Otto was flying. He brought the wing of the “Sparky Duncan Flying Circus and Exhibition” Cub over at a steep angle until it was perpendicular to the ground and about a foot away from the grassy Wisconsin meadow which acted as a field for the show. He was grateful once again that the Cub’s stock engine had been upgraded to one capable of handling aerobatics, and that the frame had been reinforced for greater stresses as well. Having the wings peel off or plowing into the ground would not make for a good ending to the show. Otto was an experienced pilot, but he knew he needed more than experience, luck and skill to continue to live to fly another day. He also needed good equipment, and Jose Viera, their ace mechanic, made sure that the Cub stayed in top condition. Jose also happened to be an ace pitcher, as everyone found out that previous fall when he decimated the Wagoneers, the local Class A baseball team, in a charity game with the employees of the Flying Circus. Otto played shortstop and managed their team, which they had won by a score of 36 to 3. Viera simply struck out most of the opposing players with a fast ball that most of them probably never saw. Otto smiled at the memory. He brought the Cub level for a moment, and then flipped it over on the other wing. Through his headphones, he heard, “Four-seven Motel, come in.” His sister Mata, the financial genius who managed the FBO and the Circus, was calling. “Four-seven Motel here,” he answered. “Go ahead, Mata.” “Olson Base here.” Otto rolled his eyes. Of course he knew who it was, but Mata insisted on identifying herself with the call sign of the FBO. “Otto, are you about done practicing? Over.” “Just finished. I’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.” A long pause ensued. “Olson Base. Have you finished your transmission? Over.” “Yes, Mata, I’m done, and I’m sorry I didn’t say ‘over.’ Over.” “Olson Base. Good. Over.” “Mata, what’s up?” Silence. “Over.” “Olson Base. There’s a man here who wants to talk to you. Over.” “What kind of man? Over.” “Olson Base. Let’s just say he looks like he could be Wilson’s younger brother. Over.” “Oh.” Otto thought back to Wilson, who had established the airfield in the 1930’s and left it to them in his will when he died suddenly toward the end of World War II. They never found out exactly how he died, but Wilson apparently was involved with the mob in Minneapolis. They had no proof of that, but that was the rumor anyhow. “I’ll be right down,” Otto called. “Four-seven Motel out.” “Roger that. Olson Base out.” Otto replaced the mic in its clip and turned toward the air field. He ran through the legs of the landing pattern and landed smoothly on the tarmac, taxiing up to the hangar where the Circus kept its aircraft. They had quite a collection at this point: a Beechcraft from their M & M Airline days, a DC-3 that had been returned to its military C-47 configuration and colors, a Stearman that they used for an aerobatic segment of the show, a Waco glider that no one had gotten up the nerve to fly yet, and a twin-engine Cessna. Most of these aircraft they had acquired cheaply as surplus. Mata had a knack for sniffing out sales, and one of their pilots simply flew the new aircraft home after they bought it. He parked the Cub and cut off the engine. One of the ground crew came out to secure the aircraft. Otto waved to him and walked into the FBO office. Mata sat at the table in the front room and stood up as Otto came in. He raised an eyebrow and she pointed to the conference room. “I’d better go in with you,” she mouthed. Otto nodded. Together they went into the room where they had signed the papers making M & M Airlines first a subsidiary of Northwest Airlines and then a wholly owned entity. The money from that sale enabled them to fund the flying circus. A large man sat at the table, a sort of enlarged Wilson, Otto thought. He sported an expensive black pinstripe suit with a rich red silk tie over a pure white silk shirt. A huge gold Rolex watch adorned his wrist, and the fingers of both hands glittered with multiple rings. Mata said later she would have almost killed for that kind of jewelry. The large Wilson was flanked by two tough-looking wiry fellows who looked like something out of a crime magazine. They dressed identically in cheap black suits, with black shirts and white ties. Otto could tell from the bulges under their jackets that they were armed with handguns. Large handguns. He wondered idly where his service revolver was. In his desk, he supposed. The large fellow stood and offered a meaty hand. “Major Kerchner?” he intoned hoarsely. Otto took his hand and shook it. It was like grasping an overripe melon. He didn’t dwell on the thought. “Yes, Mr….?” The fat man wheezed. “You can call me Benson. I have various names but for our purposes that will do.” “Please have a seat, Mr. Benson.” Benson took his seat with difficulty. Hope the chair doesn’t break, Otto thought. “And your associates are?” Benson waved his stubby-fingered hand. “Their names are not important. Pretend they’re not here.” He peered at Mata. “Is this your secretary or your doll?” “Mr. Benson, let me introduce my sister Mata, who is operations manager for our airport and manager of our flying circus.” Benson bowed in her direction. Mata went to offer her hand but thought better of it and simply nodded toward him. “No offense, Miss Mata, Major Kerchner, but I am not used to having persons of the female persuasion involved in my business deals.” Otto took a seat, and Mata sat down as well. The two black suits put their hands into their jackets. Benson signaled to them, and they withdrew their hands. “Mr. Benson, my sister manages all our financial affairs. She has my complete confidence and trust.” Benson stared at him for a moment and then leaned back. “I meant no offense to either one of you.” The word came out “youse.” “I am simply not accustomed to dealing with women in positions of responsibility.” “What is the nature of your business with us?” Mata asked. Benson looked at her implacably again. I swear, if he calls her a dame, I’m going to throw him out, Otto thought, but Benson said quietly, “We have an offer for you. I think you’ll find it attractive.” The hair on the back of Otto’s neck rose up. Maybe he had read too many of Bob Donovan’s detective magazines, but usually when this sort of person makes an offer to someone else, it was trouble. He shook his head once. C’mon, Kerchner, you’re not living inside some crime novel. This is reality. “And what would that offer be, Mr. Benson?” Benson put his enormous hands on the table and leaned forward. “I have been empowered by the group I represent to offer you ownership of the Pioneer Lake Wagoneers baseball team. If you can call what they play baseball.” He sat back, a satisfied look on his plump face. Otto and Mata sat there in silence for a moment. Then Mata spoke. “Why does your group want to sell, Mr. Benson?” Benson sighed. “Well, Miss Mata…” “It’s Mrs. Johanssen,” Mata corrected him. “Please excuse me, Mrs. Johanssen. It’s a business matter, a sad tale of profit and the lack thereof. My group is involved in various enterprises, and they reasonably expect a return on their investment. When they don’t make money, they are unhappy. Very unhappy. And so, they have entrusted me with divesting ourselves of certain unprofitable endeavors. I’m sure as a businesswoman you understand this principle well.” Mata nodded. “What sort of price are you looking for?” Otto asked. “That is to be determined in further discussions. For today, I am here to obtain your answer and report back to my colleagues in Minneapolis.” “I see,” Otto murmured. “Why did you choose us?” “We know about you and how you work, how you deal with people. We like that. We also knew the late and lamented Mr. Wilson and he spoke highly of you. He had several connections to our little group.” I bet he did, Otto thought, and couldn’t help asking, “Do you happen to know how Mr. Wilson passed away?” Benson pulled a mordant face. “Let me just say that he had the misfortune of encountering someone with whom he disagreed. Words were exchanged and when the exchange was over, Mr. Wilson was no longer with us.” He sounds like an undertaker, Otto thought. And I bet Wilson and his killer exchanged more than words. Probably hot lead flew, as the Western pulps put it. He looked at Mata. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Benson, I’d like to consult for a moment with my sister. This is a large undertaking.” Benson nodded. His “associates” relaxed noticeably. Otto and Mata got up, stepped into the office and closed the door. “So, what do you think, sis?” “I don’t know, bro. I do know I don’t want to get mixed up with the mob.” “Well, we wouldn’t be joining the mob. We’d just be buying a business.” “I wonder why they wanted to own a baseball team in the first place.” “More than likely so they could shade games and bet on the Wagoneers losing.” “People bet on baseball games?” “Yes, oh naïve one, people bet on baseball games. People will bet on everything. When I was in the service, we had guys who would bet on where a fly would land in the mess hall.” “So, did they win?” Otto shrugged. “Sometimes they did; sometimes they didn’t. And that’s to say nothing about the card games. One lieutenant got drunk and tried to bet his airplane.” “Did he lose it?” “It belonged to the government, so it wasn’t his to bet. Like I said, he was drunk. The point is that we won’t bet on our own team to lose.” Mata looked at him thoughtfully. “I think you want to manage the team.” “The thought had occurred to me.” “Let’s do it then! We can always stop at any point in the process. And I’ll have Joseph in to advise us legally.” Joseph Yeager had been the family lawyer for Otto’s wife’s family for decades. His judgment and knowledge of the law were impeccable. He had been asked to serve as a judge several times, but declined, saying he preferred to stay where he was and to continue to do what he was doing. In the past several years, he had taught some law classes at the U of W extension in Pioneer Lake. Mata had taken a course in corporate law and was quite impressed with Mr. Joseph Yeager, Esquire. They stood and went back into the conference room. It looked like the three men sitting there had not budged since they had left. Benson started to stand, but Mata motioned him down. “Thank you, Mr. Benson, but that won’t be necessary.” “As you wish, Mrs. Johanssen,” he told her and smiled. He sat down with an expectant look on his face. Otto and Mata sat. “We’re prepared to enter into negotiations with your group to purchase the Wagoneers,” Otto said, and offered his hand to Benson. Benson shook it briefly. “Excellent,” he intoned. “I’m sure you won’t regret it. I’ll return Tuesday with the proper paperwork and we’ll proceed from there. I’m sure you will have legal representation at our next meeting.” Mata nodded. “As will I,” Benson finished. “And now, we must make our way back to Minneapolis where there are other pressing matters of business I must attend to.” I shudder to think what those might be, Otto thought. Benson stood. “I must bid you a fond arrivederci until next we meet, which is what arrivederci means in the first place. I hope you will forgive me for being repetitive.” “No problem at all,” Mata returned, and Otto sensed an undercurrent of wonder in her tone. This fellow was a hard one to figure out. Well, they’d talk about him afterward. Benson and his associates were making their way to the door when he stopped and turned to them. “Is there any place we could get some good Italian food? Some spaghetti or ravioli, perhaps? And a good chianti to go with it?” “About the only place in town is the restaurant at the hotel on Main Street downtown. You can’t miss it—it’s the biggest building in the city.” Benson doffed his hat to Mata. “I thank you, ma’am, and I thank you, sir. Until we meet again.” Mata and Otto lifted parting hands in silence. They went back into the office and sat down at the table where they had just been.
Posted on: Tue, 28 Jan 2014 02:40:27 +0000
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