The Fly Boys (21 page)

Laughter, followed by applause, filled the room. “Order, order please,” Senator Hill called out in vain, pounding his gavel.

“I have no further questions,” Senator Tabworth muttered into his microphone.

“What did I tell you?” Campbell elbowed Steve’s ribs. “Talk about your knockout punch!”

“This is useless,” Senator Hill was declaring. “The hearding will adjourn until Monday morning, when the witness will continue
his testimony.”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the man of the hour,” Campbell told Steve as the hearing broke up.

Flashbulbs popped as photographers and shouting reporters jostled with one another to get close to Harrison. When the young
engineer saw Campbell, he excused himself from the newspaper people and came over. The brunette joined them at the same time.

“Miss Linda Forrest, may I introduce you to Captain Steven Gold,” Campbell said.

“How do you do, Captain,” the brunette smiled.

Well, at least she isn’t Harrison’s wife
, Steve thought as she offered him her hand.
But is she his girlfriend?

Steve was reluctant to let go of her fingers. She was a knockout, all right, even better close up than she was from a distance.
She had a wide, sensual mouth, and swell, bright blue eyes, just like that kid Elizabeth Taylor in that movie about the racing
horse. But unlike Elizabeth Taylor, Linda Forrest was all grown up. As a matter of fact, now that Steve was close to her,
she looked older than he’d initially thought. She looked closer to Harrison’s age, in her late twenties.

“And this is Donald Harrison,” Campbell said.

“Congratulations,” Steve said, tearing himself away from Linda Forrest in order to shake hands with Harrison. “You really
mopped the floor with Tabworth.”

“Well, I was captain of my debating team in college,” Harrison laughed. “And it helps when you truly believe in your argument
the way I believe in the B-45,” he firmly added.

Campbell put his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Don, Stevie here is Herman Gold’s son.”

“Well!” Harrison smiled. “I have to tell you that your father is something of a hero of mine.”

Linda Forrest laughed. “Looking at all those decorations on the captain’s chest, I’d say that he’s something of a hero in
his own right. What do all those pretty ribbons mean, Captain?”

“Stevie,” Campbell cut in, “show them which one represents the Distinguished Flying Cross you got for single-handedly rescuing
that Navy cargo ship from the Japs.”

“It wasn’t single-handed,” Steve began, glancing at the others. “I had help. A buddy of mine saved my skin when he—”

“Sure, Stevie,” Campbell cut him off. He poked at the ribbons on Steve’s chest. “But which one is it?”

Steve glanced at Linda Forrest. She smiled, rolling her big baby blues in commiseration. He smiled back as he pointed to the
deep blue bar vertically edged in red and white.

“That’s lovely,” Linda Forrest said. “I suppose you did something terribly brave to receive it.”

“You know, that medal is just one grade below the Medal of Honor,” Campbell announced before Steve could stop him. “I happen
to think they should have given the kid the Medal of Honor,” he added sourly.

“I guess they call ‘em the way they see ‘em,” Steve replied modestly. Linda Forrest was still smiling at him as if there were
nobody else around. He wondered if Harrison was getting steamed? Basking in a smile like that, he didn’t care.

“Stevie, Stevie.” Campbell was shaking his head. “You’re never going to get anywhere unless you’re willing to blow your own
horn.”

Linda Forrest was laughing. “I do believe the captain is blushing.”

“And which is the decoration the Navy lobbied so hard for you to get?” Campbell asked.

“You mean the Legion of Merit,” Steve said, wishing Uncle Tim would let up. He pointed out the purplish-red bar vertically
edged in white.

“Well, they’re all very impressive,” Linda Forrest told Steve. She cocked her head to one side, a slight smile playing at
the corners of her delicious mouth as she looked him over appraisingly. “Someday I’d love to see the actual medals.”

“Uh … yeah, sure….” Steve mumbled, wondering what the hell she meant by that. He glanced uncertainly at Harrison, who seemed
unperturbed.

“Well, you’ll have to excuse us, Stevie,” Campbell was saying. “We’ve got a drink date with a very important fellow on the
House of Representatives Military Appropriations Committee.”

“Sure … of course.” Steve glanced longingly at Linda Forrest. “Very nice to have met you … and you, too, Mr. Harrison,” he
added quickly.

“Same here,” Harrison said as Campbell began to shepherd them along.

“Good-bye, Captain Gold,” Linda Forrest smiled, looking back at Steve.

He watched as she took Harrison’s arm.
So she is his girlfriend after all
, Steve told himself, feeling sad as he watched her walk away out of his life.
Good-bye forever, Baby Blue Eyes
.

He spent a few seconds chatting with a senator’s aide he knew, and then left the hearing room, passing through the building’s
octagonal marble rotunda and out the main doors. A cab was just pulling away as Steve ambled down the steps. He thought he
glimpsed Linda Forrest looking back at him through the cab’s rear window, but he wasn’t sure.

He paused to light a Pall Mall, and then began walking in the warm blaze of the dying afternoon down Constitution Avenue.
The offices had let out. Steve smiled to himself as he watched the young secretaries in their summery frocks on their way
home from work.

He had plans for the evening: he was going to meet some friends at the Siam Club, a dining and dancing spot. The friends were
bringing along a blind date for him, a girl they thought he might like. And tomorrow night he had a date with a cute redhead
in his office’s secretarial pool.

Maybe tonight’s blind date would be a dish like Linda Forrest.

She would have to be
something
pretty swell to help him get those big baby blues out of his system….

That evening a little after eight o’clock, Steve Gold was at the bar at the Siam Club, waiting for his friends to arrive.
He was sipping a Rob Roy. (He’d switched from bourbon to scotch about a year ago.) While he was waiting he listened to the
dance band play an Irving Berlin tune, “You Keep Coming Back Like an Old Song.”

The Siam Club was Steve’s favorite nightspot. It was located on 16th Street, near the White House and the city’s ritziest
hotels. The nightclub was pretty ritzy itself. Dreamy, dramatic murals portraying in luminous colors scenes from a fantasy
Siamese kingdom lined the walls above red velvet draperies. The central chandelier and wall sconces cast romantic light on
the linen-covered tables ringing the dance floor.

While Steve was waiting, he thought about the long letter from Benny Detkin that had been waiting for him in the mail when
he’d gotten back to his apartment that afternoon. Benny was still single. He’d graduated from Columbia Law School at the top
of his class last summer, and now he was working as an associate at some hotshot New York firm.

Benny and Steve had remained close. Steve still considered Benny his best friend. They visited with each other a couple of
times a year, and wrote to each other regularly. At least Benny wrote regularly, Steve reminded himself, feeling guilty. He
hated to write, and usually tried to get by with a hastily scrawled postcard.

Steve patted the pockets of his charcoal-gray, double-breasted suit for his cigarettes, and then remembered that he’d smoked
the last one on the drive to the club. He glimpsed one of the cigarette girls passing by in the backlit mirror behind the
bar, and swiveled around on his stool to signal her. As he did, he noticed Don Harrison and Linda Forrest being shown to a
table.

Steve flipped the cigarette girl half a buck for a package of Pall Malls and told her to keep the change. As he tore the cellophane
wrapping off the scarlet pack he thought about how happy his superior officer at the Pentagon had been when he’d telephoned
in his report on how Harrison had bested Senator Tabworth at today’s hearings. Harrison was definitely a VIP as far as the
Air Force was concerned.

Steve saw a waiter gliding by carrying a champagne setup. It gave him an idea. “I’d like to send a bottle of champagne over
to a table,” Steve told the bartender who came over to light Steve’s cigarette.

“Yes, sir!” The bartender presented Steve with the wine card, and then snapped his fingers to summon a waiter.

Steve didn’t know much about wine. He wished that he did as he randomly selected a pricey bottle of Bollinger near the top
of the list. People who knew about wine and the finer things moved easily through the capital city. Steve wanted to be like
them because they had the right skills to survive and win. They were the fighter aces of this place and time.

He had a running tab here, so he signed for the champagne, adding a tip for both the bartender and the waiter. He instructed
the waiter on which table to present the bottle with his compliments, and then sat back, feeling very pleased with himself.
He looked forward to telling his superior officer about his gesture on Monday morning. It was, after all, a public relations
kind of thing to do, and his superior had been after him to get with the department’s program.

Getting with the program had been hard for Steve these past two years. His superior officer, a real nice guy even if he had
flown a desk all through the war, had once sat Steve down and explained to him that public relations was the art of granting
favors and then asking for favors in return. The whole concept was alien to Steve. He hated small talk and beating around
the bush, but he really did want to get with the program and advance his military career.

The only enjoyable part of the job was his expense account. He’d have to remember to file an expense report for the cost of
the champagne on Monday.

“Excuse me, sir—”

Steve turned to see the waiter who’d delivered the champagne standing beside him.

“The gentleman thanks you, and asks that you join them for a drink.”

Don Harrison stood up to shake hands as Steve approached the table. Harrison was dressed in a conservative dark blue double-breasted
suit with a barely visible chalk stripe, a white shirt, and a muted tie.

“Thanks for the bubbly, Captain,” Harrison said.

“My pleasure,” Steve said. “After the way you championed the B-45 it’s the least I could do. But it’s after hours, I’m off
duty, and dressed in civies,” he assed, “so please drop the formalities and call me Steve.”

“Okay!” Harrison smiled. “And I’m Don.”

“Please sit down, Steve,” Linda Forrest said as the waiter appeared with a chair, which he placed at the table beside the
champagne in its silver ice-bucket stand.

Steve feasted his eyes on Linda as the waiter busied himself opening the champagne. She had her hair up and was wearing black
suede gloves and a low-cut black satin evening dress that revealed the tops of her breasts. Steve had a difficult time preventing
himself from staring at her luscious cleavage. She was wearing very little jewelry—just a strand of pearls and matching earrings—but
she didn’t need much in the way of extra ornaments.

Steve picked up his filled champagne glass and toasted Harrison. “To you, and to your B-45 bomber. It’s number one on the
Air Force’s wish list, and thanks to you, it looks as if this wish is going to come true.”

“You’re embarrassing me,” Harrison chuckled as he sipped his champagne.

“He’s as modest as you about his professional accomplishments, Steve,” Linda Forrest remarked as she took a tortoiseshell
cigarette case from her evening bag. You should have seen him blush when I gave him today’s pages to review.”

“Pages of what?” Steve asked, producing his lighter and leaning toward her to light her cigarette.

“Of the personality profile that I’m writing. I’m a freelance journalist who often specializes in the same line of work as
you: public relations. Don’s company, Amalgamated-Landis, has hired me to do an in-depth profile on Don.”

“You mean you two are working together?” Steve asked, trying hard not to sound
too
elated.

Harrison nodded. “What’s the latest title of the thing?” he scowled. “Oh, yeah. Get this, Steve: ‘Don Harrison: Unsung Hero
of America’s Freedom Crusade.’”

“Get
him,
” Linda Forrest laughed. “He’s such a phony! Secretly, he loves the fuss everyone is making over him.”

“Well, maybe I do, a little,” Harrison admitted reluctantly, winking at Steve. “Just imagine this mug of mine plastered across
all the Sunday supplements in America. I’ll get my chance to be the hero, just like you, Steve. You know, I never did get
to join the military during the war. They kept me out on account of the work I was doing designing airplanes.”

“Hey, guys like you designed and built the airplanes that guys like me flew,” Steve said. “Couldn’t have had one without the
other. I guess it took both kinds to win the war.”

“Spoken like a true gentleman,” Linda Forrest laughed. She stubbed out the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray. “I think
I’d like to see if you move as gracefully as you verbally extricate yourself from tight corners,” she smiled.

“Pardon?”

“She’s asking you to dance.” Harrison said gently.

“Well,” Steve said uncertainly, “if you don’t mind.”

Harrison shook his head.

The band was kicking into “Almost Like Being In Love” from the hit Broadway musical of the year,
Brigadoon
, as Steve stood up and escorted Linda Forrest to the dance floor. Steve noticed guys watching enviously as she held on to
his arm.
Well, why not?
he thought as they began to dance. She was the prettiest girl in the club.

“I bet the idea for the puff piece you’re doing on Don came from Tim Campbell, Miss Forrest,” Steve said as he led her around
the dance floor.