Chapter Fifteen - A Done Deal
Precisely at 4:30 I return from the 515 Club, and saunter through the front door of the gin mill where I am supposed to meet Jim. To my complete lack of surprise :-? , his face is not to been found among the now half dozen or so patrons of the establishment. Jim is “village people”. And village people are not known for strict adherence to schedules or timepieces, particularly in the summer. But I expect he will show sometime before long, as I imagine the earlier phone call had been his “wakeup” call. Soon he would no doubt be hungry or thirsty or both.
As I mount the same stool I dimly hear the sounds of an ice scoop being put to use in the storeroom behind the bar. I am pleasantly surprised to see a quite buxom platinum haired blonde shove her way through the swinging saloon type doors that partition the two rooms at the far end of the bar.
Seeing me she hollers “Be right with ya’ sweetheart.” I respond “No worries doll. I’m not on a tight schedule.” I study her as she pours the five gallon pail of small 3/4 inch square ice cubes into the bin with a crash. Dropping the bucket to the floor, she looks up at me with a broad smile and, as her right foot kicks the bucket under the sinks, she says “So. What’s your poison darlin’??”
She proceeds to mix the magic elixir with the same degree of generosity (or more) than had her predecessor, as I continue my analysis. She’s mid-to-late thirties. Bawdy. A doll when she was my age no doubt. Once a real thoroughbred, a triple crown winner in her day, now more resembling a sturdy and dependable workhorse. Not an old nag, just one that’s been ridden hard and put away wet more than a few times.
The lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes are starting to deepen. I expect it is as much the result of lots of hearty laughter over the years as age. For her smile is genuine as she looks in my eyes while sliding my drink across the bar and saying “All of three-hundred‘n fifty cents for you there kiddo”.
I peel another five-spot offa’ my roll and, sliding it across the bar, retort with “ Tell you what there cupcake” as our hands meet at the five dollar bill and our eyes lock on each others, “since I’m liable to be here fer’ a spell why don’t you gimme’ back three quarters for the jukebox, tell me what your name is, and give me the number of your favorite song on there.” “You think so, huh?” she remarks. She pulls the fiver from beneath my fingers without taking her dark green eyes from mine. And with a quick spin she turns to face the cash register, giving me a short glimpse of here backside over the counter. A very little extra there. Keeping herself in pretty good shape. Either that is one tight pair of Levis, or the cute well-rounded (if very slightly plump) posterior is still pretty firm.
The jingle of change hitting her almost empty glass tumbler tip “bucket” registers just a moment before another quick pirouette on her boot heels has her facing me again. Her right hand, nails a shiny bright red and manicured to perfection, slaps the bar momentarily. She lifts it to reveal four quarters instead and says “Ya’ get an extra song for a buck. Gimme B3 and C7 and the name’s Rhonda.” I take her now offered hand in mine, and get a firm but feminine handshake as I say “You got it Rhonda.” Dropping my hand to the countertop I pick up the four quarters before turning to head for the jukebox.
And from behind, Rhonda throws out “Well. What’s your name cowboy?” Turning half-around as I walk, I tell her “Name’s CloudDancer. But you can jus’ call me Cloudy. All my friends do.” Just as I turn back toward the juke box I hear her say “CloudDancer. Izzat some kinda’ Indian name?” Stopping, I turn and again stare into her eyes. “No. It’s nOT. You got something against Indians??” Laughing she replied “What would I be doing working here? Cloudy it is then !”
Now, at 4:37, as I drop the last of the quarters into the coin slot on the Whirlitzer, I being to hear female laughter and then voices in the distance, growing louder, as if approaching. To the right of the jukebox, along the back wall, there is a narrow, dark wood door with a partially corroded brass handle. I realize that the noise(s) are coming from behind there and now I hear footsteps clomping down a stairway from behind the door as well.
The door practically flies open and out skips two raven-tressed eskimo girls looking remarkably similar not just in dress but in facial features as well. An irregular clump-clumping sound from behind the door indicates yet another party is following. As one of the girls turns and hollers at the opened door, “Come ON already! I’m thirsty!” The second one eyes me up and down and says “Who’s your name?”
But before I can open my mouth to respond, Jim emerges and sees me.
“Uuuuh-HUH! Captain Vandergriff. This must be your tire-changing crew I’d guess.” This of course, I utter with a s**t-eating grin on my face. To which Jim responds sheepishly “Good ta’ see ya’ Cloudy. How ya’ been?” Extending his right hand, he covers the three paces between us in his usual hobbling gait, a result of one leg being a half inch shorter than the other thanks to a childhood bout with polio.
“Ooooh. That's him, uh?” That coming from the first of the two girls who now regain my visual attention as I pump Jim’s hand up and down for a few strokes while looking past and over his shoulder. As Jim pulls his hand from my grip and places up on my right should I hear him say “Down young CloudDancer. Those are my sister’s girls from Holy Cross, and I am obliged to protect the young maidens from sleazy pilot-types such as yourself.”
As he’s saying this the girls walk past and head for the bar. Early twenties and delectable, I watch them take up two corner seats at the bar before one of the girls calls out “C’mon Uncle. Time to PARTY!” And Jim looks from them up to my face (he’s a good three or four inches shorter than I) and asks “You got time for one or two or are you skeedadlin’ tonight?”
I tell him I’ve still got another thirty-six hour before I have to fly and my drink is on the bar already. He clumps off after I assure him I’ll join the party upon finishing my song selections. And over the next hour (and three or four rounds of drinks, all but one paid for by Jim) he and I get caught up on all that had transpired in the three to four weeks since we’d seen each other last.
He admits that he feels rotten about screwing with Rod in one way. Yet, since Rod had only paid him fifty per cent for the last two weeks, and was taking advantage of their long friendship, and he needed his dough too, well.....fair is fair. He even admitted that he volunteered for the pay cut, initially thinking things would, or at least might turn around. Of course, that hadn’t happened.
To Jim it seemed quite evident that the Great Northern Electras had spelled the end to Rod’s noble airline experiment. And even if that wasn’t obvious to Rod, the early A.M. repossession of the Beech 99 should have convinced him to pull the plug. Instead Rod continued to dispatch Jim daily in the Baron to Anchorage. Last (partial) payday had been the last straw for Jim.
Once again he had been sent to Anchorage with four “credit” passengers after he watched Rod count out the last of the cash from the downstairs “convenience store’s” till to fill the 100 octane bulk tank. As has been noted previously in other CloudDancer stories, at that point Jim realized it was just a matter of a couple of weeks, if not days, before we’d be parking airplanes and missing trips for no gas or parts.
Thus, when the unexpected flat tire presented an opportunity, Jim decided to take some time off in the big village, as he too had been flying incredible numbers of hours in recent weeks. All single pilot IMC since the 99 had disappeared. And, unbeknownst to Rod or myself, he had determined a way to solve his own financial problems and call it “even” with Rod. Which bought us to our current situation.
Leaning back on the barstool next to me, Jim fFishes in the pocket of his Levis and extracts the Baron’s magneto key as he states “I know Rod needs the plane back. And you’re gonna’ fly ‘er home right?”
“Well...” I responded truthfully”Rod didn’t say you couldn’t co...” At which point Jim interrupted with ‘No. I just want to go back home to Aniak. You’re gonna’ take her back for me.” This he says as he places the keychain on the counter and slides it sideways. It “clinks” to a stop against the base of my rum ‘n coke as he continues “But you gotta’ do me a favor kid.” And I answer “What’s that Jim?”
Jim tells me he’s got a full load in the Baron that needs to get to Bethel. He was going to take it himself “a couple of days ago, but the weather was too bad.” I allowed as how I knew all about the “bad weather in Anchorage” a few days ago, as Rod had gotten a phone call from center about “the bad weather”, and that he had relayed it to me. This produces a very slightly frustrated look for only a moment, before it drops off Jim’s face and he turns to look at me with the innocence of a child and says, “Whatever.”
“Nonetheless” he continues “I made a deal to help a friend of mine move a planeload of....uh....household goods back home so he could save a buncha’ dough. He’s got a lot of stuff and Wien just charges too much so he’s paying me to move it. I was going to drop it off on the way back to Kotzebue. Now you’ll have to.”
“We-e-ell” I begin. “I don’t know Ji...” and cease talking as his left hand flashes out quickly to beat mine to the key. “C’mon Jim” I continue. “You know Rod isn’t real big on me flying...” And Jim interrupts, his voice taking on a grumpy edge. “Look Cloudy. I know you’re kinda’ caught in the middle here. But that’s the deal. You either gimme’ your word you drop the load off in Bethel on the way home, or I’m keepin’ the key and Rod’ll gets his Baron back after I take the load myself! That’s the only way you get this key tonight.”
Now, strongly suspecting that Jim’s previous attempt at taking the Baron to Bethel was done at least severely hungover, if not in worse shape; and not wishing to even remotely be a party to a repeat attempt, I agree to Jim’s terms. “Okay Jim. You got my word. I’ll drop your load off on my way home Monday morning. Now gimme’ the key.”
This time the key disappears in my pocket as Jim grabs a bar napkin and unbuttons the snap on his shirt pocket. His hand reaches in and emerges with a pen, which he uses to scrawl on the napkin. He slides it over to me and I read the name Hank and a seven digit phone number.
“Call this guy from the airport here in Anchorage right before you leave and give him your Bethel e.t.a, and he’ll meet you. It’s his ...uh....stuff, and he’s been waiting for it. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him you’ll be there...uh, when on Monday morning anyway Cloudy?”
“Well, I promised Rod I’d be home by noon, so we’d better figure me landing in Bethel by oh....say...eight-forty-five should do it.” I replied. “All right” Jim answered. “It’s a done deal then, right?” “Yeah” I sighed. “A done deal.”
“Great then! What say we go find some dinner somewhere! My Treat! Then we’ll take these girls out dancing!”
CloudDancer