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[Continuing chapter one]
The weird Jenny that had dusted Casey's head a few minutes ago sat just inside the hangar to which Hogan took him. The pilot was apparently long gone, but a mechanic was crouched by the machine's nose, carefully removing and wiping down the engine's sparking plugs. The engine, revealed in full by the removal of the round cowling, showed itself to be a Gnome as Casey had guessed.
"Morning," Casey said to the mechanic's back. "I have to ask: what the hell is this?"
The mechanic backed away from the exposed engine before standing and turning. He wore aged, grey coveralls whose grease-stains suggested one of Whistler's more abstract paintings, and when he gave Casey the once-over he smiled a smile of recognition that acknowledged shared experience. I think I'm going to like this guy, Casey thought.
"It's exactly what it looks like, friend," the man said. "A Jenny with a Gnome bolted on. Who'd believe it, hey?"
"Not me," Casey said. "And what's with the rudder? This looks like somebody tried to gimmick an Avro."
"You're a quick study," the mechanic said. "That's exactly what they did. This is one of the fake Avro trainers that Hughes had made for Hell's Angels. And now I hear he's not even going to use that footage."
"Oh, shit." The words were out of Casey's mouth before he could think. "Howard Hughes? Please tell me that Howard Hughes isn't involved in this production."
"Okay," said the mechanic. "Howard Hughes isn't involved in this production. Happy now?"
"What the hell does Howard Hughes have to do with anything?" Hogan asked. "You're not exactly endearing yourself to me here, Casey."
Casey raised his hands in supplication. "Sorry. I guess I'm just a bit wrong-footed this morning. Is what I saw out there normal? I've worked on films before, but never face-to-face with actors."
"For Hollywood, this is normal," Hogan said. "Maybe even sedate." He walked over to the mechanic. "Mitch, I'm not at all sure I like this guy. But I'm going to reserve judgment until I see what he can do. Help him get that Tommy over there ready to take up for a quick circuit, will you? I have some things to discuss with Mr. Straebo."
"Sure thing, Mr. Hogan," Mitch said as Hogan left the hangar. The mechanic walked over to Casey. "Glad to meet you, Casey," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Mitch Reid. Say, is Casey your first name or your last? Not that I care." Mitch took Casey's hand in a greasy, gritty grip. When Casey didn't flinch, Mitch flashed a yellow-stained grin and pumped his hand hard, twice. "In case you hadn't guessed it yet, I wasn't joshing about Hughes not running this show. In fact, I think if Hughes was stupid enough to show his face around here, Mr. Straebo would shoot him. Howard Hughes is the last guy you have to worry about meeting here."
"Okay, I'm good and confused now," Casey said. "But if Hughes isn't involved, I can live with being confused. Am I supposed to fly this thing as well?" He nodded toward the Avro-Jenny.
"Nope. This is Mr. Straebo's own bus." Mitch pointed to a group of machines clustered in the gloomy far end of the hangar. "You'll be flying Tommies and Travelaires. An SE-5a if Straebo can close a deal he's working on. And maybe that Bristol in the back." Casey looked in the direction Mitch pointed, and was surprised to see the British fighter, painted in a garish checkerboard pattern, sporting German crosses.
Mitch wiped his hands on a rag and gestured toward the nearest Thomas-Morse Scout. "Want to help me get that Tommy out and ready? That way you'll have a chance to look her over before you have to go up."
"Sure." Casey followed Mitch into the gloom.
"Hey, punk! You plan on fixing that cylinder anytime soon?"
The words, slightly slurred, were spoken by a voice that seemed to Casey to be one he ought to remember. Or was that just the distortion caused by the hangar's echo?
"You know the deal, Telford," Mitch said. "I work on Straebo's bus only when I'm not busy for Mr. Hogan."
"Goddammit," the echoing voice said. Defiant at the start of the word, by the time the final plosive had sputtered out the voice had slid into a whine.
"Wait a minute," Casey said. "Telford? Hal Telford?"
"Christ," Mitch said. "You know this guy?"
"Sort of," Casey said.
A familiar figure was silhouetted in the light cast by an open door at the back of the hangar; as Casey watched, the figure moved—a bit unsteadily—toward them.
"Well I'll be damned," he said as the figure resolved itself. "It's been too long. How are you, Hal?"
"What do you care, pal?"
Telford stopped just short of bumping into them. His focus, though, was all on Mitch. "Look," he said, "I've got to get down to Tijuana and back by Monday morning. The mighty Straebo's orders. Well, I don't trust that shit-box flivver to make it to—even to El Segundo right now. So you'd be doing me a big favor if you'd finish cleaning the plugs and put them back in, then make sure that cylinder's jake and maybe top up the tank—"
"Forget it, Loopy," Mitch said. "I told you: I got work to do. You want me to do your job for you, you ask Mr. Hogan to tell me to do it."
"Shit," Telford said. He said it softly, sadly, as though he'd never really believed that Mitch would say anything other than what he'd said.
Then Telford turned to Casey, as though noticing him for the first time. "Say, pal," he began.
"Don't you remember me, Hal?" Casey tried, and failed, to find any recognition in the dulled, reddened eyes that looked past him more than at him.
"Why the hell should I?" Telford asked. Then he belched—Casey's olfactory was hit with a sour blast of stale beer, bile, and cigarettes—turned and walked back to the weird-looking Jenny, muttering curses to himself.
"You called him 'Loopy'," Casey said.
"Where'd you meet that drunk?" Mitch asked in the same instant.
For a second the two men stared at one another. Then Mitch said, "You first."
"He flew in a U.S. squadron based a couple of miles from mine in 1918," Casey said. "They flew Camels. I met Telford at a binge—okay, at a couple of binges. Some of us were pretty good drinkers, back then. And after the war I met him again back home in Toronto; we were both barnstorming. We ended up in the same circus together, for a few months in the early 'twenties."
"He's still a pretty good drinker," Mitch said.
"I'd wondered about that. I heard he'd lost his flying job because of the hooch."
"I think he's lost every job he's had since the war, because of his drinking," Mitch said. "I guess that's why they call him 'Loopy'. I think it was originally a good nickname—he was quite a stunter, you know?"
"Yeah, I know. It takes guts to loop a Jenny," Casey said. "So now he flies for Straebo?"
"Yeah. He makes regular flights down to Tijuana for Straebo, and when he comes back the Jenny gurgles, if you catch my meaning."
"I can just imagine how Straebo pays him," Casey said. "So how come Telford's not part of the flying crew?"
"You're kidding, right? Mr. Hogan wouldn't have him on a bet. Even if Straebo ordered him to hire the guy."
"Straebo's the producer and the director?"
"Yup. Monarch has pretensions, but it's still pretty much a Poverty Row studio. Straebo's really a director, I hear, but Monarch makes its directors produce their own pictures. Saves 'em on salary, and they think it keeps production costs down too. Not that they spend much anyway."
"So you don't actually work for Monarch yourself?" Casey was pleased to see that the Tommy he was to fly had a one hundred-ten horsepower Le Rhone instead of the usual eighty.
"Hell no," Mitch said. "I work for Mr. Hogan. He specializes in shooting flying scenes, so we do all sorts of movie projects. This just happens to be the one we're working on right now."
Mitch got a grip on the bottom of the Tommy's fuselage, just in front of the tail. "Grab her under here and get her turned around, and we'll back her out."
They got the Tommy fueled and oiled up, and Casey began the pre-flight inspection. It was especially important to do a thorough job when the ships were as old as this. The Thomas-Morse Scout was a war-vintage design, and even if this had been one of the last produced it was still at least ten years old. The fact that the Tommy was a trainer meant that its airframe had probably taken some pretty rough knocks—all the more reason to check carefully before going up.
He tapped a wing, then the fuselage. The doped and varnished linen felt slick to the touch, and made a sound like a well-tuned drum. "This one of yours?" he asked Mitch.
"Yep. The only one. Don't know where Straebo got the other two, but he can't have paid much, 'cause he plans to crash both of 'em."
"Well, you do good work, Mitch," Casey said. "If it's all right with you, I'll fly this one and leave the others to someone else."
Mitch laughed. "You're okay," he said.
"Are we here to work, or are we here to scratch one another's backsides?" Hogan asked, returning to the hangar from the production office.
"Ready to go, Mr. Hogan," Casey said. "Thank you for—"
"Yeah, yeah. Take it as read, Casey. I just want to know if you can fly. Can you?"
"My instructors and squadron leaders thought so, Mr. Hogan."
"Do I give a shit about them? Are they here right now? Are they going to pay if you smash one of my planes?" Hogan spat into the dust of the field. "I'll tell you something, Casey. If you crack up that Tommy, you'd better make damned sure you die in the crash. Because if you crack up and the crash don't kill you, I will."
"I'll keep that in mind," Casey said. Ed Hogan, he decided, wasn't a very nice fellow, however good an aerial photographer he might be. "Anything in particular you want me to do?"
"Just show me what you've got," Hogan said. "And keep her under a thousand. I don't want to have to use a telescope to watch you."
Oh, brother, Casey thought. Do I really want to work for this man? Reality took a healthy bite out of his ego and he asked himself, Do I have a choice? He took the helmet and goggles that Mitch offered, then climbed into the Tommy's cockpit.
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