Chapter 3 #2
“Of course not,” he agreed hastily. “I apologize for not making my meaning clear immediately. I believe I can assist you in obtaining your, um, products. I understand it has become increasingly more challenging to transport them since the Volstead Act passed. There’s profit to be made in getting alcohol into our ‘dry’ country. ”
Lazovsky’s unibrow parted into two hairy caterpillars once more. “I might be interested in that sort of arrangement.”
Encouraged, Horace leaned forward and started to plant his forearms on the edge of the desk, but at a lurch from the bodyguards in his field of view, he hastily pulled his arms back. He spoke quickly to cover the gaffe. “Think of how fast you could move your product using airplanes.”
The huge man sitting in the corner snorted. Lazovsky jerked his thumb toward the thug. “Silas is right. You’re an imbecile. Planes can’t fly at night. As for during the day, planes are loud and easy to see. The BOI watches out for them. They meet and search every plane they spot when it lands.”
“Yes, but I’m in charge of this race’s flight path.
From Santa Monica, down to the Mexico border .
. .” He paused to let those words sink in.
“I can send twenty of the fastest planes in the world to, say, Calexico. Thousands of spectators are expected at every stopover. Just think how busy so many onlookers will keep law enforcement personnel. The BOI won’t have time or men to pay attention to anything but the race.
Down in Arizona, there is a huge field full of war-weary old Jennies.
I’m sure they have one last flight in them. ”
Lazovsky’s eyes narrowed in what Horace read as interest. The gangster made a keep-going motion with his hand.
He obliged. “While everyone’s busy watching the women prancing around, making fools of themselves, your own planes can cross the border undetected. These women and their race will provide a very visible, very noisy distraction.”
Slowly, Lazovsky smiled. Horace sat back triumphantly and returned that smile.
“First-ever Women’s Air Derby,” Lazovsky muttered. “Sounds like the sort of thing businessmen might be willing to take a financial interest in.”
Horace blinked, startled. He might’ve started celebrating a little too soon.
A mobster like Lazovsky apparently wasn’t going to be satisfied with just the money offered on the table upfront.
Dumb, Horace, dumb. You should’ve seen this coming.
Lazovsky ran a casino. Doubling and redoubling bets was a game he knew very well.
He would squeeze his partners for more than they’d intended to give.
“Sounds like something railroad owners and union rail workers might be interested in seeing fail,” Lazovsky commented. “And since you are in a position to know the details, maybe we can do business. Let’s have a drink.”
The madam appeared with two long-stemmed martini glasses filled with a frothy pink concoction. She murmured as she set one in front of Horace, “My signature cocktail.”
Lazovsky lifted his glass and took a sniff. “The good stuff. From Europe. I save it for special partners. The kind I plan on having a profitable relationship with.”
“I’ll drink to that, Mr. Lazovsky.” Horace took a sip of his pink martini. It was delicious, and he detected the bouquet of fine spirits. The very expensive kind he had to sail to England to get a taste of these days.
“Tell you what,” Lazovsky said. “You keep your little race going till after Calexico. But I want you to get that derby canceled before it finishes, and there’ll be lots more of this fancy booze for you.”
“For thirty percent of the profits on the shipment I’m making possible, I will,” Horace threw out.
“Twenty,” Lazovsky countered. “And like I said, quality cocktails any time you come here.”
Horace took another sip of the concoction, savoring the salty-sweet burn on his tongue before he swallowed.
Did he dare risk asking for 25 percent, or should he give the mobster the win?
His instinct was to get all the money he could.
But logic said this could be the first of many profitable deals.
Showing too much greed now could make this his only deal with Lazovsky.
He raised the glass to the gangster and said, “Twenty percent, it is. To a long and profitable partnership!”
Doubt niggled at Horace. He would have to think up a way to make the pilots quit the race midway through it.
But how hard could that be? After all, they were just a bunch of silly women.
During the Great War, women had been given far too much freedom while their men were off fighting in the trenches, and then women had gone and turned the country dry.
It was far past time American women returned to their proper place in the home and men regained control of society.
Showing a bunch of wild, unbridled girls they didn’t belong in the skies—while the eyes of the entire nation were upon them—would be a fine way to send that message to all women, loud and clear.
Getting to be a part of putting society back the way it ought to be was going to be a very great pleasure.
The profit would be nice, too!
“We’ve got to go, right now. Nice and quiet. Don’t draw any attention,” Pancho muttered to the women at the table without moving her smiling lips.
“What’s hap—” Louise started to ask.
Pancho cut her off quietly. “I’ll explain outside. Remember. Cool and casual. Just hankerin’ for some crumpets.”
The women pretended to chitchat as they gathered their belongings. Pancho fished cash out of her jacket, tossing the bills on the table with a nod to the bartender. They eased their chairs back and stood as a group.
Pancho sauntered toward the exit, bursting with an urge to take off running. But she knew better than to give away that something was up. Although it nigh killed her, she and the others finally made it across the speakeasy floor and up the stairs without appearing to attract undue attention.
She burst outside and pulled up short, blinded by the setting sun directly in her eyes. Squinting, she turned away from it as the other women piled out behind her, talking all at once and firing questions at her.
Louise Thaden waved the others to silence and demanded, “What’s up?”
Looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, Pancho explained quickly, “Race rules changed. Women only, one pilot per plane. One hundred hours minimum flying time, and twenty-five hours have to be cross-country time.”
“Holy cow,” Louise breathed. “We did it.”
The women grinned at one another triumphantly.
“But there’s a kicker.” Pancho lowered her voice even more. “They’ve capped entries at the first twenty racers to sign up.”
The women stared at her in blank disbelief.
“But forty women were invited to race,” Marvel said.
Pancho nodded and said grimly, “Which means it’s gonna be a free-for-all to be first to sign up. As soon as the Hollywood girls find out, they’ll try to beat us to Clover Field with their fake logbooks and grab all the slots meant for real fliers.”
As if on cue, actresses started streaming out of the front door of the bakery.
Marvel exclaimed, “I don’t have a car. I flew in. Took a taxi over here.”
“You’re with me, then,” Pancho bit out.
Amelia piped up. “Blanche came with me. Ruth, are you okay copiloting for Louise?”
“I dunno. Can you drive as fast as you fly, Thaden?”
“Faster.”
They took off running pell-mell for their cars. The actresses ran after them but were hampered by their high heels on the uneven gravel in the parking lot. The pilots, wearing their flight gear, which included flat-heeled boots, pulled away from the starlets.
Score one for sensible shoes.
Laughing as she ran, Pancho shouted, “Last one there’s a rotten egg and gets left in California!”
“You ever race cars?” Marvel yelled from behind her.
“Nope,” she called back. Almost there. Her sleek Duesenberg Model A was dead ahead.
Marvel pulled up beside her, long legs churning. “I have. Let me drive.”
She was too out of breath to do anything but nod.
Marvel put on an extra burst of speed and charged ahead of her.
Drat. She hated losing at anything. Pancho veered for the Duesy’s passenger door, jumped in, and passed over the ignition key.
Marvel jammed it in, flipped on the battery switch, pushed down the clutch with her left foot, and stomped on the starter switch beside the gas pedal.
The car roared to life like a grizzly bear.
“Go, go, go!” Pancho shouted as Louise peeled out ahead of them in a sleek Hudson Super Six, whose stodgy chassis belied its powerful engine and racing roots.
“Hang on!” Marvel yelled as she hit the gas. The Duesenberg’s tires spun and spit gravel noisily as it lurched forward. “Spot for me,” Marvel called.
Pancho rolled down the passenger window and stuck her head out to look behind them.
“You’re clear on the right.” As Marvel careened through the parking lot, Pancho spied the crowd of actresses and their male “mechanics” clambering into cars.
Hell’s bells, word got out fast about the rule changes.
Knowing Cliff Henderson, he’d called the studios himself to block her from making it into the race.
Jackass. She grimaced as reporters poured out of the speakeasy so fast they could’ve been fleeing dry agents raiding the joint.
“Crap on a cracker. Everyone’s heard about the twenty-pilot limit,” Pancho groused.
Amelia, behind the wheel of a zippy Stutz Bearcat, cut them off as they approached the main road, and Marvel slammed on her brakes, barely missing the bright-yellow car.
“Hussy!” Pancho yelled ahead. “Go suck an egg!”
“Enjoy looking at my taillights!” Amelia shouted back, laughing.
Blanche, hanging out Amelia’s passenger window, blew Pancho a kiss.
“Oh, it’s on now,” Marvel muttered direly.
“Go get ’em,” Pancho urged, falling into her seat and bracing herself against the dashboard. “We all came here to race!”