Beverly Hills Dead

11

The Centurion Douglas DC–3 was sitting out in front of the Barron Flying Service hangar, her newly polished aluminum skin gleaming, when Rick and Glenna arrived.

“She’s beautiful,” Glenna said. “Eddie is going to be pleased.”

Rick opened the trunk of the car so a lineman could get their luggage out of the car and aboard the airplane. “Wait until you see the interior,” he said, leading her around to the door.

They stepped aboard. There were a pair of facing sofas up front and a beautifully crafted refreshment area; to the rear were a dozen large and comfortable seats, only one on each side of the aisle. “This is very nice.”

“The airplane will seat as many as thirty-two,” Rick said, “but it’s configured for a maximum of eighteen, with three on each sofa, and today, we’re only eight, so we’ll get excellent range and good speed.”

Other cars began to arrive, and Vance had come alone, so they were only seven. Soon everybody was aboard, waiting for Rick and his dad to finish the preflight inspection.

“She’s gorgeous,” Eddie Harris said, surveying his newly renovated airplane.

“She’s as perfect as I know how to make her,” Jack Barron said.

“She’s better than new,” Rick said. “Thanks, Dad, and now we’d better get going.” He passed out earplugs, made sure everyone was comfortably seated and belted in, then he went forward to the cockpit.

Vance tugged at his sleeve as he passed. “Rick, do you mind if I sit up front?”

“No, come ahead,” Rick said. “There’s a headset hanging on your yoke, there,” he said, pointing. “Fasten your seat belt, and we’re off.” Rick began working through his checklist, then started each engine. The big 1,200-horsepower radials rumbled smoothly, and Rick nudged the throttles forward and began taxiing to the runway. He stopped at the end and went through the run-up checklist.

“Clover tower,” Rick said on the radio. “Douglas 123 Tango Foxtrot ready for takeoff on two one.”

“Tango Foxtrot cleared for takeoff,” the tower operator replied.

Rick taxied onto the runway, turned the airplane and moved the throttles forward. Shortly, the tailwheel was off the ground, and a moment after that they were airborne and crossing Santa Monica Beach, then out over the Pacific. Rick began climbing and turning parallel to the beach, then he called Los Angleles Control, reported his position and was cleared en route. He tuned in the Palmdale radio beacon and turned northeast toward it. By Palmdale he was at his cruising altitude of 13,000 feet in smooth air, with a nice tailwind. He calculated his groundspeed at just over 200 knots, or about 230 statute miles per hour.

He punched the button for the intercom and switched on the cabin speaker. “All right, everybody,” he said, “we’re at our cruising altitude of thirteen thousand feet, making good time. Our flight should be about four and a half hours, so that should put us in at the Jackson Airport in a little over four hours from now. If we encounter turbulence and have to climb higher, you may need to put on your oxygen mask, which is near your seat, but please don’t do that until I ask you to.

“Our route is across Nevada, then over the northwest corner of Utah, then over the southeast corner of Idaho, then Jackson. There should be some spectacular mountain scenery below us along the way, and don’t worry; we won’t bump into anything. Glenna and Suzanne will serve lunch around noon.”

Rick leaned the engines for maximum cruise speed and switched on the autopilot. “There,” he said to Vance over the intercom, “we’re on our way.”

“I didn’t realize you were going to be our pilot,” Vance said. “Have you been flying long?”

“All my life. First, in my Dad’s lap. I was flying left seat with him when I was twelve, and I got my license at sixteen. Have you ever flown before?”

“Once: a five-pound, half-hour ride in an old Jenny at Biggin Hill, in Kent. I threw up, and then I was fine.”

“If you have any problems with airsickness, there’s a bag in the pocket by your knee.”

“Nope, that was first-time nervousness,” Vance said.

“I was five minutes into my first combat mission when I threw up into my lap. After that, I was fine.”

“What were you flying, the Thunderbolt?”

“No, those didn’t come along until ’43. We flew the Grumman Wildcat. We were at Guadalcanal in August of ’42, supporting the landings, when a big Japanese transport force turned up to reinforce the island. My squadron led the attack that sank the aircraft carrier Ryujo, but I took some anti-aircraft fire that punched a hole in my airplane and messed up my right knee. After that, it was hospital ships, then San Diego, then back to L.A., where Eddie Harris got me to the best knee man on the West Coast. I got a medical discharge in early ’44.”

“I guess I was lucky; I was too young for conscription,” Vance said. “I tried to enlist when I was fifteen, but my mother heard about it and turned up at the recruiting office with my birth certificate and practically led me out by the ear. I’ve always felt guilty about not serving.”

“Don’t. Your conscience should be clear.”

“I suppose so.”

Vance began asking questions about the airplane, and they passed most of the trip talking about flying. Rick turned off the autopilot and let Vance fly the airplane for a few minutes, but then lunch was served, and he turned it back on.

Rick picked up the radio beacon at Jackson half an hour out and homed in on it. The weather was clear, and the windsock showed him the active runway. He made a smooth landing and taxied up to the terminal.

Manny White was waiting for them with a big Ford station wagon and a pickup truck for the luggage, driven by a Cooper Ranch cowboy. Rick made arrangements for hangaring and refueling, and twenty minutes later they were at the Cooper Ranch.

The Coopers — MacKenzie, known as Mac, and his wife, Eleanor, called Ellie — a weathered-looking pair of sixty or so, were warm and welcoming and showed them to their rooms. When everyone had had a chance to freshen up, Manny loaded them all into the station wagon and gave them a tour of the huge spread, pointing out locations as they went.

“You did good, Manny,” Rick said halfway through. “It’s perfect.”

Eddie Harris, uncharacteristically, seemed speechless, awed by the towering Tetons and the gorgeous landscape.

They dined on home-grown roast beef at the ranch house that night, supplemented by bottles from a case of wine Eddie had brought. He was deep in conversation with the Coopers at his end of the table, while the other end carried on its own conversation.

After dinner, Mac Cooper led them into the rustic living room and showed Eddie and Rick a map of the area with the ranch boundaries marked. Manny had told them that the Coopers had lost two sons in the war, but except to express the visitors’ condolences, nothing more was said about it. Cooper told them that during the war he had had something over 7,000 head of cattle on the place, selling exclusively to the military. He was down to something over 4,000 head now and was selling briskly to the civilian market.

They were at an elevation of around 6,500 feet, and the thin air made everyone tired. They were all in bed by nine o’clock.

Rick settled into a comfortable bed with Glenna.

“Sid Brooks’s wife is worried,” she said sleepily to Rick.

“What’s Alice worried about?”

“The committee business,” she said, then she turned over and fell asleep.

Rick was not far behind her.