Chapter 13 #3
Marvel confessed, “Sometimes it gets real hard to hear your own voice because there are too many other voices telling us what we can and can’t do, who we should be, and how we’re supposed to go about it.”
Pancho waved a dismissive hand. “Ignore those other voices. Those folks have never flown. They don’t get why we do what we do.”
Marvel linked arms fondly with her. “You’re the best, Pancho.”
Pancho felt her face flushing. “Jeez, Marvel, I think you might be the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had.”
Ayers held the phone away from his ear as Horace Aldridge shouted through it. “What sort of mess are you allowing those women to make of this derby? I didn’t have to cut you in on this deal. I even left my phone off the hook to help you out.”
“But I did put my foot down with them,” Ayers explained.
“Not hard enough!” Horace erupted. “You’ve allowed a pack of females to get the best of you. I thought you had a stiffer spine.”
“You’re the one planning to give them what they want,” Ayers snapped back. “A course of action I strongly advise against. Give in once, and they will demand even more concessions. Make them land at Calexico.”
“If the press weren’t involved, you can bet I would! But there’s a pack of reporters howling like hungry wolves on my front porch as we speak. They’re demanding to know why I’m trying to kill a bunch of sweet young girls and force them to plow their planes into a crowd of spectators.”
Ayers winced. Those cursed women had maneuvered all the race organizers into a pretty pickle.
Horace sighed long and hard on the other end of the line. “The mayor of Calexico is going to be mighty steamed if those planes don’t arrive in his town. He paid a lot for a big show, and I still aim to give it to him. Tell the women to fly over the Calexico airfield.”
Ayers frowned. “But what’s the point of that?”
“The women can do low passes. Waggle their wings. Wave to the crowd. Be entertaining.”
Ayers sucked in his breath as comprehension dawned on him.
A big crowd would still draw a lot of law enforcement types to help keep order.
Particularly after the fiasco earlier today, every police officer within a twenty-mile radius would be sent to the airport to stop a repeat of the uncontrolled mob at San Bernardino.
Dr. Ayers grunted. “A flyby will still accomplish our goal.”
Horace added, “And if they try to pull another stunt like this during the race, stand your ground and don’t let them run wild. There’s a lot at stake here.”
A lot of cash at stake, Ayers thought to himself.
And a not-inconsiderable sum was headed his way if he could steer the race in the direction Horace and his .
. . compatriots . . . wanted it to go. A bit of soothing of Horace’s ruffled feathers was probably in order.
To that end, Ayers said, “They flew only half a day today. You can bet your best hat that come tomorrow night, they’ll be a lot more interested in sleeping than stirring up trouble.
I promise this is the last ruckus they’ll cause on my watch. ”
“It had better be the last one,” Horace retorted darkly. “I don’t need any more late-night visits by packs of rabid journalists. Now, here’s what you’re going to tell the racers . . .”
“Dr. Ayers is coming out!”
Pancho looked toward the doors of the gentlemen’s salon.
Sure enough, Ayers was emerging with Mayor Mack close on his heels.
The pair headed for the crowd of reporters who’d pulled out chairs and were lounging in the middle of the ballroom.
Pancho pursed her lips, annoyed at the subtle snub to the women pilots who were not only waiting to hear the news but also losing precious sleep in the process.
“What did Aldridge have to say about the ladies’ petition to skip Calexico?” Will Rogers asked boldly.
Ayers smiled, and Pancho winced. She’d seen that expression far too often on her husband’s face over the years. It was smug pride, a sense of exalted status, of knowing one’s place was assured in life.
“Well?” one of the reporters demanded, voicing what she was thinking.
Ayers made a production of pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket and lighting it.
She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. If she wanted to light up expeditiously, she could do it in half that time.
He was making her and the other women wait, intentionally drawing out the suspense just because he could. Self-important bastard.
Apprehension coursed through her. She’d taken a huge gamble with not only her chance to finish the race but the other women’s as well. What if she’d blown it for all of them by going to the press? What if she’d miscalculated the public’s support and desire to see the women succeed?
What if Amelia’s warning was right, and the men had stuck together rather than let a bunch of women get their way?
What if Mack was right, and all anybody cared about were sensational headlines?
What if nobody but she and her fellow racers cared about the future of aviation or about women having a part in creating it?