The Carpetbaggers (48 page)

"My responsibilities go much further than that," the General said. "You must remember that we're operating under a strict budget."

"Yes, sir."

"Please bear it in mind," General Gaddis said testily. "If I went off half-cocked over every idea you Air Corps men had, there wouldn't be money enough left to keep the Army running for a month."

Forrester's face flushed. "Yes, sir."

I glanced at him, wondering why he stood there and took it. It didn't make sense. Not with the reputation he had. He could step out of the Army and knock down twenty times what he was making with any airline in the country. He had a name as good as Rickenbacker's any day.

The General turned to Morrissey. "Now, Mr. Morrissey," he said in an almost jovial voice. "Whom do we talk to about getting a few facts and figures on the cost of this airplane?"

"You can talk with Mr. Cord, sir."

"Fine!" boomed the General. "Let's go into the office and call him."

"You don't have to do that, General," I said quickly. "We can talk right here."

The General stared at me, then his lips broke into what he thought was an expansive smile. "No offense intended, son. I didn't connect the names."

"That's all right, General."

"Your father and I are old friends," he said. "Back during the last war, I bought a lot of the hard stuff from him and if it's all right with you, I'd like to talk this over with him. Purely for old times' sake, you understand. Besides, this can turn out to be a mighty big deal and I'm sure your daddy would like to get in on it himself."

I felt my face go white. I had all I could do to control myself. How long did you have to live in a man's shadow? My voice sounded flat and strained even to my own ears. "I'm sure he would, General. But I'm afraid you'll have to talk to me; you can't talk to him."

"Why not?" The voice was suddenly cold.

"My father's been dead for ten years," I said, turning my back on him and walking toward the hangar.

I walked through to the small room in the back that Morrissey used as an office. I shut the door behind me and crossing to his desk, took out the bottle of bourbon that was always there for me. Pouring a shot into a paper cup, I tossed the whisky down my throat. It burned like hell. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling.

There are some people who won't stay dead. It doesn't make any difference what you do to them. You can bury them in the ground, dump them into the ocean or cremate them. But the memory of them will still turn your guts into mush just as if they were still alive.

I remembered what my father said to me one morning down at the corral in back of the house. It was a little while after his marriage to Rina and I’d come down one morning to watch Nevada break a new bronc. It was along about five o'clock and the fast morning sun was just raising its head over the desert.

The bronc was a mean one, a wiry, nasty little black bastard that, every time it threw Nevada, went after him with slashing hoofs and teeth. The last time it threw him, it even tried to roll on him. Nevada scrambled out of the way and just did make it over the fence.

He stood there leaning against the fence and breathing heavily while the Mex boys chased the bronc. Their shrill whoops and yells split the morning air. "He's a crazy one," Nevada said.

"What're you going to do with him?" I asked curiously. It wasn't often I saw Nevada take three falls in a row.

The Mexicans had the horse now and Nevada watched them lead it back. "Try him once more," he answered thoughtfully. "An' if that doesn't work, turn him loose."

My father's voice came from behind us. "That's just what he wants you to do."

Nevada and I turned. My father was already dressed as if he was going straight to the plant. He was wearing his black suit and the tie was neatly centered in the thickly starched white collar of his shirt. "Why don't you put a clamp on his muzzle so he can't snap at you?"

Nevada looked at him. "Ain't nobody can git near enough to that hoss without losin' an arm."

"Nonsense!" my father said tersely. He took a short lariat from the pegs on the fence and ducking between the bars, stepped out into the corral. I could see his hands working the rope into a small halter as he walked toward the horse.

The bronc stood there pawing the ground, its eyes watching my father balefully. The Mexicans tightened their grip on the lariats around the horse's neck. The bronc reared back as my father brought the loop up to catch it around the muzzle. At the same time, it lashed out with its forefeet. Father just got out of the way in time.

He stood there for a moment, staring into the horse's eyes, then reached up again. The bronc shook its head wildly and slashed savagely at my father's arm. Again the hoofs lashed out, just missing Father.

The bronc was really wild now, twisting and turning as if there were a rider on it. The Mexicans leaned on their lariats to hold it still. After a moment, it was quiet and Father walked back to it.

"You ornery son of a bitch," my father said quietly. The bronc bared its teeth and snapped at him. Father seemed to move his arm just a fraction of an inch and the bronc's head flashed by his arm. "Let him go," my father yelled to the Mexicans.

The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then shrugging in that almost imperceptible manner they had to absolve themselves of responsibility, let up on their lariats.

Free of restraint, the bronc was motionless for a fraction of a second, bewildered. My father stood there in front of him, tall and broad in his black suit. Their eyes were about on a level. Then slowly my father started to bring his hand up again and the bronc exploded, its eyes flashing, its teeth bared, as it reared back and struck out with its hoofs. This time, my father stepped back and then darted as the bronc came down.

I saw my father's clenched fist hanging high in the air over his head for a flashing second. The bronc's four hoofs struck the ground and Father's fist came down like a hammer, just over the bronc's eyes. The thud of the blow echoed back against the side of the house like a small explosion. The bronc stood there for a moment, then sagged slowly to its knees, its front legs crumpling as if they had suddenly turned to rubber.

Quickly my father walked around to the side and slapped his open palm against the bronc's neck. The horse toppled over on its side. For a moment, it lay there, its sides heaving, then it raised its head and looked up at my father. The four of us — the Mexicans, Nevada and I — were silent as we stood there watching them.

The bronc's raised head threw a long morning shadow in the corral dirt that was dwarfed only by the shadow of my father as they stared into each other's eyes. Then the bronc seemed to heave a giant sigh and dropped its head back on the ground.

My father looked down at the bronc for a moment, then bent over and taking the reins near the bronc's mouth, pulled the horse to its feet. The bronc stood there, its legs trembling, its head hanging dejectedly. It didn't even raise its head as my father crossed in front of it and came back through the fence to us.

"You won't have any trouble with him now." My father hung the lariat back on the peg and started for the house. "Coming in for breakfast, Jonas?" he called without turning his head or breaking his stride.

Nevada was already back in the corral, walking toward the bronc. "Yes, sir," I said, starting after my father. I caught up to him on the back porch. We turned and watched Nevada mount the horse. The bronc bucked and sawed but it was easy to see his heart wasn't in it.

My father turned to me, unsmiling. "Some horses are like people. The only language they understand is a clout on the head."

"I didn't think you cared that much about the horses," I said. "You never come down to the corral."

"I don't," he said quickly. "It's you I care about. You've still got a lot to learn."

I laughed. "Fat lot I learned from your hitting a bronc on its head."

"You learned that Nevada couldn't ride that horse until I made it possible."

"So?"

My father turned. He was a big man, over six feet, but I was taller. "So," he said slowly, "no matter how big you get, you won't be big enough to wear my shoes until I let you."

I followed my father into the dining room. Rina's back was to me and her hair shone like silver as she raised her cheek for his morning kiss. There was a quiet triumph in my father's eyes as he straightened up afterward and looked at me. He didn't speak as he sat down in his chair. He didn't have to. I knew what he was thinking. He didn't have to hit me over the head.

"Joining us for breakfast, Jonas?" Rina asked politely.

I stared at her for a moment, then at my father. I could feel the sick knot tying up my guts. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

I turned and walked hurriedly back through the dining-room door, almost colliding with Robair, who was just entering with a tray. By the time I got back to the corral, Nevada was walking the bronc up and down, breaking him to the meaning of the reins. Father had been right. The horse wasn't giving Nevada any trouble.

And here it was twelve years later and I could still hear his voice as it had echoed quietly on the back porch that morning.

"Let go, old man, let go!" I said angrily, my fist smashing down on the empty desk. The pain ran crazily up my arm into my shoulder.

"Mr. Cord!" I looked up in surprise. Morrissey was standing in the open doorway, his mouth partly open. It took an effort for me to bring myself back to the present.

"Don't stand there," I snapped. "Come in." He entered the office hesitantly, and a moment later, Forrester appeared in the doorway behind him. Silently they came into the office.

"Sit down and have a drink," I said, pushing the bottle of bourbon toward them.

"Don't mind if I do," Forrester said, picking up the bottle and a paper cup. He sloshed himself a good one. "Mud in your eye."

"Up the General's," I said. "By the way, where is the old boy?"

"On his way back to the city. He has a date with a toilet-paper manufacturer."

I laughed. "At least, that's one thing he can test for himself."

Forrester laughed but Morrissey sat there glumly. I pushed the bottle toward him. "You on the wagon?"

He shook his head. "What are we going to do now?" he asked.

I stared at him for a moment, then picked up the bottle and refilled my paper cup. "I was just thinking about declaring war on the United States. That's one way we could show him how good our plane is."

Morrissey still didn't crack a smile. "The CA-4 is the best plane I ever designed."

"So what?" I asked. "What the hell, it didn't cost you anything. It was my dough. Besides, how much did you ever make out of building planes? It doesn't amount to one-twentieth of your annual royalties on that trick brassière you designed for Rina Marlowe."

It was true. But it had been McAllister who'd seen the commercial potential in the damn thing and applied for a patent in the name of Cord Aircraft. Morrissey had a standard employment contract, which provided that all his inventions and designs belonged to the company, but McAllister had been a sport about it. He'd given Morrissey a ten-per-cent interest in the royalties as a bonus and last year, Morrissey's share was in excess of a hundred thousand dollars. The market was getting bigger all the time. Tits weren't going out of fashion for a long time.

Morrissey didn't answer. But then, I hadn't expected him to. He was one of those guys who don't give a damn about money. All he lived for was his work.

I finished my drink and lit a cigarette. Silently I cursed myself. I should have known better than to let a chance remark about my father bug me like that. I could afford it but nobody likes to throw a million dollars down the drain.

"Maybe I can do something," Forrester said.

A ray of hope came into Morrissey's eyes. "Do you think you could?"

Forrester shrugged. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I said maybe."

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"It's the best plane I've seen," he said. "I wouldn't like to see us lose it because of the old man's stupidity."

"Thanks," I said. "We'd be grateful for anything you could do."

Forrester smiled. "You don't owe me anything. I’m one of those old-fashioned guys who wouldn't like to see us caught short if things suddenly started popping."

I nodded. "They'll start soon enough. Just as soon as Hitler thinks he's ready."

"When do you think that will be?"

"Three, maybe four years," I said. "When they have enough trained pilots and planes."

"Where'll he get them from? He hasn't got them now."

"He'll get them," I said. "The glider schools are turning out ten thousand pilots a month and before the summer is over, Messerschmitt will have his ME-109's on the production line."

"The general staff thinks he won't do much when he comes up against the Maginot line."

"He won't come up against it," I said. "He'll fly over it."

Forrester nodded. "All the more reason for me to try to get them to check out your plane." He looked at me quizzically. "You talk like you know."

"I know," I answered. "I was there less than nine months ago."

"Oh, yes," he said, "I remember. I saw something about it in the papers. There was some kind of a stink about it, wasn't there?"

I laughed. "There was. Certain people accused me of being a Nazi sympathizer."

"Because of the million dollars you turned over to the Reichsbank?"

I shot a quick glance at him. Forrester wasn't as simple as he pretended to be. "I guess so," I answered. "You see, I transferred the money just the day before Roosevelt slapped on his restriction."

"You knew the restriction was about to be placed, didn't you? You could have saved yourself the money by just waiting one day."

"I couldn't afford to wait," I said. "The money had to be in Germany, that was all there was to it."

"Why? Why did you send them the money when obviously you realize they're our potential enemy?"

"It was ransom for a Jew," I said.