FLIPKA

Chapter Nineteen

Note to readers:  this chapter introduces Captain Wug, hands down the character most beloved by readers.  He's based on a real person who you can read about here: http://jttwissel.com/category/flipka

I had a room with a bath, which was a luxury at the Ely Hotel. It faced the street, which might be a problem in the middle of summer when cowboys came into town to whoop it up at the Iron Bull across the street, but on a Thursday night in October, only the sound of an occasional car whizzing through town broke the quiet. 

Before hitting the hay, I’d talked Creamo into trying the Basque restaurant down the street from the hotel. He was angry with me for going out to Longley’s by myself. Angry, because in his mind, the trip had been a waste of time. I disagreed. I’d found out that Peterson was lying. All of the girls disappeared that night, not just Meredith Hyman. I’d also learnt that the old man in Steptoe was probably Leticia Honeywell’s grandfather. Another lead. That didn’t change his mind. Nothing Sabrina Hyman ever said could be trusted.

“Isn’t Basque food spicy?” he growled, changing the subject. 

“Basque food is not in the least bit spicy,” I assured him. “Besides, a bit of garlic is good for digestion.”

Of course, I didn’t tell him that at Basque restaurants all the guests are expected to sit at one long table and pass large bowls of mashed potatoes, garlic-roasted leg of lamb, and buttered peas back and forth boarding house style. If I had, I doubt he would have gone. He’d lived on his own for too long, his circle of acquaintances shrinking as they retired and left Vegas, and he didn’t want new ones. Friends weren’t a renewable resource in his mind.

We’d lucked into a weekly tradition at the restaurant: “Boys night out” for a trio of WWII flying daredevils who’d retired to eastern Nevada after learning that it was a place where aeronautical regulations were laxly enforced, or not at all. This meant that a gent with a minor heart condition or failing eyesight was still at liberty to fly to his heart’s content. All over the skies! Unshackled from regulations that were pure, unadulterated age discrimination! They’d been Air Force captains and then, after the war, commercial pilots, thus were used to flying in the very worst conditions! They vowed to fly until the bitter end, sitting across from us all rosy-cheeked and twinkle-eyed from the day’s adventures. Among the three, we heard a bounty of rollicking tales while trying in vain to keep up with the avalanche of comfort food arriving from the kitchen: asparagus, peas, macaroni salad, mashed potatoes, lamb stew. 

During one of the few lulls in the conversation, I slipped in a question about the terrain behind Cavalry Peak. They exchanged glances, and then the pilot in the middle, a man with the squarest jawbone I’d ever seen, replied: 

“May I ask, mellifluous one, why you want to know about the miasma behind our legendary monadnock?” 

“Captain Wug, Cavalry is not a monadnock,” his friend interrupted. “Ayes Rock, now there’s a monadnock. I have to apologize for my buddy, young lady. After the war Wug here flew the Far East route for PanAm, meaning he had, ah, far too much air time on his hands and, apparently, only the dictionary to read.” The second pilot looked like Madison Avenue’s ideal of the aging pilot, still handsome, manly, and self-assured, while the third sported a Mark Twain mustache and bushy black eyebrows that almost obscured his coal-in-the-snow eyes.

“I take exception to that mendacious slander,” Captain Wug roared.

“Take exception all you please. Yesterday Hank and I were treated to a litany of obscure words beginning with the letter L and now it appears we’re on to M! Isn’t that right?” 

“Lord God, I’m afraid so,” Hank concurred.

“You must forgive my meritorious comrades their resistance to melioration,” Captain Wug interjected. “Referring to Cavalry as a monadnock is hardly a grievous malapropism. However, my curiosity remains unabated—why is a charming young lady such as yourself interested in that area of mystifying moraines?”