The trail behind Murphy was now on fire. I vowed he’d be in my gun sights before sunset and told Canyon I didn’t care how but burn rubber with that Ford. In the fifteen minutes it took us to race over to the small Long Beach Municipal airport off Lakewood Boulevard, we broke every law from driving on the sidewalk around slow vehicles, to bypassing a woman pushing a baby carriage and other pedestrians scurrying in a crosswalk. Canyon’s maneuvers were guaranteed to attract attention by the police, but he didn’t seem to care. We both knew his G-man badge would buy him a free pass to push the limits, if necessary.
I chain-smoked, sweated, and tried to relax, scanning one of the red rags scheduled for delivery to Majestic. It didn’t work. After reading only a few disgusting paragraphs attempting to indoctrinate and agitate the masses, I wadded it up into a tight ball and tossed it out the window.
We finally wheeled through the airport front gates and followed the signs directing us toward the Amphibian Air Transport Company’s seaplane base. It was located at the far end of the airfield, but within sight. Most of the more prosperous airlines at the little mom and pop airfield employed hangers and elaborate outbuildings serving as comfortable terminals for their passengers. The less fortunate, however; erected converted war surplus prefabricated Quonset huts and a smiling promise from the front desk staff for a safe flight.
A fat Grumman “Goose” and two Sikorsky S-43 flying boats stood about on the landing strip in front of A.A.T.’s little Quonset hut building, like big clumsy overstuffed birds anticipating the holiday axe to fall. The white “Goose” with an impressive decorative go-fast racing red paint job and sporting twin Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines, looked the most distressed. The propellers were already spinning and it appeared to be warming up, poised to flap off at any moment. Just looking at that seagoing crate vibrating its rivets loose made me nervous.
The lot near the prefab building where we parked was lightly occupied. I pointed out Murphy’s dark blue Mercury sedan with the California license plate 3K 66 30. It was parked off to the side, as if abandoned. We jumped out and examined the vehicle. The right front fender and bumper were both severely damaged as I’d expected from the sideswipe.
I hailed a passing airport police security officer sweeping through the airport’s perimeter parking lots. He looked lost … I was wrong. There was an “All Points Bulletin” broadcast on the airwaves from the Long Beach P.D. They were searching for a high-speed, dark Ford sedan wanted for every traffic violation ever written. Glancing over at Canyon’s Ford, brought stars in his eyes, but then so did Canyon’s Special Agent Federal badge and a brief version of our mission.
It was already hotter than hell outside and we knew we couldn’t leave the loser in the stifling trunk. Instead, we turned him over to the airport police security officer, with instructions to have him collected and booked by the local police department for his involvement in an illegal counterfeiting operation. That would be further explained, when more formal charges were filed, later. His involvement with the commie connection wouldn’t apply … yet. I also requested that the Mercury on the lot be impounded as evidence in a hit-and-run accident in Los Angeles’s Laurel Canyon the night before.
The airport officer complied with our situation immediately, calling for assistance from the police department, while we rushed inside the Quonset hut to collect two seats on a flying boat hopefully to Catalina Island.
I wasn’t looking forward to a seaplane trip anywhere. But was more worried that Murphy had slipped through my fingers already and was already on his way south with McCullen.
An attractive, perky ticket agent decorated the front desk and greeted us wearing a funny little navy blue, beanie shaped like an inverted cupcake liner, a snappy navy blue blazer with a gold propeller lapel pin, and matching navy blue skirt. She flashed us a glistening toothy smile, as expected, and showed me the flight schedule to Catalina.
It was now 9:15 a.m. The next flight was scheduled for 9:30 a.m. We’d made it just in time. After that, the next flight wouldn’t be until 11:30 a.m. and then nothing more until the afternoon, unless we commandeered a plane.
It was already boarding and would normally cost $5.75 each, for the one-way trip. Our I.D.’s bought us a free pass. The twenty-six-mile, junket out into the Pacific Ocean was supposedly the shortest, safest, and fastest United States commercial flight at only 15 minutes. The red-lipped doll gave me a last-minute, pep talk about their “Safe No-Crash to Date” sales pitch, tailored to build my confidence. I wasn’t sure whether it was more for her benefit or mine. I hoped she was right on the flight time anyway. Even 15 minutes was too long in my book.
She optimistically suggested two round-trip tickets. Good anytime, just in case we couldn’t pull ourselves away from the island paradise and insisted on staying longer, she advised. Canyon sensed my nervous reservations about taking that kite and just smiled.
We reserved the last two open seats. Before we departed, I asked for the passenger list on the earlier 8:00 A.M. flight. Sure enough, there was no Frank Murphy, but instead, a John Smith was listed. That would be good enough.
We climbed aboard and I prepared for the worst. Especially, after listening to the noise from the twin engines, the vibration rattling the windows, and observing several other passengers gripping the edge of their seats in panic.
Naturally, it was over almost before it started, gliding smoothly up to a landing barge secured to the end of the pier in Avalon Harbor. I breathed a sigh of relief, unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed my crime-busting hardware in the case and we deplaned before the kite sank…now, in search of bigger fish.