ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

My back ached, everything ached – my shoulders, my arms and legs – and my eyelids weighed a ton. I felt them begin to close and reached for the coffee Thermos. It was empty. I looked at my watch. Twelve hours since I had left Roosevelt Field. I stuck my hand into my pocket and took out the box of pills Morrissey had given me. I put one in my mouth and swallowed it.

For a few minutes, I felt nothing, then I began to feel better. I took a deep breath and scanned the horizon. The way I figured, I shouldn't be too far from the Rockies. Twenty-five minutes later, they came into view.

I checked the fuel gauge. It held steady on one quarter. I had opened the reserve tanks. The fringe of the storm I’d passed through in the Midwest had cost me more than an hour's supply of gasoline and I'd need a break from the wind to get through.

I turned the throttle and listened to the engines. Their roar sounded full and heavy as the richer mixture poured into their veins. I leaned back on the stick and began to climb toward the mountains. I still felt a little tired so I popped another pill into my mouth.

At twelve thousand feet, I began to feel chilly. I slipped the huarachos back on my feet and reached for the oxygen tube. Almost immediately, I felt as if the plane had just jumped three thousand feet I looked at the altimeter. It read only twelve four hundred.

I sucked again on the tube. A burst of power came roaring through my body and I placed my hands on the dashboard. To hell with the gasoline! I could lift this baby over the Rockies with my bare hands. It was only a question of will power. Like the fakirs in India said when they confounded you with their tricks of levitation – it was only a question of mind over matter. It was all in the mind.

Rina! I almost shouted aloud. I stared at the altimeter. The needle had dropped to ninety-five hundred feet and was still dropping. I stared over the plane at the mountain creeping up at me. I put my hand on the stick and pulled back. It seemed like forever until the mountain began to fall beneath me again.

I lifted my hands to wipe the sweat from my brow. My cheeks were wet with tears. The strange feeling of power was gone now and my head began to ache. Morrissey had warned me about the pills and the oxygen had helped a little, too. I touched the throttle and carefully regulated the mixture as it went into the motors.

I still had almost four hundred miles to go and I didn't want to run out of gas.

I put down at Burbank at two o'clock. I had been in the air almost fifteen hours. I taxied over to the Cord Aircraft hangars, cut the engines and began to climb down. The engines were still roaring in my ears.

I stepped to the ground and a mob surrounded me. I recognized some of them, reporters. "I'm sorry, men," I said, pushing my way through them toward the hangar. "I’m still motor deaf. I can't hear what you're saying."

Buzz was there, too, a big grin on his face. He grabbed my hand and pumped it. His lips were moving but I missed the first part of what he said, then suddenly my hearing was back.

"… set a new east-to-west coast-to-coast record."

Right now that didn't matter. "Do you have a car waiting for me?"

"Over at the front gate," Buzz said.

One of the reporters pushed forward. "Mr. Cord," he shouted at me. "Is it true you made this flight to see Rina Marlowe before she dies?"

He needed a bath after the look I gave him. I didn't answer.

"Is it true that you bought out Norman Pictures just to get control of her contract?"

I made it into the limousine but they were still popping questions at me. The car began to roll. A motorcycle cop cut in front of us and opened up his siren. We picked up speed as the traffic in front of us melted away.

"I’m sorry about Rina, Jonas," Buzz said. "I didn't know she was your father's wife."

I looked at him. "Where'd you find out?"

"It's in the papers," he said. "The Norman studio had it in their press release, together with the story about your flying out here to see her."

I shut my lips tight. That was the picture business for you. They were like ghouls hovering around a grave.

"I've got a container of coffee and a sandwich here if you want it."

I reached for the coffee. The black stuff was hot and I could feel it reach down inside me. I turned and looked out the window. My back began to throb and ache again.

I wondered if I could wait until we got to the hospital before I went to the bathroom.

The Colton Sanitarium is more like a hotel than a hospital. It's set back high in the Pacific Palisades, overlooking the ocean. In order to reach it, you come off the Coast Highway onto a narrow winding road and there's a guard standing at the iron gate. You get past him only after showing the proper credentials.

Dr. Colton is no California quack. He's just a shrewd man who's recognized the need for a truly private hospital. Movie stars go there for everything from having a baby to taking the cure, plastic surgery to nervous breakdowns. And once inside the iron gate, they can breathe safely and relax, for no reporter has ever been known to get inside. They can feel certain that no matter what they've gone there for, the only word that will ever reach the outside world will be theirs.

The gateman was expecting us, for he began to open the gate the minute he spotted the motorcycle cop. Reporters shouted at us and photographers tried to take pictures. One of them even clung to the running board until we got inside the gate. Then a second guard suddenly appeared and lifted the man off bodily.

I turned to Buzz. "They never give up, do they?"

Buzz's face was serious. "From now on, you'd better get used to it, Jonas. Everything you do will be news."

I stared at him. "Nuts," I said. "That's only for today. Tomorrow it'll be somebody else."

Buzz shook his head. "You haven't seen the papers or listened to the radio today. You're a national figure. Something about what you were doing caught the public imagination. Radio stations gave your flight progress every half hour. Tomorrow the Examiner begins running your life story. Nothing like you has swept the country since Lindbergh."

"What makes you say that?"

He smiled. "Today's Examiner trucks. They've got billboards with your picture. 'Read the life story of Hollywood's man of mystery – Jonas Cord. By Adela Rogers St. Johns.' "

I stared at him. I guess I would have to get used to it. St. Johns was Hearst's top syndicated sob sister. That meant the old man up at San Simeon had put the finger of approval on me. From now on, I would be living in a fish bowl.

The car stopped and a doorman appeared. "If you'll kindly step this way, Mr. Cord," he said respectfully.

I followed him up the steps into the hospital. The white-uniformed nurse behind the desk smiled at me. She indicated a black, leather-bound register. "If you please, Mr. Cord," she said. "It's a rule of the hospital that all visitors have to sign in."

I signed the register quickly as she pressed a button underneath the counter. A moment later, another nurse appeared at the desk. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Cord," she said politely, "I’ll take you to Miss Marlowe's suite."

I followed her to a small bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby. She pressed the button and looked up at the indicator. A frown of annoyance crossed her face. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Cord, but we'll have to wait a few minutes. Both elevators are up at the operating room."

A hospital was a hospital no matter how hard you tried to make it look like a hotel. I looked around the lobby until I located what I was looking for. It was a door marked discreetly GENTLEMEN.

I pulled a cigarette from my pocket as the elevator doors closed behind us. Inside, it smelled like every other hospital. Alcohol, disinfectant, formaldehyde. Sickness and death. I struck a match and held it to my cigarette, hoping the nurse wouldn't notice my suddenly trembling fingers.