The White Knight (13 page)

“That would be most helpful, sir.”

“Of course, that war in Europe will be over soon now, so I doubt if we'll be getting any military contracts.”

“What do you mean the war in Europe will be over, Mr. Maddox?”

“Why, now that Hitler's conquered Poland, he's promised to go no farther.”

“He promised to go no farther after he went into the Sudetenland. Don't you remember?”

Maddox's face started to grow red. “I don't think he actually said that.”

“Yes, sir, he did. He actually said that. He also promised not to take Czechoslovakia, but you'll notice that he did. He's going to take it all—all of Europe.”

“Oh, you've become a fanatic about this thing! Your experience in Spain has colored your views. Hitler knows he could never go any farther. He wouldn't dare attack France.”

“That's what everyone says. They all agreed that Hitler would never attack France because he would be afraid of the Russians at his back. Well, Mr. Maddox, you know what happened in August. The Nazis signed a non-aggression treaty with Russia, so now Hitler doesn't have to worry about Russia at his back. There's nothing to stop him from attacking wherever he wants to.”

“He'll never attack France. Poland will be his last conquest. He promised.”

“If you believe that, sir, you are a fool.”

A silence reigned over the table, and Maddox stood up. “You may leave my house and never come back! You are the fool! I'm sorry your father will have to hear about this.”

Luke got to his feet as well. “Well, Loretta,” he said as he pushed his chair in, “I suspect this is the end of our little courtship.”

“It certainly is!”

Luke left the house and went at once to a bar. He drank until he was so drunk he could hardly drive. He was pulled over by a highway patrolman, failed the sobriety test, and was jailed and charged with driving while intoxicated.

As drunk as he was, Luke knew he could not continue living the way he was. By the time his father came to the police station to get him, Luke had sobered up somewhat. But as soon as they were outside, Luke said, “Dad, I need to move on.”

“We can beat this thing, son,” Peter said. “You just had a bad night.”

“No. It's more than that. I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do? Where are you going?”

“I have no idea, Dad.”

That night Luke packed his clothes, and the next morning he said good-bye to his parents. His mother begged him to stay, to try to make things work at the factory, but he knew he would never be happy there. When he left it seemed symbolic of his life that he was driving a wreck of a truck away from a house that was fit for a prince. He did not even look back. He knew he was leaving a life to which he could never return.

CHAPTER TEN

Last Chance

As Luke came out of a fitful sleep, which had been swept by dreadful dreams, he reluctantly opened his eyes. He had to struggle for a time to remember where he was, for he had been in so many small dreary towns during the past months it was impossible for him to keep them all straight. They were all the same somehow, and one of the dreams was that he was living the same day over and over again—one of drunkenness and failure.

Slowly the present came drifting back, and he struggled to sit up in the bed. As he looked around, he remembered that he was in a boardinghouse in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. Broken Bow seemed no different from the other towns where he had drunk himself into a stupor and lost his job. Now the gray light of day had begun to filter through the single window beside his bed, and as he threw his legs over the side, a terrible pain shot through his head. It was as if someone had driven a red-hot ice pick through one temple and straight through his brain. He muttered a cry of pain and sat there, waiting until the pain ebbed. When it was finally bearable, he rubbed his eyes and glanced over at the clock beside the bed. He saw that he had forgotten to wind it and it was stopped at three o'clock. Hurriedly he grabbed his pocket watch from the bedside stand. It took an effort to focus, but he saw with a shock that it was almost ten o'clock.

Ignoring the pain, he got up and had to hold on to the wall for a moment until the nausea and dizziness had passed.
Finally, with trembling hands, he pulled on his clothes and then picked up the pint bottle he had left beside the bed. He stared at the inch or so of amber liquid remaining, and then without another thought, tilted the bottle to his lips and finished it. A shiver ran through him, and with an angry gesture, he tossed the bottle toward the wastebasket. The bottle missed the basket and shattered on the floor.
Won't hurt the decor much,
he thought.

He started for the door, but when he put his hand on the knob, he looked around at the room and thought of his family and the home he'd grown up in—neat and clean and wholesome. The furniture he was looking at now was old and mismatched. The sheets were dirty. Remnants of past meals were scattered throughout the room, and three empty whiskey bottles sat on the dresser.

“I'm glad my parents can't see me like this,” he muttered. He left the room and made his way downstairs, relieved to see that his landlord wasn't in the living room or kitchen. As he drove toward the airfield, where he worked as a mechanic, his head was splitting and his mouth had a foul taste.

It was a sunny, bright day in May, and it occurred to Luke that he had been back from Spain for more than a year now. He didn't notice the flowers or the trees or the fleecy clouds overhead, but rather he was tormented by thinking of the jobs he'd had and lost in the last year. His stint at the family factory was not something he ever wanted to try again. The next one after that hadn't been bad, but he had spent too many evenings drinking, and he was soon fired.

Each subsequent job had been a step down, and as he hurried toward the airfield he remembered being in jail in Missouri. His cell mate, Walter, had once been a member of the state legislature and a successful businessman, but he was nothing more than skin and bones at this stage of his life. Luke remembered how one night, when everyone else was asleep, Walter had begun telling his woes, how he had lost everything—money, family, and position. His voice had
been scratchy like an old record as he had said, “I had honor once but I lost it. You know how you lose honor, Winslow? The rats take it, a little bit at a time. They don't take it all at once, just a tiny nibble and then another. And finally it's all gone.” Then he had begun to cry. “And you never know you're losing it until everything is gone,” he said when he had pulled himself together enough to speak. “Why does a man act like a beast?”

Luke knew he was in the same sorry state Walter had been in, with nothing to live for but the next drink. Luke struggled on until he reached the field and parked outside the hangar. He had not been flying for months. No one would hire a drunk for a pilot, but he had managed to get on the maintenance crew for a small transport company that had six airplanes. He was a good mechanic and, despite drinking constantly, was able to hang on to his job because of his skill.

“Hey, Winslow, Brooks wants to see you.” One of the mechanics was looking at him with what seemed to be pity. He gestured toward the office and shook his head as a warning. “Watch out for him. He's mad as a bear with a sore tail.”

“Thanks, Mack.”

“Watch yourself!”

Luke stepped into the office where Tal Brooks, the owner of the company, was sitting behind the desk. Luke gave the man a cautious look and mumbled, “Sorry to be late, Mr. Brooks.”

Brooks was a tall, lanky man with a shock of black hair. He looked up from his desk, removed the cigarette from the corner of his mouth, and eyed Luke with displeasure. “Well, you finally decided to show up. Sorry you had to have your beauty sleep troubled by such a thing as work. Don't guess you've got that down—hard work.”

“Sorry. I overslept.”

“You're drunk.”

“No, just a bad hangover. I'll be all right.”

Brooks reached into the desk drawer in front of him, pulled
out a box, and opened it. He counted out some bills and tossed them with contempt on the desk. “There's your pay up to today. You're fired, Winslow.”

For an instant Luke tried to regain at least a remnant of his pride. He wanted to take the money and shove it into the man's face, but he did not. He remembered the empty whiskey bottle and knew he had to have a drink. If he hated anything in the world it was begging, but he forced himself to say, “Just give me one more chance. I won't let you down.”

“That's what you said last time. Take your money and get out. I told you when I hired you I've never hired a drunk that lasted more than a month, and I guess I never will.”

“Look, Mr. Brooks, just give me one more chance. I know I drink too much, but—”

“You don't
drink too much,
” Brooks said hoarsely. “You're a drunk. One drink would be too much. Now get out and don't ever give my name as a reference.”

Luke picked up the money and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He made his way to the locker where he had a few tools and packed them into a paper bag. As he started toward his truck, he saw the other mechanics glancing at him furtively. He was used to their pity—or their disgust—but he'd reached the point where he had no pride left.

He stood uncertainly and tried to decide which way to go. He was so befuddled he could not think straight.

“Gotta find another job,” he muttered. But no ideas came to him. He finally said, “I'll get something to drink first. Then I'll decide.”

He tossed his bag into the truck and drove to the liquor store, but even as he did, he knew he was kidding himself. He remembered something that Streak had told him once.
“Kill other people if you want to, Luke, but don't ever kill yourself.”

He entered the liquor store and bought two pints of the cheapest vodka available.

“Have a good day,” the clerk called as he started to leave.

Luke turned and curses rose to his lips. Couldn't the man see that he wasn't going to have a good day? Luke wanted to shout at the top of his lungs,
Don't you know you're selling poison to people, man, that you're murdering folks right and left and then you tell them to have a good day?

But he whirled and left the store, and instead of going to look for a job, he went back to his room. He sat down on the bed, opened one of the bottles, and drank straight from it. The liquor hit him hard, and he sat there staring at the picture on the wall. It depicted two children about to step into an enormous cavity in the ground, but behind them was a bright, mighty angel with outstretched wings who was coming to their rescue. Luke had seen the picture many times, but now it angered him. “Where's my angel?” he muttered and drank again, bitterness rising in him like a flood.

He sat there getting drunk as quickly as possible, and at one point he picked up the last letter he had received from his mother.
God is waiting for you, son,
he read,
and one day you'll find Him.
Luke wadded up the letter and threw it across the room. “Well, God,” he muttered drunkenly, “where are you? Did you lose me? Here I am!” His voice rose. “You see what a fine man I've become?” He took another drink, then flung himself on his back as the room began to swim and the bed moved underneath him. His last thought before he passed into a drunken stupor was of Melosa as she had been the last time he'd seen her alive.

****

A rousing knock on the door brought Luke out of his chair. He had been sitting there in his underwear trying to get up enough energy to go out and look for a job. It had been almost a week since he had been fired, and he had halfheartedly tried on a couple of occasions, but there was not much work available in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. He had sold his truck, gambled away most of what he'd gotten for it, and spent most of his remaining cash on a bottle of whiskey.

The knock rattled the door again, and Luke shouted, “All right, I'm coming.” He opened the door and found his landlord standing there. Ethan Krowder was a burly man with tattoos on his arms left over from his navy days. He was beetle-browed and always surly, and now the anger flared in his eyes. “Get out of here, Winslow! I ain't runnin' a charity here.”

“Wait a minute, Krowder. I'll get the money. Just give me a few more days.”

“You're a week behind already. I need the room. You need help to leave?”

Luke stared at the ex-sailor hard and shook his head. “No, I'll get out.”

“See to it you do. You've got fifteen minutes. You're nothing but a bum, Winslow.”

Luke understood that Krowder wouldn't need much of an excuse to pound him with his massive fists. Instead of replying, Luke began throwing his few belongings into a suitcase. It didn't take long. As he passed Krowder in the doorway, Luke said, “I'll send you the rent I owe you.”

Krowder laughed harshly. “Yeah, sure you will. Now get out of here and go bum off somebody else.” He slammed the door with a curse and warned him not to come back.

Luke left the boardinghouse and, as usual, needed a drink, but he had less than a dollar in change in his pocket. A thought came to him, and he turned to go to the post office. His mother had sent him money on several occasions, and he hurried down in hopes of finding a letter from her. But when he asked for his mail, there was only one postcard.

“Is that all there is?”

“That's all,” the clerk said.

Bitterly Luke turned and walked outside before he even looked at the card. He needed a drink badly, and he knew he would wind up drinking cheap wine. He stopped and read the postcard. He saw the signature was from Streak Garrison, and he scanned the lines:
Got a transport business going on
here, partner. Could use another pilot. Not much money in it, but you'd be flying again. Be like old times.