Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pancho looked around grimly at the clustered women and lowered her voice to say, “I’ll tell you how Calexico made it in.
Cash. Every stop had to pay the race organizers fifty dollars to become a stop on this derby.
But I heard a few rumors that some cities paid a whole lot more than that to get onto the itinerary.
The folks running this race are interested in only two things: publicity and money. ”
“But why? What’s so important about Calexico?” Amelia demanded.
“I have no idea,” Pancho answered. “But it’s clear as the nose on my face that these men think they can run us around like their personal sideshow freaks.
We need to organize. Just like I organized the stunt pilots in Hollywood, and over this same issue.
Safety. I say we draft a petition and stand together against this Calexico junket. ”
“We’re set to take off in seven hours,” Phoebe reminded her. “Who are we supposed to give a petition to anyways?”
Amelia fielded that one. “Dr. Ayers is the senior race official with us. He had to approve the Calexico change, so he can just as easily unapprove it.”
“Where are we going to refuel?” Phoebe asked. “None of us will make it all the way to Phoenix if we skip Calexico.”
“Yes, and I have had spare parts sent to Calexico,” Thea Rasche chimed in.
Pancho looked Thea squarely in the eye and stated, “Parts aren’t gonna be much good if you crash and burn because the runway’s too short.”
Phoebe added, “And if they allow people to park on the end of the runway like they did today . . .”
“It’ll be a disaster,” Pancho finished with what Phoebe seemed unwilling to say.
Amelia commented, “I had fuel sent to Yuma. When I left Fort Worth, that was where the race itinerary had us going. I swear, they’re making this up as they go.”
Marvel added, “Yeah, and without any input from the aviators.”
There was a rumble of discontent among them.
“Write the petition, Pancho. I’ll sign it,” Marvel declared. “We’re the folks risking our necks out there. We should have the final say on all safety issues.”
The women murmured in agreement.
“Well, then. The first order of business is to find a typewriter.” Pancho headed for the ballroom exit with the other eighteen pilots right behind her.
They marched as militantly as suffragettes to the hotel’s front desk, where a startled clerk asked if he could help them.
“Yes, you can,” Pancho replied. “I need a typewriter right away.”
“Umm, there’s one in the office back there,” he said as he pointed over his shoulder. “But guests aren’t allowed—”
Ignoring him, Pancho rounded the end of the check-in counter and continued her march into the office and over to the big black Underwood typewriter sitting on a desk. Loading a crisp sheet of paper into the roller, she commenced composing the petition, which she planned to keep short and sweet.
The typewriter’s keys snapped and popped as she hit them angrily, and she read aloud over their noise as she typed, “We, the undersigned pilots of the Women’s Air Derby from Santa Monica to Cleveland, do hereby declare we will not fly any farther than this point (San Bernardino) unless routed through Yuma instead of Calexico. ”
While she was at it, she typed a second petition demanding that Mary Haizlip be allowed to fly the race one day behind all of them and be timed individually so her race time could compete in the race.
She withdrew the second sheet of paper, holding it up to get a good look at it.
She nodded with satisfaction before laying both flat on the tabletop. “Let’s get these signed, gals.”
Seated in the hotel’s gentlemen’s lounge, with a cognac by his elbow and a fine Cuban cigar between his teeth, Dr. Ayers was enjoying winding down after what had proven to be a tiring day.
So many public officials who’d wanted to speak with him, so many pictures to pose for, and so many inane questions from reporters!
He drew in a mouthful of the cigar’s smoke and let it swirl over his tongue appreciatively.
As he did so, he spied his host in San Bernardino, Mayor R.
H. Mack, storming toward him. He blew out the smoke regretfully and said, “You look like a thundercloud, Mack. Sit. Relax. The day is over.”
The mayor exhaled indignantly and waved two sheets of paper clutched in his hand. He appeared to be so furious that words all but eluded him.
Ayers frowned. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Those . . . petticoat pilots . . . have got it into their heads to skip Calexico. They even presented me with a petition to that effect. Signed by all of them.”
Ayers scoffed. “They’re really letting this derby go to their heads if they think I’m going to yield to their whims.”
Mayor Mack merely shoved a sheet of paper at him.
Ayers took it and read the women’s demand impassively. Not happening.
“And as if the first isn’t enough, they’ve all signed a second one,” Mack exclaimed.
A hint of alarm whispered down his spine. Just how full of themselves had these young women gotten in a single day of adulation from two huge crowds? “What’s in the second petition?” he asked warily.
“They want to allow Mary Haizlip to fly the race by herself. They don’t seem to understand the concept of a race.
Competitors start together and finish together.
And . . .” Mack paused in outrage. “They’re all waiting on you, as the senior official here, to come out to speak with them.
All nineteen of them are just outside the lounge. ”
Ayers rolled his cigar across his lower lip. “I’ll wager letting this Mary Haizlip fly a day behind them is to save them the embarrassment of coming in last.”
Mack snickered.
Ayers ground out his cigar in the ashtray beside his drink, his expression tightening.
“There’s no way I’m letting them change the route.
The mayor of Calexico paid us a great deal of money to have a stopover.
The way Horace Aldridge tells it, various people down there are looking forward to the event distracting everyone from other happenings. ”
Aldridge had been vague about what those happenings were, exactly, and frankly, Ayers didn’t much care about the details. His job was to keep the women in the air on time, and in line while on the ground.
“Glad to hear it,” Mack growled. “I certainly don’t need womenfolk around these parts getting a notion to type up petitions for every silly idea they think up. Business is a man’s work. No female ever did understand how the real world operates.”
Ayers stood and took a moment to straighten his vest before he headed toward the exit. When he opened the door, the backs of two burly doormen were in his face. Beyond them, Pancho Barnes was arguing up a blue storm.
“Ladies, I’ve received your petitions.” He flashed his well-practiced politician’s smile. “I’m happy to tell you I wholeheartedly agree with allowing Miss Haizlip to fly the race a day behind the rest of you. May she have good weather and fair winds.”
He saw surprise flickering in many of the women’s eyes. A few even began to smile. But not Pancho. She stared fixedly at him, waiting to see what he’d say next.
“As for the other petition, there will be no change to the course of the race.” He added firmly, “Fly to Calexico tomorrow or consider yourselves disqualified.”
“But the runway’s unsafe to land on!” Phoebe insisted. “And if the spectators down there crowd the runway the way they did here, we’re going to plow right into them. Civilians are going to die. Possibly a lot of them.”
“Mrs. Omlie, I am the senior race official here. My decision stands. I suggest you all take this opportunity to get some sleep.”
Beside him, Mayor Mack was rocking back and forth on his heels and doing a piss-poor job of hiding his amusement.
“Listen up, Mr. Race Official,” Pancho said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That airstrip at Calexico is too short for the larger planes. That’s not something your fundraisers would know about, but we pilots sure do.” The women behind her called out in agreement.
Ayers looked at them and back at Pancho. Troublemakers. Every last one of them.
“Flying is dangerous. If you’re too frightened to continue, we certainly understand.
I half expected this race to shut down without finishing anyway, and I did warn the investors of the possibility.
So it won’t come as a surprise to anyone if you ladies find this sort of race to be too much for you. ”
“When people die tomorrow in Calexico—and mark my words, they will—every last one of us is going to blame you,” Pancho declared.
“We’re going to tell every reporter from every major newspaper in the country that you knew people were going to get hurt or die.
And we’ll tell them you, you alone, insisted on forcing us to land on a runway wildly too short for our airplanes to stop on. ”
In a momentary pause while Pancho took a breath, Ayers turned to face the other women, saying loudly enough for all of them to hear, “Do you women know what time it is?”
“What’s the time of day got to do with Calexico being unsafe?” Marvel demanded.
Ayers smiled archly, more than happy to enlighten her.
“All decent folks have retired for the evening. There’s no one else awake to listen to your whining.
And as for me, I’m retiring to my bed for the night.
” He did hate to abandon the cognac and outstanding Cuban cigar he had been enjoying, but in this situation, discretion—and a hasty retreat—were the better part of valor.
“But . . . it’s unsafe to land at Calexico!” Amelia repeated sternly.
It did worry Ayers a bit that Amelia Earhart might say something to the press in the morning. The public hung on every word America’s sweetheart pilot said. He made a mental note to make sure reporters had no access to any of the pilots before the race tomorrow.