The Rocketeer (12 page)

Jenny shot Cliff a furious glance and then stormed off. Cliff raced after her. He caught up to her in front of a free-standing section of castle wall and whirled her around. She was fighting back tears.

“Jenny, stop! Just let me explain! Me and Peevy found something that will get us back on our feet!”

She didn’t really care, and tried to pull away. “What do you mean, you found something?”

“It’s an engine! You wear it on your back. It makes you fly like a plane!”

He was hoping that his enthusiasm was infectious, but apparently she’d had her vaccine. “You got me fired so you could tell me about
an engine
!” She yanked away from him and ran off.

Cliff was about to follow her when Fred showed up, followed by two security guards. “Do you know what
closed set
means, pal?” he said, and the guards yanked Cliff by the arms and dragged him away.

And from behind the flat emerged an astounded Neville Sinclair. There was a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and he was holding a copy of
Variety,
but he wasn’t tasting the cigarette or reading the magazine. Instead, he was in absolute shock over what providence had just handed him.

That little twerp had his rocket pack!

Sinclair tossed aside the cigarette and the magazine, and he raced after Cliff.

It was an abortive attempt, for some grips were suddenly in his path, carrying a huge flat. By the time Sinclair managed to maneuver around it, there was no sign of the young man—of whom he had caught only a brief glimpse—or his escorts.

What he did find, however, was the assistant director talking intently with the director. He bolted over to them, grabbed Victor, and said, “Where’s that girl I told you to fire?”

Victor and Fred stared at him in confusion. “I fired her!”

The girl.

She was his only chance. The girl, Jenny, was the guy’s girlfriend. Or perhaps ex-girlfriend.

Muttering a furious curse, he turned and bolted back toward the set. And he arrived just in time to see the girl, with tear-stained face, gathering up her things. Another woman, probably this Jenny’s friend, was standing nearby, looking on sympathetically. They both looked up in amazement as he walked up to them, oozing charm, warmth, and sincerity.

“Hello, I’m Neville Sinclair,” he said unnecessarily. “And you must be . . .”

“Jenny Blake,” she said breathlessly.

He saw her clearly for the first time and he was thrown momentarily off step. She was a stunner. “Er . . . hello,” he managed to say, and then he recovered. “I . . . I’d hate to think I may be responsible for your being dismissed. I’m sorry.”

“It was my fault, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Neville.” He paused, and then said, “Er . . . have you read for the part of the Saxon princess?”

Jenny stood there in a daze until she was prodded rather forcefully in the ribs by Irma. “Why . . . no.”

Realizing that three was definitely a crowd, Irma did a graceful fade from their immediate vicinity, but stayed in Jenny’s line of sight.

Jenny, for her part, couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d gone from desolation to ecstasy in a matter of seconds. The abrupt swing was dizzying. She saw now that Irma was frantically mouthing the words
Neville Sinclair,
and Jenny felt compelled to rise to the moment. She quietly maintained her composure as Sinclair said, “Well, I’ll see that you do. I think you’d be marvelous.”

Behind Sinclair, Irma was becoming completely unglued, egging Jenny on. For Jenny, it was as if she were vicariously letting out the frantic young woman who was going berserk in her own head. Irma’s theatrics allowed Jenny to keep a poker face as she said, “Mr. Sinclair . . .”

He took a step closer toward her, still not releasing his grip on her hand. “Ah-ah. Neville. Perhaps we could talk about the part over dinner.”

Inna’s eyes bugged out, and she mimed a scream. Jenny didn’t even blink.

“I have a regular table at the South Seas Club,” he continued. “Unless you’re bored with the South Seas—”

“No, no.”
And I’ve only been asking Cliff to take me there since forever, and he just complains about the money, and . . .

Sinclair was puzzled. Was she refusing? “No?”

Irma was coming out of her skin, mouthing
Yes! Yes!

“I mean, of course,” said Jenny. “I’d love to, Mr. Sin—” And on his look she immediately corrected herself. “Neville.”

Irma went berserk, miming a heart attack. Sinclair somehow became aware that something was going on behind him, but when he glanced back, he saw Irma, in the acting performance of her life, fully composed and giving him a warm smile.

“Well . . . tonight, then,” he said. The moment he was out of earshot, Irma grabbed Jenny’s arm so hard, it felt like it would break off.

“Oh, honey, the South Seas Club! With Neville Sinclair!” And through Irma’s bubbling, all Jenny could feel somehow was that she was doing something terribly, terribly wrong.

Clark Gable walked slowly along, mumbling, “I
don’t
give a damn. I don’t
give
a damn. I don’t give
a
damn,” when another actor dressed in similar dashing Civil War garb and playing dashing Stuart Tarleton in the same film Gable was shooting, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Clark. They want you back on the set.”

“Oh. Thank you, George.”

And at that moment, an angry Cliff Secord, propelled by the two guards, rounded a corner and slammed directly into the actor named George. They went down in a tumble of arms and legs, and Cliff yelped in protest. Gable stood there, shaking his head.

One of the guards grabbed Cliff firmly by the back of the neck. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gable, Mr. Reeves . . . we’ll get rid of him.”

“See that you do!” said Gable, helping the other actor to his feet. “You okay, George?” George nodded, dusting himself off and checking the costume for damage.

“I was leaving anyway, you chowderheads!” yelled Cliff as he was dragged away.

Gable glanced down at the ground and, stooping, picked up a garishly colored magazine. “Look what that fool dropped.”

“Actually, it’s mine,” said George, somewhat embarrassed.

Gable looked at him skeptically and then down at the magazine he was holding. “Action Comics number one? Comic books, George? At your age?”

“Well, it’s a way to pass time between takes,” said George.

Gable flipped through it. “Superman?”

“He’s superstrong. And he flies. And he’s named Clark.”

“Flying men in costumes,” said Gable, shaking his head and giving it back to George. “Silliest thing I ever heard of.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said George Reeves.

P
lanes soared overhead as the spectators for the latest edition of Bigelow’s Air Circus clapped and cheered and roared their approval.

Peevy was annoyed to see reporters and newsreels recording the action and was mentally kicking himself. They were there because he’d been enough of a chowderhead to anticipate that the previous day’s flight of the GeeBee would be a smashing success, and he contacted them all the previous week so that there would be coverage of the racer’s public debut. Then, in all the excitement of the previous day, he’d forgotten to call them back and tell them there would be no GeeBee appearance after all. So here they were, and all they were going to be covering was business as usual—or even worse, Cliff in that godawful clown outfit. Cliff was going to kill him for this.

Except at the moment it was all moot, because Cliff had still not shown up—a fact that was not lost on Bigelow, who stormed over to Peevy and said, chewing furiously on his cigar, “What’s wrong with that kid? I told him nine o’clock!”

“He’ll be here,” said Peevy calmly. Privately, he wouldn’t have blamed the kid if he were somewhere over Hawaii about now.

Bigelow, as he did so often and so annoyingly, waved a cigar in Peevy’s face for emphasis and said, “If he ain’t in the air in five minutes, the deal’s off—and you boys can clear out your hangar!”

Now, Peevy had heard such threats before, but this time Bigelow sounded like he meant it. He stalked off and Peevy checked his watch nervously, already trying to figure out a new location that he and Cliff might be able to use.

And nearby, within earshot of what had just transpired, was Malcolm, holding a bag of programs and wearing a cap that read
PROGRAMS
—5
CENTS
stitched on the crown.

Here was his chance. Cliff was in deep trouble, and here was a chance for Malcolm to bail him out. For Malcolm to make up for screwing things up for Cliff with Jenny the previous night, and also to show the young pilot the kind of support that the pilot had shown him so often in the past.

A plan was already going through his mind as he quickly made his way through the bleachers. He dropped down and ran around behind the bleachers, passing four men who were huddled together, muttering to each other. One of them gave Malcolm a quick glance and then ignored him, as did all the others.

Moments later Eddie Valentine strode toward the four men and said impatiently, “Well?”

Spanish Johnny turned to face the boss. The other three men, Rusty, Jeff, and Mike, stood nearby with their arms folded. Spanish Johnny had been with Eddie the longest and generally served as the spokesman, especially when not great news was about to be delivered. “I know what Wilmer told Sinclair’s goon, but the rocket ain’t in Hangar Three,” said Johnny with certainty.

“There was an old plane all right,” Rusty put in, “but the only thing in it was this.”

He handed Eddie a photo of a stunning black-haired woman. On it was an inscription that read, “With love from Your Lady Luck, Jenny,” and a heart with an arrow through it surrounded it.

Eddie nodded appreciatively. “Nice.” Then he was all business again. “But that’s
it
?”

“We searched the place from hell to breakfast,” said Johnny.

“So start over!” Eddie was as angry as they’d ever seen him. “Check every building, every shed, every peanut wagon. And keep your eyes peeled for this dame. Maybe she knows the guy who found our package.”

“Okay, Mr. Valentine,” said Spanish Johnny. “Let’s go, boys.”

The boys moved off, and Eddie was left there feeling frustrated and angry. Wilmer had given Sinclair’s goon the information they needed . . . except maybe he hadn’t. And maybe Wilmer had been lying through his teeth, except Sinclair’s pet ape had killed him. That still had Eddie burning. Eddie was sure that Wilmer would never have rolled over on him. And even if he had suspected Wilmer, it was up to him to order the hit. Not Sinclair. The guy was getting on his nerves more and more, and sooner or later he was going to have it out with him. And the results might not be what Mr. High-and-Mighty Neville Sinclair expected.

Cliff pulled up to Hangar Three on his motorcycle and hopped off in time to see Peevy running toward him as if his shoes were on fire. Peevy grabbed him by the arm and said, “Bigelow’s been spittin’ nails! Where you been?”

“I had to see Jenny!” said Cliff, chomping furiously on a wad of gum. “Give me a second to get into that stupid clown suit, and I’ll—”

And at that moment he was interrupted by a cheer that erupted from the stands, and the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system, “Hold on to your hats, folks! Here comes Fearless Freep, aviator extraordinaire—ready to dazzle you with an exhibition of razor-sharp flying!”

And high overhead, waving and dipping precariously, soared the Standard. The crowd laughed with delight.

Running in the direction of the crowd, Peevy and Cliff’s gazes were locked on the biplane. For an instant, as if doubting his senses, Peevy took a look to his left to confirm that Cliff was indeed on the ground next to him and had not miraculously mastered the feat of being in two places simultaneously. Then he looked back up and bellowed, “Who the hell’s in
Miss Mabel
?!”

And from nearby, a high-pitched female voice called out, “Programs! Get your programs!”

The heads of Cliff and Peevy whipped around, and they saw, to their horror, Millie’s daughter, Patsy, lugging Malcolm’s heavy bag while wearing his cap, which was hanging over her ears. Clearly having the time of her life, she caught the two men staring at her and waved cheerily.

In the Standard, Malcolm, wearing a clown suit and red rubber nose, gasped in sheer terror.

It was not what he had expected at all. He had been so sure for so long that all he needed was a chance. A chance to get back up there, get the stick in his hands, get to show that he still had what it took. That the best years of his life weren’t behind him.

Now, with the ground far below him, feeling naked and helpless and every inch the buffoon that he was decked out as. Malcolm came to the heart-stopping, soul-rending realization that he simply didn’t have what it took anymore. He felt vulnerable and aware of the thinness of the string by which his existence was hanging, and he knew at that moment with utter and certain clarity that the best years of his life were indeed behind him.

The problem was that at the moment the way he was white-knuckling the stick and his blood was pounding through him in sheer panic, it didn’t look like there would be too many years of his life ahead of him. Or, for that matter, too many minutes.