The Rocketeer (19 page)

“Would you step aside, please?” He waved at her to move.

Surprised, the actress moved to one side as flashbulbs exploded all around, photographing the cement slab for posterity. And Bette Davis shrugged, bowed to the inevitable, bent down with a pencil she took off one of the reporters, and scribbled, “The Rocketeer” into the wet cement.

There was far more than the wine that was intoxicating to Jenny as she sat across the table from Neville Sinclair. It was the people, it was the atmosphere, it was his presence . . . everything combined to give her a kind of light-headed feeling.

“It’s all so . . . elegant,” she whispered.

“You make it so,” he said.

“It must be the dress.” She leaned forward and whispered in a confidential tone, “I borrowed it from a friend in wardrobe. She tells me Marlene Dietrich wore this in
Desire”

“She may have worn it, but it was made for you.”

She basked in the glow of the compliment. Then she saw the way he was looking at her, and her conscience began to nag. “I have a confession to make. I’ve never been here before.”

He laughed. “I’d be disappointed if you had.”

“Usually I’m lucky to grab a sandwich at the diner.”

“I know what you mean . . . I used to live on bologna on rye.” He was amazed that he was actually saying this. It was the truth, something he rarely if ever told. “You know what my first role in a movie was?”

“What?”

“I played a dead body on a battlefield.”

She was astounded. “You were an extra?”

He smiled at her reaction. It was hard for him to imagine it himself. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I’ll tell you what—let’s close our eyes and imagine we’re in a diner having a sandwich.”

She was taking in his gaze, the atmosphere, everything. “I don’t want to close my eyes.”

He raised his glass. “To you . . . and the extraordinary way your face catches the light.”

Jenny felt as if she were melting through the floor as she sipped the champagne. Sinclair couldn’t take his eyes off her. “You must let me have this dance,” he said.

She looked around, confused. The band wasn’t onstage. “But . . . there’s no music.”

“Really? I hear music.”

He took her hand, pulling her gently but firmly to her feet. Puzzled and even a little embarrassed, but game as long as she was with Sinclair, Jenny went with him as they walked out onto the vast, empty dance floor. People started to notice them and a hush fell.

He took her in his arms and started to dance. Waiters stopped serving food. Wine ceased to flow. The only noise to be heard was the soft whisper of their shoes on the dance floor.

Up on the balcony, the puzzled follow-spot operator turned on his light. He pinned them in the beam and followed them across the floor.

Backstage, the bandleader noticed the total silence that had enshrouded the South Seas Club, and he peered out from behind the curtains to learn the cause. When he saw what was happening, and who was on the dance floor, he quickly turned and said, “Break time’s over, boys!”

The musicians ditched their cigarettes and straightened their ties. Taking the stage, they all stared at the couple that was moving across the dance floor. Then they glanced at one another and, shrugging, picked up their instruments and settled in to start playing “The Shadow Waltz” from
Gold Diggers of 1933.

Sinclair smiled down at Jenny. “You see? It worked.”

Buoyed by the return of the band, other couples started drifting on the floor, and the whole scene acquired a soft, romantic haze for Jenny. She gazed up at Sinclair as he said, “If you have a dream, Jenny, you must act on it. Dance . . . and the world will follow.”

She laid her head on his chest and became swept away in the dance.

In the alleyway outside, a single rat, foraging for food, was frightened into hiding by the sudden flash and arrival of the Rocketeer, who alighted with such confidence that he felt as if he’d been doing this all his life. He peered around the corner and, seeing no one, removed his helmet and pulled the folded duffel bag from his jacket flap. Seconds later, having stuffed the rocket and helmet into the bag, he sneaked around to the front of the club.

He saw the black ties and evening gowns of the people going in, and glanced down at his own meager clothes. There was no way they were going to let him just waltz in. He had a choice: he could either stop everything and try to find a tuxedo rental place, or he could fall back on plan B. Deciding that the latter course was preferable, he then realized he had to come up with plan B.

The arrival of plan B was announced by the breaking of glass near the service hallway of the South Seas Club. Cliff’s hand snaked in through a hole in the transom window, and he pushed the latch over. He opened the window and dropped inside.

Where the hell am I? he wondered, and then he heard footsteps and ducked into a room to his right as busboys walked right past where he had been.

He only had time to think quickly that the way things were going, the room he was running into now would be filled with gangsters or feds or someone else who wanted to pump him full of holes. But for once luck was with him. He found himself in the middle of a laundry room, filled with washing machines, sinks, and—lo and behold—a rack of waiter uniforms. There were no windows, but there was a laundry chute, beneath which was situated two large sacks of dirty laundry.

Cliff grabbed an empty sack off the shelf, shoved the duffel back into it, and added it to the two sacks on the floor. He made a mental note that it was the sack on the right—the last thing he needed was to lose track of where he’d hidden the rocket pack. And then, having executed plan B brilliantly, he proceeded with plan C, and reached for one of the waiter uniforms . . .

Jenny and Sinclair moved back to their table amid a great deal of warm applause that was, by and large, for them. Sinclair put up a hand in appreciation and Jenny felt herself flushing slightly with embarrassment. Embarrassment and something else . . .

“Was it something I said?” asked Sinclair, noticing her abrupt change in mood.

“It’s nothing,” she sighed.

“Jenny, I know that look all too well,” he said firmly, and made it clear that he wasn’t going to be satisfied with anything less than coming clean. “Is it your boyfriend? Beautiful girls always have boyfriends.”

“I’m sorry, Neville. It’s just that Cliff and I talked about coming here so often . . . and now that I’m here . . .”

In response, he checked his watch and said, “We can still make dinner at the Brown Derby.”

At that they laughed, and Jenny was grateful for the good humor with which Sinclair was taking all her confessions and problems. Only a supremely confident man could react that way. Why, with Cliff, all you had to do was mention another man, and he’d go off like a rocket.

“Tell me about him,” said Sinclair. “At least give me a chance to know my competition.”

Jenny studied Sinclair closely, trying to discern how serious he was being. Competition? Was Sinclair really that interested in her that he felt he was fighting for her affection? Trying to sort it out in her mind, she said slowly, “Well . . . he’s a little rough around the edges. He can be pretty thoughtless sometimes . . . then he’ll turn around and be the sweetest guy in the world.”

She held up her delicate wrist, and from it was dangling a charm bracelet. She picked out a tiny silver orange. “He gave me this little orange when we met. My family has a small ranch, and Cliff came through town dusting the groves. Dad was broke, but Cliff helped us out anyway. He gave me this little pilot,” she continued, holding up another one, “when I complained he wasn’t around enough.”

“He’s a flyer?” asked Sinclair, wide-eyed and apparently very interested.

She nodded and searched for a small silver plane on her bracelet. “He flies a racing plane like this one. At least he did until yesterday. There was an accident at the airfield. Cliff was almost killed.”

It had been difficult enough for Jenny to put him out of her mind when she wasn’t talking about him. When she was talking about him, she began to realize with dread how much she missed him. Missed him! Seated across the table from Neville Sinclair, at the most glamorous restaurant in Hollywood, and all she could think about was that pilot!

Sinclair, in the meantime, was studying the miniature GeeBee with great intensity. “Really!” he said. “What happened?”

Suddenly an empty bowl was placed in front of Sinclair with such force that it shook the table. He looked up and said, “We haven’t ordered anything!”

“Yes sir,” said the waiter in a nasal voice. “One of your fans sent the soup over.”

Another empty bowl came down in front of Jenny, and her eyes widened as she saw a piece of paper in it that read,
Meet me by the big fish. Now!

She looked up, unable to believe her eyes. It was Cliff, dressed in an ill-fitting waiter’s outfit, motioning toward a large sculpted dolphin surrounded by thick foliage.

Jenny drew her hand away from Sinclair as if he’d been prodding her with a hot poker. Cliff ladled hot soup into Jenny’s bowl, covering the note.

“Go on,” said Sinclair, deciding to ignore what was clearly some sort of demented joke on the part of Eddie Valentine. “You were saying . . . ?” When Jenny stared at him blankly, he prompted her. “The accident on the airfield?”

She shot Cliff a furious look. He was motioning vigorously toward the dolphin as he filled Sinclair’s bowl. Her blood began to boil hotter than the soup. He’d been spying on her! She was actually feeling guilty over ditching the little creep, and he’d followed her! Seething, her entire demeanor changed and she said lightly, “It’s kind of silly when you stop to think about it. He missed the airstrip altogether. Hit the only tree for miles around. It’s surprising the
real
pilots let him use the runway!”

Cliff clenched his teeth and looked in anguish at Jenny, moving his head so frantically in the direction of the dolphin that he looked palsied.

Sinclair, oblivious, chuckled. “Sorry to laugh, but I’m feeling better about the competition already.”

Jenny smiled sweetly at him, and Cliff shot Sinclair a look with an eye toward decking him. All the while he continued to place glasses and silverware on the table while insistently looking at Jenny with as much urgency as he could muster.

Sinclair suddenly frowned and stared at Cliff. “Have you worked here long?” There was something vaguely familiar about him . . .

“Oh, yes, sir. I waited on you the last time.”
Two can play at this game, sister,
he thought smugly, and added, “You were with the redhead with the, uh . . .” He cupped his hands under his chest to indicate bounteous female endowments. “Very nice,” he finished.

Sinclair and Jenny exchanged an embarrassed look, and Cliff chortled inwardly. Pure guesswork on his part, but boy, did he nail that Sinclair creep! He looked significantly at Jenny in a way that said,
Now! Come on!
And she looked back at him with equal significance in a way that said,
Drop dead.

“Ah . . . where is he now?” asked Sinclair.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying not to look at Cliff. “He’s probably hatching some harebrained scheme. He’s working on an engine that a man can strap on—”

Cliff’s eyes widened in alarm. He picked up the champagne bottle and began to pour champagne into Jenny’s glass. He missed it by the length of a football field and instead “accidentally” inundated Jenny’s lap with icy champagne. She let out a yell and leapt to her feet, a pair of actions that was mirrored by Sinclair. “You idiot!” he bellowed, as suave as a bison.

“Sorry—I’m sorry!” exclaimed Cliff, who was only sorry that he hadn’t managed to spill some ice cubes as well.

“Get something to clean this up!” Sinclair ordered.

Cliff promptly headed off in a circuitous route toward the dolphin sculpture, and Jenny knew when she was beaten. As Sinclair said in aggravation, “I’m sorry, darling!” Jenny waved him off and said, “It’s all right, Neville. I’ll just go to the ladies’ room. Excuse me.”

She headed off toward the ladies’ lounge and, when she was sure that Sinclair wasn’t watching, doubled back toward the island of foliage around the dolphin. When she was near enough, Cliff’s hand reached out and yanked her in. She landed on top of him, and they both fell to the floor. Cliff yelped from the sudden chill and wetness of her dress against him, and angrily she got to her knees and pushed him away.

“It’s not a fish, it’s a dolphin! That’s a mammal!” she snapped, which wasn’t vaguely important but, for some reason, seemed the perfect symbol of Cliff’s incompetence.

“I’ll tell you what’s fishy!” replied Cliff heatedly. “I saw you dancin’ with that creep and giving him the fish eye, is what’s fishy!”

“Are you out of your mind!” cried Jenny. “What are you doing here?!”

“Will you just listen for a minute?”

“You’re jealous!” She didn’t have to listen to anything. She didn’t have to be an athlete to know what the score was. “You found out I was here with Neville—”

“Jenny!” He took her firmly by the shoulders and practically shouted in her face, “Bigelow’s been murdered!”

She had expected protests, vituperation, accusations . . . anything but this, which came completely out of left field. She blanched and whispered, “Murdered?”

He nodded. “Remember what I told you at the studio?” At that moment he was so grateful for listening to what Jenny had told him earlier about filling her in first when something important happened. It sure saved a lot of explanation later on if things got hinky. “The rocket we found . . . the people looking for it killed Bigelow to get to me, and now they’re after you! They’ve got your picture . . . the one from the GeeBee.”

He could see from her face that she didn’t know if she believed him or not. He couldn’t blame her. It sounded like a movie.

He took a deep breath and said, “Honey . . . get ready for a shock. I’m”—he paused dramatically—“the Rocketeer.”

Her eyes went wide. “The Rock—!” Then her eyebrows knitted together. “Who?!” she said in exasperation.

It was somewhat ego-deflating. Crowds of people shouting his name, and a city singing his praises, and his own girlfriend didn’t know him from dirt! “Haven’t you seen the papers?!”