Trouble on His Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Read Free Book Online Page B

“duty” began to ring synonymous in the minds of the two reporters.
    At last the bottle of
Scotch was empty and so was Johnny. Mopping the sweat of creation from his
brow, he said, “And that’s how it was. Now if you’ll pardon me—”
    â€œGee, I got to get
this on the wire!” they both said in unison. They hardly stopped long enough to
pump his hand and then they were gone.
    Johnny went back to
his bath and found that Irish was all decked out in a yellow silk robe five
sizes too big for him. “Gosh,” said Irish, “ain’t I beautiful?”
    â€œAll you need is some
cheap perfume,” said Johnny. “I fixed it, for the minute. That yarn will break
in the local rags as well as on the wire, and then maybe they’ll stretch the
credit.”
    He bathed, and when he
girded himself in his red bathrobe and stalked forth, he found that Irish and
the girl had already laid waste to two tables. He wrapped his hands around a
whole chicken and began to gnaw. “You guys make me sick,” he said around white
meat. “You eat like a couple animals.”
    There came another
knock on the door and Irish bobbed up to answer. It was the manager, with the
clerk hovering worriedly behind him.
    The manager adjusted
his glasses. “Mr. Brice—”
    â€œThat’s him,” said
Irish.
    â€œMr. Brice,” said the
manager, “it pains me to inform you that we are in receipt of a wire from your
New York office stating that your World News checks are not to be honored. You
. . . have, I . . . er . . . ah . . . infer . . . lost your position.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said
Johnny. “Paramount upped a pay figure higher than World, and so I changed over.
My Paramount checks won’t be here for a couple days, but meantime, I’ve got
plenty of money. I’m surprised that you would be worried about such a trivial
thing. Here, I’ll get my wallet if you don’t believe me. I—”
    â€œOh, no, no,” said the
manager, hastily. “I didn’t understand. . . .”
    â€œQuite all right,”
said Johnny.
    The manager bowed out,
and Johnny took another chunk off the roast chicken. He looked fixedly at the
girl and she avoided his eyes.
    â€œHave some more
chicken or arsenic or something, Jinx,” said Johnny. “Irish and me have got
eight bucks between us and you’re going to be put on a bus as far as that will
take you.”
    She wept a little but
very quietly and then went off to her room.
    â€œYou’re a brute!” said
Irish.
    â€œAnd she’s a jinx!”
snarled Johnny.
    â€œShe likes you. She
told me so.”
    â€œTo hell with what she
likes!” snapped Johnny, attacking a steak. But a moment later, “What did she
say?”
    â€œShe said she thought
you weren’t near as tough as you acted. She said . . . ”
    â€œShut up,” said
Johnny. “She goes, and that’s the end of it!”

Chapter
Six
    I T was very early morning—a time
of day abhorrent to newsreel cameramen. Johnny awoke and did not know why
except that he had a feeling that he had somehow done wrong. He fished
aimlessly around the dressing table beside his bed, almost dislodging the
phone. That near-accident served to bring him more clearly to himself and he
propped himself on one elbow while he found his pack and lighted a cigarette.
He was used to waking up in strange quarters and so his surroundings told him
nothing. He yawned and massaged his curly brown hair. He looked over at Irish,
who slept in the other twin bed, completely lost in a tangle of covers and
grinning idiotically in his sleep. Johnny wondered if he had had a row with Irish,
and then decided against it. No, something else was bothering him. Yes, he had
been fired, but that didn’t seem . . .
    The Jinx, that was it.
He’d told her to get out, come morning, and now morning was here. That was it;
and he lay