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  I kept the copy of The Hollywood Reporter and handed over a quarter. “Keep the change.”

  The paper’s price was a dime, making the gratuity generous, even with the flower thrown in. Especially since he probably hadn’t purchased the stash in the coffee can at all. I’d seen several beds of freesias along the roadway, driving in.

  If the vendor felt uncomfortable with my generosity, he didn’t show it. With a polite nod, he slipped the change into the pocket of the canvas apron tied around his waist.

  “Could it be you are in the same unit as the young lady who had the flying mishap the other day?” The vendor eyed the wings over my breast pocket.

  The reminder of Frankie pricked my lighthearted mood. “Uh-huh. Was Frankie a customer?”

  The vendor nodded. “I miss her. For such a petite young lady, she had much good cheer. What is the saying?” He tapped a finger on his lips. “Ah. Good things, they come in little packages, yes?”

  I smiled, nodding automatically.

  “How is she doing?”

  “Her condition’s serious, I’m afraid. Hospital’s limiting visitors, but I plan to stop by this afternoon. I’ll keep you posted, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you. That would be good. I am Gus, by the way.”

  “Pucci.” I glanced at my watch. “Gotta run, Gus.”

  “Don’t forget to smell the flower,” I heard him call as I dashed across the street.

  ***

  At the guard house outside the studio’s entrance, a burly MP asked for my orders. He studied them briefly, handed them back. After he gave me directions and a guest pass good for the entire week, the barrier lifted. I drove the Packard onto the studio lot.

  The Colonial-style front of the headquarters building was a façade. In back, absent the shutters and columns, the two-story stucco building looked blandly institutional. My base induction was scheduled here, and I would be returning later. Meantime, keeping the Packard to a crawl, my head lurching right and left, I ventured on, following the guard’s instructions.

  I passed buildings 1 through 4. The structures all looked like aircraft hangars to me, but I gathered they housed the various indoor stages where I’d been told the interior film shoots took place. At last, I saw a heavy metal door with a bold numeral 5 painted over it. I pulled into a parking slot.

  An MP who’d been roving nearby sauntered over as I switched off the ignition.

  “I’m looking for Roland Novara.” I climbed out. “The guard at the gate directed me to Stage 5. This is it, isn’t it?”

  The MP, without answering, looked me up and down, very slowly, making me glad I was wearing slacks. I took the opportunity to check him out, too. Late twenties, athletically built, Roman nose, oily, bumpy skin, and beady eyes. I read his badge. Sgt. J. Winwar. The name wouldn’t hurt his advancement.

  Anxious to get his mind back from wherever it had wandered off to, I tried again. “I’m scheduled to meet with Novara at 0830. Know where I can find him?”

  “Little early for a test, isn’t it?” He winked a weasely eye.

  I shuddered. I’d been warned that studio security was tight, but everything about my temporary presence was in order. Where did he get off gawking so rudely? What exactly was he implying about my being here for “a test?”

  I huffed up my shoulders and cleared my throat. His rodent eyes met mine and I held them with the frozen steel expression Miss C had mastered.

  He looked away. “Novara’s not here. He and the boys hustled over to Stage 2 ’bout a half hour ago. Off to view yesterday’s rushes, part of the morning routine.” He tugged up his pistol belt while giving me another roving look. “How ’bout I escort you over?”

  I rejected the offer, accepting directions instead.

  ***

  A team of soldiers scurried pell-mell out of a nearby building. Some propped large cameras and collapsed tripods on their shoulders, others toted cumbersome black metal cases or pushed trolleys of electrical equipment or large wheeled trunks. I dove into the confusion, narrowly escaping the trajectory of a seemingly rocket-propelled cart carrying a metal milk can labeled WATER, before I emerged in one piece on the other side. Behind me, one of the men cursed as I hopped over clumps of thick cables crisscrossing the pavement and hotfooted it past several clapboard office buildings.

  I tugged the door of Stage 2. It only gave an inch.

  “Here, let me help.”

  The offer was from a lanky corporal who had arrived at the door a second behind me. The corporal’s face was not what I would call handsome. Exotic, was more like it. Prominent cheekbones, a golden tan, and skin so smooth it seemed almost without texture—the kind that only needs shaving two or three times a week. His black hair had auburn highlights, falling in fine wispy spikes across his forehead. He gave a yank and we entered a small lobby. I looked up into dark, oval eyes behind metal rimmed glasses. We went through the introductions, including why I was there. Serendipitously, Sam Lorenz was the writer assigned to the WASP picture.

  Sam combed his fingers through locks that had fallen on his furrowed brow, attempting to brush them back. They flopped forward again immediately. “So, you’ll be replacing Frankie. How is she?”

  I told him what I knew. Sam nodded, absently. He seemed sad, far away.

  “Are you a friend?”

  “She’s a peach. Lots of spunk. I was at March Field, on a shoot. Saw her just before she went up.” Sam’s voice dropped. “Uh, just before the accident.”

  A scene of the horrifying crash began forming in my mind. “Accident? So the final report’s come down?’

  Sam scratched his arm. “Final report? You saying it might be something different? Someone deliberately wanted to hurt Frankie?” Behind the thick lenses, the look in his chocolate brown eyes was as hard as the frame of his glasses. “It’s true…”

  I hadn’t meant to plunge in so deep, so fast. I pulled in my line a little, then played it out again. “An investigation is standard procedure following a crash. I hadn’t heard the results. Thought maybe you had.”

  For an instant, I thought he might reveal something. But the sad look he’d worn earlier returned and he seemed distant, again scratching his arm.

  I shifted gears to break the mood. “What’s going on in there?” I nodded sideways toward the theater door.

  “Novara and some technicians are looking over the scenes filmed yesterday. Identifying the best takes. I’m about to join ’em. Say, why don’t you come inside? The clips are from the film you’re here to work on. The WASP short.”

  “Swell. Let’s go.” I mustered a confident smile.

  Sam smiled in return. “After you.” He cracked the door and swept his arm toward the black chasm beyond.

  Heads turned as we entered the darkened projection room.

  In the light flickering from the screen up front, I could see that we’d entered a movie house in miniature. Four rows of seats—five across—were tucked against the wall to our left. The audience, mere silhouettes, consisted of a man in a beret in the front row and three men in each of the two rows behind him. Sam acknowledged their murmured greetings before the sliver of light vanished with the closing of the door. Only one of the men had seemed interested in my presence. His face was illuminated but an instant, yet I noted that he had strong, handsome features, neatly cut sandy-colored hair, and when our eyes met briefly he reacted with an easy smile.

  Sam gestured to the vacant back row. I settled into a plush roomy seat, my attention riveted on the silent images on the screen up front.

  A cluster of WASP cadets in flight gear, parachutes slung low over their backsides, strode purposefully across a tarmac, heading for the PT-19s parked near the flight line. The camera lens dropped and focused in on the backside of an inductee whose strut emphasized the rhythmic bouncing of her parachute bustle. She paused, looked back over her shoulder, hands on hips, feet apart, and froze, poster-style, ß la Betty Grable. The cameraman pull
ed back a little, and got the full-body shot. When she began walking again, her sway was more exaggerated than ever.

  I crossed then recrossed my legs. What was that all about? Was it a joke? The clip wouldn’t actually be used, would it?

  Before I could comment to Sam, the camera panned to another student pilot. She sat in the rear cockpit of a PT-19 behind her instructor. I squinted, trying to see if I it was someone I knew, but her goggles made it impossible. The pilot’s expression and the way she fumbled with the strap of her helmet, however, told me she was nervous. No surprise. A check-ride, which I presumed the scene was about to demonstrate, was a nerve-wracking ordeal. We all feared washing out and having to say good-bye to the chance to fly full-time. The pilot hit the throttle and the PT lurched forward, then leaped into the air.

  All of us in the small theater gave a concerted gasp as the plane zoomed straight up, hesitated a moment, then rolled downward in multiple loops, descending rapidly to the field below. I held my breath. What was wrong? The pilot wasn’t pulling up. Had she lost control?

  At the last possible moment, the PT broke from the loop pattern, ascending once more in a rapid climb. The plane leveled off and the pilot rocked the wings back and forth.

  I grinned. From the chuckles around me, I realized we’d all been genuinely fooled. And thrilled. The exercise was not a check-ride and the pilot was no trainee.

  There was more. Rolls, half-rolls, snap-rolls, lazy eights, Cuban eights, cloverleafs. Whoever was at the controls—both cockpits had them—was a real hot pilot. A show-off perhaps, but clearly capable.

  My eyes stuck with the action as the plane turned its base leg and made a perfect three-point landing. The WASP gave the camera a thumbs-up and I knew my wish had come true. She’d been the hot pilot. The instructor followed, bowing with a flourish this way and that. The dramatics led me to think he was an actor—the kind who, pre-war, would have been cast in B-movies, at best.

  Just then the pilot pushed back her goggles. FRANKIE! I should have known.

  The scene skipped abruptly to snippets of cadets engaged in various leisure activities. It showed the women in their blue training shorts doing calisthenics, playing volleyball and Ping-Pong. A curvaceous blonde, shown exiting the pool, got me squirming uncomfortably again, especially when a low whistle rose from one of the men in front.

  The exploitation of the trainees’ physical features, however, wasn’t entirely the cameraman’s doing, I realized. Whether on the court, in the gym, or poolside, clip after clip showed cadets happily posing enticingly for the camera.

  I nearly groaned out loud. I was doomed. Miss C would have conniptions if our film ended up including this cheeky nonsense. These gals and their antics could seriously damage our professional image. What had made them do it? The promise of stardom?

  While the cadets-at-play sequence played out, a few more low whistles and murmurs escaped. My cheeks blazed. I wanted to rush up to the projection room and rip the film from the reel. Next to me, Sam cleared his throat. In the line of light from the projector, I could see he was not comfortable either.

  The screen went blank. Behind us a strip of film clacked loudly against the metal of a reel.

  A voice from the projection booth made itself heard. “We need a couple of minutes back here. Special preview for Colonel Brody and Lieutenant Rask is up next.”

  The lights came on, giving me a chance to observe the others in the room.

  The man wearing the beret in the front row was turned around in his seat, speaking with a colonel in the row behind him. My fella with the easy smile was in the second row as well, seated next to the colonel and involved in the conversation. The light caught the gold bar on his shoulder, pegging him as a lieutenant.

  “Who’s who in the group down front?” I whispered to Sam.

  I must have given away my interest in the lieutenant, because Sam began with him.

  “Lieutenant Rask is a film editor. Works for Brody, the colonel next to him.” Sam had already been speaking in a low voice. He lowered it another notch. “Rask is fairly new around here, but a good addition. Has a feel for what the men need, training-wise. Used to be a photographer in the Combat Camera Unit. Till it nearly got him killed.”

  “Huh?”

  “A heavy bomber mission drew enemy fire. A twenty-millimeter shell passed through the cabin at close range. Damaged his hearing. Had to be reassigned stateside. Which got him here, to Fort Roach.”

  “Is Rask the editor of our film?”

  “No, he’d never work for Novara.” Sam panned the room. “Don’t see Mitch. He should be here. He’s editing this picture.” Sam adjusted his glasses slightly. “Then again, guess I can understand why Mitch isn’t here. Novara keeps such a tight grip on things, he may as well stay put in the cutting room. It’s the very reason Rask refuses to team up with Novara.”

  My heart sank at learning what working with Novara might be like, but I pushed the insight aside, saving it to muse on later.

  “And what about Brody? What’s his role?”

  “He’s a big name director the brass tapped for the duration. Deal is, he oversees work at Fort Roach, but he’s free to direct features at MGM, too. Maintains an office there. Special arrangement. He’s not involved with the WASP picture, though. It’s too minor.”

  “Have you worked with him?”

  Sam nodded. “Uh-huh. We just wrapped a flight characteristics training film—” He lowered his voice, “—hush-hush. I’m also working on an MGM feature with him,” he continued, his tone conversational again. “Project’s in the development stage, quite the ordeal. Last writer was fired…or quit.” Sam’s forehead creased as though reflecting the strain. “Heavy revisions.”

  My experience at Midland had ingrained in me a genuine respect and empathy for the rewrite process. “Hmm,” I offered, sympathetically.

  All at once, the man in the beret in front hollered up to the projection room. “We’re waiting. You guys ready up there, or what?”

  In the brief lull that followed, I sensed Sam’s foot tapping the floor next to me. I looked over. His profile was expressionless, but his jaw muscles were knotting and unknotting.

  An ominous feeling crept through me. “If Rask and Brody aren’t involved in our film, why are they here?”

  “They’ve been invited to look at a clip. ‘There are no rules in filmmaking, only sins,’ Brody likes to say. ‘And the cardinal sin is dullness.’ Novara thinks they might want to splice the piece into a training film he’s heard they’re working on. For dramatic impact.” Sam’ s voice had developed an edge. He narrowed his eyes. “Brody wields a lot of power in the industry, particularly in directing circles. Novara’s trying to butter him up.”

  “The man in the beret. Novara?”

  “Yup.”

  Dark, intense-looking, Novara appeared to be about forty, with strong features, full lips, a prominent nose, and thick eyebrows. The only one in the room not in uniform, he had a cravat tucked inside his open-necked white shirt. Beneath the beret he wore at a jaunty angle, his head looked completely bald.

  Clearly, Novara didn’t give a hoot about the impression he made on me. Our meeting had been scheduled to start a half hour ago, yet he was ignoring me, acting as though I hadn’t arrived.

  A major in the row behind Novara flanked Colonel Brody’s other side. He had drawn back from the discussion with the others and now, pivoting in his seat, sent a nod our way.

  “Major Beacock,” Sam said. “From March Field where we’re shooting the in-flight scenes. He’s here to make sure nothing classified ends up on film and everything AAF is accurately represented.”

  Had he seen what I had? Nearly everything about the WASP I’d seen so far had been misrepresented!

  The lights went down and the projector started up with a clackety-whir.

  I squinted, baffled by the shadowy images up on the screen. A technical glitch had damaged the picture’s quality, making i
t nearly impossible to follow what was going on. But I tried.

  First, an unidentifiable person backed away from another individual standing near a plane inside a hangar. Next, as though in slow motion, the figure, the fuzzy image of a woman pilot, walked toward the camera. Shoulders sagging, she appeared to be blotting her eyes with a handkerchief. The picture quality sharpened at the moment her head snapped up as though in reflex to something being said or, maybe, at realizing she was being filmed.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Frankie again!

  The cameraman continued filming her, though she was shaking her head and begging him to stop. Suddenly, her hand shot out toward the lens as if to grab it.

  The screen went blank. I turned to Sam. It was too dark to read his expression, but I would have had trouble even in the light. He’d put his hands to his head and was massaging his temples.

  “What the hell was that all about?” a voice echoed in the dark.

  “Who the hell cares,” Novara retorted angrily. Turning, he shouted to the back of the room. “You guys asleep up there, or what? Cut that or I’m cutting your throats! Where the hell’s the clip we’re waiting for?”

  The projector started up again. There was some flickering, then blue sky filled the screen. An A-24 approached from the right. As it flew across the screen, a sleeve-shaped target being towed behind came into view. My fingers tightened on the armrests of my chair as the camera’s powerful lens closed in on the plane’s dull gray fuselage, catching its beat-up condition, before zooming back to the target to pick up a tattered area riddled with bullet holes. Was it the angle of the shot or was the sleeve closer to the plane than normal? While I made a mental note to ask someone later, the plane bumped a bit as though it’d been bracketed by flak.

  I leaned forward in my seat, but the A-24 had begun flying smoothly once more. An instant later, it faltered again. Horrified, I saw the plane’s nose drop. I stopped breathing, watching while it plummeted to earth. At the last second possible, the pilot leveled out. The plane’s touch down was a blur of metal careening across the desert floor, skidding, tearing apart until, at last, a cloud of dust and smoke mercifully blotted out what followed next.