1974 - So What Happens to Me (6 page)

He nodded his turnip head several times and his little eyes half closed.

“I’m afraid Colonel Olson is at fault. He had no business having you here: no business at all.”

I didn’t say anything.

“This is most irregular.” He frowned. “Perhaps you don’t realise it. Everyone who works for us is insured. Suppose you met with an accident on the runway? You could sue us out of sight and we wouldn’t be covered.”

“Is that right?” I gave him my humble, blank face. “I’m sure Colonel Olson never thought of that nor did I.”

He seemed to like my humble face better than my frank face for his tight little lips lifted into what I suppose he imagined to be a smile.

“I can see that. Colonel Olson is a good pilot, but he is no businessman. What exactly are you doing on the runway?”

“I’m working under O’Brien. I keep the bulldozers in operation. The crew don’t know about engines.”

The smile went away.

“But isn’t that O’Brien’s job?”

“He’s taking care of the blasting. Colonel Olson thought it would save time for me to take care of the bulldozers. I understand the runway has to be gotten ready fast.”

“I’m quite aware of the need to get the runway finished.”

The steel in his voice warned me I was talking too much.

“I’m sure, Mr. Jackson. I was just trying to explain.”

“We must regularize this business. Please report to the staff office and they will sign you on as one of the crew. You will be paid the usual union rates and you will be insured.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, but I won’t do that. You see, Mr. Jackson, I am on vacation. I’m not looking for that kind of work. I like messing around with engines but not for long. I was just helping the Colonel and enjoying myself.”

This threw him. He stiffened and stared at me “You mean you don’t want to work for us?”

“Not as a ganger. I’m a fully qualified aero-engineer.”

His eyebrows crawled almost into his black hair.

“A fully qualified aero-engineer?”

“That’s correct. Before Vietnam, I was with Lockheed.”

He began nibbling at his thumb nail again.

“I see.” He paused, then went on, “Mrs. Essex is pleased with you Crane. Perhaps we could find a place here in your own line. Would that interest you?”

I noted he had dropped the “mister.”

I had a sudden idea he wouldn’t be wasting his busy time with me unless he had to.
Mrs. Essex is pleased with you
. That gave me the clue. This fat fink had been sent by her to do something for me in return for finding her horse. It was a guess, but I felt it was a good one.

“That depends on the job and the pay.”

He recrossed his legs. I saw by the sour expression on his face he hated me the way a snake hates a mongoose.

“Could you service a Condor XJ 7?”

“I’m a fully qualified aero-engineer,” I told him. “That means I can handle any kite, providing I have a good working crew.”

“I see.”

I had him fazed. I could tell that by the way he again recrossed his legs and again took a nibble at his thumbnail.

“Well. . .”

A long pause, then he got to his feet.

“I must see what I can do. You would like to work for us?”

“As I said: it would depend on the pay and the job.”

He peered at me.

“What did Lockheed pay you?”

“Twenty, but that was four years ago.”

He nodded. I was certain he would contact Lockheed and check, but that didn’t worry me. I was a white-headed boy with Lockheed four years ago. I knew they would root for me.

“Oblige me by staying away from the runway,” he said as he moved to the door. “Please make yourself quite at home. I will tell the staff manager that you can enjoy all our facilities. I must talk to Mr. Essex.”

“I wouldn’t want to stick around here, doing nothing for long Mr. Jackson.”

Again he peered at me as if I were a reptile behind glass “You will have a car at your disposal. Why not enjoy the city?” I could see he was hating this. “Go to the staff office. Mr. Macklin will provide you with funds.” His mouth pursed as if he had bitten into a quince. “It’s Mrs. Essex’s wish.”

I gave him my graven image face.

“That’s nice of her.”

He stalked out of the cabin, climbed into a Bentley coupe, driven by a negro chauffeur in the Essex bottle green uniform and was driven away.

Pam came out of the shower room. She stood staring at me, her eyes wide.

“I’d never have believed it!” she said breathlessly. “I don’t know what Bernie will say.”

I lit a cigarette, my mind busy.

“Jack! Bernie will be furious.”

I looked at her. She now bored me.

“Run away, baby. I have thinking to do.”

“Listen to me . . .!” she began, her eyes snapping with rage.

“You heard me. Piss off I have thinking to do.”

“Bernie made a mistake,” she said, her voice unsteady, her face white. “Do him a favour. Get out of here! We’ll find someone else! If you really are Bernie’s friend, get out and fast!”

I regarded her.

“You won’t find anyone else,” I said, “so run away baby and stop shooting of at the mouth. I’m in and now it’s up to Bernie. I’m not asking you to explain the set-up, but so far, as I’ve told you before, it stinks. I’m getting the idea Bernie isn’t the man I thought he was. He could need help.” Then putting a bark in my voice, I snapped, “Beat it!”

She went out slamming the door behind her.

I sat still, smoked and thought.

I thought of that lush body, the Venetian red hair and the big violet eyes—the most exciting woman, to me in the world.

I went along to see Mr. Macklin. the staff manager and caught him just as he was about to go home. The time was 19.00, but apart from giving me a quick look up and down with eyes that had the same ice pick quality as Wes Jackson’s his smile as he shook hands with me seemed sincere enough.

“Ah yes. Mr. Crane.” he said. “I have had instructions about you from Mr. Jackson.” He slightly lowered his voice when mentioning Jackson’s name. I was surprised he didn’t genuflect “I have an envelope for you with the compliments of Essex Enterprises.” He went to his desk and raked around and finally came up with a large white envelope. “If you want a car, do please go to our transport department—it is open twenty-four hours a day—you can have what you like.”

I took the envelope, thanked him, said I would like a car and went with him to his office door. He pointed out the transport department, a hundred yards or so from where we stood, shook hands again and I left him.

The transport people had also been alerted. They asked me what car I would like. I said I didn’t mind so long as it was small. They fitted me up with a 2000 Alfa Romeo which suited me and I drove back to my cabin.

Inside the envelope was five one hundred dollar bills and passes to three movie houses, the casino, four restaurants, two clubs and three nightclubs. Each pass was stamped: Essex Enterprises: admit two.

I found O’Brien settling down to television. He didn’t need a lot of persuading to have a night out with me.

We had a hell of a night out: doing the City in style and it only cost me tips.

Slightly drunk, and on our way back to the airport around 02.00, O’Brien said, “From now on I’ll keep my eye on Mrs. E’s horse. Boy! Did you play that beautifully!”

“It’s a natural talent,” I said and decanted him from the car, then going into my cabin, I stripped of and rolled into bed.

Before I turned the light off I did a little more thinking.

This wouldn’t last long. I told myself. Mrs. Essex wasn’t going to keep me in luxury for more than a week, if that. Right at this moment I was a very rich woman’s whim. First. I would listen to Olson’s proposition. Then I would decide, whether to play along with him or to try to turn the whim of this very rich woman into something much more substantial than a whim.

I told myself I was drunk enough to make dreams. I thought of her again: the red hair, the violet eyes, the feel of her body.

Reaching for the moon? That was old hat now. Men went to the moon. Why not me?

The sound of an aircraft coming in to land brought me awake. I looked blearily at the bedside clock which registered 10.15. I rolled out of bed and was in time to see the dust of a Condor settled on the runway. This meant that Lane Essex, plus Bernie, were back.

There was Jackson’s Bentley already rushing to the landing point as well as three jeeps. I decided it would be quite a while before Olson would get to me so I took a shower, shaved, put on a sweat shirt and slacks and then called room service. In spite of the heavy drinking of the previous night, I was hungry.

I ordered waffles, eggs on grilled ham and coffee.

The man taking my order sounded as if I were granting him a favour.

“In ten minutes, Mr. Crane,” he said, “not a minute more.”

I thanked him, slapped after shave on my face and sat in a lounging chair to wait. I dug for this VIP treatment, but I wasn’t kidding myself it would last.

The breakfast arrived in eight minutes. . . I timed it.

After eating, I read the newspaper that had been delivered with the meal. Every now and then I heard a bang that told me O’Brien was still blasting.

At midday, I got bored waiting. Olson must be tied up, so I decided I would go into the city and use one of the credit cards.

As I was crossing to the door, the telephone bell rang.

I scooped up the receiver.

“Mr. Crane?” A woman’s voice, very cool and abrupt.

“Could be: why?”

A pause. I could imagine her change of expression.

“Mr. Jackson wants you. A car is on its way for you. . . in twenty minutes.”

Playing a hunch, I said. “In twenty minutes, I’ll be in the city. Mention this to Mr. Jackson,” and I hung up.

I lit a cigarette as the telephone bell rang again.

“Mr. Crane?” There was now an anxious note in her voice.

“That’s me. You’ve just caught me. What is it?”

“Would you please wait until the car arrives? Mr. Jackson wants to talk to you.”

“That’s a nicer approach, baby,” I said, “but it so happens I’m not in the mood to talk to Mr. J. right now. . . it’s too early in the morning,” and I hung up.

I waited, smoking, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if I was playing my cards right but all the time thinking of that phrase:
Mrs. Essex is pleased with you
. Seconds later the telephone bell rang again. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Crane, please cooperate.” The voice sounded frantic. “It’s Mrs. Essex who wants to meet you.”

“So why didn’t you say it before?”

“It’s Mrs. Essex who is asking for you. Could you, please, make yourself available? The car is on its way.”

“I’ll wait.” I paused, then went on “and listen, baby, the next time you call me, get the snooty tone out of your voice. I don’t like it.” I hung up.

Ten minutes later, Jackson’s Bentley pulled up outside my cabin. The negro chauffeur, bowing and grinning, had the rear door open for me. I climbed in and was wafted away at high speed.

The two guards at the airport entrance saluted me. The Bentley took me along the coast road, then up behind the city into the hills. While I was being driven, I leaned back against the English leather upholstery and thought about her.

Okay. . . a pipe dream, but life must be made up, sometimes, of pipe dreams. . . how else can anyone survive in this world of violence and madness?

We arrived at the entrance gates of the Essex estate. Two guards in bottle green had the gates open. We swept through and up a quarter of a mile of drive, bordered with trees, lawns, flowering shrubs and beds of roses.

The Bentley drew up at the front door: a tricky, rich affair of wrought iron and glass. A fat, white haired English looking butler was standing, waiting. He smiled at me: that patronising smile only the English can produce.

“Please come this way, Mr. Crane.”

I followed his fat back down a wide corridor, plastered with modem paintings that had to be genuine.

Finally, we arrived through double glass doors onto a vast patio with an ultra violet glass roof to shield the weak and the weary, plus orchids and troughs packed with multi-coloured begonias. In the centre of this opulence a vast fountain played into a vaster basin in which tropical fish swam as if doing a favour.

In this scene of richness, I found her.

She was lying on one of those things on wheels with a headrest and yellow cushions. Wes Jackson was seated slightly away from her, nursing what looked like a dry martini.

As I came out onto the patio, Jackson heaved his bulk up and got to his feet.

“Come on in. Mr. Crane,” he said and his smile, was like a drop of lemon juice on a live oyster. I noted the “mister” had returned. He turned to her. “You’ve met before, Mrs. Essex. I don’t have to make introductions.”

She looked up at me and extended her hand. I moved forward, gripped her hand that felt hot and dry, then released it.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked.

“Thank you: I’m not so bad.” The violet eyes were looking me over. I told myself there couldn’t be any other woman in the world as glamorous, as sexy, as gorgeous as this one. “It was quite a fall, wasn’t it?” She smiled and waved to a chair close to where she was lying. “Sit down, Mr. Crane.”

As I sat down, a Jap in white drill materialised from nowhere.

“What will you drink, Mr. Crane?” Jackson asked.

“A coke with bitter.”

That threw him and the Jap. They both stared at me. I had been rehearsing that while in the Bentley.

Mrs. Essex laughed

“That’s a drink I’ve never heard of.”

“At this hour of the day it suits me. I get to the hard stuff after sunset.”

There was a pause and the Jap went away.

Jackson moved to his chair, but stopped short as Mrs. Essex flicked her fingers at him.

“All right, Jackson.” she said, “I’m sure you have lots of work to do.”

“Yes, Mrs. Essex.”

Without looking at me, he faded swiftly and silently from the scene.

“I don’t like fat men,” she said, “do you?”

“He has a lean and hungry look.” I said. “I would rather settle for a fat man than a very lean one.”