After Laurie’s death, Clyde had drawn his son-in-law into the hobby and now Dave was president of the Royal Falls Model Airplane Club. Two more fellows from the mill were now building and flying also.
“What do you want me to do?” Clyde protested. “Lock myself in my house until you fellows come for me on Saturday mornings?”
“All I’m asking is that you use some common sense until these creeps are picked up.”
“If we’d used that kind of ‘common sense’ during the war—”
“Clyde,” Dave interrupted, “that was over thirty-five years ago.”
Clyde did not reply. Dave’s logic was cruel but true.
Clyde’s small house — outside of Royal Falls proper on three treed acres — was semi-isolated, as many in the area were.
They must have parked their motorcycles at the gate and walked in. He heard nothing till they caved in his back door. When he grabbed for the phone, the line was dead. He hurried across the living room for his shotgun, but the bikers reached it first and Billy enveloped him in another bear hug, even tighter than the first.
“They got Clipper,” Fang accused him. He swaggered around the room, then peered into the spare bedroom Clyde had converted into a workshop. He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Dope, thinner, glue,” Clyde said. “You punks should recognize it. Isn’t it what you put in plastic bags to sniff?”
Fang charged Clyde and slapped him hard across the face. “Look, old man, we’re not here to listen to none of your smart mouth. We’re here to tell you that when the oinkers call you in to identify Clipper, you never seen him before in your life. Got it?”
Clyde didn’t answer. His hard stare was his reply.
“You think you’re a tough old coot, don’t you?” Fang walked into the workshop and returned with the model Clyde usually flew when he wasn’t out with the Wildcat. “Funny-looking thing. What is it?”
“An F4U Corsair. The same as what Boyington had. Our squadron got them late in the war.”
“Yeah, but I think you made a mistake, Pop. The wings are bent.”
“They’re designed that way. It’s an inverted-gull shape.”
Fang grinned and shook his head. “I never seen a plane with crooked wings before. Lemme fix them for you.”
Crack! Crack!
Clyde struggled fiercely, but Billy pushed him roughly onto the couch. The bikers moved quickly to the door. “That plane, Pop,” Fang said. “It was real brittle — just like your bones. Keep that in mind when the law calls you in.”
Clyde kept it in mind. He also picked Clipper out of a lineup and signed a complaint.
“We’ve got a good case now,” the desk sergeant said. “Your friend Clipper isn’t so rough when he’s away from his partners. He’s no Rhodes scholar either. His alibi is full of holes and a few more days in the slammer might be all he can handle. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a full confession.”
“That’s a relief,” Dave said, “but what about the other two?”
“We’ll get them eventually. But they drift around, cover a lot of territory, so I can’t promise you when.”
Dave turned to Clyde. “In the meantime—”
“I know. Stick close to home. Install some bolts on the doors. Wait till Saturday to fly with my bodyguards. No problem. I’m almost done with my new ship. I’ll just stay indoors and work on it.”
Clyde had never lied to Dave before, and he didn’t feel very good about doing it now.
Clyde’s latest creation performed well when he took it to the field for its maiden flight on Friday afternoon. He experimented with a series of mild aerobatics, getting the feel of the new plane and the control unit. He brought it in, refilled the fuel tank, and had sent it up again when he heard the familiar roar of motorcycle engines from the hillside and saw Fang and Billy emerge from a trail. No wonder the law couldn’t locate them. They must have been holed up there, just waiting.
Clyde gave the plane maximum power and steered it upward in a steep spiral. If anything, this model was overpowered; it gained altitude quickly and effortlessly.
Fang and Billy were at the far edge of the field, their bikes kicking up billows of dust as they raced directly at Clyde. Just then, Dave’s pickup truck came into view — Dave and several of his friends from the mill in it. The rascals, Clyde thought, they had probably been watching him, knowing he would play possum.
Well, Dave and his friends were welcome to Billy — but Fang was his. Clyde adjusted a control lever and the twenty-pound model airplane nosed downward.
It was a replica of the Japanese Zeke fighter, more commonly known as the Zero. It had been a most formidable foe throughout the war in the Pacific, and toward the end it had been used for an even more ominous purpose.
Clyde had followed one down in his Corsair and peppered it with bullets, committing it to the sea just before it accomplished its mission — which was to slam into the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Kamikaze. The Divine Wind. The enemy’s last fanatic hope.
Clyde’s Zero closed on Fang in a vertical dive. Fang saw it and zigzagged desperately. Clyde subtly corrected Fang’s every move.
“Banzai!” Clyde said too softly to be heard above the vicious whine of the hurtling Zero. “Banzai.”
An Easy Fifty Bucks
by Donald Olson
Jerry would have driven past the man standing beside the road with a suitcase had he merely raised his thumb instead of stepping boldly into the road and flagging the car to a stop. Clamping both hands firmly on the window ledge, he thrust his head forward through the open window and said, “My car broke down back there. I need a ride into town.”
Jerry made a practice of never picking up hitchhikers no matter how plausible their stories sounded. “I’d like to, but—”
“Thanks, pal,” the man cut him off, pulling the door open. He looked quite capable of keeping the car from moving by sheer animal strength. Jerry’s first impression was of a once well conditioned muscle man gone slightly to pot. He had just enough flab to give him the appearance of some bearlike creature, with almost as much black hair visible beneath his open denim shirt as was on his head. As he flung the bag into the back seat, Jerry noticed the elaborate tattoos, one on his bicep, the other on his forearm.
Still, there was nothing menacing in the broad smile he turned on Jerry as he climbed in beside him. His blue eyes were as strong-looking as his other features.
“Where are you headed?” Jerry asked.
Mopping his broad face with a soiled handkerchief, the man said, “I was supposed to be in Meadville tonight, but I’ll never make it before dark.”
“Well, I’m only going as far as Warren,” Jerry said, conscious of the sweaty fumes pouring from the man’s body.
“Warren.” The man appeared to be consulting a mental map. “That’ll help.” He settled himself into a more relaxed posture. “Name’s Sid Jacobs.”
“Jerry Melacker.”
“I really appreciate this, Jerry. That damn suitcase is too heavy to lug very far in this heat.”
“Why didn’t you lock it in your trunk?”
“Too risky. I’ll be lucky to get a mechanic back there before the wheels are ripped off.” A quick grin crossed his face. “Not that I’m worried about it. It’s a rental.”