“Call it instrument flying, then. Or dead reckoning—and dead is what you’ll be, angel, if you don’t face the reality of how often your life depends on an ability to fly precise compass headings through the shittiest weather known to God or man.”
“Let’s call it zero-visibility flying.”
“Fine. Call it Mickey and Minnie Mouse in the Tunnel of Love, as far as I give a damn. But over the next several weeks, angel, your pretty behind resides in that red tin can.”
And he gave her pretty behind a couple playful pats, and she laughed and said, “All right, all right, you evil man,” and somebody cleared their throat.
Actually, somebody cleared
“Isn’t this a cozy sight?” she said, her voice high-pitched, with a hint of Southwestern twang.
It was the least attractive thing about her. She was poised just inside the hangar, and for a fairly small woman, she threw a long shadow. Her frock was a sheer white polka-dot organdy with a draped cowl neck and bare arms, which were folded under the rounded wonders that were her breasts; she had her weight on one leg, though both legs—judging by the sleekly nyloned and well-turned ankles—were worth considering.
“Myrtle,” Amy said, and her voice seemed warm, as did her smile, “how delightful to see you!”
And Amy walked toward the woman with her arms outstretched.
Mantz whispered to me, “That’s the little woman.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“There’s all kinds of luck.”
Amelia Earhart had now reached Myrtle Mantz, whose icy demeanor seemed suddenly to melt and the redhead accepted, and reciprocated, the hug Amy offered.
I was still trying to figure out what to make of that when they walked toward us, hand in hand, Myrtle’s high heels clicking on the cement floor, echoing in the high-ceilinged space like gunfire. Myrtle was smiling, now; a dazzler it was, too, with no gaps.
“Have you seen the torture chamber your husband’s arranged for me?” Amy asked Myrtle, and the two girls— chums now—peeked in and around the little red plane. Myrtle stood on tippy-toe and, under the organdy dress, the globes of her perfect behind were like firm ripe melons; as much as I admired Amy’s tomboyish pulchritude, Mantz was definitely a guy who didn’t need to leave the house to find a pretty behind to pat.
Shortly thereafter we recommenced to the Union Terminal’s Sky Room, a quaint mix of linen tablecloths, airplane memorabilia and cumbersome dude ranch furnishings. Birds tweeting in cages spoke more of captivity than flight, while a wall of windows looked out over endless runways where the bigger birds of United, Western, and TWA came and went; as dusk turned to evening, floodlights turned the tarmac to instant noon.
Mantz sat beside his wife but across from Amy; I was next to Amy and across from Mrs. Mantz, who was so gorgeous I instantly composed a private, filthy limerick about her, utilizing the word “pants” as the punchline.
A cocky, swaggering little guy, Mantz did most of the talking at dinner, frequently laughing at his own jokes. But mostly he was coaching his star pupil.
“You know you have a tendency to push your engine to the limit,” he said to Amy. We had finished our dinner —everyone had fresh seafood of one kind or another, delicious—and he was working on his third frost-rimmed martini.
“Of course,” Amy said, over her inevitable cup of cocoa. “The extra power makes up for the headwinds.”
“That’s no way to fly,” he said, exasperated. “It’s a foolish goddamn dangerous method to use on life-and- death long-range flights.”
Myrtle Mantz had said little through dinner; she was watching her husband and his charge talk about flying as if she were overhearing them pitching woo at each other. But neither Paul nor Amy seemed to notice the daggers in those green eyes.
“Listen,” he said to Amy, “when this Mexico flight is over, why don’t you leave the Vega with me? I can add it to my charter service. You can make a little dough, angel.”
Every time he called Amy “angel,” a furrow like a cut appeared between Mrs. Mantz’s finely plucked eyebrows.
Amy considered Mantz’s offer, shrugged. “I don’t see why not. How’s business been?”
“You know flying—up and down.” He chortled at this prime witticism, then said, “The big money’s with the Hollywood jobs, but when the weather’s bad and production schedules are slow, I fall back on the ol’ Honeymoon Express.”
Myrtle, finally acknowledging my existence, gazed at me with hooded eyes. “This is where Paul starts dropping names. It’s one of his least attractive traits.”
Mantz sipped his martini and said to me, “Don’t listen to her, Nate. Ever since Jean Harlow kissed me at that air show in ’33, she’s been like this.” And he said to her, “Baby, that’s how Hollywood is. They kiss and they hug and it don’t mean a goddamn thing. It’s like a handshake to these people.”
“He had Cecil B. DeMille in his plane last week,” she said to me. “I doubt there was much kissing and hugging on that flight.”
Then Mantz said to me, “Ask her if she didn’t beg me to come along on the Douglas Fairbanks charter.”
Generally it’s not a good sign for a marriage when the husband and wife speak to each other through a third party.
Suddenly Mrs. Mantz, her tone suspiciously civil, asked, “Amelia, where are you staying while you’re in town?”
