Amy allowed the three mechanics to take over the Vega, and, with her in the middle, she and Mantz and I walked slowly toward the looming hangar. He had his arm around her, casually; it was hard to tell whether it represented a brotherly familiarity or something else.
“What have you got in mind for me and my baby?” she asked him.
“Angel, the boys in St. Louis have already increased your fuel capacity. I’ve got new magnetic and aperiodic compasses to install and check, we’re upgrading the directional bank and turn indicators, adding improved fuel and temperature gauges, plus a tachometer and a supercharger pressure gauge.”
“Is that all?” she asked mockingly.
“No. I’m gonna have Ernie overhaul the Pratt and Whitney again.”
She frowned at him. “You really think that’s necessary? That engine purred like a kitten, all the way from St. Louis to here. I ran into a wind shear landing at Albuquerque and it performed like a well-tuned race car. You can ask Nathan.”
My opinion, which was that the landing in question had scared holy hell out of me, may not have shed any light on this discussion of technical matters.
But we never got to my opinion; Mantz was already shaking his head, no. “Better safe than sorry. And as for you, young lady, I’ve got a new toy for you to play with...”
We were inside the cavernous hangar now, the golden dying sun filtering in lazily through the many-paned high windows. Half a dozen monoplanes were parked within the tool-littered hangar, including a Vega like Amy’s, only this one was painted red and white with the words HONEYMOON EXPRESS painted on the side, in a heart pierced by cupid arrows. Amy had told me earlier that her Vega had no nickname (unlike her famous Friendship and Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis) because G. P. figured giving the plane a name and a personality might detract from Amelia Earhart.
“Here’s your new best friend, angel,” Mantz said, stepping away from her, gesturing like a ringmaster to his center ring attraction. “The Link blind-flying trainer.”
And here was another little red plane, only this really was a little red plane, not much bigger than the ones that kids went ’round and ’round in at Riverview Park. With its tiny white wings and a precious white-scalloped tail and the words UNITED AIR SERVICES stenciled on its side, the squat fat-nosed trainer had a cockpit lid with no windows, and was elevated from the ground like a carousel horse.
“You’re joking,” she said.
But he wasn’t.
“Angel, as long as you insist on letting that goddamn Gippy con you into these long-distance flights...”
“G. P. doesn’t con me into anything,” she said firmly.
“Well, then, if you insist on trying to prove to yourself that you really are that Amelia Earhart person they write about in the papers, you had better learn some goddamn discipline.”
“I’ve had plenty of blind-flying training,” she said dismissively. “Anyway, I don’t like that term.”
“Call it instrument flying, then. Or dead reckoning — and dead is what you’ll be, angel, if you don’t face the reality of how often your life depends on an ability to fly precise compass headings through the shittiest weather known to God or man.”
“Let’s call it zero-visibility flying.”
“Fine. Call it Mickey and Minnie Mouse in the Tunnel of Love, as far as I give a damn. But over the next several weeks, angel, your pretty behind resides in that red tin can.”
And he gave her pretty behind a couple playful pats, and she laughed and said, “All right, all right, you evil man,” and somebody cleared their throat.
Actually, somebody cleared her throat, because it was a woman doing it, a redhead with green eyes and a pert nose and full red-rouged lips and a complexion like fresh cream and a chassis better constructed than any plane on that airfield.
“Isn’t this a cozy sight?” she said, her voice high-pitched, with a hint of Southwestern twang.
It was the least attractive thing about her. She was poised just inside the hangar, and for a fairly small woman, she threw a long shadow. Her frock was a sheer white polka-dot organdy with a draped cowl neck and bare arms, which were folded under the rounded wonders that were her breasts; she had her weight on one leg, though both legs — judging by the sleekly nyloned and well-turned ankles — were worth considering.
“Myrtle,” Amy said, and her voice seemed warm, as did her smile, “how delightful to see you!”
And Amy walked toward the woman with her arms outstretched.
Mantz whispered to me, “That’s the little woman.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“There’s all kinds of luck.”
Amelia Earhart had now reached Myrtle Mantz, whose icy demeanor seemed suddenly to melt and the redhead accepted, and reciprocated, the hug Amy offered.
I was still trying to figure out what to make of that when they walked toward us, hand in hand, Myrtle’s high heels clicking on the cement floor, echoing in the high-ceilinged space like gunfire. Myrtle was smiling, now; a dazzler it was, too, with no gaps.
“Have you seen the torture chamber your husband’s arranged for me?” Amy asked Myrtle, and the two girls — chums now — peeked in and around the little red plane. Myrtle stood on tippy-toe and, under the organdy dress, the globes of her perfect behind were like firm ripe melons; as much as I admired Amy’s tomboyish pulchritude, Mantz was definitely a guy who didn’t need to leave the house to find a pretty behind to pat.
Shortly thereafter we recommenced to the Union Terminal’s Sky Room, a quaint mix of linen tablecloths, airplane memorabilia and cumbersome dude ranch furnishings. Birds tweeting in cages spoke more of captivity than flight, while a wall of windows looked out over endless runways where the bigger birds of United, Western, and TWA came and went; as dusk turned to evening, floodlights turned the tarmac to instant noon.
Mantz sat beside his wife but across from Amy; I was next to Amy and across from Mrs. Mantz, who was so gorgeous I instantly composed a private, filthy limerick about her, utilizing the word “pants” as the punchline.
A cocky, swaggering little guy, Mantz did most of the talking at dinner, frequently laughing at his own jokes. But mostly he was coaching his star pupil.
“You know you have a tendency to push your engine to the limit,” he said to Amy. We had finished our dinner — everyone had fresh seafood of one kind or another, delicious — and he was working on his third frost-rimmed martini.
“Of course,” Amy said, over her inevitable cup of cocoa. “The extra power makes up for the headwinds.”
“That’s no way to fly,” he said, exasperated. “It’s a foolish goddamn dangerous method to use on life-and-death long-range flights.”
Myrtle Mantz had said little through dinner; she was watching her husband and his charge talk about flying as if she were overhearing them pitching woo at each other. But neither Paul nor Amy seemed to notice the daggers in those green eyes.
“Listen,” he said to Amy, “when this Mexico flight is over, why don’t you leave the Vega with me? I can add it to my charter service. You can make a little dough, angel.”
Every time he called Amy “angel,” a furrow like a cut appeared between Mrs. Mantz’s finely plucked eyebrows.
Amy considered Mantz’s offer, shrugged. “I don’t see why not. How’s business been?”
“You know flying — up and down.” He chortled at this prime witticism, then said, “The big money’s with the Hollywood jobs, but when the weather’s bad and production schedules are slow, I fall back on the ol’ Honeymoon Express.”