Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Read Free Page B

forlorn stacks next to the chipped everyday plates. That had been Gil and Alma’s, a wedding present, if he’d put the clues together right, and like the big armchair in the living room, it hadn’t been used since Gil died. It was mustard gas that killed him, gas and TB: a bad way to die, and from the few things Al had said, she hadn’t been spared any of it.
    Jerry had turned the gas under the coffee down to a bare simmer. For a second, Lewis thought he was going to insist on pouring, but then he gave a wry smile, and turned his attention back to the frying pan. The bacon was smoking, Lewis saw without surprise — unlike Alma, Jerry could actually cook, but could rarely be brought to give it his full attention — and Jerry swore and snatched it off the fire.
    Lewis controlled the desire to help, and the back door swung open. Mitchell Sorley was tall, good-looking, built like an athlete, the sort who made all-State and maybe all-American; he’d been a junior lieutenant at the start of the war, made Captain by the end, and walked away from the Army anyway. It would have been easy to be jealous, Lewis thought, except the man was basically such a good guy. A good guy with seven confirmed kills….
    “So,” Mitch said, coming in and putting the newspaper on the table. “What the hell was so important that you got me up early?”
    Jerry leaned his cane against the stove and scraped burnt eggs and bacon onto a plate. “You said you were going to be back. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
    “I was,” Mitch said. “And it wasn’t. What are you up to, Jerry?”
    “I’m not up to anything.”
    “The hell,” Mitch began, and Alma spoke from the hall door.
    “Jerry.”
    “I….” Jerry made a face. “There might be a phone call for me. That’s all.”
    And if that was all, he wouldn’t be making a fuss about it. “I’ll cook,” he said, and Alma gave him a quick smile. It was thanks enough, and he busied himself with the eggs and the slab of bacon, got the pan filled again while Jerry limped back to the table.
    “It may not come to anything — he may not even call. I just don’t know.”
    “Is this about Henry’s translation?” Alma asked, and Jerry sighed.
    “Yes.”
    “I thought you said you weren’t going to take the job,” Mitch said.
    “He offered me two hundred and fifty dollars,” Jerry said.
    “Well, Henry’s got it,” Alma said. “But I thought you said he didn’t need you.”
    “Well, he oughtn’t. Not from what he said in his first letter. But —” Jerry added sugar to his coffee, avoiding her eyes. “I told him I had to see the original to do it.”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Mitch began, and the telephone’s bell cut him short.
    For a second, everyone stood frozen, and then Alma moved, caught the phone out of its niche and lifted the receiver to her ear. “Hillcrest 6-2912. Hi, Maggie. Yes, he’s here.”
    Lewis looked up from the stove, caught a glimpse of an unexpected eagerness on Jerry’s face. It was gone in an instant, ruthlessly controlled, and Mitch shook his head.
    “This is Henry we’re talking about —”
    “It’s for you,” Alma said, and set the telephone in front of Jerry, who shoved his plate out of the way to make room. The cord was stretched tight, so that he had to lean forward a little to reach the stick. “Long distance from Los Angeles.”
    “Thanks,” Jerry said. “This is Ballard.”
    There was a moment of stillness, the bacon loud in the pan. Jerry had the receiver cupped to his ear, the other hand curled around the candlestick base. His long face was suddenly alive, intent, as though he were listening with his entire being. Behind him, Mitch’s face was set in stone, and Lewis wondered what ever made him think the man was easy-going. He looked at Alma, trying to read what was going on, and was startled by her worried frown.
    “I need to see the original,” Jerry said. “You know that. The difference between a chip in