LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

another. That wasn’t my problem, I figured, he wasn’t driving. Earlier I overheard him and Mr. Archer going on about Scotland. They’d both played Old St. Andrews and were having a good time swapping lies. It’s always a crap shoot when you throw a bunch of people together, but as our guests mellowed out I thought, so far so good. I was taking tomorrow off and had no deadlines until next week. No need for a speech either – I’d just pass the word when the star appeared. I was chatting with Alan and Fred and keeping an eye on the street where Peter was in the middle of a scrum, when I heard shouting.

      “Rhodesia!”

      “Mugabe!”

      “Asshole!”

      Martin. Who’s he facing off with tonight? “Be back,” I said, hurrying toward the patio. It turned out Martin’s opponent was Todd Breslau from two streets over, an attorney and a staunch liberal. Short and wiry, he was extended to full height and going chin-to-chin with Martin. “You, sir, are a racist! And an asshole!”

      “I’m a realist, son. Since when does that make me a racist and an asshole?”

      “All those clever code words. Say what you mean! Keeping the black people down another century – that’s what Reagan’s all about!”

      “Martin never said that,” said Ray Morgan who lived down the street. “You don’t want to hear it but he’s right.”

      Martin stuck out his jaw. “Now they’ve chased the Brits out, you tell me they’re going to run that country? They’ll run it into the ground, just like they would here if we ever gave them the chance. I pity the white folks that’ll be left.”

      Todd paused, smiling. “That’s it? That’s your best shot?”

      Martin wagged his finger. “Let me tell you something, son. I despise lawyers. Your kind are behind this whole mess, you and that goddamn Supreme Court of yours.”

      Looking on uncomfortably, Stan Fredette, parent of two little girls, one in Peter’s school, one of the few black families in the neighborhood. Combat was not Stan’s style but I could see he’d had it up to here. Don’t need a race riot tonight, I thought, stepping between Todd and Martin. “C’mon, guys, that’s enough.”

      Todd stepped back but not Martin. “I’m not through! He started it!”

      “I don’t give a shit who started it!” I said. “You had your say, now back off!”

      “Who are you, tellin’ me to back off!”

      “If you don’t settle down, you’ll have to leave.”

      “Leave! This is my neighborhood!”

      “Not this part of it, not the way you’re acting.”

      Martin’s son-in-law Vince had just arrived. “What’s going on, pops? They beating up on you?”

      “Mr. Breslau and I, we were having a spirited discussion when Mr. Bernard lost his cool. He is making me feel unwelcome.”

      Vince, a tall, burly guy, we got along fine, he looked at me and shook his head. “I expect there’s more to it than that.”

      I nodded. “I expect you’re right. Vince, how about escorting Mr. Robinson home. Some black coffee wouldn’t hurt. I’ll get him a cup.”

      “Don’ want your damn black coffee.”

      “C’mon pops, you had your say.”

      “Damn Gazette, goddamn pinko rag. “I’ll be back!” he yelled over his shoulder as Vince steered him down the walk, Dorie on his other side. She rolled her eyes at me.

      “I hope so,” I shouted at him. “After these people go home we’ll still be here.”

      Diane appeared as they were leading Martin away. “Was Martin not feeling well?”

      “You might say that. He gave us his lecture on white supremacy – you know the one.”

      “I hope you weren’t too hard on him. They are our neighbors, after all.”

      “You would have been proud.” I looked around. People seemed kind of subdued. “C’mon, everybody,” I said, “these things happen. Have another steak. Have two!”

      Nobody was paying attention to the TV. Some of the children had infiltrated the back yard and were whining they wanted to switch channels. “Not tonight,” I said, “this is a historic event.” Walter Cronkite was saying Reagan was scheduled to go about ten. I sidled up to a group. Art Koeppel was going on about his airplane. “How about a tour?” somebody asked. “I’ve never seen it.”

      “Don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Alcohol and aviation don’t mix.”

      “Oh, come on, we’re responsible citizens.”

      “In fact that’s why we’re here,” Tom Salvatore added, nodding at the TV.

      Art looked at his watch. “I guess a peek wouldn’t hurt.”

      “I wanna go, Dad!” Peter pleaded.

      “Me too!” This from Noah, Tom’s son.

      “What about it, Art?” I asked.

      “If you’ll keep an eye on them. Follow me.”

      He turned and walked into our back yard. “Our short cut,” he said, heading for a gate in the fence that straddled our property line. It was dark as we walked along but Art pulled out his key ring and pointed a tiny flashlight toward the fence ahead.

      “Always prepared,” Tom observed.

      “Boy scouts and pilots. Watch your step.” He opened the gate and led us through. I was holding Peter’s hand. Several other children had joined up. As we neared an overhead flood lamp suddenly snapped on. “Motion sensor.” Art opened the back door and flipped some switches. The lights came up and the air conditioning rumbled to life. Smelling of industrial solvent, the garage was immaculate – whitewashed walls and ceiling, a shiny gray finish on the floor that sloped to a drain. The windows were sealed tight. I had been here many times and always enjoyed seeing his progress. Brought back memories of the model airplanes I used to make as a kid... on a somewhat bigger scale.

      Somebody whistled. “This isn’t a garage, it’s an operating room.”

      Art nodded. “Not so different, actually.”

      Poised in the center on several metal sawhorses, a one-seat airplane, with wings but no tail, aluminum skin covering a portion of the frame. The first time I saw the wings I asked how Art how he planned to get it out of the garage.

      “They unbolt easily. Strap the whole thing on a flatbed, put ‘em back when you get to the airport.”

      “Where’s the propeller?” someone asked.

      Art pointed to a three-bladed prop hanging on the near wall, a shiny cone at its hub.

      “Couple of weeks, we’ll be hooking it up.” An array of metal ribs ran along the outside of the vertical bulkheads tapering to where the tail would be attached.

      “How fast will it go?”

      “Top speed 180, should cruise at 160. Knots, that is. Times 1.15 for miles per hour.”

      “Where’s the tail?”

      He pointed to a far corner where a pile of tubing and several rolls of shiny metal were stored under a workbench. “In a couple of weeks it’ll look a lot more familiar.”

      “You did this all yourself?”

      “With some help but yes, it’s my work.” Art ran his hand over the smooth aluminum skin along the fuselage. “It’s coming out real well.”

      Early on I’d told Art about my father’s

Скачать книгу