been a great day. For Rufus and Gomer.

As the rust-red Caddy convertible sped through the backcountry roads of Clinton and Highland Counties, the driver and his passenger were elated. The backpack tossed in the backseat was full of wallets, cash, and credit cards. They hadn’t had time to survey the contents, but they knew it would top any take ever harvested at the county fair.

The backpack was icing on the cake. The canvas duffel bag on the seat between them was the mother lode. They could care less about the measly Ben Franklins Robinson had given them. The canvas duffel bag probably contained thousands.

Rufus zigged. Back a gravel road. Then he zagged. No way would they be found.

☁ ☁ ☁

“Help! Help!” Trip was getting hoarse. He took a break from his fruitless screams.

The Liar Flyers and Gus did not hear Trip yell. That’s not why they entered the cafe. They were thirsty. Seated at the lunch counter, the reminiscing blather continued. Bomber snuck behind the counter and served up drinks. Crash pilfered the last of the donuts from the cake box at the end of the counter.

It was Hooker who decided to get greedy. “Cherry pie, anyone?” he asked.

“Deb’ll kick your butt,” Crash cautioned.

“I don’t see any Deb,” Hooker laughed, as he spun off his stool. He limped round the lunch counter and failed as he tried to open the storeroom door. Locked. “That’s strange,” he said. “She never locks it in the middle of the day.”

The turning of the door handle gave Trip his second wind. Rasped and raw, his voice could barely be heard. Startled by the pounding fists on the door, Hooker jumped back in surprise. The three Liar Flyers were unsuccessful in forcing the door open.

It was Gus who took charge. “Stand back,” he ordered, as he grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall. With one motion, the bottom rim of the brass cylinder sliced off the door handle to the storeroom. As the door flung open, there was a tearful Deb, a semi-conscious Buzz, and a defeated Trip.

It was over.

2:10 p.m.

A crowd was milling around the courthouse lawn. Sheriff’s foreclosure sales are commonplace. Actually quite boring. They usually last five minutes or less. A court official, generally the sheriff or a deputy, reads the required legal mumbo jumbo and plat map description of the property to be sold. The threatening phrase,
I’ll meet you on the courthouse steps
is hollow. No meaning. No one really settles a case on the courthouse steps. It means–
at the last minute
. Most foreclosure sales are in a courthouse auditorium, meeting room, or even court room. Nice sunny day, big emotional crowd, then yes, holding the auction outside might make sense.

The foreclosure sale of Gertrude Murphy’s farm would happen in fifty minutes. On the courthouse steps. Many of the players closely connected with the affair hoped that the air show cash would arrive within the next twenty minutes, no later than 2:30 p.m. Mel Smith would accept the payment. Robinson would swear and spit fire. He would drive back to Cleveland in his shiny, black Mercedes, empty-handed. Only Robinson knew that another scenario was more likely. Yes, he would drive back to Cleveland. But because of Rufus and Gomer, whose existence and exploits could never be traced back to him, Robinson would drive back to Cleveland with the deed to Gertrude Murphy’s farm in his briefcase. He would not be empty-handed.

☁ ☁ ☁

2:15 p.m.

“Let’s get ‘em!” Trip exclaimed as he jumped from his chair.

Everyone in the cafe knew that would have been futile. Heads bowed, feet shuffling awkwardly, all, even Trip knew that it was over. Even if they had the cash, the drive to the courthouse would be a close call. And they didn’t have the cash.

“Ya could drive all day on these country roads, never find them,” Deb said. Everyone knew it to be true. Needle in a haystack.

Barely lucid, Buzz proclaimed, “I can find them from the air.” That option was bunked as quickly as it had been offered when a wobbly, still dazed Buzz fell back into his chair.

“You’re not flyin’ anywhere,” Deb stated the obvious. “They’re gone. It’s over. Call the Sheriff.”

Gus, the newcomer to the group, slowly rose and calmly said, “I’ll need a co-pilot.”

The bowed heads were all raised as if the preacher had just said,
Amen
. Deb looked at the wall clock. It registered 2:20 p.m.

Rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation, Gus said, “Birmingham, 1947.”

The three Liar Flyers kicked it into gear, they knew the battle plan. Bomber and Hooker–wing men. Crash–second wave. Operation Birmingham was launched at 2:21 p.m.

☁ ☁ ☁

Unaware that Operation Birmingham had just been activated, the action in Hillsboro had left the bank and crossed the street to the courthouse. The Sheriff, Gerty, Mel, and Robinson sat Quaker-like in the Sheriff’s office. Robinson was confident that the last piece to his multi-million-dollar development project would fall in place in the next thirty minutes. Gerty was ready for Trip and Buzz to walk through the door at any minute and save her farm. It was Deb’s voice coming over the Sheriff’s office radio that broke the silence.

“Clinton Airstrip callin’ Sheriff Brown,” the radio screeched through the static.

Radio mic to his cheek, the Sheriff answered, “Sheriff Brown here. Go ahead, Deb.”

“Had a robbery out here, Sheriff.”

All eyes tightened and stared at the Sheriff as if that would help clarify what they just heard. “Excuse me?” Sheriff Brown quizzed.

The radio static abated long enough for Deb’s voice to echo loud for all to hear, “Those carnies you been after? Took off with all the air show money. Red Caddy convertible.”

“Copy that. I’ll call Sheriff Carter in Clinton County. We’ll both radio dispatch some deputies.”

Short and sweet. Maybe not so sweet. Gerty and Mel knew it was over. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Like a dagger through the heart. The silence was broken by the feigned sincerity of Robinson, “Such a shame.”

☁ ☁ ☁

2:25 p.m.

It took close to zero time for two Stearmans to be loaded and ready for action. Operation Birmingham didn’t require a formal, pre-mission briefing. Gus was in the lead plane, Trip in the trainer seat directly in front of him. Parachutes harnessed and secured, pilots and co-pilots were ready for their reconnaissance mission. The front cockpits were crammed with sacks of flour.

Gus brought his engine to life and the plane lumbered toward the runway. Close at his side was Bomber, with Hooker as his front seat co-pilot. Wing men. The two planes sped to the runway, ready to do battle. Needle in a haystack. Which direction? Gus and Bomber thundered down the runway and headed south. No reason. As good as any direction. Needle in a haystack.

☁ ☁ ☁

Deputy John was in hot pursuit. He had just picked up Sheriff Brown’s radio dispatch and was closing in on the two carnies. Had to be them. How many dilapidated red Caddy convertibles with two bums streak by your country road position? Lights flashing, siren blaring, John was getting closer. He would nab them in another minute.

Deputy Fred was stopped on a narrow, cornfield-canyoned gravel road debating which way to turn. He crept his cruiser forward to peer around the head-high rows of corn just as the red convertible zoomed by–leaving a trail of blue exhaust. Easy decision. Flashers flicked on. Siren began its ear-piercing wail. Fred floored his cruiser into action. Gravel shot behind him as he fishtailed onto the asphalt county road. Just in time to broadside Deputy John, who at seventy miles per hour hit the ditch, taking out a hundred feet of wire fence. Both deputy cruisers now disabled, Fred and John got in a shoving match that probably would not settle Sheriff Brown’s inquiry–
are you guys totally stupid or what?

The shoving match was interrupted by Gus’s low pass over the wrecked cruisers. He had seen the deputies in pursuit of something and had now drawn a bead on the red Caddy ahead. Hand signals between Gus and Bomber deployed phase II of Operation Birmingham. Trip was so focused on the chase, he barely noticed that he was a tag-along stunt pilot swooping and diving at the treetops.

Rufus and Gomer had a moment of temporary dread when they saw, and heard, the deputies closing in on them. Rufus saw the collision in his rearview mirror and had stopped the Caddy to take it all in. They were home free. Slapping each other on the back, they continued a more leisurely pursuit of freedom. They couldn’t wait to count their money. Gomer had unzipped the canvas duffel bag and had pulled out a fistful of cash that he flung in the air.

“Idiot!” screamed Rufus, as he jerked the duffel bag away from Gomer. It was at this moment that a sack of flour exploded on the asphalt beside the red Caddy.

The carnies might have been smarter than the two deputies, but they were now getting bombarded from the sky. Bomber might not have won first place in the air show flour bombing contest, but his first missile was
closer than a hand grenade.
Bomber and Hooker circled to make another pass.

The sacks of flour came in waves. First Bomber. He peeled off the target and Gus took his place. Splat! Trip wasn’t as good as Bomber and Hooker, but the effect of two biplanes dropping flour bombs on a moving car created panic in Rufus. He weaved in and out of first one ditch, then the other. Gomer was being tossed to-and-fro and had retreated into the backseat. He held the backpack full of wallets and other goodies picked at the air show over his head. As if that would help. Trip had a lucky shot that landed on the trunk, immediately behind Gomer. Gomer was now covered from head-to-toe in white powder.

Bomber eased his Stearman wingtip down so Hooker was lying on his side, pressed against the PT-17’s cockpit side. His best view of the target yet, his last sack of flour exploded directly in front of the Caddy. Temporarily blinded by the white powder cloud, Rufus veered off the road and clipped a road sign. Bomber and Hooker were out of ammunition. It was now up to Gus and Trip.

Trip had only one sack of flour left. Gus pulled the old biplane into a tight turn and came around to follow the escaping carnies for one final pass. The roar of the engine, rush of the wind quickened Trip’s pulse. Communication between the two cockpits was next to nothing. Intercom communication might have been possible if Trip had a leather helmet with imbedded radio gear. In the haste of getting airborne, that was an overlooked detail. Hand signals and sensing the moment would have to do.

The last sack of flour ready to tumble over the side of the fuselage, Trip saw the red Caddy directly in front of him. Gus rocked the wings left/right as if waving to adoring spectators on the ground below. Trip felt it. That was his signal. He eased the sack of flour over the cockpit edge and released it.

Gus banked and peeled off the target. Over his shoulder, Trip saw a puff of white. The flour exploded on the hood of the Caddy. Bull’s eye! Windshield covered, totally obstructing Rufus’s view of the road, Rufus answered the question–
how stupid do you think I am?
He turned on the windshield wipers. If that weren’t bad enough, he hit the windshield washer sprayer. Paste. Nothing but white, gooey paste.

The red Caddy hit the ditch, went airborne, and ripped out a section of barbed wire fence that surrounded a pasture. A few startled cows trotted away as the red Caddy plowed to a stop.

Gus banked the plane toward the country road. Trip was out of his safety harness by the time the plane braked to a stop on the narrow road. He quickly ditched his parachute and ran toward the disabled red Caddy.

Gomer was buried in the backseat of the convertible, scrunched on the floor. Dazed. Rufus had grabbed the cash-laden duffel bag and had joined the startled cows in running across the pasture. To his chagrin, the startled cows had disturbed the mid-afternoon nap of a large, black bull. Rufus reversed field like a cornerback who had intercepted a pass in the closing seconds of the Super Bowl. He returned to the safety of the red Caddy.

Trip was now stranded, halfway between the red Caddy and the black bull.
Which way? Red? Black? Caddy? Bull?
The circumstances made the decision for him. He was closer to the bull than the safety of the Caddy. He’d never make it.
Where’s Flossie? No rubber barrel to jump into?

He only had one choice. It was as though time stood still.

☁ ☁ ☁

2:45 p.m.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Time was not standing still in the Sheriff’s office.

“Sheriff, ‘bout time,” Robinson announced as he picked up his briefcase.

Sheriff Brown offered his hand to help Gerty to her feet. Accepting his assistance, Gerty looked at the wall clock and sighed, “Thanks, Frank.”

Walking through the marbled courthouse hallways, heels clicked on the floor, echoed off the arched ceilings. The condemned on their way to the gallows don’t walk any slower. Click, click. Tick, tock. The Sheriff opened the oversized oak door. It creaked. The sounds were amplified to the condemned. As Gerty exited the subdued shadows of the sterile courthouse, she entered the bright sunshine of a day that belied her mood. It was like leaving a funeral home on a weekday. The bereaved are dressed in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and everyone on the streets and sidewalks are in blue jeans and tank tops. Heck, it is Wednesday afternoon. Things are upside-down. Beautiful sunshine. Third worst day in Gerty’s life.

A hush fell over the assembled bidders and hangers-on. Truth be known, most were looky-loos. No one would have the muscle to bid against Robinson. This foreclosure would proceed like all the others. A realtor would bid low. Another realtor would jump into the fray. Then, for the value of the mortgage, the bank would step in to protect its interests. Robinson’s Cleveland bank holding company would own Gerty’s farm in fifteen minutes.

☁ ☁ ☁

“Okay, Ferdinand,” Trip scolded the snot-snorting bull. “I don’t have all day.” He started his bull whisperer routine. The bull’s harem of cows slowly wandered near their lover boy. If cows could talk, say anything other than
moo
, they would probably be saying–
hey everybody, y’all better not miss this
.

Trip was efficient. This Ferdinand wasn’t trained like his rodeo cousins to buck cowboys and put on a show. This bull ate grass, pooped, and made little cows. That’s all he did. All day. Pretty good life. Nobody jumped on his back and tried to survive for eight seconds. In no time at all, this lazy, baby-calf daddy lost interest and strutted back to his shade tree to resume his mid-afternoon nap.

Rufus saw his opening. As Trip was weaving his way back through Ferdinand’s Angus harem, Rufus, duffel bag in tow, broke for it. Trip gave chase. The footrace was short. He tackled Rufus around the ankles. Rufus did a face-first splat, into a green, gooey, slimy meadow muffin. A cow pie.

The duffel bag retrieved, Trip ran across the pasture and back to the temporary county-road runway. As Trip approached the biplane, Gus threw Trip his parachute. There would be no time to land anywhere near the courthouse. Only an airmail delivery would make it in time. Parachute on, Trip strapped in.

As Gus powered the Stearman down the road, Trip saw that Rufus had crawled back to his red Caddy. Now surrounded by a herd of cows and a newly-interested Ferdinand, it was highly unlikely that the carnies would leave the safety of their wrecked convertible.

2:55 p.m. Gus and Trip were airborne.

☁ ☁ ☁

All eyes were frozen on the courthouse clock tower. Tick, tock. Maggie and Dorothy joined Gerty, providing support and comfort. Impassionate, cold, Robinson checked his Rolex.

Bong. Bong. Bong. The bell tower sounded its death knell. It echoed around the town square. It was over. Gerty had lost.

“Three o’clock,” Robinson beamed. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Sheriff Brown avoided eye contact with Gerty as he surveyed the curious gathering. In a voice more bland than a filibustered reading of recipes from a British cookbook, Sheriff Brown read from a prepared legal document, “The appointed hour of three p.m. having arrived, the property described as Parcel 3578, Plat map page 347-“