Read Online Trophy for Eagles by Walter J. Boyne - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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machine-gun pace until the shrimp cocktails arrived. They fell into a rhythm, eating the shrimp alternately, one talking while the other chewed.
He found himself telling her about his repair truck and the college guys. "They thought I was some sort of ragged gypsy, coming around with a truck with the sides rolled up. But I'd soup up their Model Ts, hang a Miller downdraft carburetor on one, an Iverson head on another, and they'd get a little speed out of it. Pretty soon I had to put them on a list. It got so busy I was even getting bribes to give people priority."
"Bribes!" she said in mock horror. "And what did your parents think of your taking bribes?"
He turned serious—it was a sore point. "Dad didn't take it so well. He was sort of a rebel, always reading Marxist literature. He even joined the Communist Party, honest! Every year he'd go off some where, up in the Northwest, in the woods, rabble-rousing. Some how my making money rubbed him the wrong way. One day he just up and left, no word to anybody. I couldn't figure it out."
He was silent, and she reached over and squeezed his arm, sending his pulse soaring. Her own life was so protected; she couldn't imagine her father leaving the family.
The floodgates were open. "It killed my mom. She loved him so, even if he was hard to live with. She never admitted that he was gone for good, but she was never again the same. When she got sick, she was glad, glad to die and stop missing him."
The plates were cleared, and Bandy stared in amazement as the waiter ran a little silver roller brush across the white-on-white linen tablecloth, gobbling up the crumbs. He slid his butter plate over the stain from the French dressing he'd spilled.
By the time the steaks were served, he thought he was in love. He knew it when she leaned over and asked, "Can I tell you something personal?"
He nodded, anxious, and she said, "Don't look now, but your fly is open. I noticed when you came in."
From anybody else, the comment would have generated a lifetime impotence. Instead, it cemented their relationship, bringing them closer as he fumbled with the buttons underneath the table.
There wasn't even a dip in the conversation.
"I knew Slim in flying school, you know. We crashed, had a midair, and they threw me out. I used to think it was terrible, but now I know it was the best thing that ever happened to me."
She took his lead eagerly. "Why?"
"Because if I hadn't, I wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't have met you."
The food was wonderful. Bandy glanced around the room and realized theirs was the only table that was dry. Everywhere else people were busily engaged in beating Prohibition's dry laws by pouring drinks out of bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.
Refusing coffee, the Lindberghs excused themselves. Winter took Millie and Frank's combined distress at parting in a glance and said, "Slim, I want to show Frances and Millie some of the nightlife, and we need Bandy along for protection. I'll see that he gets back to the field."
Lindbergh walked with Bandfield out to the lobby. "Be careful, Bandy—this isn't Maria." He winked and poked him in the arm. "See you tomorrow."
Jack had asked to have his car brought around; when it pulled up at the curb, Bandfield for the first time had his eyes forcibly torn from Millie.
He'd seen the car advertised in the Times. It was a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, a convertible with a rumble seat the size of a swimming pool.
"Hop in. We're off to Harlem."
He helped Millie climb up the little step at the side of the rumble seat, steadying her as she struggled to get her skirt-encumbered leg over the coaming, stealing a glance at her ankle and calf. He put one hand on the edge of the rumble seat and bounded in, striking his shin smartly on the edge of the retracted convertible top but masking-the pain.
"You like English cars, Jack?"
"Yeah, they're swell, but this one is manufactured up in Spring field, Massachusetts, and Brewster, over on Long Island,
He found himself telling her about his repair truck and the college guys. "They thought I was some sort of ragged gypsy, coming around with a truck with the sides rolled up. But I'd soup up their Model Ts, hang a Miller downdraft carburetor on one, an Iverson head on another, and they'd get a little speed out of it. Pretty soon I had to put them on a list. It got so busy I was even getting bribes to give people priority."
"Bribes!" she said in mock horror. "And what did your parents think of your taking bribes?"
He turned serious—it was a sore point. "Dad didn't take it so well. He was sort of a rebel, always reading Marxist literature. He even joined the Communist Party, honest! Every year he'd go off some where, up in the Northwest, in the woods, rabble-rousing. Some how my making money rubbed him the wrong way. One day he just up and left, no word to anybody. I couldn't figure it out."
He was silent, and she reached over and squeezed his arm, sending his pulse soaring. Her own life was so protected; she couldn't imagine her father leaving the family.
The floodgates were open. "It killed my mom. She loved him so, even if he was hard to live with. She never admitted that he was gone for good, but she was never again the same. When she got sick, she was glad, glad to die and stop missing him."
The plates were cleared, and Bandy stared in amazement as the waiter ran a little silver roller brush across the white-on-white linen tablecloth, gobbling up the crumbs. He slid his butter plate over the stain from the French dressing he'd spilled.
By the time the steaks were served, he thought he was in love. He knew it when she leaned over and asked, "Can I tell you something personal?"
He nodded, anxious, and she said, "Don't look now, but your fly is open. I noticed when you came in."
From anybody else, the comment would have generated a lifetime impotence. Instead, it cemented their relationship, bringing them closer as he fumbled with the buttons underneath the table.
There wasn't even a dip in the conversation.
"I knew Slim in flying school, you know. We crashed, had a midair, and they threw me out. I used to think it was terrible, but now I know it was the best thing that ever happened to me."
She took his lead eagerly. "Why?"
"Because if I hadn't, I wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't have met you."
The food was wonderful. Bandy glanced around the room and realized theirs was the only table that was dry. Everywhere else people were busily engaged in beating Prohibition's dry laws by pouring drinks out of bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.
Refusing coffee, the Lindberghs excused themselves. Winter took Millie and Frank's combined distress at parting in a glance and said, "Slim, I want to show Frances and Millie some of the nightlife, and we need Bandy along for protection. I'll see that he gets back to the field."
Lindbergh walked with Bandfield out to the lobby. "Be careful, Bandy—this isn't Maria." He winked and poked him in the arm. "See you tomorrow."
Jack had asked to have his car brought around; when it pulled up at the curb, Bandfield for the first time had his eyes forcibly torn from Millie.
He'd seen the car advertised in the Times. It was a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, a convertible with a rumble seat the size of a swimming pool.
"Hop in. We're off to Harlem."
He helped Millie climb up the little step at the side of the rumble seat, steadying her as she struggled to get her skirt-encumbered leg over the coaming, stealing a glance at her ankle and calf. He put one hand on the edge of the rumble seat and bounded in, striking his shin smartly on the edge of the retracted convertible top but masking-the pain.
"You like English cars, Jack?"
"Yeah, they're swell, but this one is manufactured up in Spring field, Massachusetts, and Brewster, over on Long Island,
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