Shark Infested Custard Part 15

"What did he say?"

"He said that when he got some time he'd write me a letter. Anyway, I think I knew at the time that I would eventually go back to Clara. Not consciously, you understand, but down there in my subconscious somewhere. And that was why--although I don't think I thought about it when we went to Dr. Silverstein--I got the d.a.m.ned operation. I must've thought, deep down inside someplace, that with a vasectomy, I wouldn't have to f.u.c.k around with the calendar and the rhythm system and all with Clara. So when we got back together, I told her about the vasectomy, and she got p.i.s.sed, really p.i.s.sed."

"Why?"

"We're Catholics, Eddie, as you know, but she's a woman Catholic, and they take all that s.h.i.+t seriously. Well, at first she wouldn't even believe me, so I told her to call the doctor. Dr. Silverstein-- and you might want to remember this, Eddie--wouldn't tell her s.h.i.+t over the phone. So the next day she went to see him. Meanwhile, you know, I was back home again, and still no a.s.s, you see. She had to get this thing straightened out. So when she saw Silverstein, and proved who she was, he confirmed the operation--that I'd had it for more than six months, and we could screw our heads off if we wanted to."

"So everything was okay?"

"h.e.l.l, no! Then she had to see the flicking priest. He's a real p.r.i.c.k, and he comes over to the house for dinner about twice a month. You ought to see the b.a.s.t.a.r.d drink my Chivas Regal--like wine, man. Here's the thing, Eddie. She would've done anything he told her to do, and he sure as h.e.l.l didn't tell her not to screw anymore. I mean, he could've told her that, but he didn't. He merely let her figure it out for herself, which was worse. He told her that a woman could not deny her husband, which is right, but he also reminded her that the purpose of s.e.x was procreation. This way, you see, she more or less had to make her own moral decision. And she decided, now that it was impossible for her to get pregnant, because I had the vasectomy, that there was no longer any purpose in having s.e.x any more. She'd never cared much about it in the first place. I tried to reason with her--you know, what difference is there between the half-a.s.sed rhythm system, which is a way to avoid pregnancy, and a sure way--but she wouldn't accept the logic. She's too emotional."

"Well, Don. If you ever want a divorce, you've got grounds for one. No judge would ever go along with that c.r.a.p."

"I'll never get a divorce, Eddie. If I did, I'd lose my daughter. The way things are now, I'm stuck, that's all. But I'm going to get out of it one of these days. Anyway, to get back to Nita Peralta. It took awhile, but she was so happy about Clara and me being reconciled it p.i.s.sed me off. So I finally told Nita the truth about what was going on with my s.e.x--or non-s.e.x--life. She, too, you know, is a Catholic. And she's a virgin, too, believe it or not--"

"No!" Eddie laughed.

"No, she really is, Ed, and I feel kind of sorry for her. She's supporting her mother and her uncle, and about three teenaged kids--cousins or something. She's past thirty now, and she's still saving her box for a husband. But because she's taking care of all that family--her grandmother did live with her, but she died-- Nita missed out on getting married. With Cuban girls, if they aren't married by the time they're nineteen or twenty, they can forget about it. Twenty-five is just about the outside limit, and then they have to settle for losers. The only chance for Nita to get married now, if she has any chance at all, is some old widower, unless she marries a white man--a Protestant. And she'd never do that."

"h.e.l.l, she's white, isn't she?"

"I guess so, but you know what I mean. All Cubans have got a touch or so of the old tarbrush. On an island like that, there is no way to avoid it. Even Castro is one-fourth n.i.g.g.e.r, you know.

"Anyway, Nita's still saving her box for someone. But not her a.s.s. The way Catholic women work these things out in their minds is really something else, Eddie. But she began to brood about my lack of s.e.x, and all, and she worked it out inside her head that it was okay for me to screw her in the a.s.s, but I couldn't touch her anywhere else, you see. Not even a kiss--because a carnally-minded kiss, you see, would be a mortal sin. I wish to h.e.l.l I'd had a tape recorder when she came to me with all this stuff. She had this real serious expression, and her big brown eyes were wide as she rattled through the whole explanation. It was hard for me to keep a straight face, but I did--somehow. A serious Cubano is weird enough, but a serious Cuban female-- Jesus. She went on and on, and she kept throwing her arms and hands around as she got excited about it. But the upshot of the whole business was that I ended up by cornholing her over the desk here. I didn't mind. It was something to do, and at first I was slipping it to her every d.a.m.ned day. Then I got turned off somehow, and unless I'm desperate I just can't do it. Once a month, maybe--or five or six weeks go by, and then I call her in. She got worried when I slacked off, but I explained to her that it was like marriage. You do it a lot at first, and then only occasionally. I told her to talk to her girl friends about it-- those who were married-- and they'd tell her the same thing. So she did, and they did, and it worked out all right. What really turned me off, I think, was the fear that she'd tell the priest about it in confession. We go to the same church in the Grove, you see. I don't want that rummy b.a.s.t.a.r.d to get anything on me."

"Maybe she told him already, and he hasn't let on."

"No, not that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Eddie. He drinks my Chivas like wine, man, and if he knew about Nita and me he'd be after a big donation."

"You don't believe in the church, do you, Don? How the h.e.l.l can she possibly think that her a.s.s is exempt from sin, if--" Eddie laughed, and then choked, shaking his head.

Don grinned. "There's nothing wrong with the church, Eddie, it's the people in it. People are always going to find a way to do what they want to do. Once Nita had worked this idea out in her squirrelly mind, she was set to carry through with it. She's loyal to me, she was worried about me, and she came up with a way to make me happy. In her heart, maybe, or deeply buried inside her mind, there's probably a doubt, but she's managed to suppress it. If she -didn't- have that doubt, she would've checked with the priest first, and asked -him- if it was okay. D'you see what I mean?"

"Sure, I see it. But I was asking about you, not Nita. What kind of Catholic does that make you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

Don shrugged. "I go to Ma.s.s on Sundays. I'm a pretty good Catholic. I believe in the church. I haven't been in a state of grace since I got the vasectomy. But I figure that sooner or later the church'll get around to authorizing vasectomies. And when they do I can go to confession, and get all this c.r.a.p unloaded and off my mind."

"Suppose you die in the meantime, Don, and you aren't in a state of grace?"

"How'd you like some coffee, Ed?" Don crossed to the door and opened it. "We keep a pot--"

"Forget the coffee," Eddie said. "We'd better get along. I had three cups before I called you from the Pancake House."

"When will we be back?"

"In two, maybe three hours. We'll land in Ft. Myers, have lunch, and then fly straight back. But we'll have to take both cars. I won't feel like driving back downtown from Opa-Locka, when it's closer for me to Miami Springs, so you'd better follow me out. I'm flying to Chicago tonight."

"Okay," Don said, nodding. "In that case I'll just call it a day."

Don told Nita Peralta that he would see her in the morning, and the two men drove to the Opa-Locka Airport.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Flying made Gladys sick. Eddie had seen to that.

To get away from Gladys once in awhile, to have a little time to himself, he told her that the airline had ordered all pilots to fly ten additional hours per month in light planes as "refresher" training. Gladys didn't know anything about airplanes or the airline, and she had accepted the story as the truth. It had made her angry, however, because it seemed unfair for the airline to give such an order and then make the pilots pay for their own rentals.

"If they're making you do it," Gladys said, "they should pay for the planes."

"They don't look at it that way" Eddie told her. "Besides, that's why they pay us so much money--so we'll have enough dough to pay for little extras like that. The way they look at it, they're doing us a favor. Most of us pilots like to fly light planes anyway, and by ordering us to do it, you see, we can take the expenses off our income taxes."

Gladys knew a lot about money, and she was mollified that Eddie could write off the plane rental fees.

Eddie didn't like to lie, and he had wondered, later on, why he really hadn't wanted to have Gladys along when he went flying, but flying seemed about the only area left to him where he could be completely alone. He didn't mind having Gladys around all the time. Most of the time, it was very pleasant. He liked to have her drive him to the Miami International Airport and pick him up when he came back from his regular flights. He avoided the parking ha.s.sle that way. He liked having her along when he went to a movie in the afternoon, or talking to her at dinner, or when they watched TV at night. But sometimes a man wanted to be by himself. Gladys often did things she didn't want to do, just to be with him. So Eddie had given up a few things he liked to do because he knew that she didn't really enjoy them. But she was with him all the time.

In the evening, around ten p.m., Eddie liked to stretch his legs. The four-block walk to the 7/Eleven store was just about right. He would walk down there, get a c.o.ke and a bag of peanuts, browse among the magazines, and then buy the early edition of the next morning's -Miami Herald-. Gladys accompanied him on these walks, which meant that he had to wait for her while she put on fresh make-up and got dressed for the walk. When he wanted to take a little walk, that was what he wanted to do--then--not wait twenty minutes for Gladys to take off her old make-up and then put on all fresh make-up. But he went along with it, and waited, even though it made him impatient.

He still had the early morning jogging to himself, too. Gladys had bought a new sweat suit and red leather Keds with white racing stripes so she could jog with him in the morning, but she had only lasted for one morning and one block before she quit and walked home. Eddie had set a fast pace, and trying to keep up with him had made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hurt. So all Eddie had left was the jogging and the flying. The rest of the time, during the three or four days a week he was in Miami, Gladys was with him. She was with him all the time, it seemed.

She had begged to go with him on the first Cessna flight, all excited about the idea, because she had never flown in a light plane before. This was about a month after he had moved into her house. As soon as he got some alt.i.tude he had sideslipped into a falling leaf, zigzagging sharply for a fairly swift drop of about 200 feet. Gladys had vomited all over her purple slacks and white sandals. He had flown back to the Opa-Locka airport only ten minutes after take-off.

"What caused that terrible drop?" she asked, as she scrambled out of the plane.

"Air pockets," Eddie lied. "They happen all the time, and I had to fight for control."

But even if she had given up flying with him, she usually drove him to the Opa-Locka airport and waited for him to come down. And this made Eddie a little irritated--knowing she was just sitting down there in the Twin Services rental waiting room, flipping through old -Aeronautical Journals-, bored out of her skull for two or three hours. The slight feeling of guilt he felt had diminished some of his pleasure in being alone up there.

If she hadn't been in Fort Lauderdale, she would have been with him today, not saying anything, but pouting jealously because he and Don were going to be alone for two or three hours without her. In some respects Gladys reminded Eddie of Schatzi, the German shepherd b.i.t.c.h he used to have as a boy. When he used to put his arm around his mother, or kissed her goodbye when he was leaving the house, Schatzi would bark and snarl. Until he broke her of the habit by beating her with a rolled newspaper, Schatzi would snap at his mother's legs.

But having Don with him in the plane was a lot different from having Gladys. Don probably had a hundred questions to ask, but Don could sense that Eddie didn't want to talk while he was flying. If Eddie had wanted to talk, why would he rent a plane for $55 an hour? So Don was quiet, and looked out the window. Gladys would have been asking "What's that?--and that?--and that?" Of course, just to have Don or anyone else along was distracting, in a sense, because if Don hadn't been with him Eddie wouldn't have been thinking about him. But then, Eddie didn't mind thinking about Don, because if he thought about Don he wouldn't have to think about Gladys. And thinking about Gladys, now that he had made his decision, was painful. He wanted to wait until he had some more distance, until he was in Chicago, maybe. Then he would think about Gladys.

Don, Eddie thought, was like a chameleon-- a social chameleon--because he could adapt himself to almost any group or social situation--blend right in and be accepted, even though he never said much of anything. Basically, though, Don was a sad guy, a sufferer. Although he didn't show his pain or complain about anything much unless he was fairly close to a man, as he was with Eddie and Hank, and Larry, sometimes. But even then Don had to be coaxed a little to get him to talk about his problems.

That story about Nita and the rim-job was probably true. Otherwise, Don wouldn't have told it on himself. Eddie would never have told a story like that to anyone if it had happened to him. And yet, in a curious way, he had admired Don's courage, or humility in being able to tell him about it. Don could talk about it, Eddie supposed, because he was a Catholic. Catholics were used to making confessions, or conditioned, as children, to talking about intimate matters to nuns and priests, and so it probably didn't bother them any. Also, Don being an Italian and all--that probably had something to do with his crying when he got drunk. Italians were very emotional. Eddie hadn't cried since he was twelve years old, and that was when Schatzi was run over. She was a good old dog, Schatzi. Eddie had refused his mother's offer of a new puppy. He hadn't wanted another dog. Another dog wouldn't be old Schatzi. Some things were just too d.a.m.ned intimate to discuss.

Eddie certainly couldn't talk about his s.e.x life with Gladys to anyone, although Hank had asked him questions about it several times. Every time, Eddie had merely grinned and shrugged. He had driven old Hank right up the wall. But what he and Gladys did together would never be told to anyone. He didn't even like to think about it. Jesus. He had had his share of a.s.s in his time, but he had never done -that- with anyone before! Eddie wasn't a prude. He didn't mind talking about s.e.x, in general, like admitting you balled some chick three times in one night, or something like that, but going into the intimate details was just too gauche.

Anyway, Hank, in his letter, had been right about Don. Don was really depressed. He was way down there. But Hank's suggestion about getting Don a girl to shack up with on the side wasn't the answer. Besides, Don had never had any trouble getting laid. Women liked Don. He was good looking, in a dark way. A lot of women had told Don he looked likeJohn Derek--in that movie where John Derek had been in a wheelchair. No one could ever recall the t.i.tle of that movie, but Eddie remembered two or three times when women had brought up Don's resemblance to John Derek, and none of them could ever recall the name of the movie, either. But each time, they added "in that film whereJohn Derek was in the wheelchair." That was when the four of them used to hang around the Turf and Surf in Hialeah, before the new manager took out the pool table. Eddie and Hank would meet there for lunch, and then play pool all afternoon. Don would arrive by two-thirty or three, and Larry by five-thirty. Sometimes, drinking beer and playing pool, they would close up the place at midnight. Those were the really good days, when Don was still living in the building. But after the new owner had taken out the pooi table, they had started to hang around the White Shark instead.

Eddie still didn't know what to do about Don, though, and now it was a little too late to do much of anything. He should have gotten around to Don before now, instead of spending all that time with Gladys. Well, when they got to Ft. Myers he would tell Don about his promotion to captain. He could do that much. It always made Don happy when something nice happened to one of his friends.

The plane was approaching the huge abandoned concrete slab in the Everglades that was supposed to have been a new jetport for Miami before the environmentalists had forced the state to stop work on it. The plans had been made and more than three million dollars expended on the jetport before "ecology" had become a fad. But the landing field was still there, a vast, flat-out wasted expenditure of taxpayers' money. It was used occasionally by private planes and even for training purposes by some of the airlines, but that limited use would be curtailed soon--as soon as there was a bad accident on the uncontrolled field. Eddie liked to shoot a few landings in the Cessna when he came near the field, especially when the weather was nice, as it was today. But as he looked down he could see thirty or forty parked cars and a crowd of people at the southern end of the slab. Drag racers. He would skip the touch-and-goers today. Drag racers were crazy, and some of their home-made vehicles, with parachutes for brakes, zipped down the middle of the slab at 250 miles per hour.

Eddie made a slow banking circle to give Don a closer look at the crowd and the cars, and then flew straight across the 'Glades to Naples. From Naples, he followed the sh.o.r.eline up to Bonita Beach, turned inland, and put the Cessna down at Page Field in Ft. Myers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Instead of taking a cab into Edison Mall, they ate lunch, at Eddie's suggestion, in the small cafe in Hangar Three. Eddie ordered the special-- meat loaf, blackeyed peas, corn bread and string beans--but Don, who said he wasn't very hungry, asked for a hamburger and a chocolate milk shake. While they sat in the booth, waiting for their food, Don polished his purple sungla.s.ses with a paper napkin.

"While we were flying over, Ed, I had an idea," Don said. "I don't know if it would work or not, but if it did, it would be a way out for me."

"A way out for what?"

"You know. The situation I'm in. I don't work very hard, as you know. In a way, I hardly work at all. I just take orders from the stock I have in the warehouse. I haven't had to get out and hustle any sterling for about three years. Most of the time, as it is, it takes about two months to fill a big order. A replacement order-- like a new forty-five dollar spoon to replace one some housewife's thrown away in the garbage-- takes from three to six months.

"So I'm not overworked. In fact, Nita handles most of the Dade County orders. My main job is keeping my boss in Gunnersbury, England, happy, and checking on my salesmen in Tampa and Jax. Considering the bread I make, I sometimes feel guilty about how little I do."

Eddie grinned. "I feel the same way sometimes. In fact, I just got a raise, Don--and my promotion to captain."

"You did? Congratulations!"

"Thanks. I've been putting off the promotion for some time, Don. I could've had my fourth stripe two years ago, but I waited until I could get my own Seven-twenty-seven. If I'd taken it two years ago, I'd've been hauling cargo and taking most of the lousy runs. Moving from co-pilot to pilot only means another twentyfive hundred a year to me right now, but a lot more eventually. The point is, I'd probably fly for nothing--or for just enough to live on, if that was the only way I could get to fly. But other pilots in the a.s.sociation, fortunately, don't feel that way, so now I'll be drawing down twenty-eight, five a year."

"You sure as h.e.l.l deserve it, Eddie. As the captain, you'll be the man, now, and if anything goes wrong it'll be your a.s.s."

"I know. That's what they really pay us for--the responsibility, not for flying the plane. If they only paid us--say-- six or seven thousand a year, the pa.s.sengers would lose confidence in flying, I think. It's like psychoa.n.a.lysis. They charge fifty bucks an hour so you'll trust them."

"I never thought of that, but you're probably right. Let me ask you a couple of questions, Eddie, before I test my idea on you. Okay?"

"Anything, man."

"The Cessna. Could it haul you and me and about twelve hundred additional pounds?"

"No. Not this one. The ten-pa.s.senger job could, though--the Cessna Four-oh-two. If it didn't have the ten pa.s.sengers along, I mean."

"Could you check one out-- a Four-oh-two?"

"Sure. I've got more than thirty-five hundred hours in multiengined planes, for Christ's sake."

"I know that. But are they available for rental, these ten-pa.s.senger jobs?"

"If you've got the hundred bucks an hour. The rate is, or used to be, about sixty-five cents a nautical mile. They might've gone up some on rentals, though, just like everything else."

"How long would it take you to fly to Tampa and back from Opa-Locka?"

"I'd have to check the maps first for an exact schedule, but I can give you a rough idea. It's about one hundred and twentyfive miles to Tampa from Miami-- nautical miles-- and the Fouroh-two can fly at about one hundred and eighty knots. So roughly, give or take a few minutes, it would take about an hour each way. At Tampa, however, you can't always land when you want to. Sometimes they make small planes wait--both to land and to take-off. They've got priorities, you see."

"D'you need a flight plan?"

The waitress brought their food. As she put down the plates, she stared at Don and smiled. "You've got beautiful hair," she said.

"Thanks," Don said, nodding pleasantly, "I just had it styled yesterday. Twelve bucks a crack."

"In Fort Myers?"

"No--in Miami. I go about twice a month."

"I didn't think it was in Fort Myers. 1 didn't mean to be rude. But my husband's got long hair like yours, and his looks like a rat's nest."

"That's okay. It's always nice to get a little feedback. So maybe the guy's worth twelve bucks." He grinned at Eddie, "Where do you get your hair styled, Eddie?"

"Miami Barber College. It's a buck-fifty for white sidewalls."

"I'd rather see my husband with short hair like yours," the woman said to Eddie, "instead of having it look like a rat's nest."

"That's a nice diplomatic comment," Eddie said.

The waitress left, and Don nodded solemnly. "D'you see how it is, Ed? If you'd let your hair grow, they'd be all over you."

Eddie grinned. "I can't stand it down over my ears that way, but I've been wearing it a little longer since I've been living with Gladys. Lately, though, I've been thinking about going back to the flat-top. That was the best hair style men ever had, and George Peppard's gone back to it. I saw his picture in the paper the other day."

"Where was I? Before my fan came over?"

"On the flight plan. The answer is no. It isn't necessary to file a flight plan, not on a rental plane. If you were going outside the continental limits-- like to Na.s.sau or somewhere--you'd need one. But that's because you'd have to have a Customs agent check your plane when you got back. What is it, exactly, you've got in mind?"

"Well, what I need, you see, is some money. Twenty-four complete sets of flatware, about fifty pounds each in its neat little case, are worth about twenty thousand. My plan or idea was to steal twenty-four sets from my own warehouse, have you fly me and my daughter and the silverware over to Tampa. You could fly back alone, you see, and I could rent a car over there, and take off. We could settle somewhere, in New Orleans, or Dallas, and I could change my name. Then, once we got settled, I could find another job and Start a new life."

Eddie shook his head. "Don, Don, Don--you really haven't thought this thing out, have you?"

"Not the details, no, but in general, I have-- as we flew over."

"How would you get the silverware and your daughter to Opa-Locka?"

"I could rent a panel truck, I suppose."

"And leave it at the airport?"

"Sure. You could turn it in for me when you got back from Tampa."

"Here's a better way. You visit your salesman in Tampa once a month, right?"

"I'm supposed to, but usually it's about every other month. It's easier to phone him, and Henry's a pretty good man. I do go to Jax once a month though. I take the breakfast flight up, and the dinner flight back And I never tell the b.a.s.t.a.r.d when I'm coming, either."

"Okay. How about this idea. You drive over to Tampa, and you establish that you're in Tampa-- an alibi-- because you're checking on Henry. Then that night I pick you up in Tampa, and fly you back to Miami. You have a stolen car staked out at the Opa-Locka airport. You take the stolen car, drive downtown to your warehouse, pick up the silverware and drive back to Opa Locka. I fly you and the silverware back to Tampa. All in all, you'll only be away from Tampa about three hours."

"But what about Marie? I'm not leaving without my daughter."