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Authors: Brad Latham
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of. It said in black letters five feet high:
“Old Gold Smokes the Best. Miles Above the Rest. Take a Load Off Your Chest.”
Then in smaller print, longhand, was the slogan “Hacking cough from poorer spuds? Then try O LD G OLD , the smoke that refreshes your lungs.”
“Nice sign, isn’t it?” she yelled over the roar of the biplane’s engine. Lockwood was busy with a pad and pencil he had taken
from his pocket—not copying the slogan but drawing a map of the marshy areas. He drew it so he could walk there later.
The wind whipped around the tiny windshield and slapped his face like a wet towel. The Old Gold sign was really pointing toward
the approach to the Whitestone Bridge. A little access road led up to it through the marshy brush.
What a view! From the skyscrapers of Manhattan to Idle-wild!
A bird flew uncomfortably close and pelted the windshield with a white splatter of dung.
“How’s your stomach?” Amanda’s words were half-blown away by the wind whistling around his little windshield.
He tightened his strap as they made a long slow curve, remembering that aircraft have to
lean
to make turns.
“Not bad.”
Was that her laugh? She pulled the plane up sharply, which left his stomach behind, and headed straight into the noonday sun.
They seemed to stall out, sputtering, then the plane fell
backward
toward the ground.
Lockwood tried not to yell, but did. “What are you
doing?"
“Shortcut,” the lady pilot said. “Don’t worry, everything’s under control, see?”
She banked the plane out of the stall, and the engine roared violently as they pulled up fifty feet short of the swamp and
leveled off just over the brush.
“Are you trying to be funny?” he shouted.
Amanda laughed. “Just trying to see what you’re made of, Mr. Lockwood. After all, aren’t I a woman driver? Want to go back
down?”
“No, first you take me over the crash scene, “okay? If
you
can handle it.”
They did a gentle arc and ahead, from about two hundred feet up, Lockwood saw a burned spot on the verdant landscape. Not
much to see. It was off in the opposite direction of their ascent and to the left of the Old Gold sign. Quite a sharp turn
for a plane taking off. Had Lorenzo been suicidal, after all?
Just a burned spot below. Lockwood fixed its location in relation to the Old Gold billboard, the field, and the road on his
little pad. He would find a map and mark it when he got back to
terra firma
. If he got back!
“Want a low pass?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s go down.”
She made another lower-wheel. They zoomed past the crash site. Just burned grass and a few scraps. Then the wind sock zipped
past and the tires screeched and threw up the gravel. Something let go inside Lockwood’s tense wrists. He saw that his knuckles
were white from gripping the sides of the seat.
His knees felt a little wobbly, but he tried not to show it as she helped him down off the plane.
“Well, how did you like the ride? Can the little woman drive okay?”
“Reminded me of the war.”
She laughed. “I just wanted to see if you could hold your cookies.”
“Where did you learn to fly like that?”
“I used to barnstorm at county fairs with a stuntman. He’d stand on the wing.”
“This other guy still alive?” Lockwood brushed his suit.
“Of course. He’s in the Army Air Corps, as a matter of fact. How about a spot of java, Mr. Lockwood? I’ll tell you more about—whatever
you want to know.”
With the ground firmly beneath him, Lockwood began to regain his composure. “Why not? Lead on.”
They walked over to a small shack adjoining the main hangar, in which was an old seat from a 1920s Dodge and a scattering
of chairs, motors, and magazines. She picked a thermos off a battered desk and poured his coffee into a cup from the sink.
“Not much in the way of a restaurant, but we make a mean cup of coffee. Percolator’s in the main hangar.”
It was as good a nickel’s worth as
“Old Gold Smokes the Best. Miles Above the Rest. Take a Load Off Your Chest.”
Then in smaller print, longhand, was the slogan “Hacking cough from poorer spuds? Then try O LD G OLD , the smoke that refreshes your lungs.”
“Nice sign, isn’t it?” she yelled over the roar of the biplane’s engine. Lockwood was busy with a pad and pencil he had taken
from his pocket—not copying the slogan but drawing a map of the marshy areas. He drew it so he could walk there later.
The wind whipped around the tiny windshield and slapped his face like a wet towel. The Old Gold sign was really pointing toward
the approach to the Whitestone Bridge. A little access road led up to it through the marshy brush.
What a view! From the skyscrapers of Manhattan to Idle-wild!
A bird flew uncomfortably close and pelted the windshield with a white splatter of dung.
“How’s your stomach?” Amanda’s words were half-blown away by the wind whistling around his little windshield.
He tightened his strap as they made a long slow curve, remembering that aircraft have to
lean
to make turns.
“Not bad.”
Was that her laugh? She pulled the plane up sharply, which left his stomach behind, and headed straight into the noonday sun.
They seemed to stall out, sputtering, then the plane fell
backward
toward the ground.
Lockwood tried not to yell, but did. “What are you
doing?"
“Shortcut,” the lady pilot said. “Don’t worry, everything’s under control, see?”
She banked the plane out of the stall, and the engine roared violently as they pulled up fifty feet short of the swamp and
leveled off just over the brush.
“Are you trying to be funny?” he shouted.
Amanda laughed. “Just trying to see what you’re made of, Mr. Lockwood. After all, aren’t I a woman driver? Want to go back
down?”
“No, first you take me over the crash scene, “okay? If
you
can handle it.”
They did a gentle arc and ahead, from about two hundred feet up, Lockwood saw a burned spot on the verdant landscape. Not
much to see. It was off in the opposite direction of their ascent and to the left of the Old Gold sign. Quite a sharp turn
for a plane taking off. Had Lorenzo been suicidal, after all?
Just a burned spot below. Lockwood fixed its location in relation to the Old Gold billboard, the field, and the road on his
little pad. He would find a map and mark it when he got back to
terra firma
. If he got back!
“Want a low pass?” she asked.
“Yes. Let’s go down.”
She made another lower-wheel. They zoomed past the crash site. Just burned grass and a few scraps. Then the wind sock zipped
past and the tires screeched and threw up the gravel. Something let go inside Lockwood’s tense wrists. He saw that his knuckles
were white from gripping the sides of the seat.
His knees felt a little wobbly, but he tried not to show it as she helped him down off the plane.
“Well, how did you like the ride? Can the little woman drive okay?”
“Reminded me of the war.”
She laughed. “I just wanted to see if you could hold your cookies.”
“Where did you learn to fly like that?”
“I used to barnstorm at county fairs with a stuntman. He’d stand on the wing.”
“This other guy still alive?” Lockwood brushed his suit.
“Of course. He’s in the Army Air Corps, as a matter of fact. How about a spot of java, Mr. Lockwood? I’ll tell you more about—whatever
you want to know.”
With the ground firmly beneath him, Lockwood began to regain his composure. “Why not? Lead on.”
They walked over to a small shack adjoining the main hangar, in which was an old seat from a 1920s Dodge and a scattering
of chairs, motors, and magazines. She picked a thermos off a battered desk and poured his coffee into a cup from the sink.
“Not much in the way of a restaurant, but we make a mean cup of coffee. Percolator’s in the main hangar.”
It was as good a nickel’s worth as
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