Glory Boys Read online

  ‘I don’t think Marion drinks all the booze it brings in.’

  ‘They load it onto the railroad, you think? Could be. I wouldn’t say no. Hell, who knows what goes on in a goon’s mind?’

  Abe didn’t answer that. Still lying on the bed, he stretched like a cat, right down to his toes. Then he rolled over, reached for his glass of whiskey and swallowed what remained.

  ‘What I’m wondering,’ he said, ‘is what goes on in a storekeeper’s mind. And specifically, why a storekeeper should go to a lot of trouble to tell a beat-up pilot a lot of things that aren’t any of his business.’

  Hennessey picked up the whiskey bottle, thought about pouring himself another glass, but thought better of it and set it back on the table. He looked suddenly old, tired and unshaven. When he spoke his voice had none of its earlier guile or subtlety.

  ‘We need your help,’ he said. ‘We need you to save us. You’re all there is.’

  10

  Ted Powell was six foot, an athletic mid-fifties, and had a face that smiled almost constantly. The smile was deceptive. That was a thing Willard would learn to remember. Ignore the smile. Look at the eyes. The smiles were like a gentleman’s agreement. They looked nice and meant nothing.

  ‘Welcome to Powell Lambert,’ said Powell, as they strode along to his corner office. ‘Your first time on the Street, I imagine. You get here OK? No trouble parking?’

  ‘Parking? I came by cab.’

  ‘Oh! Cab?’

  ‘Sure. I –’

  ‘And I assumed you’d come by airplane! What? Our roof isn’t good enough for you?’

  ‘I – uh –’

  Willard smirked in embarrassment, but Powell had begun to laugh away at his own joke. ‘It’s a good roof. Nice and flat. Or have you decided to quit falling off skyscrapers? Ha, ha, ha! Hell of a stunt that.’ He zoomed his hand vertically down like a stone. ‘America’s favourite ace! Ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘I guess we should have paid for the catapult.’

  ‘That was a stinker of a movie, eh, Will? A stinker.’ Powell’s face didn’t change as he said this. It was still smothered by smiles and tobacco smoke.

  ‘Well you know, I wouldn’t quite –’

  ‘You want to know my favourite bit? It was the bit where Blondie has to jump off the clock-tower and there you are right underneath in an airplane. You know –’ Powell leaned forward. His face grew serious and he wagged his finger for extra emphasis. ‘You know, I think you were right about the catapult. I just don’t think that would have been realistic.’

  Willard leaned back. He prided himself on a sense of humour, but Powell was pushing things too far. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t like the movie,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha! I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said it was a stinker. I liked it. Boy! I liked it.’ He roared with laughter, a series of guffaws that subsided into chuckles and then into silence. ‘So … you’re six weeks late on your first repayment. Second instalment due in two and a half weeks.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I wanted to come and talk about.’

  Powell’s cigar had run into some kind of problem, and he was puffing away over a lighted match to get things started again. ‘Hmm? Eh? Oh, needn’t have done, Will. No need.’

  ‘Well, obviously, our income fell rather short of what we’d hoped.’

  Powell was shaking his head. It wasn’t clear if he was taking issue with Willard’s words or the disobedience of his cigar. ‘No, no… Not our income. Your income.’

  ‘Very well, if you prefer, but in any case –’

  Powell was done with his cigar. He waved it at Willard. ‘I made you a loan. If I’d been dumb enough to come in for some equity, then you could say our income. That’s the beauty of lending. I don’t care if the movie was a beaut or a stinker, you pay me back just the same.’

  ‘And I fully intend to.’

  ‘Right. Otherwise you end up bankrupt.’ Powell was still smiling.

  ‘I hardly think you need to speak to me in those terms.’

  ‘I’m calling in the loan. The whole of it. Due in two and a half weeks. Margaret, my secretary, will give you written notice before you leave.’

  ‘But I have eight months. We agreed. There were to be at least eight months.’

  Powell wagged a finger. ‘You’re in default. The rules change. Read the contract.’

  Once again the suggestion of migraine came to press on Willard’s temples. Somewhere in the last few weeks and months, his world had changed. Not for the better. Very much for the worse.

  ‘Powell, may I be candid?’

  ‘Call me Ted.’

  ‘Ted, I’d like to be candid.’

  ‘Nothing to stop you.’

  ‘I haven’t any money. Nowhere near enough.’

  ‘Bad thing to tell your banker, my boy.’

  ‘I guess I figured you already knew.’

  Powell smiled. He was very calm for a man owed almost two hundred thousand dollars by someone with no money. Willard noticed this and felt even more unsettled.

  ‘I guess you could run along to Pappy. From what I hear, it’s been another great year for guns and bombs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Willard knew that Powell was right. After a sharp collapse in profits after the end of the war, the Firm had begun to rebuild. ‘Strengthen the Old; Build the New’ was Thornton’s watchword. By 1922, Willard’s father had proudly announced that the Firm’s profits would equal those of 1916. Since then, each year had continued better than the one before.

  ‘Look, I have spoken to Father and he’s offered to bail me out if necessary. Most handsomely, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Excellent. Money in two and a half weeks, then.’

  Willard shook his head. Up until a few weeks ago, life had seemed simple. He had looks, he had luck, he had charm, he had money. But things had grown complex; horribly so. Life had come to seem like a puzzle with a million moving parts and only one correct solution.

  He hadn’t simply accepted his father’s ultimatum. The choice of cheques and the conditions that rode with them felt humiliating and unfair. But all his arguing had been useless – and, as a matter of fact, it hadn’t really been an argument. An argument takes two and the businessman hadn’t even bothered to raise his voice. Willard might as well have been throwing sand against granite for all the difference he’d made.

  So the scene ended as it had begun, with a choice. Willard could bail himself out and give up his future throne. Or he could take the smaller cheque, extricate himself from his mess with Powell, and take his proper place beside his father, the heir anointed.

  ‘Listen, Ted, my father has offered to clear my debt, but I’d sooner, if I can, clear the debt myself.’

  Powell stopped puffing, stopped smiling. His face was suddenly very cool, very still.

  ‘You wish to clear the debt yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Ted, I do.’

  ‘I see. And how do you propose to do that, may I ask?’

  11

  Abe said no.

  What else could he have said? A foxy old storekeeper wanted Abe to save the town from a bunch of gangsters down the hill. From all Hennessey had said, it was clear that the gangsters were well-established, well-organised and well-financed. Even supposing that Abe felt like playing the hero – and he didn’t; he truly didn’t – what could one man do in such a situation? The cops, the county, the state had all proved useless or worse. How could one man, working alone, do anything to help?

  So he said no. Positively, certainly and finally no.

  Hennessey had accepted his answer, or pretended to. But the next day, Hennessey returned to Abe’s slatted barn-cum-workshop, warm and cordial as ever. The storekeeper’s ostensible mission was a concern about getting Main Street ready for Abe’s impending take-off.

  ‘The street’ll be fine. I just need everyone well clear,’ said Abe.

  ‘There are some potholes. I’m getting ’em filled. Should be done by the end
of today.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And them trees at the end of the road. They ain’t gonna be in the way?’

  ‘I’ll wait for the right wind. If I get the conditions right, I’ll either clear the trees or have room enough to slip left of them.’

  Hennessey shook his head. ‘That ain’t right. We owe you a proper send-off. I’ll have ’em felled. The worst ones, anyhow.’

  Abe felt caught between two feelings. On the one hand, he was pleased to get Main Street properly cleared for a take-off. On the other hand, friendly as Hennessey was, Abe suspected him of ulterior motives.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me last night, Hen? I said no.’

  ‘Sure I heard.’

  ‘Listen, I know how to fly a plane. I can fix an engine if it breaks. And if my plane happens to have a gun on it, I’m a pretty good guy for shooting at other airplanes. That’s it. That’s me. That’s all.’

  ‘Sure, I understand. Probably I was dumb for asking.’

  ‘You knew that before. But you still went ahead and asked.’

  ‘It wasn’t because you can fly a plane, Captain. It’s because you’ve got it here.’ The storekeeper struck his heart. ‘And here.’ He tapped his forehead.

  ‘I reckon you’ve got plenty in both those places yourself.’

  ‘Hah!’ Hennessey made a hacking noise in his throat. ‘My wife’s got a sister over in Atlanta. If things get bad enough here, we got another place to go. Things being how they are, I don’t see I’d get a lot for the store, but –’ he shrugged ‘– there are others who lost a whole lot more.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hen. I’d have helped if I could.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. Probably nothing you could do for us anyway.’

  ‘I don’t think there is.’

  ‘OK, then. You can’t blame me for asking.’

  ‘No blame.’

  The storekeeper shook his head, dismissing the subject. ‘Say, though, before you leave, why not take supper with Sal Lundmark tomorrow? She’d love to have you round. Brad wanted to ask you, but was kind of shy. You’ve got yourself one heck of an admirer there.’

  Abe looked sharply at the storekeeper, whose face was a picture of innocent friendliness. Abe suspected him of being up to something, but didn’t know what. In any case, Brad had been a terrific helper and Abe wanted to find a way of saying thank you.

  ‘Sure. He’s a good kid. I’d like that.’

  Hennessey got up to go. The plane still sat in the barn, as she had done since the first day, but there was nothing sad about her appearance now. The plane was trim and clean. Her engine smelled of fresh oil and gasoline. The fabric over her wings was hard and taut, a series of gleaming curves, that seemed only waiting for the command to leap into the air and ride it.

  ‘There much more to do here, Captain?’

  Abe nodded out towards the yard. He’d nailed a long roofing batten to an old horse-hitching post. On the top of the pole, a ribbon of white silk hung limply in the breeze.

  ‘The take-off site’s kinda short. Lowering the trees will help, but I’ll still want a bit of breeze in my face before starting out. And I’ll probably want to go not long after sun-up, before the air’s heated too much.’

  ‘Hot air’s a problem?’

  ‘A plane needs lift to get airborne. Cold air’s got more lift than hot.’

  ‘So that’s all you’re waiting for? A wind from the south and a bit of cold air?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Aside from that, we’re ready to go.’

  The storekeeper was taken aback. He’d seen the way the plane had smashed up on landing. He hadn’t realised Abe could be ready to move on again so fast. But he controlled his expression and nodded.

  ‘You’d best go over to Sal Lundmark’s tonight, then. Wouldn’t want to keep you here unnecessarily.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll tell her to expect you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Hennessey walked to the barn door and the white dust and beating sun outside. He looked back at the barn, the plane and the pilot. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he muttered. Then he headed out, back to Main Street and his store. He had a cigarette between his lips and was searching his pockets for matches when he heard a movement behind him. It was the airman, a strangely troubled expression on his face.

  ‘Hen, last night you asked me to do something for you. You asked me to help you and the town here out of a fix, a real bad one. I said no.’

  The storekeeper nodded, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat from the fierce overhead sun.

  ‘I said no for two reasons and I only told you one of them. The reason I told you about had to do with the jam you’re in. It’s not clear to me – as a matter of fact I don’t think it’s clear to you – what one man could hope to do. Even if I wanted to, I don’t see as I could do anything to help.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And the other reason?’ Hennessey spoke slowly as though the sun was stealing energy from his words. The storekeeper’s cigarette was still between his lips, still unlit.

  ‘The other reason is me. Before the war, I was a racetrack driver. When the war came, I did everything I could to get out to France, because I thought I’d be able to fly planes and fight them. And I was right. I was right about that part. But I hadn’t understood something then, which I understand now.’

  He stopped speaking. His jaw actually locked and he looked as though he wasn’t going to speak another word. It took Hennessey a moment or two to realise that Abe hadn’t simply paused, so it was only after a few seconds that the storekeeper stepped closer and prompted, ‘Yes?’ When Abe spoke, his answer was so quiet that only the baking stillness of the air allowed Hennessey to catch it.

  ‘A man’s got to want to play the hero. And at first I did, I guess. I was crazy for it. But then they promoted me, gave me a squadron. And I changed, or maybe the war changed me. I wanted nothing to do with any of it. But I had no choice. I was a serving officer with orders to carry out. What I did, I did because I had to. To the best of my abilities. But I’m not the man you thought I was, Hen. I’m sorry.’

  The storekeeper nodded, his mouth slightly open and a dark crease running between his eyebrows. He looked surprised or disbelieving. But the look was only temporary. He held up his cigarette, still unlit. He smiled like a man who looks around for his glasses and finds them on his nose. He lit the cigarette and inhaled.

  ‘I’ll tell Sal Lundmark to expect you. You’ll be getting a pot roast, I expect.’

  ‘Pot roast sounds good.’

  ‘And you should ask to see the kid’s collection of flying stuff. He’s nuts about it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The storekeeper looked up at Abe’s makeshift windsock. The strip of white silk still hung down, as if in surrender. The two men nodded. Words still unspoken drifted just beyond them, out of reach. Then the storekeeper turned and walked away, shoes scrunching in the dazzling dust.

  12

  Powell accepted Willard’s offer.

  It was an offer that gave everything to Powell, nothing to Willard. Under the terms of the contract – drawn up by Powell’s chief lawyer, then and there, under Willard’s nose – Willard would begin work at Powell Lambert. He’d be a junior employee in the trade finance division, earning a handsome fifteen thousand dollars a year.

  Only not.

  Of the fifteen thousand dollar salary, Powell would withhold ten thousand in interest payments on the loan. As for the principal, almost nothing was said. Willard wouldn’t even remotely be able to repay the loan from his earnings. When he tried to ask Powell about salary hikes and promotions, Powell dismissed the subject with a brusque jab of his cigar. The only thing Powell did say was, ‘This is Wall Street. There’s money to be made. If you have the gift, you’ll make it. If you don’t…’ He shrugged.

  And the meaning of the shrug was obvious. With the contract as it was written now, Willard was a virtual slave. If he couldn’t find two hundred thousand bucks, then he’d be forced to wo
rk for Ted Powell for the rest of his life. During the war, Willard had been almost as frightened of capture as he had been of injury. But the barbed wire of a German prison camp could hardly have been more permanent than the contract he had just signed.

  And why? Why was he doing what he was doing? Why not take the million, clear the debt, go back out West, get on with life?

  Two reasons.

  The first was money. A million bucks sounded like a lot. But Willard was a realist. He owed Powell two hundred grand: so a million became eight hundred thousand. And what would Willard live on? In Hollywood he had spent more than a hundred thousand bucks a year. Eight hundred grand would run through his hands in six or seven years, maybe less. And after that, what? To most people, a million dollars would have seemed like the vastest fortune in the world. To Willard, it felt a hair’s breadth from poverty.

  But the second reason was the bigger one. He didn’t know how to put it into words. It had to do with pride, with Willard’s sense of himself.

  From earliest childhood, he had understood this much: he was the son, the only son, the natural inheritor of the family kingdom. It had always been hard to convey to outsiders the intensity of that feeling. The name for one thing. No one in the family ever called the family business by its name, Thornton Ordnance. It was just the Firm, one word, implicitly capitalised. Willard’s great-grandpa had made it. His grandpa had nourished it. His father had expanded it. It was Willard’s destiny to do the same, to follow in their footsteps, to prove himself worthy of the family name.

  And that pointed to a deeper reason still. Willard’s father. Junius Thornton might speak as though it were entirely up to Willard whether or not he joined the Firm, but both men knew that was a lie. It mattered entirely, completely, utterly. If Willard had chosen not to fight for his place at the Firm, Junius wouldn’t have excommunicated his son, but any respect would have vanished completely. Willard already knew too well how bruising his father’s savage, iron-bound silences could be. A lifetime of such silence would have been too much to bear.