Amerika by Paul Lally Read Free Book Online Page B

the wind, and I corrected, bringing her level just as she broke into a stall a few feet above the runway and stopped flying. The tires squeaked and spun into life, and at the same instant her steel tail skid touched the concrete and began screeching like a thousand banshees. I swung quickly off the runway onto the grass and the noise dropped off to a muffled rumble. The S-38, an amphibian, had been built in a time when dirt runways were common. Not anymore.
    ‘We’ve got to retrofit a tail wheel. That skid won’t last the week.’
    ‘I’ll get on it the minute you get back from your run,’ Orlando said.
    I taxied alongside the deserted runway. This time last year, Key West Airport and Key West Naval Air Station had been two competing bee hives with civilian and military aircraft filling the skies day and night. Today a ghost town.
    Orlando pointed out the side window. ‘Ground crew at your ten o’clock.’
    Ten-year old Abby stood there, face dead serious, hair tucked beneath a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap, outstretched arms holding two red flags as she gave me the ‘Continue approach’ signal. I applied a touch of power. The closer I got, the higher she raised the flags, until, just as my wheels reached the exact spot, she expertly snapped the flags into an ‘X’ over her head. I hit the brakes, and killed the engines.
    She went from poised ground crew to little kid ran over to the cockpit. I managed to slide open the side window just in time for her to leap halfway inside for a hug.
    ‘Did you get lost, daddy?’
    ‘Very funny.’
    ‘You were supposed to be here yesterday.’
    ‘Uncle O and I got a little tied up.’
    ‘Grammy was worried.’
    ‘What about you?’
    ‘Not a bit.’
    ‘Truth?’
    A beat. Her brown eyes as wide as Estelle’s and just as beautiful. ‘A little toward the end. But mostly not. Where’s my stay-at-home gift?’
    I fished inside my jacket pocket and pulled out a small red lobster with the words, Souvenir of Cranston, Rhode Island painted on its tail.
    Abby made a face. ‘Daddy, we have tons of lobsters in Florida. Mr. Beamer has a whole truck of them waiting for you.’
    ‘Pull on its tail.’
    She gave me “the look,” but then did so and a tinny-sounding, mechanical voice inside said, ‘Let go my tail.’
    She exploded into laughter, and pulled it again.
    ‘Try mine.’ Orlando reached over his enormous fist and opened it to reveal a grey clam with the same words painted on its shell.
    Abby opened the clam and the same voice shouted, ‘Clam up!’
    She screamed with glee. ‘How do they do that, Uncle O?’
    ‘When you’re done playing with them, we’ll find out.’
    ‘Let’s find out right now!’
    I could already see the two of them, foreheads touching, like consulting surgeons over a patient, as they dissected the lobster and clam mechanisms to see what made them tick. Abby’s knack for mechanics and Orlando’s skills made these two dangerous.
    ‘Later,’ I said. ‘We’ve got lobsters to fly and Uncle O has an engine to fix, don’t you, reverend?’
    ‘I do, indeed.’
    A month ago, we had bought a junked Wright Radial two thousand for parts. It would come in handy for scavenging, now that we had a plane to go along with it.
    Abby said, ‘Can I fly right seat?’ Her face was hard to resist.
    ‘You remember up from down, port from starboard?’
    ‘Don’t insult me, daddy.’
    ‘Okay, then Officer Carter, let’s get those lobsters loaded!’
     

     
    Rosie supervised the loading with the same precision as when she rolled cigars; no wasted effort, delivering maximum product in minimum time. Me? I was happy to be taking orders instead of giving them.
    ‘Don’t face the crates outward,’ she bossed. ‘Alternate back and forth. They fit better that way.’ She used a short piece of line to lash the crates together. ‘Give me another crate. We haven’t got all day.’
    It had taken Orlando, me, Abby, and Lobster Mike, only a few minutes to