Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (37 page)

“Yeah. A new form of mob hit. You know they reported there was a guy there that no one knew. Kind of creepy looking, people have told me.”

“Why would the mob want to put Don in a coma?” Brooke was incredulous. She seemed to come naturally to the state.

“Oh, Don was really into gambling,” Brett said. “Didn't you know that? It started at Harvard. He used to spend his weekends in Atlantic City, driving all night Friday to get there. Now he always told me he never did worse than break even, but who knows? And he loved Vegas.”

“So you think he was into the mob for gambling debts?” asked Thad.

“I don't know, but, you know, let's not waste the thought. What do you think of it as the premise for a movie? Robert Downey, Jr. would be perfect.”

“Yeah, sure. Do you think you could push it through at Tri-Star?”

“I don't know, can you present the idea to Jim?”

“Is it a Jim kind of idea?”

“I don't know. Make ‘im, uh, make ‘im a government clerk at the CIA into the mob who witnesses—uh—who witnesses—the mob take down an important agent, so he tries to blackmail the mob to get out of his debts, but things are even deeper and darker than he thinks, so now he's got the mob chasing him and the CIA chasing him, so he goes to a friend—a girl friend—at the FBI for help, but, what he doesn't know, is she's involved as well, doesn't want to be, but for some reason is, so we have this moral dilemma when she has to turn him in.”

“Who do you see playing the girl?”

“How about Gwyneth Paltrow?”

 
“I don't see her fucking Downey.”

“Matthew McConaughey, then, of course, Matthew McConaughey.”

“He wouldn't do a stupid movie like this.”

“Then why would Gwyneth?”

“She's a girl, what choice does she have?'

“Hey!” Brooke slapped the back of Brett's head.

“Ouch! Well, Brooke, take over Hollywood and change things then.”

“No, I accept the reality. I just don't think we should bandy it about.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The loudspeaker suddenly announced. “The highlight of our show is about to commence. Return with us now to the glory filled skies of the stalwart island of England, standing alone against the might of Hitler's hordes during the summer and fall of 1940. There, off in the distance. Do you see them? Three Messerschmitt bf 109s, the pride of the Luftwaffe, coming to strafe an RAF base, but into the air goes the greatest fighter plane of all time, the Supermarine Spitfire, the brilliant creation of Reginald J. Mitchell. What you are about to see, ladies and gentlemen, is a recreation of a classic World War Two dog fight among these two classic war birds. You will hear the guns fire and see explosions but don't worry, it's all just an amazing simulation, created by the great special effects team at Olympic Pictures!”

The crowd scanned the sky with binoculars, camcorders, or hand-shaded eyes. Suddenly an arm extending with a pointing finger shot out while a cry shouted out. People turned, more arms shot up and pointed. Off to the West, coming over the Pacific Ocean playing the part of the English Channel (an interesting bit of casting) came three Messerschmitt fighters flying in a triangular formation, their yellow noses bright in the sun. It was a formidable fear they engendered, coming in fast and low. When were the guns going to open up? Your gut wanted to know.

“Scramble!” came over the loudspeaker and off at the mock RAF field four pilots ran like mad for their planes. The Messerschmitts started to strafe, small explosions chewing up the ground before them. One of the Spitfires, the one that sat quite apart from the others, exploded under the fire before its pilot could reach it. A special effect, of course. The plane could be quickly put to right and exploded over and over. The three Messerschmitts shot up into the sky. The three Spitfires followed. Then they put on a show. Flying lower than a real battle would have taken place, they mixed it up, pursuing each other, weaving, dodging, “bouncing” on each other. Over the loudspeaker we could hear their radio transmissions from the Spitfires, many “Tally Hos, Rabbit Leaders,” and a few, “Let's get those bloody Krauts!” kind of dialog, somewhat lacking in authenticity whenever Sara Hutton's female voice would shout out something like, “Wing man! Bandit Two ‘o clock!”

The crowd loved it. They couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys, but it really didn't matter. They
OOOOOed
when a plane was “hit” and started to bomb its way down to the ground, a trail of black smoke streaming from it, and
AHHHHed
just as the plane always pulled up at what seemed the last minute to rejoin the fight.

It was—I have to admit—somewhat grand. Certainly Henderson and Pinsker expressed their delight in it. The five seemed to enjoy themselves, as well, although I think Brooke might have liked it if one of the planes had crash. At least I detected a little breath of disappointment whenever the planes recovered from their fall. Lydia was captivated. Her mouth hung open. She called it “amazing” about four times. When the loudspeaker announced the end of the show and the planes formed into two groups and prepared to land, she lead us all in vigorous applause.

The Messerschmitts landed on the tarmac while the Spitfires landed on the grassy RAF field. One of the Messerschmitts, though, and one of the Spitfires, broke off from their comrades of the sky and taxied over to the area directly in front of us, the sound of their engines growing louder and louder, until they stopped and sputtered down into silence.

The pilots ejected themselves from their planes in smooth, jaunty moves that saw them swing themselves out of the cockpits and land both feet on their wings, then cast themselves off onto the ground. Very romantic. They both were in costume. One was wearing an RAF flight officer's uniform and leather jacket—pretty dashing. The other wore the uniform of a German fighter ace, a leather waist jacket, well-cut pants tapering down at the end and covered by high, well polished boots. Of the two the German uniform was the niftier. It often happens that way. Bad guys seem to have a better sense of design. British Redcoats: Natty, to say the least. Pirates: Eye patch, bandanna, and sash as defining accessories. Indians: Great use of feathers. Unless, of course, you consider the U.S. Cavalry to be the bad guys, but even they had nifty blue uniforms as opposed to the drab olive of today's army. Darth Vader: A symphony in basic black.

I could recognize Sara now; she was the pilot of the Spitfire. She took her leather flight cap off, smiled at us, and waved. The other pilot was a tall man, maybe six foot three, and large in build without being fat at all. When he took off his leather helmet we could see that he had dusty red receding hair that was strangely piled on his head. Then he reached up and pulled out bobby pins, I supposed, for his hair came tumbling down. It was very long, ending just above the small of his back, and narrow, falling between his shoulder blades. As he walked towards us, his hair blew up in the wind, it was that thin and light, and glowed with highlights from the sun that pierced it.

The two walked up to us. “Hello everybody, hello Lydia, glad you could make it,” Sara said, still breathless from the exhilaration of the flight and the fight. “I'd like you all to meet a very good friend of mine, and a man you should all get to know very well, Maxwellton James.”

Maxwellton James stood before us on the tarmac, the two warbirds back-dropping him. He smiled broadly. His eyes, which were a strange, muted green, glowed. His large forehead, partly an illusion from the receding hairline, was pink and freckled and icon like. His hair, flowing back off his forehead, continued to wave in the wind.

“Hello—Hi—How are you?” Maxwellton James was up on the platform, greeting us, shaking hands all around. Like a skilled and masterful politician he could look you straight in the eyes, with just the slightest tilt of his head to the right. Such a look could take you aback—people don't really look into each other's eyes, do they?—but the slant of his head kept it from being disconcerting. Straight on, such a look pierced you naked. At a slant, it took in your protective cover and seduced it.

In his greetings Max had something particular to say to each person; Sara had obviously briefed him well. To Nick, for example, he talked ice hockey, knowing Nick was a fan, having played on championship teams in high school and college. To Brooke he mentioned that he had managed to lay in a small case of a little-known-in-America Irish beer. It was, of course, her favorite, only indulged in when she traveled to the UK. Lydia he paid much attention to, thanking her for coming on such short notice, hoping she enjoyed the show, mentioning a particular bill under consideration in the Greek Parliament and how he hoped her efforts to defeat it will succeed, as it was detrimental to the media business in Greece, wasn't it?

Then he came to Henderson and Pinsker.

“Ah,” he looked at us with his muted green eyes, “the lawyers. Briefcases in hand ready to do business, I see, but we are doing no business here this weekend, gentlemen. Wouldn't you like to unload yourself of the burden of carrying them? I'm sure one of the Rangers would be happy—”

“They've already offered,” I broke in. “Numerous times. Their concern for our comfort has been admirable.”

Max was stopped. The Rangers' failure had most likely been reported to him as he flew high above in his Messerschmitt. Leave it to me, he had probably sighed, regretting the incompetence of others. “There is nothing like a good public servant,” Max said, a slightly different texture to his smile now.

“But as we explained to them,” I continued, “we are far more comfortable being able to hang on to them. Goes back to law school, I suppose. I was always afraid of losing my homework.”

“I see. Well, my duty as host is to acquiesce in the desires of my guests. So suit yourself,” Maxwellton James said in that same voice we had heard over the bug. That smooth voice. Not smooth and slick; smooth and soft. A pleasant wrap around your consciousness. It was the voice of a pal, a buddy a friend. There was no hint of irony in it, no lack of sincerity; it was plain without being bland, well modulated, and direct. It was not the voice of a dangerous man.

But it was a dangerous voice.

“You like airplanes, I understand.” Max divided his attention between Pinsker and myself.

“Very much,” Pinsker said.

“Would you like a close look?” Max indicated the two warbirds with a quick dart of his head.

“Yes, that would be quite exciting,” I said.

Max led us down to where the Messerschmitt and the Spitfire stood.

Combatants. Fighters. Mechanized flying armor for Twentieth Century knights. Henderson and Pinsker showed their delight quite openly, their lawyer's reserve diminishing in front of the machines, which they walked around, touched, bent close to, inspecting details.

“What model Spit is this?” I had Henderson ask, abbreviating the name in an attempt to sound like a member of the brotherhood.

“It's a Mark II.”

“One of the early ones,” I said in awe.

“It actually fought in the Battle of Britain,” Max said with pride. “It cost over a million dollars to bring it back to prime condition. Still got its original Rolls Royce Merlin XII engine.”

“How about armaments?” Pinsker wanted to know.

Max looked at him. Challenged him. “Well, you tell me. You know this stuff, right?”

“Looks like ‘B' wing to me. Four Browning machine guns; two 20 mm Hispano cannons.”

“Exactly. See, you know your stuff.”

“Only from pictures. We collect aviation art,” Pinsker said.

“It's all we hang on our walls at the firm,” added Henderson.

“But you fly don't you? Sara told me—”

“Only Pipers and Cessna's,” I answered. “We've never flown anything like this.”

“You haven't flown until you've flown something like this,” Max said with that superiority of the initiated. “Look at the Messerschmitt. It's a Bf109E-4. Magnificent machine. Built not just to conquer the air, but to use it, to turn the air into a medium in which to express yourself.” Max looked up at the dark gray plane, mottled for camouflage. “Your joy. Your delight.” He then looked back down at us. “Your anger. Your righteous indignation.” He paused to allow us to consider. “All other planes are—transport. Flying them is easy. Be powered. Control airflow. Exploit lift. Go from point A to point B. To pilot something like that is to be not much more than a passenger.”

“Well, still—”

“You want to take her up?”

“What? Now?” Henderson asked, amazed, teased, not daring to hope.

“No, of course not, not now. I don't gamble a million dollar plane on someone who's only flown Pipers and Cessnas. I could put you through training. Rigorous training. Then you could have the experience.”

“Unfortunately, I don't really have the time to go through rigorous training, but you made my heart jump there. I really would like to. You know, flying is flying it's all the same principal. I guess I could fly it.”