The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Bat and the Buzzard, Part 2 of 2

With Batty Masterson’s true identity revealed, Mick gets to the bottom of the case, though he may not be ready for how far down it goes.

Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, All the Time is available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 2 of The Case of the Bat and the Buzzard, the final entry in The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, All the Time. Part 1 is definitely required reading.

Content warnings: Mild Swearing, Violence, Gun Violence, Death, Alcohol Use, Tobacco Use, Creeps

FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 17, 1942
PICKFORT-ELKINSON REGIONAL AERODROME
CORNER, ALABAMA

The two Black Wings pilots smoking out back of the locked hangar looked like any other bored co-workers shooting the shit. It was like they'd forgotten they were paid to kill for fascists.

The building loomed over the pair, sprawling and massive. It had been the headquarters of an American zeppelin company, but the one-two of the Hindenberg and Black Tuesday had punched their ticket. Until the place was bought whole cloth by the Curtain Brothers Paints and Pigments Company, all it was a good candidate for was scrapping. The place was big enough to hold whole airships; a contingent of killer mercenaries would fit inside all at once with room to spare.

One pilot punched the other in the shoulder, then both stubbed out their cigarettes on the hanger's corrugated steel shell. They fished around in their pockets until one emerged with something that glinted gold and familiar in the moonlight. She inserted it into a small slot like she was picking a tune on a jukebox. A concealed door popped open and lively jazz escaped into the night. They slammed the door shut behind them, cutting off the music.

“So that's how they get in,” the Bastard grunted from his hiding place. He melted back into the pool of shadow behind a parked fuel truck. From every angle other than the parking lot, this podunk airport looked damn-near abandoned. It was the hot shots' cars that gave up the ghost. This collection of sports cars and motorcycles belonged in some eccentric millionaire's garage, not parked outside a packed-dirt airstrip. The Bastard slinked between each Indian, Victory, BMW, Bugatti, Sunbeam, and Jaguar, careful not to touch anything. The last thing he needed was any of these mercenaries extra worked up because he'd scuffed their paint job.

Judging by the packed lot, there was a full house in there. The Bastard slipped around the perimeter. The tall fence took just a few snips from his bolt cutters before it rolled open for him.

He approached the hangar slowly, staying out of the range of the few lights that illuminated the air strip. There should have been more, enough to guide wayward pilots in. The Black Wings kept their headquarters dark on the outside. They preferred not to entertain unexpected guests.

“Tough shit,” the Bastard muttered to no one. He sidled up to the hangar and felt around until he found the small slot he'd seen the pilots use. “There it is.”

He fished a thick coin out of his pocket. It featured a biplane with bat wings on one side and a bird with a human skull instead of a head on the other. He had taken it from one of the Black Wings guys they'd arrested after that mess in Savannah.

“This joker doesn't cut corners,” the Bastard said. He dropped the coin in the slot like he was buying a gumball. The door popped open to let strumming strings and a fast drumbeat wash over him. The Bastard slung his bolt-cutters over the door's hinge, flashed his light back at the treeline, got a flash back in response, then entered the hangar.

There were at least two dozen fighter planes inside, all brand-new American models. Each was painted jet black, with boney wings painted underneath. A half-dozen air-dropped sleds was stacked in the corner. All this had been shoved aside to create a wide circle around a milling dance floor of sixty people. Half of them done up in black leathers, the rest in cocktail dresses or suits. A four-piece band was tearing it up on a makeshift stage. The banner above the singer's head read 'Happy Birthday, Batty!' in blood red letters.

The Bastard ducked low beneath the closest plane, an upgunned Mustang. Regional Inspector Earp had provided him with all kinds of goodies. He unhooked a drum grenade from inside his coat and slipped it into the fighter's wheel well. Once it was secure, he activated its radio receiver. The next plane over got the same treatment.

Slithering between shadows, the Bastard made his way closer to the party. He clutched his heavy, scarred club in one hand and a tiny transceiver in the other. One squeeze would pop both planes like rotten eggs.

The band wound down and a man hopped up on stage. He was shorter than the singer, wearing a fur-lined flight jacket despite the heat. He had gleaming black boots and a silver pistol on his hip. Champagne sloshed out of the bottle he was carrying as he waved at the crowd. He was white, with sculpted black hair and a gleaming smile. He threw his flying scarf over his shoulder and took the singer's microphone out of her hands.

“Friends!” he called out to the crowd. They went wild.

“Batty! Batty! Batty!” they chanted. He laughed and held up his hands, beckoning them to quiet down.

“We love you, Batty!” a woman shouted from the back of the crowd. The rest of them whooped in agreement.

“Thank you, thank you, I love y'all, too,” Batty Masterson, formerly known as Camden Curtain, smarmed. “Friends, I just want to thank all y'all for another amazing spin around the sun.”

He let the whistles and woos die down before he continued:

“We've flown over sixteen countries! I became an ace for the fourth time! We've got a dozen new brothers- and sisters-in-arms, and a dozen brand new planes for them! Thank you to our friends up north for that,” he said. He held up his glass to a suited man sitting at the bar and the pair of armored goons flanking him.

The Bastard recognized their clunky outfits: Diamond Plated mercenaries, the same crew he'd run into during that auction in Charleston. They were working for the Chrome Broker, Masterson's creditor and plane dealer. The suit raised his own martini glass to the man on stage. Masterson continued:

“And best of all, we made boatloads of money!”

The crowd roared loudest of all for that. Masterson waited out the cheers.

“My thirty-fifth year on this planet is going to be our greatest yet. Adventure! Accomplishment! Expansion! Riches!” he shouted, louder and over the crowd. “We have contracts all over the world! Omar's in France right now, setting up our second home!”

The crowd went wild. Masterson grinned, but put his hands out to calm them. He became somber.

“I do want to take a moment to remember our lost brothers tonight.” He raised his glass and pointed at three full glasses set up at the end of the bar. “Y’all have the same dream as I do: freedom. But folks don’t want us to have that. When some people see freedom, they get scared, they get bitter. They lash out. Lourdes - !”

The crowd cheered at her name. She was posted up at the bar with crutches, her leg in a cast. She raised her drink to them. Masterson continued:

“Lourdes nearly lost her damn leg, and Skink and Pep are behind bars tonight. Our brother Chuck is laid out on a slab.”

Reverent silence suffocated the room. After a moment, Masterson cleared his throat, saying:

“But freedom is a celebration, so that what we’re going to do. Besides, if Chuck was here, what would he say?”

“Drink up!” the crowd cheered in unison. They clanged their glasses together and everyone drained whatever they were holding.

Masterson threw his bubbles back then snagged the singer by the waist and gave the leggy blonde a kiss on the lips. The crowd went wild. She threw her arms around him and leaned into it. When he was done, he cast her aside, twirling her away and yelled:

“So whoop it up, gang! This is my day, and I earned it! Grab a drink, grab a dance partner, show me how much you love me!”

The Bastard had just about had enough of this grandstanding. He checked his watch. Its glowing radium green face read five minutes after midnight. Close enough. He covered his ears, pressed the button on his transceiver before the band could start back up, and ducked low.

The two Mustangs burst as drum grenades turned them inside out. The fuselages collapsed and wings flew off. Every canopy in the hangar shattered, along with every glass and bottle in the place. Liquor ran down the bar in torrents, a real waste. The microphone and speakers erupted in sparks. Masterson shoved the singer aside and dropped to the floor. The crowd cowered and covered their ears as the sonic blast reverberated through the massive hangar.

The revelers screamed and ran for the roll-up door. The shattered planes blocked the secret, coin-operated entrance.

“Open the door!” the quickest to recover shouted. Pilots with bleeding ears stumbled over to the controls. The blast-warped door groaned but began ascending.

The Bastard charged headlong into the crowd from behind. His club rose and fell. Each swing disarmed and disabled the pistol-packing pilots. He felt like a machine designed for purposeful, efficient smashing. Scalps split and bones broke under his club. Civilians screamed and ran for the hangar door. The crowd surged away from him, screaming, stomping over broken glass and each other.

They ran headfirst into Regional Inspector Wailey Earp who was waiting on the other side of the rising door. He was armed to the teeth, leading a battle line of officials. Those who tried to fight got put down, either rubber-banded or knocked spark out. The Bastard thrashed his way through the back of the crowd until he and Earp met in the middle.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the Bastard grunted. He sounded like an avalanche.

“I finally get why they run from you,” Earp quipped. The Bastard pulled his mask down and the world around him rushed in. The screams, the stink of blood and spilled avgas and shattered liquor and smoke. The hangar creaked above them, and he could see stars through new fissures in its roof.

“Brought the whole crew, huh?” Mick asked. He mopped sweat and spattered blood off his face.

He recognized a handful of the officials who were busy herding and cuffing Black Wings pilots and guests. Chris and Alex Lane were wrestling with one of the Diamond Plated goons, though the other and his charge were nowhere to be seen. George Keaton had a pair of pilots bound at his feet and had a third in a headlock. Trivaldus Epoch and Charlie Cypress had a particularly burly ace between them who wasn't letting them get the cuffs on her. A tall, blonde man had a pilot in an armlock and was pushing him toward the waiting paddy wagons. When he noticed Mick staring at him, he stopped and waved.

“Inspector Malloy, hello! A bit of a drive from Jacksonville, isn't it?” he asked. His voice was chipper, and very familiar.

“Paul?” Mick asked. He was the dispatcher from Office headquarters who never seemed to cut Mick a break.

“Of course, sir, who else?” Paul said, beaming. The pilot in his grip tried to struggle, but Paul wrenched his arm around and kept him in line. He said: “Let's keep it moving, friend, we have many more of your comrades to arrest.”

Mick chuckled and surveyed the scene with Earp. The officials were sweeping up the whole crowd with practiced efficiency.

“Where do we got Masterson?” he asked. He and Earp looked around but didn't see the mercenary captain among his rounded-up crew or guests.

“I don't see him,” Earp said. “Keaton! Where's Masterson?”

George Keaton was mid-fistfight with the bass player. He ducked under a swing then swept the man's feet out from under him. The bassist hit the cement with a thunk.

“Anyone have the primary?” Keaton shouted over the fray. No one gave an affirmative.

The shuddering thunder of an airplane engine drowned out any further discussion. A Mustang roared to life in the middle of the hangar. Five more coughed and spun up their propellors.

Earp began yelling orders, but no one could hear them. The planes began rolling forward, crunching through the stage, over the smoking speakers.

“Not today, Curtain,” Mick growled. He hefted his club. All he had to do was get in a few good swings. He could disable a wing or crack a fuel tank. If he managed to get on top, the canopies had all already shattered: he could thump the pilots directly. He ignored his sore shoulders and aching knees and charged.

The lead plane rumbled toward the open door. He was a mouse compared to it. He stood in its path, waving his arms over his head. The three-ton plane didn't care that he was in the way. Mick stood his ground. He could see Batty Masterson's oil-slick ducktail in the cockpit. The Mustang gained speed.

Mick gave up on his idea of taking the plane on with little more than a heavy stick and pulled one of his remaining drum grenades out of his coat. He held it up so Masterson and all the officials could see it. His comrades and their prisoners alike went running. Masterson simply hit the gas.

“Hell,” Mick grunted. He ripped out the radio receiver which released the grenade's spoon like he'd just pulled its pin. He hauled the grenade back, only for Masterson to open fire.

His P-51 Mustang had six heavy machine guns that could punch through trucks and concrete alike. On the ground, they were canted upward and they tore through the hangar like it was made of dry leaves. Anyone who could still hear after the first blasts was left deafened by the barrage. Everyone scattered, including Mick. He made it five steps before he remembered he had a live drum grenade in his hand.

“Shit,” he said. He tossed it behind him on the run. It burst two seconds later, a few yards behind and under the rolling Mustang's right wing. Invisible hands picked Mick up by the nape of his neck and threw him like a bean bag. He landed hard, pancaked between the sonic force and the hardwood bar.

The blast bucked Masterson's Mustang and snapped its wing clean off. The unsupported fuselage slammed the ground. Its spinning prop hit the concrete and shattered into a million splinters. Knife-sized shards whipped past Mick and stuck in the front of the bar, quivering. Its engine choked and died. The broken plane skidded to a halt against the hangar's wall.

Masterson crawled out of the cockpit. Mick pushed himself off the ground. Blood oozed down his sleeve. Masterson saw him and raised his chromed pistol. It bucked, but Mick couldn't hear the shots, just a stifled ringing. Lead whipped past him.

“Stop!” Mick thought he was yelling.

The mercenary hauled himself to his feet. There were five other planes rolling onward. He ran to the next one in line and pulled himself up onto the wing. He yelled at the gray-haired woman piloting. She shook her head. He leveled his pistol in her face and yelled again. She raised her hands. Masterson reached in and unbuckled her belt and she stood in her seat. He clocked her upside the head and she tumbled over the side of the plane.

Mick groaned, but he could barely move.

Masterson slid into the empty cockpit and accelerated. The Mustang's engine howled; Mick could feel it in his chest. The first planes picked up the pace behind him and they rolled out of the open hangar. The officials retrieved their guns and opened fire. Bullets and buckshot pelted the planes. Masterson taxied out to the runway and gunned it. The fighter caught the air and pulled up. It was airborne.

More officials recovered by the time the second Mustang hit the runway. The third was more holes than flight surfaces by the time it got off the ground. The fourth plane burst into flame on the tarmac and its pilot bailed out. He was set upon in an instant, hog-tied with rubber bands. The last pilot tried to swerve around the stalled, burning Mustang, but she ran off the runway and plowed nose-first into a ditch. Broken propellor blades and clumps of sod went flying. She tried to jump and make a run for it, but Paul caught her in a flying tackle that laid her out.

Mick propped himself up. His hearing was slow to return. A splinter the size of a switchblade was sticking out of his shoulder. He watched the three mercenaries disappear beyond the end of the runway.

“Damn,” he muttered. Earp came strolling out from the between the wrecked planes. His face was covered in dust and his gray hair was dyed pink with oozing blood. He mouthed some question to Mick.

“What?” Mick shouted, pointing at his ear. Earp sat on the floor next to him.

“I have mixed feeling about your choices!” he yelled in Mick's ear from about six inches away. He was waving his arms at the drum-grenade-cleared dance floor. It sounded like he was mumbling.

“Don't hand out toys if you don't want 'em played with!” Mick yelled back. He slumped back against the bullet-pocked bar. He pointed at the blood in Earp's hair at the same time Earp pointed at the giant splinter quivering in his shoulder.

“You okay?” they shouted in unison.

“It's nothing!” they shouted to each other.

Mick leaned his head back against the bar. A blend of bourbon, rum, and gin trickled from above him from the broken bottles, dripping on his head. It smelled awful. What a waste.

Earp patted him on the knee and shoved himself off the floor. Mick watched him go. He felt exhausted, empty. They had eliminated the home base of a traitor who made his money, who got his kicks, killing officials for fascists. As far as he could tell, no more officials were dead or seriously injured. The scars they'd gotten would make for a good story. The time old Mickey the Mug busted up a birthday party with drum grenades. It was a victory.

The traitor himself had gotten away, though.

Mick watched the other officials mop up the groaning, terrified, abandoned Black Wings. He felt a million miles away from them. There was smoke and glass everywhere. People were bleeding. It was Savannah all over again. It was the Empress. It was the warehouse in Charleston, the burning docks in Tampa, the beach on Pawley's Island, the tunnels under Columbia, the catacombs beneath Falkenstein. He'd done all this before. Wherever he went, blood and misery followed. Even his victories were horror and destruction.

Mickey Malloy was tired.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 12, 1916
LA JOVEN FRANCESCA
YBOR CITY, TAMPA, FLORIDA

Mickey Malloy pulled his jacket collar up and shuffled off the packed streetcar. He was tired, in his heart and in his bones. If one person said a single word to him, he wasn't sure whether he'd deck them or pass out on the spot. Maybe both.

The worst thing about doing things that he didn't want to do but had to was how much goddamn effort he had to put into them. He could've walked away. Maybe he should've. Burying Harold Queen had been one of those things.

The kid's mother sobbed into Mick's shoulder for fifteen minutes, at least. All he could tell her was that Harold was brave, like that mattered. Most mothers would rather have a coward at home than a hero in the dirt. Mick's own mother was a notable exception, but he hadn't seen her in twenty years. Old Marge had taken his address and had promised to write him. She'd forget him as soon as he left town, and he'd try to do her the same courtesy.

The more Mickey had to talk to Marjorie Queen, the more he'd have to lie to her face. Mick wasn't a good liar. He couldn't come up with enough reasons for why Harold was dead and he wasn't.

As soon as the kid was in the ground, he was in the wind.

The boat back from England had felt like an eternity. Thirty days by sea with a coffin for luggage. Then that funeral. He'd taken the train south, now one coffin lighter, with stops in what felt like every little podunk town they could make up a name for. These last few blocks by streetcar had been excruciating. All he could think to do was stare at the floor, and pretended not to notice whenever anyone stared at his bandages for too long.

The exiting passengers continued on to wherever they had to be, and the people boarding shoved past him. Each incidental touch was like an electric jolt running through his body. He had to find somewhere loud and bright, where he could be left alone.

The bakery before him was winding down for the day. The deliverymen had just drop off their bread bags and were meandering across the street to a bar. Mick had never been to a bar on this end of town, which was all the better for him. His trouble had started in a bar, the least he could do was change up old habits and go to a new place.

Folks around these parts knew him: he was a six-two rhinoceros, he was hard to miss. They knew he'd gotten shuffled off to the war, too, not even six months ago. A month each way by boat left a lot of room for questions that he didn't feel like answering. Ever.

“Scotch, por favor,” Mick told the bartender when he settled on the furtherest stool down at the darkest end of the bar.

“No scotch, señor,” the bartender replied.

“Fine, whiskey, rye, bourbon, whatever,” Mick grumbled. He went to lean on his elbows and jumped when he remembered his right hand was in a cast. The bartender looked at him strange, but pulled an unlabeled bottle of brown liquor off the shelf and poured him two fingers.

“Gracias,” Mick grunted. He lied himself up to slam the shot but paused when he caught the bartender staring. “What?”

“Señor, su cara,” the bartender stammered. He pointed at the side of his own face. Mick reached up and touched the bandages plastered to his cheek and forehead. His fingertips came away stained dark red. He was bleeding though them again.

“Shit,” he muttered. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it against his forehead. He inhaled so hard at the sudden sharp pain that he hissed. The stitches had torn again. The bartender was looking somewhere between concerned and annoyed. He and Mick both knew that whatever Mick did there, he'd have to mop up after. Mick grunted at him to keep him moving: “Lo siento.”

“Sí, sí,” the bartender said, then wandered away to whisper to the gaggle of bread men at the far end of the bar. Mick pretended he didn't see them stealing glances at him, and they pretended they weren't. It was an equitable understanding.

Mick raised the glass to his lips. He hadn't had a drink since Bristol, and that had been enough toasting of the dead for one lifetime. No, this one wasn't dedicated to anything. It wasn't a reward. It was nothing, exactly what he wanted.

The hankie was spotted through when he pulled it away from his face, but at least the blood had stopped. The skin there was thin, and the wound had been ragged. They had warned him about the stitches, but he wasn't worried about scars anymore. Mick finished his drink and slid the empty glass across the bar.

The bartender, who'd being putting in his best work pretending that he wasn't there, appeared instantly to collect it.

“Un otro,” Mick grated. “Más.”

He got a double this time and was left alone again.

Mick leaned forward. His body ached. His hip still throbbed, and his ankle. The bruises the karaconcolos had left him him had taken weeks to fade, but their trying to tear his leg off still haunted him. His arm ached from where they’d re-broken and re-set it. The other arms, covered by his sleeve despite the mugginess, was fresh and pink. The crinkled, burned skin had peeled off in a long translucent sheet while he'd been aboard the ship. He had gone up to the deck and let the wind whisk it overboard like a silk scarf. He hoped some fish had enjoyed it.

His head hurt, too. The wire cuts on his face were swelling, he could feel it. He had spent his weeks in and out of hospitals, under a dozen doctors’ knives. For what? To remove scars? Maybe he wanted scars. His forehead throbbed in tempo with his heartbeat.

He downed the double in one go.

It was a start.

Mickey Malloy hadn't been able to sleep since that damn castle. Eyes followed him through his dreams. Creepy little red ones, lifeless glassy ones, predatory yellow ones, painted green ones, accusatory blues.

And the thing of it was, even if he was allowed to tell anyone about them, they wouldn't believe him. He was surrounded by people whose lives would never touch the realm of the things that kept him up at night. The things he'd lost so much to. The bread men laughed and clapped each other on the back and clinked their cervezas together, oblivious.

Mick's only consolation was that everything he'd endured had ended it. The monsters, the men who made them, their goals, they were gone. Good people had given everything to see that through. They only lived on inside him, scratching at the edges of him whenever it got too dark and too quiet.

He might not be able to sleep, but he could sure as hell pass out.

He raised the empty glass and waggled it at the bartender who hadn't even settled back into his spot among the chattering bread men.

“Hey! Un doble otro, por favor.”

TUESDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 22, 1942
RANGER STATION, PISGAH NATIONAL FOREST
NEBO, NORTH CAROLINA

“Goodness,” was the only way Helena Handbasket could react to the strange brew she had just sampled. She set the tiny cup down on its saucer, careful as a nursemaid with the fine china.

“Do you like?” the Antiquary purred. “It is an African blend. Very little of it ever leaves the continent.”

Helena nodded. That was about par for the course with the Antiquary. Actual taste didn't matter to her, so long as the thing in question was rare and expensive. Hell, the tea cups the old broad's men had unpacked were probably hand-carved from dinosaur bone in a tiny mountain town in Switzerland by the last master of that dying art.

The Antiquary sat back, letting her white braids tumble off her shoulder. Light glittered off of jewels woven throughout them. Her hair glowed in stark contrast to her dark skin.

“You are from Oklahoma, yes?” she asked. Helena nodded. “Many of your old neighbors would frown on you meeting a Black woman for tea.”

“Many of my old neighbors are still there, plowing dirt and eating old shoes,” Helena replied. “I'm a bit more forward-thinking than most Okies.”

“When it comes to money,” the Antiquary said. “Your neighbors wouldn't like seeing a Negro with money, either. They proved that in Tulsa, and that wasn't so long ago.”

“I was out of there by then,” Helena said.

“To fly, of course,” the Antiquary said. She stirred her tea a bit, working the Ceylonese honey into it. “As a pilot, did you know that the Massacre was the first aerial bombardment on American soil? By Americans, to bomb Americans.”

“I... did not realize that,” Helena said.

“I have acquired eighteen pieces of shrapnel from those bombs,” she replied. “To remind me that the good times change.”

“That brings me to why I'm here,” Helena said. “I'm insurance to make sure they don't.”

“And how would a stunt pilot arrange that?” the Antiquary wondered.

“I'm here as a representative of the Clear Skies Security Company, a new firm.”

“I see.”

“Ma'am, I know you've got means. Hell, you kicked four federal forest rangers out of their station to have a private meeting with me. And I know that only the best passes your muster. Well, I am the best.”

“In what field?”

“Aerial security, courier services, emergency transport,” Helena replied, listing off her services on her fingers. “You need something to get from one dot on the map to another, quickly and surely, Clear Skies is your best bet.”

“With regard to aerial matters, I have contracted exclusively with the Black Wings for some time, as I am sure you are aware,” the Antiquary said.

“And as I'm sure you're aware, they got themselves shut down. Domestically, at least.”

“What perfect timing for a meeting, then,” the Antiquary said with a knowing smile.

“You must also know that I flew with them for a long time,” Helena added. “What happened to them happened from the top down. Their founder wasn't some pilot who earned his way in. He is a bored rich boy, desperate to find fame and adventure. If your shipment got bushwhacked, all the better for him. Lose some cargo? That's just money. But dog-fight his way through an ambush? That was his bread and butter. He was flashy to be seen, extravagant because he didn't know any other way to be. That's not security.”

“And you?”

“I'm hungry. My parents are still back in Oklahoma, still plowing that dirt. I fly because it's what I'm good at, it's what keeps me fed. I can't afford to lose cargo because if I do I fall out of the sky.”

“Your sales pitch is 'desperation?'”

“My sales pitch is focus. The Black Wings were showboaters. I'm a professional.”

“I see,” the Antiquary considered. “And if my current contractors take umbrage with your usurpation?”

“If Batty and his lackwits show up?”

“As you have said, they are notoriously unprofessional, and they take their reputation quite seriously.”

“If they show their faces around here, they'll have FBI tails on them the second their feet touch the ground. If they manage to make it into the air, they'll have me to deal with. I've gotten my hands on a wing of up-jumped P-38 Lightnings. I can climb faster, dive steeper, fly higher, and hit harder than Batty's little horses.”

“That is an expensive investment,” the Antiquary noted.

“It is, and I got to work it off,” Helena said. She sipped her tea. It tasted like dirty saffron. She forced a smile and sipped it again. “Batty owed money to the wrong people, folks who are willing to spend more money to see it paid off. Or at least to show that you don't skip out on their bills.”

“I understand the sentiment,” the Antiquary said. Helena knew she did; her trio of leg-breakers outside the door weren't just for show.

“I'll tell you what. If we sign a contract today, you get first bid on my plane when I retire. A one-of-a-kind model with upgrades ain't ever seen before in its like, piloted by the first woman to ever run an air security company.”

“Interesting,” the Antiquary purred. Helena had sunk her hook, now to reel her in. “Does this aircraft have a name yet?”

“Of course she does,” Helena said. “I painted her bright red. She's parked up the road a ways if you want to see her. We're calling her Devil's Due. Got a little carton Satan on it, horns and fork and everything. Hooves, even.”

“I like that quite a bit.”

“Me too.”

“I have a shipment that needs to make its way from Los Angeles to Asheville unmolested. Fragile cargo that must remain frozen. It arrives in port on Friday, I will need it here by Saturday evening.”

“That I can do,” Helena said, already trying to figure out how to rig a freezer into the UC-85 Orion that the Chrome Broker had given her along with the Lightnings. “How big is the cargo?”

“Say, coffin-sized,” the Antiquary said, studying Helena for any reaction to the word.

“Yeah, that's a definite go,” Helena replied. “I'll have a transport plane and two escorts, including Devil's Due, on the ground in L.A. first thing Friday morning.”

“My men will be ready for your arrival,” the Antiquary said. She finished off her tea and smiled studying the quaint ranger station like she was seeing it for the first time.

“Do you know this forest was once all owned by one woman?” she asked. “Or a good portion of it, anyway.”

“I did not,” Helena said. This whole National Forest trend had largely passed her by in the last twenty years. She'd been too busy in the air to worry about woods on the ground.

“That is why I do what I do, you know,” the Antiquary said. “I find things that would be unappreciated, forgotten, or cannibalized, and I save them. One day, my collections will be looked back on as a savior of history. The Library at Alexandria held four-hundred-thousand pieces before it burned. I own six-hundred-thousand. I will be remembered.”

“You don't even have a name,” Helena muttered, realizing an instant later she'd said that out loud. She braced for violence, but the older woman didn't react.

“I came from nothing, too,” the Antiquary said. “Folks these days would hold me back if they knew who I was, what I aspire to be. No Negro woman will be the height of knowledge and study in these times. But that is the thing about times: they change. So one day, I will be able to have a name. And like you, 'Helena,' I am making my own.”

“I hear that,” Helena said.

“So what shall we do now?” the Antiquary asked. She settled back into her chair and watched the woman before her. Helena pushed a wayward blonde lock behind her ear and settled into her seat, matching the Antiquary's attitude.

“Well, I'm not known for my patience. Let's start something, 'cause these times sure as Hell ain't gonna change themselves.”

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Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Bruce Conners.