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[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.
This was all the better, because as the day went on Casey found himself worrying more and more about the acting job Straebo had threatened him with. It was worse, he decided, than the agonies he’d gone through before his first solo. He’d been equally nervous then, it was true. But he’d known he wanted to fly, wanted it with all the breath and energy in him. The desire, the sureness of it, had made the discomfort easier to bear. Being in the movies was a complete mystery to him, and while the money would undoubtedly be welcome, wanting the comfort money would bring wasn’t the same as needing to fly.
He tried to explain this to Desiree that evening as she sped them in her Packard along Riverside and back toward Hollywood. “You’re just nervous,” she said. “That’s perfectly understandable. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it,” he said. “Your driving I’m worried about. This acting thing I’m—well, I’m looking for a sense that this is a good idea, I guess. I don’t have a burning desire to be on the silver screen, you know.”
“Wait until you see yourself,” Desiree said. “Even better, wait until you see other people seeing you up there.”
“Tell me again what this is going to be like.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine
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