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[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.
Mitch kept the chocks in place in front of the wheels until he and Casey both saw Hogan's pilot waggle the DH-4's wings to signal that Hogan was in position. Straebo and the crew at the far end saw the signal too, and as a camera assistant waved the signal flag, Mitch pulled the chocks free, ducking out of the way as the Tommy rumbled forward. Casey thought of Straebo’s ridiculous instructions, and decided they weren’t worth considering. Stay focused, he thought. This is easy. Just stay focused. He adjusted the mixture lever—too far forward. The Gnome began to run rough, and black smoke belched from the cowling until Casey nudged the lever back.
Now the Tommy was trying to get its tail up. A quick check of the airspeed indicator showed fifty—fifty-five. Time to lift off: he nudged the stick back, and the Tommy bounced once, then began to climb. Almost instantaneously the airship shed vanished behind him. Now!
Casey slammed the stick down and to the right, simultaneously closing the fuel lever. The Gnome sputtered, stopped. Casey pulled the stick back up and to the left, and the Tommy flattened out just as the lower starboard wing hit the field. Casey had just enough time to cross his arms in front of his chest before the old trainer spun around and slammed nose-first into the turf.
He had unbuckled himself and was checking his ribs for further damage when he remembered that the cameras would still be rolling. Howard Hughes had been stunned by his accident, Casey had learned, and if this was supposed to mimic that incident then he'd better stay still. He slumped forward and rested his head on the cockpit coaming until the dust had finished settling and the first crew member reached the wreckage.
"How do you feel?" Desiree had been among the first to arrive; she held out a supporting hand as he stepped down from the step-ladder they'd set against the crumpled fuselage.
"Glad it's over with," Casey said. "Don't think I did any more damage, but by God my ribs hurt. I'm not sure I'm going to be good for much more today."
"Could you use a drink?"
"Several. Hell, I'd like to bathe in gin." He laughed, bitterly.
"What?" Desiree asked.
"I was just thinking," he said. "Be careful what you wish for. The other night I was remembering how good it felt to take chances, to live on the edge. Now I'm remembering the other side of that record."
"Hey!" Jeff Cunningham leaned, waving, from an open car that bounced to a stop near the generator and reflectors. When the screenwriter jumped from the car, he was holding a newspaper. "Did you see this morning's Times?" he asked.
"I was up too early," Casey said. "It hadn't come when the studio truck came to pick me up. Why?"
"Howard Hughes is back in business, that's why." Cunningham showed them the story. "He's finally found a replacement for Greta Nissen, so Hell's Angels is back in front of the cameras."
Casey took the paper. Something about the front page caught his eye, and he folded it back to read the headline. “The front page says ‘Stock prices collapse’ and all you want to talk about is some actress?”
“It’s all a question of what matters more to people,” Cunningham said. “I’m too poor to afford stock.”
"Who’s Jean Harlow?" Casey asked, having found the story Cunningham had circled.
"I've heard the name," Desiree said, taking the paper from him. "If it's the same person, she used to do small roles for Mack Sennett. I saw her in a Laurel and Hardy thing a while back. Her hair's so pale it's practically white. Not exactly star material, I'd think."
"Well, that just doesn't make sense," Casey said, shaking his head. "He should have been happy."
"What?" Desiree and Cunningham spoke in unison.
"This morning Straebo was in a thoroughly rotten mood. I'd have thought he'd be happy that Hughes is finally going to finish Hell's Angels. At least now there's a chance people will understand what High Risk is supposed to be about."
"Don't underestimate Jerry's potential for being contrary," Desiree said. "He's probably furious that Hughes is getting publicity for this." She looked at the newspaper again. "Why would Howard Hughes hire such a nobody for an expensive, prestige picture? I know there were dozens of women interested in the part."
"Don't ask me," Casey said. "I never pretended to understand the way movie peoples' minds work."
Cunningham nudged his elbow. "Speaking of which," the writer said, "do you suppose we should go rescue Eve over there? Looks as if she's dealing with some unwanted attention."
"God damn," Casey said. The man haranguing Miss Adams was Hal Telford.
Casey began walking rapidly toward the pair. He could see now that Miss Adams's face was pinched with fear or anger or a mixture of both. She looked away from Telford, saw Casey approaching and her eyes widened. Her mouth opened—and then Cunningham shouted Telford's name. The pilot turned, saw the party advancing on him, and took to his heels.
Cursing, Casey tried to run after Telford. A jolt of pain from his ribs put paid to that idea, though. Cunningham, you idiot, he thought. Now he knows we're wise to him.
"Are you all right, Miss Adams?" he asked, breathing carefully and trying to keep from noticing the press of discomfort on his chest. "Was he trying—"
"Thank you, Mr. Casey," Miss Adams said, her voice rippling as a tear appeared in the corner of one eye. "I have no idea what that brute wanted, but thank you for driving him off." She didn't wait for him to respond; instead she suddenly seized him in a brief hug, then walked rapidly toward Straebo's car.
Watching her jerky steps, high heels sinking into the turf of the airfield, Casey found himself playing the scene back in his mind. Something about it hadn't seemed right, something that went beyond the clumsy insincerity of the hug.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
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