Read Online Trophy for Eagles by Walter J. Boyne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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"It's so terrible that most of the colored live like this. I never knew it. We don't have many colored families in Green Bay."
Winter yelled back, "You're right, but that's not the half of it. I'll show you something else you won't find in Green Bay."
He threaded the Rolls through the traffic, turning right on 59th. They went south on Broadway into the glitter of Times Square, then turned right again on 43rd to take them through Hell's Kitchen. It was an industrial slum, a turgid mixing of factories, freight yards, and warehouses that forced the laborers to live nearby in roughly angled, crowded tenements ready to slide into the street.
"Tumbledown town! Twenty years ago, we wouldn't have gotten through here unharmed. I still wouldn't want to walk here."
He didn't stop until they had made a loop back to Broadway.
"It's not only the colored who are poor, honey. I don't understand how the country can have so much wealth and so much poverty all at the same time."
Her mood changed, somehow reassured by the egalitarianism of the poor. They rode in a tired, happy, excited silence the rest of the way to the tree-studded streets and squares of Greenwich Village.
Everyone knew Winter; the doorman at the Brevoort greeted him by name, and they were ushered into the restaurant although it was just after closing time and the chef was gone. There would be no onion soup. Bandfield was inwardly relieved.
"Come on, Bandy, I want you to meet Raymond Orteig, the man who owns this hotel, someone I hope you get to meet again soon. You too, Millie."
The obviously disgruntled waiter sat them down; he left, and there was a strained silence until the passageway to the kitchen erupted in a flurry of waving arms and flying towels.
A short bald man, his smile twice as broad as his pencil-thin mustache, rushed toward them.
"Jack, where have you been? I've thought about sending a search party out for you."
Winter embraced Orteig, his long arms reaching down to enfold him.
"Raymond, you are as charming as always. I have a young friend here who is trying for your prize. Raymond, please meet Frank Bandfield."
Orteig stepped back and gravely looked Bandfield over, then extended his hand.
"Young man, I wish you the very best. I hope that you'll be very careful."
Bandfield felt Millie squeeze his hand.
"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Orteig. Don't worry about me; I've got a fine airplane."
Orteig's irrepressible smile broke out again as steaming bowls of cheese-encrusted onion soup were brought in, followed by a tray of coffee cups.
"Jack, my thanks for bringing in Mr. Bandfield." He picked up a cup and said, "Let's have a toast to a successful flight."
Bandfield picked up a cup and sniffed it—it was champagne, the first he'd ever seen.
They toasted, his eyes meeting Millie's over the cup's rim. It was a good beginning.
*
Mineola, Long Island/May 17, 1927
WEAF had played "Blue Skies" three times that morning, the radio waves somehow washing through the pouring rain. She stared resentfully at the stack of magazines that Bruno gave her instead of companionship. Every advertisement was alike, and every one was wrong. McCall's, Woman's Home Companion, no matter, they were all run by men to intimidate women. If you used Hinds lotion, brushed with Kolynos, smeared on Odo-ro-no, and swabbed out with Lysol, you might just be worthy to cook a man's supper for him. It was baloney.
Yet Charlotte Morgan Hafner complied. She washed, combed, purified, and sanctified herself to be ready for Bruno and for the lovers he tolerated but would not acknowledge. Bruno's earthy European attitude toward bathing had taken her aback initially, but he had conditioned her, made her accept the fact that pilots were all healthy animals, usually hot and sweaty, their nails smeared with flying's trademark, ground-in grease.
Donald Morgan's long, slender fingers came back to her, always clean, always beautifully manicured, but now just small scattered bones somewhere
Winter yelled back, "You're right, but that's not the half of it. I'll show you something else you won't find in Green Bay."
He threaded the Rolls through the traffic, turning right on 59th. They went south on Broadway into the glitter of Times Square, then turned right again on 43rd to take them through Hell's Kitchen. It was an industrial slum, a turgid mixing of factories, freight yards, and warehouses that forced the laborers to live nearby in roughly angled, crowded tenements ready to slide into the street.
"Tumbledown town! Twenty years ago, we wouldn't have gotten through here unharmed. I still wouldn't want to walk here."
He didn't stop until they had made a loop back to Broadway.
"It's not only the colored who are poor, honey. I don't understand how the country can have so much wealth and so much poverty all at the same time."
Her mood changed, somehow reassured by the egalitarianism of the poor. They rode in a tired, happy, excited silence the rest of the way to the tree-studded streets and squares of Greenwich Village.
Everyone knew Winter; the doorman at the Brevoort greeted him by name, and they were ushered into the restaurant although it was just after closing time and the chef was gone. There would be no onion soup. Bandfield was inwardly relieved.
"Come on, Bandy, I want you to meet Raymond Orteig, the man who owns this hotel, someone I hope you get to meet again soon. You too, Millie."
The obviously disgruntled waiter sat them down; he left, and there was a strained silence until the passageway to the kitchen erupted in a flurry of waving arms and flying towels.
A short bald man, his smile twice as broad as his pencil-thin mustache, rushed toward them.
"Jack, where have you been? I've thought about sending a search party out for you."
Winter embraced Orteig, his long arms reaching down to enfold him.
"Raymond, you are as charming as always. I have a young friend here who is trying for your prize. Raymond, please meet Frank Bandfield."
Orteig stepped back and gravely looked Bandfield over, then extended his hand.
"Young man, I wish you the very best. I hope that you'll be very careful."
Bandfield felt Millie squeeze his hand.
"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Orteig. Don't worry about me; I've got a fine airplane."
Orteig's irrepressible smile broke out again as steaming bowls of cheese-encrusted onion soup were brought in, followed by a tray of coffee cups.
"Jack, my thanks for bringing in Mr. Bandfield." He picked up a cup and said, "Let's have a toast to a successful flight."
Bandfield picked up a cup and sniffed it—it was champagne, the first he'd ever seen.
They toasted, his eyes meeting Millie's over the cup's rim. It was a good beginning.
*
Mineola, Long Island/May 17, 1927
WEAF had played "Blue Skies" three times that morning, the radio waves somehow washing through the pouring rain. She stared resentfully at the stack of magazines that Bruno gave her instead of companionship. Every advertisement was alike, and every one was wrong. McCall's, Woman's Home Companion, no matter, they were all run by men to intimidate women. If you used Hinds lotion, brushed with Kolynos, smeared on Odo-ro-no, and swabbed out with Lysol, you might just be worthy to cook a man's supper for him. It was baloney.
Yet Charlotte Morgan Hafner complied. She washed, combed, purified, and sanctified herself to be ready for Bruno and for the lovers he tolerated but would not acknowledge. Bruno's earthy European attitude toward bathing had taken her aback initially, but he had conditioned her, made her accept the fact that pilots were all healthy animals, usually hot and sweaty, their nails smeared with flying's trademark, ground-in grease.
Donald Morgan's long, slender fingers came back to her, always clean, always beautifully manicured, but now just small scattered bones somewhere
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