The Rocketeer (17 page)

“Thought you’d never ask. Scram!” He shooed away Sinclair, dropping onto the chair just opposite Jenny.

“I’ve loved all your movies, Mr. Fields,” she said.

“Ah, my dear, I knew we had something in common,” Fields replied. “And there are so many other things we could have in common as well. The night’s still young, after all.”

Overlooking the club from his office window, the club’s owner—Eddie Valentine—peered down below in agitation at the evening’s guests. As he did so, Stevie sat at the desk, phone balanced on his shoulder, mixing a bicarbonate of soda. “Yeah, okay . . . so long,” he finished, and then hung up. Turning toward his boss, he said, “Spanish Johnny. Okay, get this: The license number was registered to an Ambrose Peabody, but when they went to check out the house, there were feds crawling all over it. So instead they went to the airfield to poke around there for info, and there were cops all over the place there! This Peevy guy is taking the law on some chase, I’ll tell ya.”

“So we want this Peevy guy, then?” asked Eddie.

“Maybe not,” said Stevie. “Johnny found some fliers hanging around, and they told him—for a couple of sawbucks—that this Peevy’s thick as fleas with some hotshot pilot named Cliff Secord. Peevy’s an old guy, but Secord’s a young flyboy. He might be this rocket jockey we’re looking for.”

“So where do we find Secord?” said Eddie, getting more and more irritated.

“Johnny’s working on that now. He’s checking on that hash house where the fliers hang out.”

He handed the bicarb to Eddie, who downed it in one gulp. This whole business was getting nastier and nastier, and most of the nastiness seemed to be playing itself out on Eddie’s digestive system. It was at that moment that Sinclair entered, without knocking and without much of an inclination to look even marginally polite. He stood there, glaring at Eddie as Valentine belched loudly and thumped his fist against his chest.

“Having a nice time, Sinclair?” said Valentine sarcastically. “Service all right?”

“Get to the point,” said Sinclair impatiently.

Eddie slapped a newspaper onto the desk and pointed at the headline that was typical of those all over the city. “I got my boys tearing the town apart looking for this Rocket Head,” he snapped, “and you’re out steppin’ with some dame!”

“That ‘dame’ ” said Sinclair with icy calm, “happens to be the Rocketeer’s girlfriend.”

Eddie blinked in surprise, turned in his chair, and stared harder out at the young woman who was, at that moment, fending off the rather aggressive hands of W. C. Fields. “Holy crap!” he said, recognizing her suddenly from the picture his boys had found at the airport. “It’s Lady Luck! Why’d you bring her here?”

“Because time is short,” said Sinclair tightly. “The clock is ticking. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my hands on that rocket.”

It was that attitude that reminded Eddie why he’d wanted to see Sinclair in the first place. “Like having your goon break my man in half?”

“Just covering my bases. That’s an American expression, isn’t it?”

Eddie’s mouth went thin and his eyes narrowed. “If that ape of yours lays a finger on any more of my men without my say-so,” he said angrily, “you’ll wind up kissing fish under some pier. Another American expression.”

If Sinclair was the least bit intimidated, he didn’t show it. “One word from Wilmer to the police,” he said, studying his fingernails, “would have hung us both. Are you too stupid to see that?”

Bristling at the Englishman’s arrogance, Eddie half rose from behind his desk. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, buster.”

“Of course I do,” rejoined Sinclair. “A small-time hood who made the big time by rubbing elbows with stars like me. And catering to our whims.” His smile might have been made of steel. “Don’t ever forget your place in the scheme of things, Eddie.”

He crossed to the door, stopped, and shot off a final warning. “Now, do as you’re told, or I’ll demolish your shabby little empire with a phone call. I want that rocket. Tonight.” He stalked out, leaving Eddie glaring across his desk.

“Boss?” asked Stevie hesitantly. “I promised my girl I’d get his autograph. This a bad time to ask?”

Eddie stewed for a moment, then snatched up the newspaper and hurled it at Stevie.

T
he giant mastiff form of the Bulldog Café sat serenely in the moonlight, warm light from within spilling invitingly through the doors.

Malcolm hurried into the Bulldog, anxiously looking for Cliff and Peevy, for Skeets, for anybody whom he could tell what he had just learned over at the airfield. But he couldn’t get the words out, and instead just stood in the middle of the café, waving his arms, trying to signal that something big had happened. Skeets and Goose, seated at their customary table, watched him with curiosity, and Millie, finally becoming impatient, slapped the counter with her skillet and said, “Out with it already!”

“Where’re Cliff and Peevy?” he demanded. “They gotta hear this too!”

“Hear what?” said Goose in annoyance, anticipating some new war story that Malcolm had just remembered.

Instead, he turned toward Goose with a pasty-faced look on his face that was the same kind of expression and pallor he’d had the day a year earlier when he’d barreled into the Bulldog to tell them about the Hindenburg blowing up in Lakehurst, New Jersey. And Goose knew immediately that whatever it was, it was pretty bad.

“It’s Bigelow,” said Malcolm darkly . . .

The head of the Bulldog Café also happened to be the attic, and Cliff and Peevy were crouched in it now, listening to a radio that was perched on a small table. The announcer was saying, “. . . moments after the daring rescue. The masked hero has yet to step forward and identify himself, but air circus owner Otis Bigelow promises his birdman will return. Until then, all of Los Angeles is buzzing . . .
who
is the Rocketeer?”

Peevy snapped off the radio and turned to his companion. “Cliff, there’s only one way out of this. Call the FBI and give the rocket back!”

“Nix, Peev! The FBI just tore our house in half! They think
we
were shooting at them. They’ll lock us up!”

“But that gorilla tried to kill us,” replied Peevy, having had time to compose himself and get a better handle on what was what. “Whoever these people are, they’re playing for keeps. I’m tellin’ you, somebody’s gonna get hurt!”

There was a pounding on the attic trapdoor beneath their feet. Cliff and Peevy hurried to it, threw the bolt, and lifted it up. Millie and Malcolm were below.

“I just came from the airfield,” said Malcolm. “It’s Bigelow . . .”

Cliff rolled his eyes. What did that blowhard want now? And Peevy said, with a trace of impatience, “What about him?”

“His office is crawling with cops. Somebody tore up the place like they were looking for somethin’.” He took a breath. “They killed him.”

The words flew through the air with the force of a hammer. Cliff rocked back on his heels and sat down, hard. All the blood drained from his face, and he looked at Peevy with pure horror.

All from the rocket pack. It had seemed like a game. Cops and robbers, us versus them. Keep one step ahead of the bad guys and the feds and show how clever you could be. And now Bigelow was dead . . .

Millie sounded small and scared as she said, “Cliff . . . what’s going on?”

With a new conviction in his voice, Cliff said firmly to Peevy, “I’ll make the call.”

Peevy nodded in approval and clapped Cliff on the shoulder.

Cliff and Peevy descended the ladder. The young flier could feel the gaze of Goose and Skeets, who had obviously already heard the news, on him. As Cliff went to the phone and picked up the receiver, Malcolm left the café to head back to the airfield and try to pick up more information.

“Operator? Please connect me with the FBI. Yeah, Los Angeles.”

As he stood there, waiting for the connection, Millie went back behind the counter as if in a fog. Skeets and Goose looked at each other, each silently thinking about stuff they’d said to Bigelow that now they kind of wish they hadn’t. After all, he was obnoxious and uncouth, but hell, he didn’t deserve to die for it. Nobody did.

Cliff was concentrating on the ringing of the phone on the other end, trying to phrase just what exactly he would say when they picked up. So he did not hear the jingling of the bell on the café door indicating that someone else had just entered the Bulldog. At least, he didn’t pay attention at first. But then he heard a set of heavy footfalls and he turned in that direction.

Four guys ambled in, and Cliff knew immediately, with no doubt at all, that they were thugs after the rocket. They wore expensive suits, shined shoes, and had an air of casual violence beneath their smiles.

Were they the ones who killed Bigelow? Cliff couldn’t be sure. But there was no question that they were quite capable of murdering somebody . . . quite possibly, somebody in this café.

At that moment, a voice came on the other end, a gruff voice that said, “Federal Bureau of Investigation, Agent Gorman speaking.” And then there was a pause, clearly waiting for some reply from Cliff.

Cliff licked his lips and said, as casually as he could, “Uh . . . yeah. I’ll be home soon, honey. Love you too.” And he quickly hung up, cutting off the confused Agent Gorman, who was saying, “Huh? Who is this?” before he was disconnected.

Cliff gave the four thugs a bland, pleasant smile and sauntered as best as he could over to the counter. Millie, not quite understanding what was happening, nevertheless knew enough to immediately put a plateful of food in front of him. She got the sense that in front of these men, no wrong moves could be made. And if Cliff was about to sit at the counter, there’d better be some food waiting for him.

Peevy, for his part, sat at the counter next to Skeets and Goose.

“What can I do for you gents?” asked Millie cheerfully.

Spanish Johnny smiled, glancing at his companions, Rusty, Jeff, and Mike. He chuckled inwardly. Oh, yeah, definitely gents. Gentlemen all. With an exaggerated drawl, Johnny said, “We’re looking for a pilot, namea’ Cliff Secord, ma’am. Anybody here know him?”

Millie thanked God above that Malcolm wasn’t there. Malcolm couldn’t lie if his life depended on it, and at that moment somebody’s life might very well depend on it.

“Haven’t seen him around,” said Millie.

“We need a flier for a real special job,” said Rusty. “There’s a lotta lettuce in it. Hate to see the kid miss out.”

No answer.

“Tell you what, we’ll lay out a little finder’s fee,” said Rusty, and held a twenty-dollar bill up to Peevy. “How ’bout it, dad?”

“Yeah,” said Peevy slowly. “Secord? Yeah, I know him. Little guy? Curly hair?”

“Didn’t he moved to Cincinnati?” said Goose.

Spanish Johnny leaned down and put his face an inch from Cliff’s. “Howsa ’bout you, bub? You know this Secord?”

Cliff glared at him and Millie said sharply, “If you boys aren’t going to order, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Johnny turned to Millie, fixing her with a cold stare. “Oh, we’ll order.” He pointed at a rack of pies on the counter. “Those pies look good. They home-made?”

He suddenly seized the rack and sent the pies crashing to the floor. The pilots were immediately on their feet, but before they could make a move, they were gazing down the barrels of the guns that appeared in the gangster’s hands.

“Don’t,” said Rusty with studied calm, “interrupt his meal.”

Johnny sauntered along the counter, running his fingers along it. “Yeah. I like coffee with my pie.”

He grabbed a full carafe and threw it against the wall, spraying glass and hot coffee across all the photos of fliers.

The radio was blaring “Pennies from Heaven,” and Johnny turned toward it in annoyance and said, “It’s funny. I just don’t care for music when I’m digesting.” And he fired two rounds into the radio. There was a burst of static and electricity, and with a sizzle and burst of smoke, the radio went silent.

Becoming more concerned by the second, Peevy said desperately, “I’m tellin’ you, we don’t know where he is!”

Johnny contemptuously wiped his hands on a counter towel, nodding slowly. “Okay, dad,” he said softly. “Maybe we can refresh your memory.”

He nodded to Rusty, who seized Peevy from behind, twisting his arm. Peevy grunted as Rusty dragged him around the counter toward the grill. He forced Peevy’s head down so that it was a foot away from the hot surface and snarled, “Talk, or you get a facial!”

“Drop dead, weasel,” Peevy shot back.

Rusty grabbed Peevy by the back of the neck and shoved his face slowly, inexorably, toward the grill. Beads of sweat trickled off the forehead of the struggling mechanic and dropped to the grill, sizzling and dancing across the surface.

“Leave him alone!” shrieked Millie.

Cliff desperately groped on the counter behind him, and his questing fingers found a ketchup bottle. He grabbed it, about to whip it around like a club, and suddenly Mike’s gun was in his face. Cliff froze as Mike yanked the bottle from Cliff’s fingers. Mike made a
tsk
sound and said scoldingly, “Naughty boy.”

Peevy’s face was inches from the sizzling grill, and Rusty was chortling, “You’re starting to smoke, old-timer.” Within a second he was going to shove the old man’s unprotected skin right onto the surface that was hot enough to fry hamburger.