“Thank you, Calvin. Thank you, Calvin,” Whaddayamean Dean said, smiling bravely. Then he wiped his moist eyes on his sleeve and sat back sucking up the gin, wondering what everything meant.
“Dive! Dive! Dive!” commanded the angry navigator, but Calvin Potts said, “Don’t you motherfuckers be talkin that crazy shit now! You sound like when we sunk ol Wolfgang. But this ain’t no play submarine. THIS IS A REAL MOTHERFUCKIN AIRPLANE!”
“Dive! Dive! Dive!” Francis repeated, staring saucer eyed at the reeling pilot who said, “I want gin!” causing Calvin Potts’ heart to stop and making him want to weep with Whaddayamean Dean, who actually wasn’t weeping but was giggling at Calvin as he held the almost empty gin bottle in front of his face, playing peekaboo, enjoying Calvin’s hilariously distorted black moustache through the glass.
“Where should I dive to?” Spermwhale asked finally and Francis said, “That fucking golf course. We’re landing and claiming this whole town for the tribe. If you don’t you’re chicken-shit!”
“Me, chickenshit? Me, chickenshit?” Spermwhale yelled, and as Calvin screamed the airplane dove in a gut-erupting 190 mph dive which threatened the design limitations of the little aircraft, and Whaddayamean Dean shouted, “I just wanna know: What’s it all mean? What’s it all mean?” which Calvin Potts decided was the most intelligent remark he had heard lately as the airplane leveled out and climbed with Whaddayamean Dean throwing up all over everybody.
“Goddamn you, Dean!” Spermwhale yelled.
“That does it!” Francis raged. “I hate all thieving white men, even the ones in this airplane. I feel like crashing just to kill all you pukey pricks!”
“How about me? How about me?” Calvin Potts pleaded. “I ain’t a white man. Why kill me?”
“You’re all alike,” Francis said.
“Whaddayamean Dean puked. I didn’t puke,” Calvin pleaded, and then Calvin realized that Whaddayamean Dean was vomiting in Calvin’s lap so Calvin did too, in his own lap.
“See, you’re all alike,” said Francis disgustedly. “All a bunch of pukey white men. I wish Roscoe Rules was here to rupture your spleens!”
“I swear I’m not a white man,” said Calvin Potts as he upchucked a second time.
“Okay I dived. What the fuck else can I do?” Spermwhale Whalen challenged. “Want some aerobatics? Might as well spread all this vomit around.”
“Buzz that golf course one more time,” the exultant navigator commanded, while both Whaddayamean Dean and Calvin moaned and rolled their heads and craved sweet cool air.
“Where is it?” asked Spermwhale.
“Jesus Christ, Spermwhale, it’s green, ain’t it? Just go straight ahead only down lower. We can’t miss something that big!”
But they could. They just missed the mountains, barely.
Spermwhale obeyed the navigator and dived down toward the golf course again, though he was starting to come to his senses from the concentrated effort of flying. He was beginning to realize that someone might not like Francis’ little prank of landing on a golf course claiming it for the Cahuilla Tribe. He was flying so low he made Calvin Potts scream in terror when he got over the golf course and Francis flapped the windows open and threw the empty gin bottle which shattered on the patio of the clubhouse, ending the attack on Palm Springs Indian land.
Ten minutes later, Spermwhale Whalen was heading in the general direction of Los Angeles, starting to think of mundane things like whether or not they would be arrested upon landing at Burbank. But within an hour he had stopped worrying about being arrested at Burbank. Night had fallen and brought with it dense fog, and he was glancing at his fuel gauge and wondering why he could not see the Burbank Airport. For the first time that day he made the concession of turning on his radio and he said to the other choirboys, “You guys see anything through all this soup? I mean in the last five minutes or so?”
“I saw somethin about fifteen minutes ago,” Calvin Potts said, the only one of the passengers sober enough and frightened enough to be completely awake. “I saw a string a lights.”
“Whaddaya mean lights? Whaddaya mean?” asked Spermwhale. “Jesus, I’m startin to sound like Dean.”
“Well, it looked like a ribbon a lights. Coulda been street lights or headlights.”
“Headlights?” murmured Spermwhale, straining his eyes but seeing nothing below them. Nothing but fog and darkness. “Hold on, I’m goin down.”
“Down, you’re goin down?” yelled Calvin Potts.
“Who’s going down?” Francis asked, waking with a smile. “Ora Lee?”
“You sober now?” Calvin asked. “You’re gettin sober, ain’t you, Spermwhale?”
“Yeah, I’m gettin… Oh, mother! Oh, mother! I think I know where we are!”
“I see somethin. I see somethin,” said Calvin Potts when they were at a hundred feet.
“What is it? What the fuck is it?” Francis demanded, awake and sober enough to share Calvin’s sweaty terror.
“The ocean!” yelled the horrified choirboy “That’s the fuckin ocean down there! Oh, Lord!”
“The ocean!” screamed Francis.
“The ocean! The ocean! Which ocean?” yelled Whaddayamean Dean, waking from his deep alcoholic sleep.
“Keep the fuck off my back, Calvin,” shouted Spermwhale, shoving Calvin back and making the black policeman jump on Francis’ back instead.
“We gonna go down, Spermwhale? We gonna go down?” Francis croaked, unaware that Calvin was choking him.
“We ain’t goin nowhere but back to Burbank. Now shut the fuck up!” Spermwhale yelled.
But he looked at his fuel gauge and believed deep in his heart that this was his last flight. He hoped that somehow he could get in close to the coast when he was forced to put her down in the water, probably killing them all on impact. But he still flew as calmly as he had flown into Ontario Airport that morning.
“I see it! I see it!” shouted Calvin suddenly. “The ribbon a light!”
“Okay that’s the coast highway,” Spermwhale said, sighing imperceptibly. “Santa Monica Airport’s probably really socked in.” He turned on his Burbank VOR, watched the dial and said, “Come on needle, come on needle.”
Then he took the plane up over the Santa Monica mountains, and ten minutes later with less than two gallons of gasoline in each tank the choirboys landed at Burbank Airport, dragged Whaddayamean Dean out of the plane and drove home together.
“That old bastard ain’t got a nerve in his body. He ain’t afraid a nothin,” Calvin said to Francis Tanaguchi the next night on patrol.
“Nobody got our airplane numbers?”
“Guess not. Nothin’s happened,” said Calvin.
“Outta sight!” cried Francis Tanaguchi, shaking his black hair off his thin little face, as he started making airplane noises behind the wheel of the radio car, pretending he was Spermwhale Whalen flying a fearless mission into downtown Palm Springs. “Too much!” Francis exclaimed, now that he had a real hero. “I just gotta see Spermwhale and Carolina Moon in a lewd movie if I have to produce it myself!”
And at the next choir practice, Francis tried to convince her that she should star with Spermwhale Whalen in the dirty movie he was going to produce. Spermwhale said okay, but next year after he had his twenty years’ service and a pension locked up. Carolina Moon said she wasn’t that kind of a girl.
Spermwhale was joking when he mentioned another mission like the Palm Springs raid to Baxter Slate on the night Baxter killed the ordinary guy but Baxter Slate, not knowing the full extent of their terror that night over the dark lonely water, wondered if he meant it. Baxter was about to ask him if he was serious when they received a radio call to meet the officers at Ninth Street and Hudson.
Baxter drove easily to the location since there was no code on the call and met Sergeant Nick Yanov and 7-A-33. Spencer Van Moot was laughing while Father Willie stood glumly, hands in the pockets of his uniform pants, pushing out his gun on one side and baton on the other, making him look shorter and chubbier than he was.