Her Last Flight(6)
She waved and got inside her own car, her father’s old Tin Lizzie held together with baling wire, and set the choke. Went around to turn the crank but though the engine turned and turned it wouldn’t start. Mr. Mallory noticed her trouble in the nick of time and came over from his Nash, which had started impeccably from its automatic ignition. He opened the hood and they peered inside together.
“Spark plug’s blown out,” she said.
“Got a spare?”
“No. You?”
“’Fraid not. But they’ll have plenty at the airfield. I’m headed out there now.”
“Airfield?”
“Where I work.” Mr. Mallory straightened from the innards of the Model T and smiled at her confusion, for maybe the first time since hauling her surfboard up the dunes, and Irene thought it was worth the sacrifice of a mere commonplace spark plug to experience a smile like that. He yanked down the hood and dusted off his hands.
“I’m a pilot,” he said.
And that was when Irene put one and one together, Mallory and flying.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re Sam Mallory. The Sam Mallory.”
He scratched his head and peered at the sun. “Does it make a difference?”
Irene bent down to pick up Sandy, who had escaped from the Nash and wandered across the grit to curl around Irene’s ankles. “Of course not,” she lied.
Hanalei, Hawai’i
October 1947
The boy sprawled beside me is the kind who sleeps deep, apparently. I like that in a fellow. You can slither out of bed, dress and brush your teeth, even write him a tender good-bye note if you’re so inclined, and he won’t so much as flutter an eyelid.
Dear Boy [I can’t remember his name],
That was too lovely for words and just what a girl needs. A thousand thanks for the ride out there [he captained the boat from Oahu yesterday afternoon] and the ride in here. I enclose a five dollar bill. As I tried to explain last night, I might allow my escorts to pay for dinner, but I always buy my own drinks. You can keep the change for good luck.
Yours always,
Janey
I lay the note on the nightstand and pull the camera from my pocketbook. My companion’s all tangled up in the sheets like a Bernini god, except tanned. I find an angle that preserves his modesty. The light’s not terrific, but I open the aperture as far as it will go and hold myself steady.
Click.
Then I steal out the door before he starts to miss me.
Among the many gifts I received from that nice young man last night, he told me where to find Irene Lindquist. I don’t believe he meant to do that, but when a fellow’s plied with enough drink and female companionship, his lips will loosen in more ways than one.
A good thing, too, because the rest of the locals in this two-bit Hawaiian village weren’t inclined to admit she exists, let alone lives among them, even though I know for a fact that Lindquist, together with her husband, Olle, runs an island-hopping operation called Kauai Sky Tours out of an airfield five miles away. By the time the good captain sauntered through the door of the town watering hole last night at a quarter past nine—acting as if he owned the joint, and it turned out he did—I had just about given up and prepared myself to walk those five miles through the darkness to wait for Lindquist at her place of business, since I wasn’t getting anywhere else fast. Tenacity, that’s what separates success from defeat. Also a willingness to do what’s necessary, though I admit that going to bed with this particular informant wasn’t exactly a noble sacrifice, except of sleep.
Outside, the sun’s just begun to color the eastern horizon. The air tastes of the tropics, a pleasant change from my previous assignment in Nuremburg, Germany, which stank of rain and human decay. This place, you’d think it never heard of war. The vegetation tumbles from every nook, streaked with flowers; the lane meanders toward the beach as if it’s got all the time in the world. While the birds twitter and toot in abundance around me, there’s neither sight nor smell of another human being. Just the scent of sultry flowers and salty ocean. The sound of my own footsteps on the packed earth.
Lindquist likes to surf in the morning, before anyone else is up. So my sea captain informed me last night, anyway, under a certain amount of duress. He wouldn’t reveal exactly where she surfs, but my money’s on the beach. Isn’t yours? Anyway, I’ve already discovered, in the course of my research, that Hanalei Bay is favored territory among those who enjoy the act of skidding on the ocean. Stands to reason I should find Irene Lindquist (not her real name, by the way, but we’ll discuss that later) somewhere along that sweep of sand, and it suits my purpose that we should meet at dawn, before the sea is peopled.
Now, my informant’s bedroom isn’t far from this beach, because nothing in Hanalei is far from the beach. Already the waves beat incessantly against my ears. Another hundred yards and the Pacific Ocean will wash up before me, and there she’ll soar, Irene Lindquist herself, right across its surface, hiding in plain sight. Assuming that dear, strapping boy was telling me the truth last night, of course. Boys will say anything when you have them at your mercy. But I have the feeling this one was on the level. He has an earnest face; the kind of face I’d like to photograph, if some grander mystery weren’t consuming my imagination at the moment.