And Amy said, “
Robert covered his mouth with a hand. He had dropped his notebook.
Sounds of grunting, metallic banging around in the plane, accompanied Amy’s near screams: “
And that was followed by a sound that could only have been a slap.
Then dead silence.
We listened for a long time, but all we heard was that awful deathly stillness, and static. He picked the notebook up and recorded those last terrible sentences. Finally I helped the boy to his feet and we stumbled together over to the couch, flopping there, exhausted.
What had we heard? Cruel hoax? Or cruel reality?
“They’re saved, though, right?” he asked. “It’s better than nothing, the Japs saving them. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
Sitting there in the near dark, I nodded and smiled and put my arm around the boy, and pretended not to notice he was weeping.
He did me the same favor.
13
The sky was a glowing pastel blue with bright stars that created shimmering crosses if you looked right at them; the stars were electric, arranged in caricatures of constellations, and the sky merely the sculpted ceiling that rose in a gentle slope from behind the stage to shelter the posh crowd out on the mirror-varnished dance floor. They were gliding around to “A Foggy Day in London Town” as performed by Harl Smith and His Continental Orchestra, at the Club Continental, a shout away from Burbank’s United Airport, formal in its linen-covered tablecloths, fine china, and sterling silverware, intimate in its cozy booths, tables for two, and pastel-tinted wooden paneling.
In my herringbone blue garbardine, the nicest suit I owned, I was underdressed. A good-looking brunette in furs and gown who might have been Paulette Goddard was dancing with a guy I didn’t recognize but who, like most of the men on the dance floor, wore a tuxedo.
I found Mantz at one of those cozy booths, seated across from a cute blonde; he was in a white dinner jacket with a black bow tie, and she wore a yellow chiffon evening dress with an admirable decolletage.
“Sorry to track you down like this,” I said. “But I’m leaving tomorrow morning, on the train.”
“Glad you did,” he said, and nodded toward his companion. “My fiancee, Terry Minor…. This is the guy I was tellin’ you about, Terry—Nate Heller from Chicago.”
“A real pleasure, Nate,” she said, and beamed, offering her hand for me to shake; she had a firm, friendly grip.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Terry,” I said.
She was in her early thirties, not movie star pretty, but it was easy to see what Mantz saw in her, and I’m not just referring to her neckline. Her hair in hundreds of tiny blonde curls, eyes bright and blue, she radiated the same tomboyish appeal as Amy.
“Sit down,” Mantz said, sliding over in the booth.
“I hate to think what he’s told you about me,” I said to Terry with a grin.
“I told her how you saved my behind,” Mantz said, frosted martini in hand, “when Myrtle came gunnin’ for me…. Considering why you were hired that night, that was pretty white of ya.”
He was fairly well oiled, good-naturedly so.
Softly, I asked him, “Have you, uh, informed Terry about why I’m in town?”
“I’ve filled her in,” he said. “We don’t have any secrets.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said with a little smile, sipping her own frosted drink.
That made him smile; in addition to being well lubricated, he was lovesick over this cutie.
“So…you’ve come to your senses, then,” he said. “You’re finally givin’ up on this foolheaded fishing expedition.”
I gave him half a smile. “Are you forgetting what fool headed me there, in the first place?”
That made Terry giggle, but her steady gaze let me know she didn’t take this subject lightly.
I waved a waiter over and ordered a rum and Coke. “Hell no I’m not giving up. I’m heading home and sell my story to the
“Figures,” Mantz snorted. “Leave it to you to find a way to make a buck out of this.”
“I’m not in it for the money,” I said testily. “But what’s the harm of having your cake and eating it, too?”
Now the orchestra was playing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
“There are some damn dangerous people involved in this affair, Nate,” Mantz said. “That bird Miller, for one.”
“Frank Nitti’s a friend of mine,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve run into tougher birds than William Miller.”
