Chapter 11 #4
Pancho’s prediction came true in the form of unsavory, overcooked chicken that was even worse than the previous night’s banquet in Santa Monica. Had it only been one day since Pancho strolled into the gala wearing pants and making Clema Granger apoplectic?
Unable to choke down any more of her meal, Marvel pushed back her plate and gazed around the ballroom of the California Hotel.
Its modern decor took inspiration from Tutankhamen’s tomb, which had been discovered seven years prior.
She picked up the menu card lying on the table and fanned herself with it.
The electric ceiling fans were no match for the sweltering heat gripping the room.
Beside her, Pancho made a show of poking her chicken with her knife to show that the tip wouldn’t penetrate the meat.
The mayor let every one of his race committee members give a speech, and each one droned on about the improvements to the airport and community at large that their leadership had brought to San Bernardino.
“Talk about beating your own drum,” Pancho grumbled under her breath to Marvel.
Seated on stage at tables on either side of the podium, Marvel thought she and the other pilots were displayed rather like flower arrangements.
“It was one hundred and five degrees when we landed,” Marvel said back quietly. “I honestly don’t think it’s cooled off one degree even though the sun has set.”
Several of the other pilots within earshot grumbled in agreement.
“Please tell me this is the last member of the committee,” Phoebe muttered from Pancho’s other side as the current speaker went on for a particularly long time. “I’m completely spent.”
One side of Pancho’s mouth rose in a smirk.
She was about to pull something. An urge to stop her passed through Marvel, but she had no idea what brazen stunt her friend had up her sleeve.
At least Pancho had dressed appropriately for the occasion.
If anything, she’d overdressed for tonight’s gala, if such a thing were even possible.
She’d entered the ballroom looking like a photograph straight out of a French couture magazine.
Marvel smiled to recall how Mayor Mack had stared, shocked down to the tips of his highly polished shoes.
She watched warily as Pancho lifted her right hand and held it up for a good long moment to make sure she had the entire bored crowd’s attention.
When every eye except for the speaker’s was on her, she reached into her décolletage and, with a flourish, withdrew one of her black cigars, the kind usually reserved for gentlemen’s lounges and certainly not an item any proper lady withdrew from her brassiere.
Marvel couldn’t help but relish the gasp that rose from the audience.
This party was in serious need of a little stirring up.
Pancho then brazenly bit off the tip of the cigar and casually spit it onto her dinner plate.
There was an even louder gasp from the audience.
The speaker lost his place, cleared his throat, and picked up speaking where he’d left off.
Grinning openly now, Pancho leaned across Phoebe, who was seated beside the podium, and grabbed a candle from the flower arrangement, pulling it free from its wreath of wilted daisies and mums. Using the candle, Pancho lit the cigar, puffing several times in quick succession to get it burning.
When the tip glowed orange, Pancho handed the candle to Phoebe, who stared at the taper in her hand for several stunned seconds before finally half standing to stick it back in the flower arrangement.
The speaker noticed the alarmed looks in the crowd and how they were all staring at something to his left. He turned his head and stared in slack-jawed horror at the sight of Pancho smoking.
Pancho blew out a long stream of smoke and then suddenly stood up, her chair falling over behind her. She commenced applauding heartily. “Well spoken, sir,” she called out. “Well spoken, indeed!”
Getting into the spirit of Pancho’s revolt, Marvel joined in applauding. The rest of the pilots caught on and clapped enthusiastically as well.
The man at the podium tried to get them to stop so he could continue his speech, but it was too late.
The audience followed the lead of the guests of honor and broke out in applause.
People rose from their seats, and waiters started clearing dinner plates.
The speaker snatched his notes off the podium and stormed off the stage.
“Nicely done,” Marvel congratulated Pancho.
Pancho blew out another stream of smoke as the ballroom filled with the sound of chairs scraping on the floor. “It’s not my first rebellion.”
“Heads-up,” Louise alerted them from down the table. “Here comes the mayor. And he looks steamed.”
Mayor Mack, followed by the rest of the race committee, headed for the front of the ballroom just below where Pancho sat. All the men wore thunderous expressions. The committee members’ wives had tagged along as well, looking worried.
“Follow my lead, girls,” Pancho said quickly. As the mayor stopped before her, Pancho very deliberately put out her cigar in her uneaten Waldorf salad.
“Mrs. Barnes—”
Pancho interrupted Mayor Mack, saying brightly, “Just the man I hoped to see. It’s getting late, and we need to have our pilots’ meeting now.” She flashed him a bright smile. “But I sure did enjoy all those speeches.”
“Makes me want to come back this way real soon,” Phoebe added enthusiastically.
“This was a simply splendid party,” Amelia gushed in a particularly pronounced Southern accent.
The wives smiled proudly, and the committee members responded with obligatory thanks. While the committee was momentarily derailed, Marvel and the other pilots took the opportunity to jump to their feet and head for the right side of the stage, where the stairs were.
The mayor spluttered something unintelligible, but Marvel heard Pancho declare forcefully, “Pilot meetings are completely necessary and vital for race safety. If something were to happen, Lord forbid, there would be a formal review. You certainly wouldn’t want it to come out that the pilot meeting didn’t happen in San Bernardino. Would you, Mack?”
The mayor clamped his jaw shut. He pointed at Pancho before turning his back on her.
Marvel made it off the stage and joined the cluster of pilots already at the base of the stairs. Their heads were together as they whispered, and they all looked grim. Oh, no. What’s happened now?
Pancho joined the other women, took one look around, and demanded, “What’s going on?”
Louise answered, “Dr. Ayers just confirmed Calexico is our first stop tomorrow.”
Calexico had been on the itinerary, off it, and back on again during the planning of the race.
Last Marvel had heard, it was off the route.
It was a small town on the Mexican border, a backwater, really, but someone there had apparently been willing to throw a whole lot of money at the race organizers to put it on the route and keep it on the route.
“About time they made a decision,” Pancho replied.
Louise locked gazes with Pancho. “But here’s the thing. Several of us flew the course in reverse on our way out to Santa Monica. It’s pretty conclusive among those of us who’ve been to Calexico that the landing strip is too short for the heavy planes in the race.”
“Much, much too short,” Thea added in concern, her German accent thicker than usual.
“I flew my small plane, and I made the perfect landing one foot past the runway threshold at perfect speed, and I have the very good brakes on my plane. But still. I come to a stop only a few feet from the end of this runway. It’s no good for any plane larger than my little plane. ”
Pancho frowned. “I went to Yuma when I flew the route.”
“I flew into Calexico, too. Thea’s right. It’s dangerously short,” Phoebe said. “It’s a death certificate waiting to be signed for those of you in the large-engine division.”
After everything they’d been through that day, all the near misses with catastrophe, this was the last straw.
Marvel threw up her hands in utter frustration.
“This race is a complete disaster, and we’re one leg out of seventeen into it.
How on earth did Calexico get onto the list of stops if the airstrip is too short for us? ”
CLEVELAND, OHIO
“Whatever are you doing, Horace?”
Opal came into the room, looking at the receiver of the phone lying on the table instead of resting in the cradle.
Horace turned around, appearing flushed.
“You’ve left the phone off the hook, darling. Why would you do such a thing? You’re always telling me how important calls are for business. The moment that thing rings you run to it like a devoted mother.”
Horace flashed her a smile. “I am caught . . . red-handed . . .” He winked at his wife. “I have intentions, my dear . . . very . . . very . . . scarlet . . . intentions that I do not want interrupted!”
Opal burst into a peel of giggles. She went running toward the stairs, leaving one of her shoes in the foyer.
Horace followed slower. He took a last look behind him to make certain that the phone was indeed off the hook.
It was.
Excellent.
The planes would fly to Calexico in the morning, completing his promise to Vito. Such easy money. It seemed that it was true what they said . . . Sin paid far better than legitimate business.