Wind Raker - Book IV of The Order of the Air (9 page)

“Nobody can do that,” Radke said. “And besides, the land records prove that there were no missionary groups on this property. What more could any reasonable person want?”

“The records don’t show everything,” Jerry answered. “Especially in a colonial setting.”

Radke looked doubtful, but said nothing, which Jerry decided to take as acceptance of the point. He had discovered that Radke liked to argue, and rather enjoyed it himself. But not every minute.

“I have to find a place to stay,” he said, after a moment. He’d kept his voice carefully casual, but Radke gave him a sharp glance.

“Yes, I can see that it might become awkward to go on staying with the Pattons. As charming as Mrs. Patton is.”

“I’d like to be able to come and go without disturbing them,” Jerry said. Radke nodded, the lines at the corners of his eyes tightening toward laughter, but said nothing. He’s going to make me ask, Jerry thought, and couldn’t help smiling himself. It had been far too long since he’d felt like this, the delicious dance of offer and deniability, and he never minded making the first move. “I was thinking of getting a room here, but Mrs. Patton suggested I rent a cottage — she knows of one that might work. I was wondering if you’d be willing to show me your room? So I could compare my options.”

Radke nodded gravely. “I would be delighted to show you my — room.”

They rode the elevator to the fourth floor in silence, two respectable and mostly sober academics careful to leave a solid six inches between their shoulders as they stood side by side in the narrow car. The elevator operator wished them a cheerful good night, and Radke led the way down the hall and around a corner. He unlocked the door in silence, and beckoned Jerry in.

It was small and plain, with louvered shutters on the windows and a fan that Radke switched on along with the lights, but Jerry’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the iron-framed bed with its celadon-green coverlet.

“Do you speak German?” Radke asked, in that language. “The walls are thin, and it’s better to be discreet.”

Jerry took a breath, shifting mental gears, and dredged up the vocabulary to answer in kind. “Yes. Though I’ve never found keeping quiet to be such a hardship.”

“We’ll see about that,” Radke said, and grasped his tie to pull him in for a thorough kiss.

They ended up sprawled sideways across the foot of the bed, just their clothes undone as though they were students, still, rather than grown men. Jerry couldn’t tell if it had been excitement or tact, or a mixture of both, but he was glad not to have had to deal with his leg just yet. Radke had managed to shed shirt and undershirt, lying with his head on Jerry’s shoulder, ribs still heaving in the aftermath of climax, and Jerry cupped the back of his head, the red-blond curls springy under his hand. Radke shifted with an appreciative murmur, and Jerry went on combing his fingers idly through the other’s hair, feeling the sweat drying on his own skin.

“Perhaps a cottage,” Radke said sleepily, his breath stirring the hair on Jerry’s chest. “It would be more private.”

“We were quiet enough,” Jerry said, unable to resist, and felt Radke laugh.

“Maybe I’d like to hear you make some noise.”

“It’s like that, is it?” Jerry said softly, a thrill shooting through him, and Radke lifted his head.

“Do you dislike the idea?”

Jerry shook his head. “I don’t mind being pushed some.” And that was as far as he was prepared to go tonight, in this moment, but it was enough.

It was close to midnight by the time he crept down the stairs and tipped the doorman to summon a taxi. At least he had a key to the Pattons’ house, but he felt guiltily certain he would wake them stumbling in smelling of rum and tobacco and hopefully not too much of sex, and then he would have to brazen it out at the breakfast table with George disapproving and Bea amused. He tipped his head back against the seat as the taxi climbed the dark hills, the lights of Honolulu falling away behind them. Tomorrow was Friday; he would talk to Bea over the weekend about the cottage her friend was trying to rent.

The taxi slowed as they came around the last curve, the lights sweeping over the white Packard in the driveway. Jerry handed the driver his fare and the tip and began to lever himself out, only to stop as he saw the tall figure standing by the car. He finished hauling himself out, and saw the clenched fists open and George’s face relax as he recognized the new arrival.

“Ballard! You’re home late.”

“I’m afraid so.”

The taxi pulled away, leaving them in the light from the porch, flickering as enormous moths battered themselves against its glass. George came around the back of the Packard, his gait just a fraction unsteady. He was drunk, Jerry realized, a long way from incapable, but still drunk enough to make manhandling that car up the mountain roads a dangerous proposition.

“Honolulu’s a good place for it,” George said. “Hell of a party town.”

There was a bitter note to his voice, but it was gone so quickly Jerry could almost think he’d imagined it.

“Don’t worry about waking my wife,” George went on, climbing the steps to the porch with a heavy tread. “Either she’s up or — she isn’t.”

Jerry made a non-committal noise. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in any argument between his hosts. George got the door open with a minimum of fumbling and flicked on a light in the hall.

“Did you find a good party?”

“I had dinner with Dr. Radke,” Jerry said, cautiously, and George grinned.

“I won’t ask where you went after that.”

Jerry smiled, hoping he looked worldly rather than nervous. He didn’t need to rouse Colonel Patton’s suspicions.

“Say, there was — yeah, here it is. You got a telegram.” George retrieved the Western Union envelope from among a group of Polynesian carvings and a chipped conch shell. “Here you go.”

Jerry took it, frowning, and tore open the flap. He held the telegram in the circle of lamplight, his eyebrows rising further as he read.

Job in Honolulu. Arriving June 15 on
Matsonia
. Can you find us place to stay? Reply ℅ Odlum.

Care of Floyd Odlum? Jerry blinked at the type-written message, sure for a moment that he’d misread it. But, no, it definitely said Odlum. That must mean the job was for Consolidated, though the last he’d heard, Al had been talking about some extra work for Henry Kershaw. Kershaw and Odlum were personal friends but business rivals — but presumably Al knew what she was doing.

“Everything all right?” George asked, and Jerry shook himself.

“Yes, sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you. It turns out some friends of mine have taken a job that’s bringing them to Honolulu, and they’ve asked me to look for a house for them.” It would have to be a house, four adults plus Dora, and he couldn’t help thinking about Bea’s suggestion. “Mrs. Patton said something about your having a friend who had a place she was trying to rent?”

“Yeah, I think one of Bea’s friends still has a house here — they weren’t able to sell it when they were posted back to the States. It’s pretty big, though.”

“Maybe I’ll share with them,” Jerry said. “And with Dr. Radke, if there’s room. I can’t keep imposing on your hospitality like this.”

“It’s too bad to spoil your fun,” George said, with a wink, “but they’re your friends. Leave it to Bea, Ballard, she’ll turn up something.”

“Thanks.” Jerry leaned on his cane, the drink and the unaccustomed exertion rolling over him like a wave. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to hit the hay.”

“Of course.” George nodded toward Jerry’s wooden leg. “Need a hand with anything?”

His tone was utterly matter-of-fact — though of course he must have seen plenty of men with missing limbs over the course of his career, and probably had some idea of the complicated logistics involved. Jerry blinked, unexpectedly touched by the offer. “Thanks,” he said, and hoped George heard that he meant it. “I think I can manage.”

George nodded again. “Good night, then, Ballard. Don’t let Bea bully you about the cottage.”

“I appreciate her help,” Jerry said. “Good night.”

He let himself into the guest bedroom, moving as quietly as he could. He’d barely seen the Patton children, but he knew they were nearby, and they didn’t deserve to be woken up at this hour on a school night. He washed and undressed with careful haste, then set his crutches within reach and freed himself from his leg to tend to the stump that wagged ridiculously below his right knee. The extra walking over rough ground had left some new rubbed patches, both on the stump itself and where the straps held the leg in place, and he treated them with his usual ointment. He’d replace the moleskin pad in the socket in the morning, but all in all he was in better shape than he’d feared he might be. He could certainly handle an urban dig in Egypt. Al would be pleased for him, he thought, and switched off the light.

"L
ot number 8," the auctioneer said. "A cathedral radio. It works good. This is a real nice set. Bidding starts at four dollars." It was a sad, small crowd on the lawn, ten or twelve people, bargain hunters and the woman who had the second hand shop. It was a hot day for this early in the summer. Maybe that's why there weren't more people here. Mitch leaned against Alma's truck parked on the street in front of the little house, watching the auction.

"Four dollars," Maude McGee, the lady with the second hand shop, said.

"Four fifty," said a man in the crowd. Bidding went on up to six dollars and then stalled.

"Six dollars it is," the auctioneer said. He shook his head as if he were disappointed. That was the nicest thing in the bunch, and it hadn't gone for much, Mitch thought. The auctioneer picked up the next box, pulling out a few things. "Lionel train set," he said. "Two engines, some cars and track. Also a set of Tinkertoys, a stuffed bear and duck, and a Shirley Temple doll." He pulled out the doll and held her up. Her hair was kind of wild but she had her original pink dress even if she had no shoes. "Real nice doll. The bidding starts at fifty cents."

"Fifty cents," Mitch said.

Maude McGee already had her hand raised, but she turned around and saw Mitch, then put her hand down. Nobody else said a word.

"Mrs. McGee, don't you have a bid?" the auctioneer said to her.

She shook her head.

"Sold for fifty cents," the auctioneer said. He picked up the next box. "Boys clothes," he said, lifting out a winter coat. "Got some good wear left in them. Pants, coats, shirts." He held up a little cotton dress. "Some baby clothes in here too. Starting bid is fifty cents." He looked at Mrs. McGee.

She glanced over her shoulder at Mitch leaning on the truck.

"Fifty cents," he said.

"I have fifty cents," the auctioneer said. "Do I have sixty-five? Somebody bid me sixty-five on this lot of children's clothes. They're in good shape, ladies and gentlemen. Lots of wear in them still."

Nobody spoke. Mrs. McGee, who sold stuff like this every day in her second hand shop, looked like her mouth was glued shut.

"Fifty cents, going for fifty cents," the auctioneer said. "Gone." He pulled up the next lot. "Men's clothes," he said. "Got a suit and a couple of ties here. Starting at one dollar, ladies and gentlemen."

Mitch was silent. He couldn't afford to bid on everything, and Joey's clothes wouldn't do the kids any good.

"One dollar," Mrs. McGee said.

"Dollar fifty," said Howie Mills who worked at the train station.

"Two dollars," Mrs. McGee said keenly. That suit by itself was worth three or four. She bought the lot in the end for three twenty five.

The auctioneer smiled. He pulled up the next box. "Lot number 12," he said. "Ladies' dresser set. Got a silver plate comb and brush here, powder box and picture frame." He held each piece up. The picture frame held a sepia picture of a plain woman with her hair up in a bun holding a fat and unprepossessing infant, staring at its face as though it were holy writ.

"Silver plate?" a man in the crowd asked.

The auctioneer turned the brush over. "It says Oneida silver plate," he confirmed. "It's a nice set, Bob. Starting at three dollars."

"Three dollars," Mitch said.

Nobody said another word.

"Bob?" asked the auctioneer.

"Nah." The man shook his head, spitting tobacco juice on the ground. "Don't reckon so."

Silence reigned.

"Gone for three dollars," the auctioneer said.

There were a few more lots he bid on — a box of books with a battered copy of The Wizard of Oz and The Women's Study Bible with notes and markers in it, some blankets and homemade quilts, When it was done, Mitch picked up his lots, lifting each box carefully into the bed of the Ford. Mrs. McGee stopped by him. "How're you doing?"

He put the box down, Shirley Temple's legs sticking out between train tracks, and tipped his hat. "Pretty good, how about you?"

"I'm doing all right now," she said with a smile. "You give everybody my best, Stasi and the children too."

"I'll be sure to.” Mitch stopped, looking for the words. "You know, I've never been prouder that I live in this town."

She put her gloved hand on his arm. "As if anybody would bid against you once they knew you were bidding for the children! Why if anybody did, I'd swat them over the head with my purse!"

And that was a picture, Maude laying about with her purse, making sure every lot he bid on went at the starting price. Though she'd done as much with her eyes. Maude's glare could melt glass.

"It's a good thing the judge said they could stay with you," she said. "I saw him at church on Sunday and told him so. I said it may be that Mrs. Sorley is a little eccentric, but she has a heart of gold. And all right, maybe she's got red knickers and she's showed them to the whole town, but they were practically married already. I mean, you wouldn't do that kind of dancing except with your husband, but it was Saturday and they were married on Tuesday! Just nobody knew they were engaged at the time. So it was all right. And good Lord that woman can bake."