Previous First
[Continuing chapter twelve]
The number Hogan had given him turned out to be that of Monarch’s Gower Street studio. That made sense, since today was supposed to have been a shooting day for High Risk. While he waited for the operator to connect him with Hart, Casey wondered if Jerry Straebo had managed to talk McMahon into letting him shoot today after all.
It turned out he had. “We’re going to finish up this morning,” Hart told him. “Sorry you can’t be here.”
“That’s all right,” Casey said. And it really was.
31 July, 2019
30 July, 2019
High Risk 12.2
Previous First
[Continuing chapter twelve]
Saturday morning Casey said good-bye to Jeff Cunningham, who looked miserable but said little. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he walked to Monarch and picked up his first—and last—full pay packet. Opening it, he whistled. There was a lot of money in it: five hundred dollars, when he got it all counted. He left most of it with the cashier; Monday he’d open an account at a bank.
Assuming there were still banks in Hollywood. The morning papers were full of stories about Thursday’s stock market collapse, in which various experts and authorities proclaimed that nothing was really wrong and that the market would pick itself back up again. Indeed, prices had recovered a bit yesterday.
He bought himself a paper; now that he had a bit of money, he could indulge himself a bit. He’d take a room in the Roosevelt tonight, and stay there until he could find a room somewhere. Perhaps the Garden of Allah, out on Sunset Boulevard in the wild country between Hollywood and Beverley Hills. One of the actors had said it was a good place to live.
At a greasy spoon on Gower he settled down to breakfast and his paper. By the time he’d finished his eggs, though, he’d folded the paper and tucked it between himself the stool. There was no point in trying to read; he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened yesterday. Or last night.
No, he realized suddenly. It’s not about last night. He’d lost jobs before, most of them jobs he cared a lot more about than some ludicrous play-acting thing, no matter how well it paid. He’d still rather fly, and Ed Hogan hadn’t fired him. Not yet, anyway.
What bothered him was Hal Telford. Casey was certain that Telford had killed Lily Cross. But why? And why would Telford have said it wasn’t his idea? For that matter, Telford had actually denied killing Lily, hadn’t he?
There were other questions. For example, who was the mysterious Michael Buckley? What did he have to do with the murder—if anything? If Telford had killed Lily—for whatever reason—why had Buckley’s hood attacked him, then followed him to the Venice speakeasy? Who the hell is Michael Buckley?
Then there was the question of Lily’s behavior the last day of her life. She had fled the party—a party she had crashed to begin with—but hadn’t, apparently, gone home until four the following morning. And she had to have left the boarding house almost as soon as she’d arrived, in order to be any place that Telford could have killed her in time to dump her body at Glendale in time to wake Casey early Sunday morning.
None of it made any sense. He understood, a little, why McMahon might want to pretend that this was nothing more than a crime of passion, unrelated to anything except Telford’s momentary proximity with Lily. No doubt stories would soon appear about how Telford had been harassing Lily, the way Casey had seen him haranguing Eve Adams yesterday morning. But those stories wouldn’t be any more true than anything else that came out of Hollywood.
Casey left the greasy spoon, found a pay phone, and called Ed Hogan. “It’s Casey. I’ve been fired by Monarch,” he said when Hogan answered. “Am I still working for you?”
“Damned right you are,” Hogan said. “Whatever I may have thought about you a couple weeks ago, you’re a good pilot. And I’m not working for Monarch any more either. My contract was up with yesterday’s crash. So they have no say over who I hire. And I’m going to hire you, Casey. Not on a day basis, like on High Risk. I want you as a full-time pilot.”
“Gee,” Casey said. “Thanks. I’m grateful.” It was really something, he realized, to have a man like Hogan praise your flying skills. That was something that hadn’t happened to Casey in a long time.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hogan said. “One thing, though: you don’t get paid unless we’re working, and we don’t start our next job for a couple weeks. It’s a programmer for Condor, and so far it looks like an easy one. But I can’t give you anything to tide you over. You okay for kale for a while?”
“Money? Yeah, I’m set up all right. Got a decent packet from Monarch this morning. I might even have enough to buy a flivver of my own.”
“You’re gonna need one,” Hogan said. “In the meantime, I need you out here today, even if you have to walk. We’ve got to fly my buses back to Santa Monica. I can take care of the DH, but I want you to fly the Tommy for me.”
“Boss, it would be my pleasure. Why Santa Monica?”
“Home base is Clover Field. I share a hangar with some other movie stunt pilots. By the way, if you’re still looking for a place to live, you might want to look at Santa Monica or Venice. Beats driving or taking the Red Car.” There was a pause, and Casey heard what might have been paper rustling.
“Oh, and Conrad Hart wants you to phone him.”
“What? Why?”
“Do I sound like a social secretary? How the hell should I know, and why should I care? You’re lucky it was Mitch took the call and not me.” Hogan gave him the number, and rang off.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
[Continuing chapter twelve]
Saturday morning Casey said good-bye to Jeff Cunningham, who looked miserable but said little. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he walked to Monarch and picked up his first—and last—full pay packet. Opening it, he whistled. There was a lot of money in it: five hundred dollars, when he got it all counted. He left most of it with the cashier; Monday he’d open an account at a bank.
Assuming there were still banks in Hollywood. The morning papers were full of stories about Thursday’s stock market collapse, in which various experts and authorities proclaimed that nothing was really wrong and that the market would pick itself back up again. Indeed, prices had recovered a bit yesterday.
He bought himself a paper; now that he had a bit of money, he could indulge himself a bit. He’d take a room in the Roosevelt tonight, and stay there until he could find a room somewhere. Perhaps the Garden of Allah, out on Sunset Boulevard in the wild country between Hollywood and Beverley Hills. One of the actors had said it was a good place to live.
At a greasy spoon on Gower he settled down to breakfast and his paper. By the time he’d finished his eggs, though, he’d folded the paper and tucked it between himself the stool. There was no point in trying to read; he couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened yesterday. Or last night.
No, he realized suddenly. It’s not about last night. He’d lost jobs before, most of them jobs he cared a lot more about than some ludicrous play-acting thing, no matter how well it paid. He’d still rather fly, and Ed Hogan hadn’t fired him. Not yet, anyway.
What bothered him was Hal Telford. Casey was certain that Telford had killed Lily Cross. But why? And why would Telford have said it wasn’t his idea? For that matter, Telford had actually denied killing Lily, hadn’t he?
There were other questions. For example, who was the mysterious Michael Buckley? What did he have to do with the murder—if anything? If Telford had killed Lily—for whatever reason—why had Buckley’s hood attacked him, then followed him to the Venice speakeasy? Who the hell is Michael Buckley?
Then there was the question of Lily’s behavior the last day of her life. She had fled the party—a party she had crashed to begin with—but hadn’t, apparently, gone home until four the following morning. And she had to have left the boarding house almost as soon as she’d arrived, in order to be any place that Telford could have killed her in time to dump her body at Glendale in time to wake Casey early Sunday morning.
None of it made any sense. He understood, a little, why McMahon might want to pretend that this was nothing more than a crime of passion, unrelated to anything except Telford’s momentary proximity with Lily. No doubt stories would soon appear about how Telford had been harassing Lily, the way Casey had seen him haranguing Eve Adams yesterday morning. But those stories wouldn’t be any more true than anything else that came out of Hollywood.
Casey left the greasy spoon, found a pay phone, and called Ed Hogan. “It’s Casey. I’ve been fired by Monarch,” he said when Hogan answered. “Am I still working for you?”
“Damned right you are,” Hogan said. “Whatever I may have thought about you a couple weeks ago, you’re a good pilot. And I’m not working for Monarch any more either. My contract was up with yesterday’s crash. So they have no say over who I hire. And I’m going to hire you, Casey. Not on a day basis, like on High Risk. I want you as a full-time pilot.”
“Gee,” Casey said. “Thanks. I’m grateful.” It was really something, he realized, to have a man like Hogan praise your flying skills. That was something that hadn’t happened to Casey in a long time.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hogan said. “One thing, though: you don’t get paid unless we’re working, and we don’t start our next job for a couple weeks. It’s a programmer for Condor, and so far it looks like an easy one. But I can’t give you anything to tide you over. You okay for kale for a while?”
“Money? Yeah, I’m set up all right. Got a decent packet from Monarch this morning. I might even have enough to buy a flivver of my own.”
“You’re gonna need one,” Hogan said. “In the meantime, I need you out here today, even if you have to walk. We’ve got to fly my buses back to Santa Monica. I can take care of the DH, but I want you to fly the Tommy for me.”
“Boss, it would be my pleasure. Why Santa Monica?”
“Home base is Clover Field. I share a hangar with some other movie stunt pilots. By the way, if you’re still looking for a place to live, you might want to look at Santa Monica or Venice. Beats driving or taking the Red Car.” There was a pause, and Casey heard what might have been paper rustling.
“Oh, and Conrad Hart wants you to phone him.”
“What? Why?”
“Do I sound like a social secretary? How the hell should I know, and why should I care? You’re lucky it was Mitch took the call and not me.” Hogan gave him the number, and rang off.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
29 July, 2019
High Risk 12.1
Previous First
“What made you guess it was Telford?” McMahon asked. Casey sat, uncomfortable and wanting to be anywhere else, in the production chief’s living room. He had been appalled, the last time he sat in this room, at how cold-bloodedly it seemed a Hollywood studio could move to protect its interests. Now he was seeing the truth behind his supposition, and it was worse than he’d imagined.
Desiree sat as far away from him as possible. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since he’d blown up all over her at Long Beach. Nor had she spoken to Neal, or anyone else. It had worked out just as she’d threatened.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What made you guess it was Telford?” McMahon asked. Casey sat, uncomfortable and wanting to be anywhere else, in the production chief’s living room. He had been appalled, the last time he sat in this room, at how cold-bloodedly it seemed a Hollywood studio could move to protect its interests. Now he was seeing the truth behind his supposition, and it was worse than he’d imagined.
Desiree sat as far away from him as possible. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since he’d blown up all over her at Long Beach. Nor had she spoken to Neal, or anyone else. It had worked out just as she’d threatened.
28 July, 2019
Productivity Update
Having abandoned an SF novel recently, I decided to return to the ethos of alternate history. And I had no trouble whatever working on it, nor did I have any shortage of ideas. It was nice to be able to look forward to the morning writing sessions again.
And so I'm modestly pleased to announce that I have finished the third and final draft of The Bonny Blue Flag, the sequel to Dixie's Land. There is still a bit of formatting to do, but the writing is complete. Which means I'll be serializing the new(ish) novel* starting in September, shortly after I complete the serialization of High Risk.
I have also written an outline for a third novel set in this particular timeline. There is at least one other project in the queue ahead of that story, though, so it remains at the outline stage for now.
*I wrote the first draft of this novel over twenty years ago, but stopped working on it when Dixie's Land failed to sell.
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| Flag of the Republic of Texas (1836-1839) from Wikimedia Commons |
I have also written an outline for a third novel set in this particular timeline. There is at least one other project in the queue ahead of that story, though, so it remains at the outline stage for now.
*I wrote the first draft of this novel over twenty years ago, but stopped working on it when Dixie's Land failed to sell.
26 July, 2019
So Long, Science Fiction...
...But You Can Stick Around, Fantasy
I have shut down work on what was my current work-in-progress. After writing 90,000 words of a science fiction novel I realized that my heart just wasn't in it anymore. I was having too much trouble making myself interested in the things that actually made the story SF, and I'm pretty sure the writer's group was picking up on this, because their comments about the character situations were becoming somewhat pointed, where at the beginning they'd been wildly positive.
The problem for me wasn't really the story or characters; I suspect I had enough material in there I could repurpose to make it a fantasy that I'd be happy to keep writing. So the problem is with science fiction. I seem to have lost my taste for it.
I have shut down work on what was my current work-in-progress. After writing 90,000 words of a science fiction novel I realized that my heart just wasn't in it anymore. I was having too much trouble making myself interested in the things that actually made the story SF, and I'm pretty sure the writer's group was picking up on this, because their comments about the character situations were becoming somewhat pointed, where at the beginning they'd been wildly positive.
The problem for me wasn't really the story or characters; I suspect I had enough material in there I could repurpose to make it a fantasy that I'd be happy to keep writing. So the problem is with science fiction. I seem to have lost my taste for it.
High Risk 11.5
Previous First
[Concluding chapter eleven]
There was a Naval Reserve air base at Long Beach. Casey landed the Bristol there; the Shore Patrol didn’t require much persuasion to refrain from arresting him: they’d seen the comet that was Telford’s Jenny curving south into the marsh. A party from the base was already on its way to the crash site.
Desiree looked terrible. When Casey helped her down from the rear cockpit he felt sorry for her in spite of his anger at her stowing away on the Bristol: her eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them dark and puffy as a result of the buffeting she’d taken from the slipstream. Her hair suggested a badly frayed floor-brush, black strands pointing out to all of the cardinal points of the compass. She shivered as she tottered toward the Shore Patrol car; it might be in the high seventies here on the ground, but aloft it was cool, and the wind had made it downright cold.
Casey stayed with the Bristol until a reserve officer arrived to tell him that he and Desiree would meet the Long Beach police at the crash site; the officer volunteered a car and driver to get them there. Casey accepted the offer with some reluctance: no pilot wanted to have to view the remains of a flamer.
“Neal says we’re not to talk about Lily Cross,” Desiree whispered to him when he sat down beside her. “He’s coming down with some people from the studio; they’ll take care of everything. They’ve called the D.A. already.”
Casey stared at her. “You phoned Neal.”
“Of course I did,” Desiree said, flushing. “I also phoned Hogan to tell him what happened. For what it’s worth, this wasn’t my idea.” She glared at him. “Not that this seems to matter to you. But I can see his point, even if you won’t. Neal has a right to know, Casey. The murder you solved was of a studio employee, remember.”
“If the murder’s solved, why does Neal care whether or not we talk about it to the police? Or is there something going on here that I’m not privy to? Is this what you meant when you said that you were going to look out for your career?”
“That’s unfair, Casey.” Now she didn’t look embarrassed, she looked angry. “My contract with Monarch requires that I leave any involvement with the authorities to the appropriate people at the studio. For that matter, your contract is the same.”
“I don’t think I can be held to a contract that requires me to perjure myself.”
“Oh, don’t be a horse’s ass,” Desiree said. “All that McMahon wants to do is ensure that the press doesn’t take unfair advantage of your solving the crime. And all I want to do is put this behind me.” She closed her eyes. “Though I don’t think I’m ever going to forget what that looked like.”
“Take it from me,” he said, “you never do.” Why are you doing this? he asked himself. Because she deserved to be punished, he thought. Because she had forced her way onto the plane. Because she seemed to care more about preserving the studio’s reputation than she did about Lily Cross’s murder.
“Well, thanks for that bit of support, Casey,” she snapped. “I don’t care what you say or don’t say to the police. But I’m not saying anything, to anyone.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
[Concluding chapter eleven]
There was a Naval Reserve air base at Long Beach. Casey landed the Bristol there; the Shore Patrol didn’t require much persuasion to refrain from arresting him: they’d seen the comet that was Telford’s Jenny curving south into the marsh. A party from the base was already on its way to the crash site.
Desiree looked terrible. When Casey helped her down from the rear cockpit he felt sorry for her in spite of his anger at her stowing away on the Bristol: her eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them dark and puffy as a result of the buffeting she’d taken from the slipstream. Her hair suggested a badly frayed floor-brush, black strands pointing out to all of the cardinal points of the compass. She shivered as she tottered toward the Shore Patrol car; it might be in the high seventies here on the ground, but aloft it was cool, and the wind had made it downright cold.
Casey stayed with the Bristol until a reserve officer arrived to tell him that he and Desiree would meet the Long Beach police at the crash site; the officer volunteered a car and driver to get them there. Casey accepted the offer with some reluctance: no pilot wanted to have to view the remains of a flamer.
“Neal says we’re not to talk about Lily Cross,” Desiree whispered to him when he sat down beside her. “He’s coming down with some people from the studio; they’ll take care of everything. They’ve called the D.A. already.”
Casey stared at her. “You phoned Neal.”
“Of course I did,” Desiree said, flushing. “I also phoned Hogan to tell him what happened. For what it’s worth, this wasn’t my idea.” She glared at him. “Not that this seems to matter to you. But I can see his point, even if you won’t. Neal has a right to know, Casey. The murder you solved was of a studio employee, remember.”
“If the murder’s solved, why does Neal care whether or not we talk about it to the police? Or is there something going on here that I’m not privy to? Is this what you meant when you said that you were going to look out for your career?”
“That’s unfair, Casey.” Now she didn’t look embarrassed, she looked angry. “My contract with Monarch requires that I leave any involvement with the authorities to the appropriate people at the studio. For that matter, your contract is the same.”
“I don’t think I can be held to a contract that requires me to perjure myself.”
“Oh, don’t be a horse’s ass,” Desiree said. “All that McMahon wants to do is ensure that the press doesn’t take unfair advantage of your solving the crime. And all I want to do is put this behind me.” She closed her eyes. “Though I don’t think I’m ever going to forget what that looked like.”
“Take it from me,” he said, “you never do.” Why are you doing this? he asked himself. Because she deserved to be punished, he thought. Because she had forced her way onto the plane. Because she seemed to care more about preserving the studio’s reputation than she did about Lily Cross’s murder.
“Well, thanks for that bit of support, Casey,” she snapped. “I don’t care what you say or don’t say to the police. But I’m not saying anything, to anyone.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
25 July, 2019
High Risk 11.4
Previous First
[Continuing chapter eleven]
“Casey.” He struggled to sit up. “What happened?” He recognized Hogan’s voice.
“Telford,” Casey said. He looked around. “Where is he?”
“Took off a couple of minutes ago,” Hogan said. “Was he really trying to steal my Bristol?”
“That’s sure what it looked like to me,” Casey said. He looked around.
Tillman’s body lay, face-down, a few feet away; Hamilton and Desiree were crouched over him. He wasn’t moving, and Casey thought he saw red on the grass. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “Is he dead?” As he said that, he registered the fact that the Bristol was still here; he was only a few feet from the fuselage of the big two-seater. “He took the Jenny?”
“Yep,” said Mitch. “Tillman’s not dead, but that could change any minute now. You okay, Casey?”
He carefully touched the side of his head. It felt enormous. “What did he hit me with?”
Mitch pointed to a spanner a few feet from where Casey sat. “I’m going to feel that for a few days,” he said. “What happened to Tillman?”
“We don’t know,” Hogan said. “I suppose he tried to help you, and in return got what you got. Casey, why the hell would Telford suddenly decide to steal my Bristol?”
“Mitch didn’t tell you?”
Mitch shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance,” he said. “Soon’s I said Loopy was trying to steal the Bristol, Mr. Hogan here was off like a shot.”
“He told us, though,” Desiree said. “You think Telford killed Lily?”
“Yes,” Casey said. He stood up and grabbed the side of the Bristol’s fuselage. “Mitch, prop me, will you?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Casey?” Hogan grabbed his shoulders, tried to push him away from the plane.
“If he’s flying that Jenny,” Casey said, “I can catch him in the Bristol.”
“And do what? This isn’t the Western Front, Casey. These ships aren’t armed.”
“I can at least find out where he’s going. Did someone call the cops?”
“Straebo’s taking care of that,” Mitch said.
“Good. Look, Hogan, he may be trying to get to Mexico. I’m almost positive that Telford killed Lily. He as much as admitted it to me when he hit me. If we can’t catch him, force him down maybe, he’s going to get away with murder.”
“You just took a solid clocking,” Hogan said. “I’m not sure you should be flying.”
“Don’t forget, Mr. Hogan,” Casey said, “I’ve done this sort of thing lots of times before. If I could fight the Huns hung over—and still drunk, at least once—then I can certainly chase Loopy Telford.” He stepped up onto the Bristol’s lower wing and hauled himself into the cockpit. “Now, somebody prop me. We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
He felt a thump as he adjusted the throttle and flipped the mag switches, but it wasn’t until the Rolls-Royce engine was roaring and the Bristol had started to roll forward that Casey checked over his shoulder—and saw Desiree in the rear cockpit. “What the hell are you doing there?” he yelled. She didn’t answer, just gripped the sides of the cockpit, glaring at him; she wasn’t even wearing goggles. She had ruined his plan: he had counted on bringing Telford back in the empty rear seat. He turned around again to watch where he was going; as the Bristol rolled down the field he screamed every obscenity he knew at her, his anger magnified by the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing over the sound of the engine.
Well, it was too late to throw her out and too damned bad if her weight slowed him down. She had wanted a joy-ride; he would give her one.
A check of the radiator temperature gauge told him that the engine hadn’t fully warmed up yet, but he’d let Hogan worry about any negative consequences. He pushed the throttle all the way forward. The Bristol shook like a wet dog, then leapt forward. The takeoff run was a bit longer than would have been the case with a Tommy, but not by much, and he was off the ground with half the field still ahead of him.
Climbing would waste time; he throttled back a touch and leveled off once he was sure he’d clear the trees. Besides, Telford would be easier to spot against the blue blankness of the sky, something Casey could guarantee by staying low. If he climbed above Telford the Jenny would fade into the patchwork of fields, roads, and buildings below.
He turned south, doing only the most cursory of checks to the north and east. He saw nothing in either direction, and hoped that that meant his guess was correct and Telford was making straight for Mexico. If he’d gone north or east and Casey had missed him, Telford could fly close to two hundred miles before he had to refuel. Los Angeles appeared beneath Casey’s wings.
He saw a speck to the south-east. He steered toward it, watching the air-speed indicator climb to a hundred and twenty. That was more than half again as fast as Telford could manage in the grotesque Jenny; if the speck was indeed Telford, Casey would catch him in under ten minutes. If that’s not Telford, he thought, I won’t know it until I’m practically wing-tip to wing-tip with him. But he didn’t have much choice.
He wondered only briefly if Desiree was feeling any discomfort, or if in some perverse way she was enjoying herself. There was too much else to think about; foremost was the question of what exactly he’d do if he did manage to catch Telford. If the man was drunk or afraid or both he might just give up and land as soon as he saw Casey on his tail. But it was equally possible that he’d ignore him. Do I have the nerve to ram him if that’s what it takes to bring him down?
And if Telford refused to land, what then? The Bristol’s tank was only half-full; that wouldn’t allow Casey to reach San Diego, much less follow Telford over the border. Which meant that wouldn’t even be able to abandon Desiree in Mexico in order to bring Telford back. It was too bad; he’d enjoyed the fantasy for the moment it had lasted.
Whatever was going to happen would have to happen soon: Casey saw in silhouette the huge, ugly comma-shaped rudder that marked Straebo’s Jenny. Opening the throttle a bit, he pitched the Bristol’s nose up to gain some height.
Despite the drop in speed caused by the climb, he still had to throttle back; the Jenny was moving so slowly in comparison with the Bristol that he risked overshooting. Casey nudged the throttle and stick in concert until the Bristol seemed to hover, just above and behind the Jenny. Telford did not look back, and gave no other sign that he was aware of Casey’s presence; the Jenny continued its dogged way toward San Diego, and Tijuana beyond.
I’ll make him see me, Casey thought. Sliding the Bristol down and to port, he opened the throttle just enough to bring him alongside the Jenny, staying just far enough away that if Telford lost control Casey could get out of his way before their machines collided. For a few seconds the two biplanes thundered southward in parallel. Then Telford looked left.
At this distance Casey could make out Telford’s features clearly. Even with the upper part of his face obscured by goggles, the distress was evident; Telford’s mouth drooped so much that for a second Casey thought the man might have started to cry. With his right hand, Casey reached over the side of the Bristol and made elaborate down-pointing gestures. It was a signal any Great War pilot would recognize, but Telford did not acknowledge it. For a while, he simply stared at Casey. Then he pushed his goggles up, exposing his face to the slipstream. He wiped his eyes; he had been crying, after all. He’s given up, Casey thought. Either he doesn’t realize he could still get to Mexico, or he just doesn’t care.
Then the Jenny disappeared behind him.
Cursing, Casey looked over his shoulder; the Jenny’s nose was up. Telford had stalled the Jenny in order to cause him to overshoot.
Casey slammed the throttle forward again, and the Rolls-Royce responded with a roar. Ailerons and rudder to the right, Casey began a wide turn that would bring him back around and behind the Jenny again. As he turned, he continued shoulder-checking, to ensure that Telford wasn’t trying to stunt his way free.
The Jenny was now in a shallow dive, its prop turning slowly. He’s shut off, Casey thought. He’s going to set her down.
It took Casey almost thirty seconds to swing back around and catch up to the Jenny again. Telford, he saw, had one hand outside the cockpit. Was he smashing something against the side of the fuselage? He’s not going to land and then come after me with a broken bottle, is he?
Casey was so caught up in trying to see what it was that Telford was doing with his right hand that the orange-white flash caught him completely by surprise. Only when the Jenny’s fuselage suddenly sported long feathers of flame did Casey realize what he was seeing, what had happened.
He didn’t shut off, Casey thought. He just held down the blip-switch. For nearly a minute, letting petrol fill the cowling and splash along the fuselage, before Telford released the switch, bringing on the spark that turned the Jenny into a biplane torch.
Casey couldn’t bring himself to look away. He held the Bristol in a tight, circling turn, watching as the burning Jenny arced down, describing a shallow curve that ended with another bright orange splash against the green of a marshy field near Long Beach.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
[Continuing chapter eleven]
“Casey.” He struggled to sit up. “What happened?” He recognized Hogan’s voice.
“Telford,” Casey said. He looked around. “Where is he?”
“Took off a couple of minutes ago,” Hogan said. “Was he really trying to steal my Bristol?”
“That’s sure what it looked like to me,” Casey said. He looked around.
Tillman’s body lay, face-down, a few feet away; Hamilton and Desiree were crouched over him. He wasn’t moving, and Casey thought he saw red on the grass. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “Is he dead?” As he said that, he registered the fact that the Bristol was still here; he was only a few feet from the fuselage of the big two-seater. “He took the Jenny?”
“Yep,” said Mitch. “Tillman’s not dead, but that could change any minute now. You okay, Casey?”
He carefully touched the side of his head. It felt enormous. “What did he hit me with?”
Mitch pointed to a spanner a few feet from where Casey sat. “I’m going to feel that for a few days,” he said. “What happened to Tillman?”
“We don’t know,” Hogan said. “I suppose he tried to help you, and in return got what you got. Casey, why the hell would Telford suddenly decide to steal my Bristol?”
“Mitch didn’t tell you?”
Mitch shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance,” he said. “Soon’s I said Loopy was trying to steal the Bristol, Mr. Hogan here was off like a shot.”
“He told us, though,” Desiree said. “You think Telford killed Lily?”
“Yes,” Casey said. He stood up and grabbed the side of the Bristol’s fuselage. “Mitch, prop me, will you?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Casey?” Hogan grabbed his shoulders, tried to push him away from the plane.
“If he’s flying that Jenny,” Casey said, “I can catch him in the Bristol.”
“And do what? This isn’t the Western Front, Casey. These ships aren’t armed.”
“I can at least find out where he’s going. Did someone call the cops?”
“Straebo’s taking care of that,” Mitch said.
“Good. Look, Hogan, he may be trying to get to Mexico. I’m almost positive that Telford killed Lily. He as much as admitted it to me when he hit me. If we can’t catch him, force him down maybe, he’s going to get away with murder.”
“You just took a solid clocking,” Hogan said. “I’m not sure you should be flying.”
“Don’t forget, Mr. Hogan,” Casey said, “I’ve done this sort of thing lots of times before. If I could fight the Huns hung over—and still drunk, at least once—then I can certainly chase Loopy Telford.” He stepped up onto the Bristol’s lower wing and hauled himself into the cockpit. “Now, somebody prop me. We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
He felt a thump as he adjusted the throttle and flipped the mag switches, but it wasn’t until the Rolls-Royce engine was roaring and the Bristol had started to roll forward that Casey checked over his shoulder—and saw Desiree in the rear cockpit. “What the hell are you doing there?” he yelled. She didn’t answer, just gripped the sides of the cockpit, glaring at him; she wasn’t even wearing goggles. She had ruined his plan: he had counted on bringing Telford back in the empty rear seat. He turned around again to watch where he was going; as the Bristol rolled down the field he screamed every obscenity he knew at her, his anger magnified by the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing over the sound of the engine.
Well, it was too late to throw her out and too damned bad if her weight slowed him down. She had wanted a joy-ride; he would give her one.
A check of the radiator temperature gauge told him that the engine hadn’t fully warmed up yet, but he’d let Hogan worry about any negative consequences. He pushed the throttle all the way forward. The Bristol shook like a wet dog, then leapt forward. The takeoff run was a bit longer than would have been the case with a Tommy, but not by much, and he was off the ground with half the field still ahead of him.
Climbing would waste time; he throttled back a touch and leveled off once he was sure he’d clear the trees. Besides, Telford would be easier to spot against the blue blankness of the sky, something Casey could guarantee by staying low. If he climbed above Telford the Jenny would fade into the patchwork of fields, roads, and buildings below.
He turned south, doing only the most cursory of checks to the north and east. He saw nothing in either direction, and hoped that that meant his guess was correct and Telford was making straight for Mexico. If he’d gone north or east and Casey had missed him, Telford could fly close to two hundred miles before he had to refuel. Los Angeles appeared beneath Casey’s wings.
He saw a speck to the south-east. He steered toward it, watching the air-speed indicator climb to a hundred and twenty. That was more than half again as fast as Telford could manage in the grotesque Jenny; if the speck was indeed Telford, Casey would catch him in under ten minutes. If that’s not Telford, he thought, I won’t know it until I’m practically wing-tip to wing-tip with him. But he didn’t have much choice.
He wondered only briefly if Desiree was feeling any discomfort, or if in some perverse way she was enjoying herself. There was too much else to think about; foremost was the question of what exactly he’d do if he did manage to catch Telford. If the man was drunk or afraid or both he might just give up and land as soon as he saw Casey on his tail. But it was equally possible that he’d ignore him. Do I have the nerve to ram him if that’s what it takes to bring him down?
And if Telford refused to land, what then? The Bristol’s tank was only half-full; that wouldn’t allow Casey to reach San Diego, much less follow Telford over the border. Which meant that wouldn’t even be able to abandon Desiree in Mexico in order to bring Telford back. It was too bad; he’d enjoyed the fantasy for the moment it had lasted.
Whatever was going to happen would have to happen soon: Casey saw in silhouette the huge, ugly comma-shaped rudder that marked Straebo’s Jenny. Opening the throttle a bit, he pitched the Bristol’s nose up to gain some height.
Despite the drop in speed caused by the climb, he still had to throttle back; the Jenny was moving so slowly in comparison with the Bristol that he risked overshooting. Casey nudged the throttle and stick in concert until the Bristol seemed to hover, just above and behind the Jenny. Telford did not look back, and gave no other sign that he was aware of Casey’s presence; the Jenny continued its dogged way toward San Diego, and Tijuana beyond.
I’ll make him see me, Casey thought. Sliding the Bristol down and to port, he opened the throttle just enough to bring him alongside the Jenny, staying just far enough away that if Telford lost control Casey could get out of his way before their machines collided. For a few seconds the two biplanes thundered southward in parallel. Then Telford looked left.
At this distance Casey could make out Telford’s features clearly. Even with the upper part of his face obscured by goggles, the distress was evident; Telford’s mouth drooped so much that for a second Casey thought the man might have started to cry. With his right hand, Casey reached over the side of the Bristol and made elaborate down-pointing gestures. It was a signal any Great War pilot would recognize, but Telford did not acknowledge it. For a while, he simply stared at Casey. Then he pushed his goggles up, exposing his face to the slipstream. He wiped his eyes; he had been crying, after all. He’s given up, Casey thought. Either he doesn’t realize he could still get to Mexico, or he just doesn’t care.
Then the Jenny disappeared behind him.
Cursing, Casey looked over his shoulder; the Jenny’s nose was up. Telford had stalled the Jenny in order to cause him to overshoot.
Casey slammed the throttle forward again, and the Rolls-Royce responded with a roar. Ailerons and rudder to the right, Casey began a wide turn that would bring him back around and behind the Jenny again. As he turned, he continued shoulder-checking, to ensure that Telford wasn’t trying to stunt his way free.
The Jenny was now in a shallow dive, its prop turning slowly. He’s shut off, Casey thought. He’s going to set her down.
It took Casey almost thirty seconds to swing back around and catch up to the Jenny again. Telford, he saw, had one hand outside the cockpit. Was he smashing something against the side of the fuselage? He’s not going to land and then come after me with a broken bottle, is he?
Casey was so caught up in trying to see what it was that Telford was doing with his right hand that the orange-white flash caught him completely by surprise. Only when the Jenny’s fuselage suddenly sported long feathers of flame did Casey realize what he was seeing, what had happened.
He didn’t shut off, Casey thought. He just held down the blip-switch. For nearly a minute, letting petrol fill the cowling and splash along the fuselage, before Telford released the switch, bringing on the spark that turned the Jenny into a biplane torch.
Casey couldn’t bring himself to look away. He held the Bristol in a tight, circling turn, watching as the burning Jenny arced down, describing a shallow curve that ended with another bright orange splash against the green of a marshy field near Long Beach.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
24 July, 2019
High Risk 11.3
Previous First
[Continuing chapter eleven]
"You've got an admirer," Desiree said when she and Cunningham caught up with him. "What a touching scene that was."
"Do you think that Eve was in any real danger?" Cunningham asked.
That's it, Casey thought. "Not for a moment," he said. "She wasn't frightened—though she was trying to pretend to be. You're right about her acting skills," he said to Desiree. "She was angry—I'd almost say furious. When she put her arms around me I found myself flinching and wondered why. Now I think it's because my body suspected she was going to try to throttle me."
[Continuing chapter eleven]
"You've got an admirer," Desiree said when she and Cunningham caught up with him. "What a touching scene that was."
"Do you think that Eve was in any real danger?" Cunningham asked.
That's it, Casey thought. "Not for a moment," he said. "She wasn't frightened—though she was trying to pretend to be. You're right about her acting skills," he said to Desiree. "She was angry—I'd almost say furious. When she put her arms around me I found myself flinching and wondered why. Now I think it's because my body suspected she was going to try to throttle me."
23 July, 2019
High Risk 11.2
Previous First
[Continuing chapter eleven]
With three of them going over every bolt, every wire attachment and every turnbuckle, it took only about a half-hour to pronounce the decrepit Tommy as airworthy as she was ever going to be: the only attachment bolts still loose were the bolts on the lower starboard wing, which Mitch had loosened to make the wing snap off when Casey touched it down. Still nervous, Casey gave Hogan another thumbs-up as the latter climbed back into the DH-4's rear cockpit and gave the camera mounting a test turn. Casey waited until the two-seater was airborne and had completed a circuit over the field before he climbed—carefully—into the Tommy's cockpit.
Before buckling his seat belt he checked to be sure that the heavy cloth strips the studio nurse had wrapped around his chest hadn't slipped. Once sure that his ribs were as safe as anyone could make them, he belted himself in. He was already sweating when Mitch spun the prop to get the Tommy's Gnome started.
[Continuing chapter eleven]
With three of them going over every bolt, every wire attachment and every turnbuckle, it took only about a half-hour to pronounce the decrepit Tommy as airworthy as she was ever going to be: the only attachment bolts still loose were the bolts on the lower starboard wing, which Mitch had loosened to make the wing snap off when Casey touched it down. Still nervous, Casey gave Hogan another thumbs-up as the latter climbed back into the DH-4's rear cockpit and gave the camera mounting a test turn. Casey waited until the two-seater was airborne and had completed a circuit over the field before he climbed—carefully—into the Tommy's cockpit.
Before buckling his seat belt he checked to be sure that the heavy cloth strips the studio nurse had wrapped around his chest hadn't slipped. Once sure that his ribs were as safe as anyone could make them, he belted himself in. He was already sweating when Mitch spun the prop to get the Tommy's Gnome started.
22 July, 2019
High Risk 11.1
Previous First
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"In
this scene you're pretending to be the arrogant director, Helms,"
Straebo said, walking with Casey to where Mitch and the Tommy waited.
"So try to suggest cockiness as you move down the field."
The director's face was flushed, and he didn't look at Casey while
speaking. Casey wondered if Straebo was hung over.
"You
think the camera's going to be able to pick up cockiness
when all it'll see is his head—and
that wearing a helmet and goggles?" Ed Hogan shook his head.
"Seems to me you're expecting a bit much."
"What
I expect is none of your god-damned business," Straebo snapped.
"Do your job, Mr. Hogan. Don't even think of trying to tell me
how to do mine."
"Jesus
H. Christ," Hogan said as the director stomped off. "What's
the matter with him today?"
20 July, 2019
Summer of '69
 |
| Neil Armstrong descending from the Lunar Excursion Module on 20 July 1969 (from NASA by way of Wikimedia Commons) |
In July of 1969 I was a 14-year-old on vacation in the BC interior with my family, staying on the lakefront acreage of some family friends. I’d been following the US space program slavishly since I could remember*; I had a scrapbook of colour photos from Life magazine, and I had hand-drawn crew patches for all of the Apollo missions to that point. And I was incredibly frustrated at having to be on holiday in the middle of nowhere when the most important event in human history† was happening.
 |
| Image from Wikimedia Commons (creator unidentified) |
Our hosts weren’t exactly primitives. They did have a television. But it was a tiny black-and-white (with tubes probably manufactured by De Forest) with the sort of terrible reception you can only really manage in a place surrounded by mountains. So when the Eagle’s hatch finally opened and Armstrong sort of hopped down the ladder, I was practically screaming with frustration, because I could hardly make out what was going on and his first words were all garbled. It was awful in a way that only adolescents would really understand.
It wasn’t until we got back home that I discovered there’d been nothing wrong with our hosts’ TV, and reception had been terrible for everyone. And to this day I can't determine to my satisfaction whether or not Armstrong's first words involved a small step for man, or for a man.
*During the countdown to the launch of the Apollo 10 mission I tried to persuade my parents to allow me to demonstrate my sympathy with the astronauts by living in our tent trailer, inside our garage, for the duration of the flight. What I was going to do about expelling bodily waste does not seem to have occurred to me as an issue to consider.
†That was my opinion. Your mileage may vary.
19 July, 2019
High Risk 10.5
Previous First
[Concluding chapter ten]
"And now we're left with two important questions," Casey said. Desiree bit into her cotton candy, then passed the pink cloud to him; she had persuaded Casey to stay on the pier for a trip down the Bamboo Slide, and now they were slowly making their way back to Windward Avenue.
After dissolving the spun sugar on his tongue, Casey continued. "One: what does Michael Buckley have to do with Lily Cross's death? And two: why, if Buckley is involved, did Neal erase his name from the list of people he was going to interview?"
"And three," Desiree said: "Who the hell is Michael Buckley?"
"Good point," Casey said. "Not only do I have no idea who he is, I have no idea of how to go about finding out." He took the cotton candy from her again. "Did you enjoy your evening?"
"We went on the Flying Circus," she said with a grin. "It was loads of fun. Did you know that those airplanes swoop up and down while they're spinning around? I was terrified the first time it happened!"
"How did your friend handle your sudden appearance?"
"Oh, he was fine. I didn't even have to tell him who I was. It was enough that I was female, I suppose. Though I doubt his wife saw it that way. Say, Casey, will you take me up in one of your airplanes? If it's only a little bit more fun than the Flying Circus, it'll be the cat's pajamas."
"They're not my airplanes," Casey said. "But if Hogan says yes, and Straebo says yes—or we can do it without him finding out—then sure, I'll take you up."
"You're a pal," she said, and bulged out both eyes and cheeks at him while stuffing pink fluff into her mouth. "You know," she said when she finished working through the candy, "it figures that if Neal decided to erase Buckley's name from his list, he was doing it because somebody told him to."
"Somebody like McMahon, or Straebo?"
"Exactly. They're the two with the best reasons for calling him off, anyway."
"So presumably one of them will have information that'll tell us who Buckley is and why he's had some monster following us around the last two nights."
"Well…" Desiree drawled the word until it sounded polysyllabic. "Maybe. Though if either of those guys was involved in something nasty it's not likely they'd have incriminating evidence around them, is it? But unless we can just look him up in the phone book, I don't think there's a better way of tracking the mysterious Mr. Buckley."
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
[Concluding chapter ten]
"And now we're left with two important questions," Casey said. Desiree bit into her cotton candy, then passed the pink cloud to him; she had persuaded Casey to stay on the pier for a trip down the Bamboo Slide, and now they were slowly making their way back to Windward Avenue.
After dissolving the spun sugar on his tongue, Casey continued. "One: what does Michael Buckley have to do with Lily Cross's death? And two: why, if Buckley is involved, did Neal erase his name from the list of people he was going to interview?"
"And three," Desiree said: "Who the hell is Michael Buckley?"
"Good point," Casey said. "Not only do I have no idea who he is, I have no idea of how to go about finding out." He took the cotton candy from her again. "Did you enjoy your evening?"
"We went on the Flying Circus," she said with a grin. "It was loads of fun. Did you know that those airplanes swoop up and down while they're spinning around? I was terrified the first time it happened!"
"How did your friend handle your sudden appearance?"
"Oh, he was fine. I didn't even have to tell him who I was. It was enough that I was female, I suppose. Though I doubt his wife saw it that way. Say, Casey, will you take me up in one of your airplanes? If it's only a little bit more fun than the Flying Circus, it'll be the cat's pajamas."
"They're not my airplanes," Casey said. "But if Hogan says yes, and Straebo says yes—or we can do it without him finding out—then sure, I'll take you up."
"You're a pal," she said, and bulged out both eyes and cheeks at him while stuffing pink fluff into her mouth. "You know," she said when she finished working through the candy, "it figures that if Neal decided to erase Buckley's name from his list, he was doing it because somebody told him to."
"Somebody like McMahon, or Straebo?"
"Exactly. They're the two with the best reasons for calling him off, anyway."
"So presumably one of them will have information that'll tell us who Buckley is and why he's had some monster following us around the last two nights."
"Well…" Desiree drawled the word until it sounded polysyllabic. "Maybe. Though if either of those guys was involved in something nasty it's not likely they'd have incriminating evidence around them, is it? But unless we can just look him up in the phone book, I don't think there's a better way of tracking the mysterious Mr. Buckley."
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
18 July, 2019
High Risk 10.4
Previous First
[Continuing chapter ten]
Venice was a gigantic construction site. The contractors were only mid-way through the process of filling the canals and turning them into proper streets, and the approach to downtown was choked with equipment, haphazardly parked cars, and piles of earth and rubble.
"And this used to be such a pretty town," Desiree said as she parked beside a Hupmobile that looked brand-new. This was the closest they'd been able to get to the pier, and they faced a walk of at least a half-mile. Even from this distance, though, the sounds of dance music, happy screaming and the rumble of the roller-coasters from the pier were loud enough that Desiree had to raise her voice.
"Never much cared for the canals myself," Casey said. "They always stank."
"Did you spend much time here?"
"Used to live in Santa Monica," he said. "Hanging around the piers was relatively cheap entertainment. Sorry I never saw one of the big fires, though."
[Continuing chapter ten]
Venice was a gigantic construction site. The contractors were only mid-way through the process of filling the canals and turning them into proper streets, and the approach to downtown was choked with equipment, haphazardly parked cars, and piles of earth and rubble.
"And this used to be such a pretty town," Desiree said as she parked beside a Hupmobile that looked brand-new. This was the closest they'd been able to get to the pier, and they faced a walk of at least a half-mile. Even from this distance, though, the sounds of dance music, happy screaming and the rumble of the roller-coasters from the pier were loud enough that Desiree had to raise her voice.
"Never much cared for the canals myself," Casey said. "They always stank."
"Did you spend much time here?"
"Used to live in Santa Monica," he said. "Hanging around the piers was relatively cheap entertainment. Sorry I never saw one of the big fires, though."
17 July, 2019
High Risk 10.3
Previous First
[Continuing chapter ten]
"Hey, Casey." Casey turned around to find Desiree grinning at him. I’m glad you’re in a good mood, he thought. The only good thing about today is that it wasn’t quite as painful as last night. "I've been released for the day," she said. "Let's get out of here and do something disreputable." She looked at his grimy hands and stained overalls. "Actually, that costume is far more disreputable than anything I could think of to do. Say, are you still working?"
"No so's he's of any use," Mitch said. "Big baby couldn't even help me push this ship into the hangar." He patted the red-painted Travelaire. "And all because his ribs is all bruised, poor thing."
"Better watch how you're talking to me," Casey said, forcing a smile. "I'm a movie star now." He turned to Desiree. "I'm just about done. All that's left is to drain the petrol and oil from this Tommy. Oh, and find a film magazine case that fell off Hogan’s DH-4 this afternoon."
[Continuing chapter ten]
"Hey, Casey." Casey turned around to find Desiree grinning at him. I’m glad you’re in a good mood, he thought. The only good thing about today is that it wasn’t quite as painful as last night. "I've been released for the day," she said. "Let's get out of here and do something disreputable." She looked at his grimy hands and stained overalls. "Actually, that costume is far more disreputable than anything I could think of to do. Say, are you still working?"
"No so's he's of any use," Mitch said. "Big baby couldn't even help me push this ship into the hangar." He patted the red-painted Travelaire. "And all because his ribs is all bruised, poor thing."
"Better watch how you're talking to me," Casey said, forcing a smile. "I'm a movie star now." He turned to Desiree. "I'm just about done. All that's left is to drain the petrol and oil from this Tommy. Oh, and find a film magazine case that fell off Hogan’s DH-4 this afternoon."
16 July, 2019
High Risk 10.2
Previous First
[Continuing chapter ten]
“You’re sure you don’t want to get started on this thing tonight,” Casey said.
“It’s late,” Desiree said, shutting off the ignition and opening her door. They were a full block from Jeff’s apartment, and Desiree had only found that parking space by circling twice. “I just want to come up and say hello to Jeff. Then I’m going to go to bed.”
“It’s not even ten-thirty yet.”
“I’ve been writing for more than an hour,” she said, “and I’m tired. Plus, I have an early call tomorrow. We’re running out of time at the airport, and Jerry still has oodles of set-ups left to shoot.”
“All right, then.” Casey started to get out of the car, then stopped. “Why don’t you leave the pages with me, then? I can start reviewing them tonight.”
“Don’t you have an early call as well?”
[Continuing chapter ten]
“You’re sure you don’t want to get started on this thing tonight,” Casey said.
“It’s late,” Desiree said, shutting off the ignition and opening her door. They were a full block from Jeff’s apartment, and Desiree had only found that parking space by circling twice. “I just want to come up and say hello to Jeff. Then I’m going to go to bed.”
“It’s not even ten-thirty yet.”
“I’ve been writing for more than an hour,” she said, “and I’m tired. Plus, I have an early call tomorrow. We’re running out of time at the airport, and Jerry still has oodles of set-ups left to shoot.”
“All right, then.” Casey started to get out of the car, then stopped. “Why don’t you leave the pages with me, then? I can start reviewing them tonight.”
“Don’t you have an early call as well?”
15 July, 2019
High Risk 10.1
Previous First
“Where did you learn to do that?” Casey watched as Desiree removed the thin metal ruler she had forced between door and jamb in order to pop the bolt on Ron Neal’s locked office door. “No, let me guess. You did something like this in a movie.”
“Close,” Desiree said. “A co-star did it. But you’d better believe I was taking notes.”
“Do your employers have any idea of what you’re really like?” Casey asked. “I’m just glad you use your powers for good and not for evil.”
“Shut up and get in here,” she said as she edged the door open and slipped into the dark office.
CHAPTER TEN
“Where did you learn to do that?” Casey watched as Desiree removed the thin metal ruler she had forced between door and jamb in order to pop the bolt on Ron Neal’s locked office door. “No, let me guess. You did something like this in a movie.”
“Close,” Desiree said. “A co-star did it. But you’d better believe I was taking notes.”
“Do your employers have any idea of what you’re really like?” Casey asked. “I’m just glad you use your powers for good and not for evil.”
“Shut up and get in here,” she said as she edged the door open and slipped into the dark office.
12 July, 2019
High Risk 9.5
Previous First
[Concluding chapter nine]
The guard consulted a clipboard when Desiree announced them, then waved them through without bothering to look at them. Casey wondered if the guard was bored or lazy, until the headlights of Desiree’s roadster illuminated a gaggle of autos in the parking lot. “I thought the studio shut down at six,” he said.
“The offices do,” Desiree said. “But this is the time when everyone—or at least everyone who’s interested—looks at the rushes.”
“The what?”
“The dailies. The film from the day’s shooting. It all has to be reviewed so that the producer and director know if they’re going to have to re-shoot any of it. Actors often watch as well, at least if they have any doubts about their performances.”
“You mean you start work at six and you keep working until late at night? When do all of these parties that I hear about happen?”
“You saw it last weekend,” Desiree said. “Saturday is party night in Hollywood. The rest of the week, we’re either at work or asleep. When I’m on a picture, I often don’t get home before ten. Since I have to be up early—our calls are normally at eight—I usually go to bed as soon as I get home. On some pictures, I’ve worked pretty much around the clock for days at a time. Just about every studio works on a really tight schedule.”
“I’m appalled,” Casey said. “Everybody works these hours? It hardly makes earning a hundred times the average wage seem worth while.”
“What I’m finding most annoying about you, Casey,” Desiree said, “is that I can never tell when you’re being serious and when you’re insulting me for comic effect.” She shut off the Packard and opened her door. “I suggest, though, that you behave yourself if you don’t want me to sabotage your wardrobe fitting in ways you won’t even be aware of.”
“I’ll be good,” Casey said, chastened.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine
[Concluding chapter nine]
The guard consulted a clipboard when Desiree announced them, then waved them through without bothering to look at them. Casey wondered if the guard was bored or lazy, until the headlights of Desiree’s roadster illuminated a gaggle of autos in the parking lot. “I thought the studio shut down at six,” he said.
“The offices do,” Desiree said. “But this is the time when everyone—or at least everyone who’s interested—looks at the rushes.”
“The what?”
“The dailies. The film from the day’s shooting. It all has to be reviewed so that the producer and director know if they’re going to have to re-shoot any of it. Actors often watch as well, at least if they have any doubts about their performances.”
“You mean you start work at six and you keep working until late at night? When do all of these parties that I hear about happen?”
“You saw it last weekend,” Desiree said. “Saturday is party night in Hollywood. The rest of the week, we’re either at work or asleep. When I’m on a picture, I often don’t get home before ten. Since I have to be up early—our calls are normally at eight—I usually go to bed as soon as I get home. On some pictures, I’ve worked pretty much around the clock for days at a time. Just about every studio works on a really tight schedule.”
“I’m appalled,” Casey said. “Everybody works these hours? It hardly makes earning a hundred times the average wage seem worth while.”
“What I’m finding most annoying about you, Casey,” Desiree said, “is that I can never tell when you’re being serious and when you’re insulting me for comic effect.” She shut off the Packard and opened her door. “I suggest, though, that you behave yourself if you don’t want me to sabotage your wardrobe fitting in ways you won’t even be aware of.”
“I’ll be good,” Casey said, chastened.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine
11 July, 2019
High Risk 9.4
Previous First
[Continuing chapter nine]
The pretend-dogfight went smoothly. Tillman and Hamilton knew their work and knew how to follow directions. Even better, they were sufficiently respectful of his veteran status that they were prepared to let him lead in the air. Casey wasn’t thrilled at having to answer their questions about dogfighting afterward; he’d spent the last decade trying to put the war behind him. But it was a small price to pay for an easy day. He even got to spend most of the afternoon flying a Travelaire, a modern machine that was utterly without vices when compared with the Thomas-Morse.
[Continuing chapter nine]
The pretend-dogfight went smoothly. Tillman and Hamilton knew their work and knew how to follow directions. Even better, they were sufficiently respectful of his veteran status that they were prepared to let him lead in the air. Casey wasn’t thrilled at having to answer their questions about dogfighting afterward; he’d spent the last decade trying to put the war behind him. But it was a small price to pay for an easy day. He even got to spend most of the afternoon flying a Travelaire, a modern machine that was utterly without vices when compared with the Thomas-Morse.
10 July, 2019
High Risk 9.3
Previous First
[Continuing chapter nine]
When he got to the hangar, a man approached him—a man who most definitely did not look like anyone with a right to be around Hogan’s airplanes. This man was short, and with a well-padded look that suggested he’d gone too long without any meaningful exercise. A pencil-thin mustache clung to his upper lip; when he removed his hat to wipe his forehead, he revealed a hairline in full retreat.
“You Casey?” the man said. His voice had an edge to it, as though he was trying to suppress an angry snarl.
Casey nodded. “And you are—?”
“Grey,” the man said. “Special investigator for District Attorney Buron Fitts. They told me at the studio that I could find you here.”
[Continuing chapter nine]
When he got to the hangar, a man approached him—a man who most definitely did not look like anyone with a right to be around Hogan’s airplanes. This man was short, and with a well-padded look that suggested he’d gone too long without any meaningful exercise. A pencil-thin mustache clung to his upper lip; when he removed his hat to wipe his forehead, he revealed a hairline in full retreat.
“You Casey?” the man said. His voice had an edge to it, as though he was trying to suppress an angry snarl.
Casey nodded. “And you are—?”
“Grey,” the man said. “Special investigator for District Attorney Buron Fitts. They told me at the studio that I could find you here.”
09 July, 2019
High Risk 9.2
Previous First
[Continuing chapter nine]
I didn’t hear what I think I heard, did I? “You want me to act? Now?”
“I want all of my performers to act,” Straebo said drily. “I’m usually prepared to accept it when they stand in the right place, look good for the camera, and more or less say what they’re supposed to.” Didn’t Desiree just say exactly that? Casey asked himself, trying not to laugh. “In your case, what did you think was the purpose of your screen test?” Straebo continued. “I looked at it last night, Casey. I must say your performance during the formal part of the test was, um, dreadful. But I was persuaded to watch the footage filmed after you’d completed your pages, and I think there’s something in you that can be worked with. You’ll do your scenes on Saturday; one of my assistants will give you the necessary information.”
Casey fumbled for something to say that might sound grateful, but Straebo wasn’t finished. “You will need to be fitted by our wardrobe people, of course, but Hogan tells me he can’t spare you today. So you’ll have to do it tonight. Go to the main gate at seven-thirty. I’ll have left instructions with the guard.”
[Continuing chapter nine]
I didn’t hear what I think I heard, did I? “You want me to act? Now?”
“I want all of my performers to act,” Straebo said drily. “I’m usually prepared to accept it when they stand in the right place, look good for the camera, and more or less say what they’re supposed to.” Didn’t Desiree just say exactly that? Casey asked himself, trying not to laugh. “In your case, what did you think was the purpose of your screen test?” Straebo continued. “I looked at it last night, Casey. I must say your performance during the formal part of the test was, um, dreadful. But I was persuaded to watch the footage filmed after you’d completed your pages, and I think there’s something in you that can be worked with. You’ll do your scenes on Saturday; one of my assistants will give you the necessary information.”
Casey fumbled for something to say that might sound grateful, but Straebo wasn’t finished. “You will need to be fitted by our wardrobe people, of course, but Hogan tells me he can’t spare you today. So you’ll have to do it tonight. Go to the main gate at seven-thirty. I’ll have left instructions with the guard.”
08 July, 2019
High Risk 9.1
Previous First
The following day was uneventful. Casey spent the morning with Mitch trying to make the remaining Gnome-powered Thomas-Morse air-worthy enough to complete the last big stunt; the afternoon was wasted, to his way of thinking, filming more takeoffs and landings, or—even less exciting—engine starts and shut-downs. Somehow, Casey was exhausted when he finally made it back to Jeff Cunningham’s apartment, well after the sun had set. Too tired to do anything else, he spent what remained of the evening looking through Cunningham’s record collection and comparing notes with the writer. He even persuaded himself that it was just as well that Desiree didn’t call demanding to go sleuthing.
CHAPTER NINE
The following day was uneventful. Casey spent the morning with Mitch trying to make the remaining Gnome-powered Thomas-Morse air-worthy enough to complete the last big stunt; the afternoon was wasted, to his way of thinking, filming more takeoffs and landings, or—even less exciting—engine starts and shut-downs. Somehow, Casey was exhausted when he finally made it back to Jeff Cunningham’s apartment, well after the sun had set. Too tired to do anything else, he spent what remained of the evening looking through Cunningham’s record collection and comparing notes with the writer. He even persuaded himself that it was just as well that Desiree didn’t call demanding to go sleuthing.
07 July, 2019
Now We Are Sixty-Four: V
Cherry Pits
Contract, zero-based,
Uber part-time,
In the gig economy
Where wages are a crime―
Packing at a warehouse,
Always on your feet;
Cycle food delivery,
Wobbling on the street.
Working without benefits―hope you don’t get ill,
Paying off your student loans, the never-ending bill,
For a piece of paper that can’t help you compete,
Because the thing you studied has become quite obsolete.
How are you supposed to live, where rents are soaring high?
Retirement’s a cruel joke: you’re barely getting by!
This old working world’s gone so downhill, it’s like to give you fits:
We boomers got the cherries, and all you folks get are pits.
05 July, 2019
High Risk 8.4
Previous First
[concluding chapter eight]
Cambridge seemed to collapse in on himself. “All right,” he said after a long silence. “If I’m honest, will you promise to leave me and Anthony alone?”
“As much as we can,” Casey said. “I’ve no interest in harming anyone. At least not anyone who isn’t connected with the murder.”
“I wasn’t. I’m not. I haven’t—hadn’t seen Lily for over a week when she died.”
“Why not?” Desiree asked.
“She’d told me we couldn’t—well, couldn’t see each other anymore,” Cambridge said. His eyes began to tear. Casey stared; this was not the reaction he’d expected. “In spite of what she’d said, I had hoped—oh, I guess it doesn’t matter now. What matters now is that she’d decided that she had to—move on was the way she put it.”
[concluding chapter eight]
Cambridge seemed to collapse in on himself. “All right,” he said after a long silence. “If I’m honest, will you promise to leave me and Anthony alone?”
“As much as we can,” Casey said. “I’ve no interest in harming anyone. At least not anyone who isn’t connected with the murder.”
“I wasn’t. I’m not. I haven’t—hadn’t seen Lily for over a week when she died.”
“Why not?” Desiree asked.
“She’d told me we couldn’t—well, couldn’t see each other anymore,” Cambridge said. His eyes began to tear. Casey stared; this was not the reaction he’d expected. “In spite of what she’d said, I had hoped—oh, I guess it doesn’t matter now. What matters now is that she’d decided that she had to—move on was the way she put it.”
04 July, 2019
High Risk 8.3
Previous First
[continuing chapter eight]
Ronald Cambridge lived just off Alvarado a few blocks south-west of Sunset. The neighborhood had once been quite popular with movie people, Desiree said. “I still live out here myself,” she added. “My place overlooks the lake in Westlake Park. You should come and see it some time.”
“With the proper chaperon, I just might.”
“What’s got into you tonight, Casey?” She parked the car in front of a small, Spanish colonial-style house and shut off the engine. “You’re coming over all maiden aunt-ish, if you don’t mind my saying. Next to you, Bertie Wooster is Tarzan of the Apes.”
[continuing chapter eight]
Ronald Cambridge lived just off Alvarado a few blocks south-west of Sunset. The neighborhood had once been quite popular with movie people, Desiree said. “I still live out here myself,” she added. “My place overlooks the lake in Westlake Park. You should come and see it some time.”
“With the proper chaperon, I just might.”
“What’s got into you tonight, Casey?” She parked the car in front of a small, Spanish colonial-style house and shut off the engine. “You’re coming over all maiden aunt-ish, if you don’t mind my saying. Next to you, Bertie Wooster is Tarzan of the Apes.”
03 July, 2019
High Risk 8.2
Previous First
[continuing chapter eight]
Over dinner they tried to divine Jerry W. Straebo’s interest in Lily Cross. Straebo, Desiree informed Casey, was already heavily involved with Eve Adams—not to mention still having a wife somewhere around San Francisco. The wife had long since accepted her place in the scheme of things, but Desiree was of the opinion that Miss Adams wouldn’t go so quietly had her turn come.
“I don’t understand him,” Casey said, carefully carving his chop. “Miss Adams seems to be just the sort of young woman a man like Straebo would want. She faints at the drop of a profanity, she seems incapable of doing anything without asking him first, and on top of it all she still seems to be a reasonably pleasant young woman. Oh, and she’s pretty, too, I guess.”
“You guess,” Desiree said.
“So why would he start having an affair with Lily Cross? At the very best she’s just another Eve Adams. And if what Carole London told us this afternoon is even close to being true, Lily Cross was a bit of a—”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is quiff,” Desiree said with a wicked grin. “Slut would also do.”
[continuing chapter eight]
Over dinner they tried to divine Jerry W. Straebo’s interest in Lily Cross. Straebo, Desiree informed Casey, was already heavily involved with Eve Adams—not to mention still having a wife somewhere around San Francisco. The wife had long since accepted her place in the scheme of things, but Desiree was of the opinion that Miss Adams wouldn’t go so quietly had her turn come.
“I don’t understand him,” Casey said, carefully carving his chop. “Miss Adams seems to be just the sort of young woman a man like Straebo would want. She faints at the drop of a profanity, she seems incapable of doing anything without asking him first, and on top of it all she still seems to be a reasonably pleasant young woman. Oh, and she’s pretty, too, I guess.”
“You guess,” Desiree said.
“So why would he start having an affair with Lily Cross? At the very best she’s just another Eve Adams. And if what Carole London told us this afternoon is even close to being true, Lily Cross was a bit of a—”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is quiff,” Desiree said with a wicked grin. “Slut would also do.”
01 July, 2019
High Risk 8.1
Previous First
“Which man from the studio?” Desiree asked. She’d pulled up beside the staff entrance to the Broadway department store, but placed a hand on Carole’s arm to prevent the young woman from getting out of the roadster.
“Mr. Neal,” Carole said. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”
“I’m having some trouble believing that myself,” said Casey. He wondered what Desiree would do now, if his suspicions about the studio’s intentions were proved correct.
“You hadn’t come in yet when we told your landlady,” Desiree said. “Mr. Neal’s off looking into possible clues, and he took his notes with him. When did you give him the diary?”
“Early yesterday morning. He came to see Mrs. Carpenter before the sun came up, even before the police.” Carole smiled knowingly. “When I told him about the diary he told me that I’d done him a favor and that he’d remember that. Wouldn’t it be a lollapalooza if it was Lily’s being killed that gets me an in at a studio?”
“Wouldn’t it just,” Casey murmured. He was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in all of Hollywood who wasn’t this calculatingly voracious. The people he’d met so far made Mick Mannock and the bloody Red Baron look like tea-grannies in comparison.
EIGHT
“Which man from the studio?” Desiree asked. She’d pulled up beside the staff entrance to the Broadway department store, but placed a hand on Carole’s arm to prevent the young woman from getting out of the roadster.
“Mr. Neal,” Carole said. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”
“I’m having some trouble believing that myself,” said Casey. He wondered what Desiree would do now, if his suspicions about the studio’s intentions were proved correct.
“You hadn’t come in yet when we told your landlady,” Desiree said. “Mr. Neal’s off looking into possible clues, and he took his notes with him. When did you give him the diary?”
“Early yesterday morning. He came to see Mrs. Carpenter before the sun came up, even before the police.” Carole smiled knowingly. “When I told him about the diary he told me that I’d done him a favor and that he’d remember that. Wouldn’t it be a lollapalooza if it was Lily’s being killed that gets me an in at a studio?”
“Wouldn’t it just,” Casey murmured. He was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in all of Hollywood who wasn’t this calculatingly voracious. The people he’d met so far made Mick Mannock and the bloody Red Baron look like tea-grannies in comparison.
Happy Canada Day... and Memorial Day
Today is a day of celebration across most of Canada, but we should never forget that it's also a day of mourning in Canada's newest province.
The Dominion of Canada was officially proclaimed on 1 July 1867, so today Canada is 152 years old. A bunch of us will celebrate the day at a party being thrown by good friends, and tonight will explode with fireworks.
A different sort of explosion dominated the first day of July in 1916. That was the day the British army launched a major offensive along the Somme River in northern France. One of the regiments participating in that attack was the Newfoundland Regiment, part of the 29th Division.
At dawn on 1 July 1916 the Newfoundland Regiment mustered 1,044 of all ranks, with an actual fighting strength of 929 (the other hundred-odd men were administrative and attached personnel). Of those 929, 780 men were detailed to take part in the second wave of the assault. (It was British policy to leave a portion of a regiment out of the line of battle to form a reserve for rebuilding in case of disaster.)
The assault was a shambles from the very beginning, and the second wave should never have been committed. The German defenders were not killed, wounded or even suppressed by the artillery barrage, and their counter-fire was so effective that huge numbers of the second-wave attackers were killed or wounded while making their way to the British lines. In other words, they never even got the chance to attack.
In under two hours the Newfoundland Regiment was essentially destroyed. Of the 780 who attacked, only 68 answered roll-call on 2 July. For a society as small and close-knit as was Newfoundland in 1914, the result of 1 July 1916 was catastrophic. The day became a day of mourning in 1917, and it remains so today. It should be remembered that Newfoundland did not become a part of Canada until the last day of March, 1949. By that time the tradition of observing 1 July as a day of mourning and memorial was well established.
So today, when raising a glass to the anniversary of Confederation, take a moment to raise a second, silent toast to the memory of the Blue Puttees.
 |
| Image by William C. Grice, from Wikimedia Commons |
The Dominion of Canada was officially proclaimed on 1 July 1867, so today Canada is 152 years old. A bunch of us will celebrate the day at a party being thrown by good friends, and tonight will explode with fireworks.
A different sort of explosion dominated the first day of July in 1916. That was the day the British army launched a major offensive along the Somme River in northern France. One of the regiments participating in that attack was the Newfoundland Regiment, part of the 29th Division.
At dawn on 1 July 1916 the Newfoundland Regiment mustered 1,044 of all ranks, with an actual fighting strength of 929 (the other hundred-odd men were administrative and attached personnel). Of those 929, 780 men were detailed to take part in the second wave of the assault. (It was British policy to leave a portion of a regiment out of the line of battle to form a reserve for rebuilding in case of disaster.)
.jpg) |
| Newfoundland Regiment cap badge (Wikimedia Commons) |
The assault was a shambles from the very beginning, and the second wave should never have been committed. The German defenders were not killed, wounded or even suppressed by the artillery barrage, and their counter-fire was so effective that huge numbers of the second-wave attackers were killed or wounded while making their way to the British lines. In other words, they never even got the chance to attack.
In under two hours the Newfoundland Regiment was essentially destroyed. Of the 780 who attacked, only 68 answered roll-call on 2 July. For a society as small and close-knit as was Newfoundland in 1914, the result of 1 July 1916 was catastrophic. The day became a day of mourning in 1917, and it remains so today. It should be remembered that Newfoundland did not become a part of Canada until the last day of March, 1949. By that time the tradition of observing 1 July as a day of mourning and memorial was well established.
So today, when raising a glass to the anniversary of Confederation, take a moment to raise a second, silent toast to the memory of the Blue Puttees.
 |
| Newfoundland Memorial at Beaumont-Hamel on the Somme battlefield (author's photo) |
 |
| Remains of trenches in Newfoundland Park at Beaumont- Hamel (author's photo) |
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