Now, the guy who did all this thought he had run the gamut of “what the kids used to play with,” but he didn’t know the half of it. The next day a bunch of his customers showed up with their own pet versions of rubber-band-motored, mothball-powered shingle boats, four-shot, rapid-fire inner-tube rifles and my contribution of a Crisco-can cannon that fired when a mixture of spit and carbide crystals generated enough gas to touch off at a nail hole with a wooden match. Frankly, that one was the hit of the show even if it did scare hell out of the mothers and it might even set off a new run on shortening tins. The only trouble is, those new plastic lids don’t last very long. Nothing like the good old tin tops back in the pre-plastic days.
All the way across the country I had a good top pal and I couldn’t let him be forgotten — I picked up two of each of the ready-made from the crafts man, packaged a bag of carbide crystals into an empty Crisco can with four extra covers and (nail hole installed), typed out the instructions with a Band-Aid stapled to the top to indicate caution and headed for the post office with my package. He could use his own spit.
The other day his wife told me he’s had her on a pie baking spree and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was one way to get Crisco cans without looking silly. Besides, she’s a little worried about him. Seems like he’s always poking into her sewing kit and she’s finding balled up handfuls of discarded thread around and he’s got a new lock on a closet behind the playroom bar.
One other thing. We just signed a new contract without any negotiations at all. We had to get on with the game.
Hot Cat
She’s lying quietly out there on the bottom now — melted, fragmented pieces of metal scattered like dust across the sand, nameless, traceless, but evoking a memory that could make you sweat cold if you knew the truth about her.
Not too far away is another mass of metal, twisted and corroded by now, but still recognizable for what it was. Both masses had been born together and served together, then separated for 20 years to meet again in a fusion of terror that was, fortunately, almost totally, unseen.
There was still one other memory... a sudden, bright-red, misty memory better forgotten.
Chapter 1
I sat there with the half-finished coffee in my hand, watching them service the battered old Mustang on the runway outside. There was nothing of interest there; I had seen it done too many times before. But the blonde reflected in the plate glass window of the bar was interesting, especially when she knew I was watching her and arranged herself so I could see her legs from the best angle.
Step one in the big play, I thought. She was chumming for me and next would come the hook. Cute, real cute, I looked like something out of the “Late Show” in an old AAF A-2 jacket with a leather helmet and goggles jammed into my pocket, and she was a dream in a fitted covert suit that made her hair look like a summer sunset.
The trouble was, I knew her, only she didn’t know me. Three years ago, Lois Hays had interviewed me in a German hospital to find out why I was interested in making an air drop of ammo into Hungary from an old Ju-88. I could have told her it was for the loot, but my face was bandaged and still hurt from the shrapnel slice so I didn’t bother. That time she had played the part in a nurse’s outfit.
Dominick Lolla, who got me smuggled back to the States on a tramp steamer, knew her, too. He was an accredited Circut correspondent and didn’t hold much with anybody doing legwork for Duncan Knight, whose “Washington Inside” column was dedicated to ripping apart our military policy.
I grinned at her reflection. So what the hell, if you need legwork done, get someone with pretty legs to do it. Hers were beautifully rounded and shiny with nylon until the sheen stopped and there was a quick flash of tan before she pulled the hem of her skirt down.
And when you’re looking at legs you don’t see people, so when the big guy said, “Mr. Fallon?” it caught me by surprise.
He had an angular face, almost devoid of expression, but ready to be friendly if he had to. His suit was well cut, but not new, and fitted with some peculiar purpose in mind. The smaller man with him was on the mouse side, with an irritated squint to his eyes.
I stood up. “Cop?”
“Lieutenant Trusky, city police.” He held out his hand. “It shows?” His voice sounded amused.
His hand was hard. “To some.”
“This is Mr. Del Reed from the state’s attorney’s office.”
The smaller guy nodded curtly and shifted his briefcase. “If you have a few minutes I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
“What about?”
“You have a few minutes?” Trusky asked politely.
“Sure.”
“Then let’s find out.”
Behind me the blonde uncrossed those legs again and watched us. Del Reed nodded toward the small restaurant section, across the room, and when Trusky moved up beside me I could feel the gun at his hip.
“How long did you know Tucker Stacy, Mr. Fallon?”
Del Reed didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “Since ’forty-two,” I said. “We were in the Army together. Air Force cadets.”
“You were in the same outfit together. Two hundred-fifty-second Fighter Squadron, I believe.”
“If you know so damn much, why the questions?”
Reed’s face tightened, but a wave from Lieutenant Trusky calmed him down. “All right, let’s get to the point,” he said. He pulled a folder from his briefcase, held it in his lap and fingered the contents. “You and Stacy were discharged together, shared a brief business venture...”
“Crop-dusting,” I interrupted. “We went broke.”
“...Corresponded a few times and except for a squadron reunion in nineteen fifty-four, apparently never had any further contact.” His eyes left the folder and drifted up to meet mine.
“So what?” I said.
“So out of a clear blue sky he left you a half-million dollar investment.”
I put down my coffee and leaned on the table. The little man was getting to me.
“Is his family contesting his will?” I asked.
Reed’s mouth twitched. “You know he has none.”
“Is the state?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t hesitate, Mr. Reed. You’re off limits and you know it. Put it on the line or take a walk. You just don’t impress me at all.”
“Del is trying to... let’s say, forestall action, Mr. Fallon,” Trusky said quietly.
“The will hasn’t even been probated yet,” I reminded him. “I’m here because Tuck’s lawyer wrote me. Now where does the state come in? So Tuck leaves his old buddy an airfield, the Capital K. I come down here to see what it’s all about and the action starts before I even get there.”
“Had you known about the will?” Reed said.
“No. But it doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re two of a kind. Neither one of us had anybody else. In the Army we took pretty good care of each other, and if one of us had been knocked off the other would have gotten his gear.”
“Who was your National Service Insurance made out to, Mr. Fallon?”