Edge of Valor (48 page)

“Easy, easy; the boss is watching.” That one came from Tubby White as the crowd laughed.

Laura continued her soft background music, “And now . . .” She launched into “Embraceable You.”

A delicate floral scent enveloped him. Ingram turned and looked into the eyes of a dark-haired beauty. Her hair was done in a French twist, her eyes heavily made up. Her exquisite diamond necklace gleamed and caught the light. Up close she had small creases of wisdom and courage and stamina around her eyes and mouth: late forties, maybe even into her fifties, he guessed. She smiled as if she knew him. Ingram smiled back, perplexed.

Helen dug her fingernails into his palm.

Laura played and sang as Toscanini moved off the stage. In a moment he was beside the woman, kissing her. He said softly, “Anoushka. I'm so happy you could come. Welcome to California.”

Her accent was heavy—Russian, Ingram thought. “I'm so sorry we're late, Maestro. This city is so spread out. Our cab got lost.”

“Dear, dear Anoushka. Los Angeles is a hard town to understand, especially on a first visit. But you're still scheduled at Warner Brothers tomorrow morning?”

“Ummmm—audition starts at eight tomorrow morning. But where is this Burbank?”

“Warner Brothers' Studio is in the San Fernando Valley.”

“Oh, I think I may be there already. We are staying at the Sportsman's Lodge in Studio City.” She laughed. “The restaurant is delightful. You catch your own fish and they cook it for dinner. Can you believe that? A car picks me up at seven.”

“Excellent, just excellent.” Toscanini held her hands to his chest. “Anoushka, darling. All these years. You look as beautiful as ever. I'm so glad you got through it all.”

She exhaled. “It wasn't easy.”

“I saw
Challenge of Darkness
—a wonderful movie. You're as beautiful in it as you are now.”

“Maestro. Thank you. I didn't realize it was playing here.”

“The studio found a copy for me. They hope to do an English subtitled version and release it here.”

“I wish they would hurry up.”

He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “I want you to meet some good friends of mine, Dimitri and Rose Tiomkin. Dimitri, may I present Anoushka Dezhnev, just in from the Soviet Union.”

Dezhnev?
Ingram felt as if he had been electrocuted. He spun around and found himself looking into the eyes of Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev.

“You!”

“Good to see you, Todd,” said Dezhnev with a thin smile.

While Anoushka Dezhnev, Toscanini, and the Tiomkins babbled on about Soviet Russia and her upcoming auditions, Ingram hissed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

The program had gone smoothly, with Laura now winding up with “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Toscanini looked at the stage. “I'm on now. You must have dinner with me, Anoushka.”

“I'm not sure if that is possible,” she replied.

“Of course it is. I'll be right back. Then we can talk. Now, please excuse me.”

“But you haven't met my son,” she said.

“I'll be right back.” Toscanini wound through the crowd, making it up to the stage just as Laura finished her song.

The stage lights came up and Laura said, “We'll pick it up a bit with a continental favorite: ‘The Blue Danube' by Johann Strauss with Maestro Arturo Toscanini conducting.”

The crowd clapped and roared as Toscanini beautifully launched his orchestra. The house lights came up a little more as the spotlight swung over to the bride and groom waltzing in the middle of the dance floor. Anyone looking
closely could tell that Laura was leading her husband, but Landa did a credible job of faking his part. The guests joined in and began waltzing along with them.

Ingram turned around, half-wishing that Dezhnev would not be there.

He was.

“Aren't you going to introduce me to your wife, Todd? She's gorgeous.”

Helen registered confusion at the Russian officer who looked dashing in his dress uniform with clanking medals and glittering brass. And he still wore the Alcatraz belt buckle. Ingram made stilted introductions. Dezhnev, the perfect gentleman, raised and kissed Helen's hand.

Helen smiled broadly.

Holding his temper, Ingram said, “Excuse us, Helen.” He took Dezhnev's elbow and steered him to the edge of the dance floor. “What's going on?” he demanded.

Dezhnev shook himself loose. “Todd, don't think I don't know how to take care of myself.”

“Well, before we figure all that out, tell me what the hell you're doing here.”

“Escorting my mother.”

“Bullshit. What the hell are you doing here?” Ingram stood close, his chest almost touching Dezhnev's. “You better come up with something, Ivan, or I'm going to have those SPs throw your ass in a paddy wagon.”

Dezhnev plopped his hands on Ingram's shoulders and said, “Take it easy. I'm here to save your life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They're trying to kill you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I heard about it just before I left Vladivostok. But it's out of my hands. I can't stop it.”

“This is bullshit. Why?”

“I cannot say more except be careful.”

“What nonsense.”

Helen walked up wearing a puzzled smile.

Dezhnev turned to her and gave an elaborate bow. “May I have this dance?”

Helen batted her eyelashes. “I'd be honored.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

26 November 1945

San Pedro, California

T
he Plymouth wouldn't start. The carburetor was flooded, and it was Ingram's turn to drive. He propped up the hood and puttered with the engine. He was sharing a ride today with Cdr. Walt Hodges, the supply officer on the USS
Piedmont
(AD 17), a destroyer tender moored at the Long Beach Naval Station. Ingram's ship, the USS
Wallace
(DD 549), was tied up in a nest beside her going through a long-awaited tender availability. Today and tomorrow were big days: they were re-gunning the ship with five new 5-inch gun barrels, the old ones having been worn out in heavy fighting over the past eight months. Thus, Hodges was not only a good friend, he also held all the cards as far as parts and services from the
Piedmont
.

Sally Hodges drove up in the Hodges' Mercury and let Walt out. With a grin and a wave, she drove away. Shaking his head at Ingram, Hodges said, “So you've been buying that cheap gas on Ninth Street again?”

Ingram muttered, “I wish it were that simple. This damned carburetor needs an overhaul, and the last time I checked there's no good mechanic within miles.”

“Hi, Walt,” said Helen, walking out with a thermos of coffee.

“Hi ya, sweetheart.” Hodges stepped around the car, pecked her on the cheek, and accepted the thermos. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” The Eleventh Naval District had ordered a change from summer khakis to standard blue uniforms last week, and Helen enjoyed the sight of her “two boys” together; they looked so good in blues. “How's Sally doing?”

Hodges rocked a hand from side to side. “Mmm, what can I say? Nine months and no action. The doc may induce labor. She's got an appointment today.”

“Gee, and I have all that to look forward to again.” Helen patted her belly.

Ingram barked to Hodges, “You ready?”

“Fire away.” Hodges got in behind the wheel. “Say when.”

“Wait one,” muttered Ingram.

Helen poked her head through the passenger window. “Whew! It's hot in here already.”

“Blues make me sweat.”

“You and Sally should come for dinner Friday night,” said Helen, “if you're not occupied with a new baby, of course.”

Ingram snapped, “I heard that. You can come only if you get the car started, Walt.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hodges jammed down the starter pedal. The engine rolled and rolled before finally sputtering into life. It backfired twice and settled into a smooth idle. “Sounds like Hirohito's revenge.”

“Looks like we're having guests for dinner.” Ingram plopped down the hood and walked around to Helen. Kissing her on the cheek he said, “Don't work too hard.”

“I won't, but guess what?”

“What?”

“Apple pie in the commissary today.”

“Oh, man. Bring home a slice?”

“I'll think about it.”

Ingram jumped in the passenger seat. “You drive, Walt.”

Hodges leaned over. “A slice for me too, Helen?” He jammed the car in gear.

“Sorry, Walt. You're too fat. Maybe one for Sally, though.”

“Arrrgh!” Hodges eased the clutch and drove away.

With no wind the air was stale, and it grew hotter inside the Plymouth as they drove onto the
Islander
, the auto ferry connecting San Pedro to Terminal Island. With a blast of its whistle, the ferry got under way for the five-minute trip. Ingram opened the door. “Think I'm going to wash up.”

“Mind if I sell it while you're gone?”

“Either that or push it over the side and charge admission.” Ingram slammed the door and walked off.

Hodges poured coffee and rested his elbow on the window opening. Outside of the wind made by their trip across the channel there was no hint of cooling. He sipped, sat back, and took a deep breath, cocking his hat over his nose. With a twinge of envy he thought about Todd Ingram and the other “tin can sailors” on the front line with the real Navy, the destroyer Navy. He knew what they called supply officers like him: pork chops. On the other hand, the tin can sailors romped with the— “Ouch, damn it,” he yelled as a passenger walking between the rows of cars jostled his arm.

“Sorry.” The man didn't turn but kept on walking.

Hodges rubbed his arm for a minute, then sipped more coffee.

“Slide over. I'll take it from here.” Ingram, smelling of Life Buoy soap, got behind the wheel.