Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (134 page)

"Of course. I merely wondered." Tesla smiled himself. "I wish her all the best. She was such a clever little girl."

"She still is," Jerry said. "Though not so little."

"No." Tesla reached into the pocket of his vest, pulled out a locket attached to his watch chain. The scrolled surface was blurred, worn from much handling, and he carefully freed it from the chain. "Christmas Eve. I have spent many Christmas Eves with friends, though not often ones as dear as these."

He slid a thumbnail into the latch and pressed it open, then handed it to Jerry, who took it curiously. On the right was the portrait of a woman, her back mostly to the camera, her head tipped back to show a pile of wavy fair hair and a strong profile. She wasn't conventionally beautiful, but there was something about her, about her pose and her hinted smile that drew the eye — someone you'd want to know, the sort of person who'd catch your attention across a crowded room. On the left was a nice-looking man with a bushy, square-cut beard, his long face vaguely familiar. Jerry frowned, trying to place him, and Tesla smiled.

"Robert and Katharine Johnson."

"Robert Underwood Johnson," Jerry said, the image clicking into place. "I was on the Italian front — he did good work there. I think one of Al's ambulances originally came from him, from the American Poets' Ambulances. And I've enjoyed his poetry, of course."

"Yes." Something like regret and affection crossed the old man's face. "He doesn't write so much these days, sadly. His health isn't the best, and, of course, he has other responsibilities. And Katharine has been gone these eight years. But they were — and Robert is — such dear, dear friends. It's impossible not to remember one's loved ones at times like these."

There was a note in his voice that made Jerry look up sharply. Surely Tesla couldn't be suggesting — he was famously celibate, after all, had proclaimed that he lived only for his work. But the faint, sweet smile seemed unmistakable: even if it had been entirely platonic, this was unmistakably about love. And not just for Katharine, not for her alone, or why carry her husband's photograph as well? Jerry had thought he was alone.

"They're lovely portraits," he said, carefully, and handed the locket back.

Tesla closed it and returned it to his watch chain, tucking it carefully into the pocket of his vest. "Katharine's is very good. Robert's, sadly, doesn't do him justice. But it's the best we had."

"It can be very hard to find ones that do," Jerry agreed, and let his eyes stray to Gil's portrait. It caught the strength and the mischief, but not the magic. He lifted his glass. "Absent friends."

"Absent friends," Tesla echoed, and the crystal rang softly as their glasses met.

"L
ewis! Good to see you! Alma!" Teddy Bergdorf shook Lewis' hand enthusiastically. "How have you been, buddy?"

"Pretty good," Lewis said, a silly grin on his face. No, he wasn't going to say it, but he looked like he was about to pop. "How about you?"

"Great," Teddy said. He split the difference, neither trying to hug Alma or shake her hand, which was how it fell out a lot of the time. "Where's Jerry? I haven't seen him tonight."

"He dropped his voice. "Is he hiding because of Mr. Winchell's column? I sure would be. Jeez."

Alma took a deep breath. "That's really between Jerry and Stasi, Teddy."

"I know but…" Teddy's broad face frowned. "She's a real nice girl. It's got to sting, being dumped like that in the paper. He oughtn't have done that. Peebles over at the hardware store told me that she hadn't even seen the column. She's got to be heartbroken."

"She and Jerry weren't really…" Lewis began, but Alma elbowed him. "I mean, there are other guys who…" Alma elbowed him again.

"I imagine Stasi will be fine," Alma assured him. "And Jerry felt like it would be rude to leave Dr. Tesla on his own on Christmas Eve," Alma said. "You know, since we hauled him out here and all. And Dr. Tesla didn't want to come along."

Teddy nodded enthusiastically. "I bet an American Legion dance isn't really Dr. Tesla's kind of party. It's a shame, though. Lots of people around here remember him and wouldn't mind saying hello. Why, I remember the time he electrified the whole sewer system! The fire hydrants were spitting sparks! I was a kid and thought it was pretty damn neat. Excuse me, Alma."

"I thought it was pretty damn neat too," Alma said. "And remember, I was a year behind you in school. I was a kid too. But no, not his kind of party." She refrained from saying that an American Legion dance was also Jerry's idea of a circle of hell, especially if half the town was going to be on his case about how he'd presumably broken Stasi's heart! She could see that he'd much rather spend the evening losing at chess to Tesla.

"Well, it's my kind of party." Teddy clapped Lewis on the arm. "And if you're looking for something a little stronger than punch, there's something in the kitchen that'll take care of you."

"Thanks," Lewis said. He looked like he was walking on air as it was.

Teddy moved off, and Lewis looked at her, a silly grin spreading across his face again. The orchestra was playing something slow now, and he dropped his voice. "Do you think you can still dance?"

"I can't ever dance," Alma said. "You know I've got two left feet."

"So do I," Lewis said. "But maybe we can kind of muddle in a circle."

"That works for me," Alma said, and put her hand on his shoulder. "If we sort of rotate over here we won't get in people's way."

It was, Alma thought, a perfectly satisfying interlude. Tesla's device was disassembled and under lock and key in the jail, which was about the last place Kirsch and his guys would hunt for it, presuming they were in any condition to hunt. Well, and they were terrified of Tesla, which definitely had its advantages. She doubted they'd mess with him in New York, not after that performance. She had to admit it had been pretty amazing.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lewis asked.

"Just wondering what will happen to Silver Bullet," Alma said.

"Tesla will probably sell it to the government for ten million dollars," Lewis said, shaking his head. Other couples danced around them, a slow and laborious fox trot.

Alma dropped her voice. "If he can ever figure out how to make it not down our planes too. A weapon that kills all your own men too isn't such a good deal."

"Yeah," Lewis said grimly.

Stasi and Mitch ended a reasonably competent fox trot at the edge of the floor nearby. Mitch looked at her questioningly. "You still game?"

"You know it, darling," Stasi said with a wicked glance.

"Ok." Mitch took off his coat and tie and draped them carefully over the back of a folding chair. "Hey Al, will you watch my coat?"

"Watch it do what?" Alma asked as the music ended. It wasn't as though the Legion was full of coat thieves who would pounce on Mitch's unattended suit jacket. And yes, it was kind of hot in here with everyone dancing. She supposed some guys were starting to take their coats off.

"Very funny," Mitch said, heading off toward the bandstand.

"And my bag?" Stasi laid her bag on the chair too.

"Ok," Alma said.

The music had stopped and Alma looked at her watch. 11:15, about 2/3 of the way through the evening. The strings of Christmas lights over the dance floor gave everything a festive glow, and the band was mellow. There was a lot to be said for friends and fun on Christmas Eve, and if Jerry would rather play chess with Tesla, that was Jerry's idea of fun.

"Want some punch? Are you thirsty?" Lewis asked solicitously.

She wondered if he actually planned to keep that up until June, asking her if she needed anything every five minutes. It was kind of sweet. "I'm ok. Thanks."

"Ok, boys and girls," the band leader said into his microphone, "The next one up is a special request, so hang onto your mittens!" He grinned as he turned around to the white-jacketed band. "Let her rip, boys!"

One lone tenor sax started, a meandering solo line over a drum beat, the opening bars of French cabaret music, and Lewis looked at her questioningly. Alma shrugged.

From opposite sides of the dance floor Mitch and Stasi approached each other, a too-casual saunter exactly on the beat, eyes locked even as she tossed her head with all the exaggerated flamboyance of a film diva. They reached each other in the middle of the floor and she turned away.

He grabbed her, yanking her around roughly, pulling her against him and dragging her sideways into long matched steps, provocative as a tango. She jerked away and he caught her by one hand, twisting her around entirely and throwing her to the floor, her fingers opening against the painted concrete. There was a general inhalation of breath.

He walked around her, reaching down and pulling her up, pulling her close into the dance again, body to body in a wide circle, brutally tight.

"What the hell is that?" Lewis said quietly.

She stopped, pulling away, her foot rising as though to kick him. Instead he caught her ankle, caught the hand that rose to slap him, pulling her off her feet and spinning her around, skirt flying up to show scarlet combinations and black garters, obscene and provocative and utterly indecent, ritual mating and ritual violence.

"I know what it is," Alma said. "I just wouldn't do it in public."

He spun her off and Stasi rolled across the floor again and lay unmoving, skirts up and legs akimbo. This time he stalked around her again and she kicked up into his hand. Casually, he struck a match off the sole of her shoe and lit a cigarette, dropping her foot like it was nothing more than a match book, walking off a couple of steps.

"Jesus Christ," someone said behind Alma, probably Teddy.

Stasi moved. She picked herself up slowly, everything on the drum beat, walking around him as he tossed the cigarette away. Her hand came up again to slap him but he blocked it, knocking her to her knees. She slid up his body, face against his groin, then belly, then chest, until her hands reached his shoulders and then they moved like dancing again, the long matched steps, so close together you couldn't fit a piece of paper between.

He jerked away but she pulled him back, face to face and into a lift, her legs around his waist and his arms around her, letting go so that her arms trailed, head down with her skirt around her waist, scarlet combinations and the gap of creamy skin between the top of the stockings and the wide leg of the underwear.

Lewis made a strangled sound.

Mitch lifted her back up, body to body, her legs still around him and then unfolding into the long matched steps. Another turn, and this time she jerked away, and he pulled her back on the beat. She raked his chest with her hands, tearing open his shirt, one white button flying and bouncing across the concrete floor. He caught both of her hands and her feet slid out from under her, sliding entirely between his legs on her back. He let go with one arm and stepped over the other, jerking her sideways and then to her feet, back into the long matched steps. Stasi's head lolled back as though dazed, white throat and the swell of cleavage from her disarranged dress, his shirt open to the undershirt against her chest.

She pulled away on the beat, staggering, and then turned back to him, pulling him face to face again, sliding down his body open handed, face to his chest and belly and groin before she sunk to the floor. One shoe had come loose and lay on its side, her foot bare in its black backseam stocking.

There was a sort of collective sigh of lust around the room. Or maybe it was disapproval. But nobody moved.

Mitch hauled her back to her feet. This time her arms twined around his neck and he lifted her up, holding her against his chest and carrying her off the dance floor, out of the room while she buried her face against his throat and the music ended.

The shoe lay in the middle of the floor.

There was an instant of silence and then everyone started talking.

"What the hell?" Lewis said. "Mitch?"

Alma just shook her head. It was momentarily hard to talk. "I just…."

"What the hell," Lewis said again. Outside there was the roar of the Torpedo's eight-cylinder engine starting. "What was that?"

"An Apache dance," Alma said. "You've seen them in the movies, right?"

"Um," Lewis said with a mumble that suggested he never watched the dancing parts of movies. There was a rising babble of voices around them. "The whole town's going to be talking about this."

"I expect so," Alma said briskly. "Will you get Stasi's shoe, please?"

Behind her, Teddy Bergdorf shook his head. "It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" he said admiringly. "That's good old Mitch. And if Jerry broke the engagement, another feller's got the right to make a move, right?"

T
he Torpedo turned onto the main road in a spray of gravel, and Mitch let out a whoop. Stasi flung her head back, laughing. The heavy car picked up speed, clinging to the curves of the road, but he was careful of black ice anyway. You couldn't be too careful. The hazards were part of the game.

"Darling, did you see people's faces?" Stasi shrieked. "Lewis looked like he'd swallowed a fish!"

"I couldn't look at anybody," Mitch said. "I couldn't look at anybody but you. And remember what I was doing," he added quickly.

"You were perfect! Absolutely perfect!' She threw back her head, laughing all the way to the moon. "Darling, you have that perfect glower. It looked like you wanted to rip all my clothes off and have me right there!"

He downshifted for the first slope. "Isn't that how it was supposed to look?"

"Exactly, darling! Vicious and cruel and so goddamned handsome. You looked like sex on feet, darling."

"I thought that was you." Up the hill, around the switchback, the Torpedo singing and Stasi shrieking with elation, it was all Mitch could do not to yell for the sheer joy of it. Ok, maybe he would. And he let it rip.

Stasi laughed again. "That's quite a scream. Is that a rebel yell?"

"Close enough," Mitch said. Up the final part of the gravel road. The lights were on downstairs in the house, no doubt Jerry and Tesla playing chess and drinking Benedictine.