Read Online The Man Called Brown Condor by Thomas E. Simmons - Free Book Online Page B

through a school like that, you’ll be more likely to get some kind of aircraft mechanic or maybe flying job. That’s an idea you can chew on, anyway.”
    Robert put his weight down on the foot crank of his motorbike. After a couple of attempts, it fired up. He put on a pair of goggles. Before leaving, he turned back to Robinson. “I think you have what it takes, Robinson. I really do.”
    John nodded his head in thanks. “I don’t think you know what flying with you has meant to me. Just saying thank you is nowhere near enough, but I don’t know how else to say it.”
    Robert grinned. “Oh I know what it meant. There’s not a pilot alive who doesn’t remember his first flight.” He switched on his bike’s headlight, nodded a smile, and disappeared down the dirt road into the falling darkness.
    John sat alone on the running board of his car. In the stillness of the early evening he could hear all the sounds of the country, so different from the noise of the city. Away from the lights, he could see stars popping out as darkness descended. It was spring and awakening insects chirped their mating calls. A cow bellowed somewhere in the distance. Nearby, a sudden whirring announced some winged night fowl was on the hunt. It was a peaceful place to get his thoughts together. There was no way to justify, much less explain to anyone, why he would even think of giving up his job to go to Chicago on the chance he might somehow get into not just a flying school, but the best in the Midwest. His friends would think him a fool.
    Sitting there he came to two conclusions. The first was that his Momma was right a long time ago when she had said that it was foolish for a black man to think about flying. The second was that as soon as his boss could find a replacement, he was going to take his foolish self to Chicago. He shook his head, laughed, and climbed into his car to drive back to Detroit.
    ***
    Back at the shop on Monday, he was taking a break out front when a shiny new Pierce-Arrow sedan stalled on the street right in front of him. The driver tried several times to restart the car without success. The back seat passenger and driver, both black men, got out and walked to the front of the car. The driver opened the hood and both driver and passenger stood in the street pondering the situation. John walked out to them, introduced himself as a mechanic, and asked if he could help.
    The passenger turned out to be a doctor and the owner of the car. The three men pushed the car to the side of the street, and then the doctor, without so much as a thank-you, told John, “No one is to touch this car until I can get my mechanic here. Is there a telephone nearby? I need a taxi.”
    Although not the least bit pleased at being dismissed in favor of some mechanic from clear across town, Robinson told the doctor his boss had a taxi company and there was one ready to leave the shop. The doctor returned to his car, told his chauffeur to wait for the mechanic, and, glancing at Robinson, repeated his instructions that no one was to touch a thing on his car. A few minutes later he left in the taxi. 
    After nearly an hour, the doctor’s mechanic arrived. John walked out to see the mechanic the doctor had prescribed to fix his new car. The mechanic’s name, John learned, was Cornelius Coffey. The introduction led to a discussion between a rather sarcastic Robinson and a somewhat indifferent Coffey who made it clear he did not need any help. Things could have gone downhill from there except by chance aviation was mentioned.
    As the conversation progressed, Coffey told John how he became interested in flying. “One day in Newport, Arkansas, where I was raised, I toted a five-gallon bucket of gasoline all day long between a barnstormer’s Jenny in a pasture and a country store half a mile away. White folks paid the barnstormer for rides in the Jenny. Just before dark, when everybody