The Tarnished Angels Page #6

- And what else do I think about?

- Kissing Jiggs goodbye.

And?

Letting me take care of your boy.

How?

I'll put him in school.

- A good military academy.

- Am I interrupting something?

Yes, you are.

Would you like that poster? I think

I could get Claude to part with it.

- Don't ask him. I don't want it.

- Why? Cos it's faded?

Look, Mr Devlin, I'm sick at heart for

ever letting my hair down with you.

For ever saying I wanted

to walk out on Roger.

For letting you sweet-talk

me and kiss me.

All right, so my

vision was blurred.

What do you want me to

do now, eat my words?

No, just the cake. Then

we can get out of here.

Who's "we"? Who do

you think you are?

Get away from me!

Go peddle your papers!

Farewell to you, my Antonia.

Laverne.

Where are you going?

None of your business.

- Where are you going?

- Like I said, none of your business!

(LAUGHS)

You lose your punch, Jiggs?

Lose your Laverne?

Pardon.

Would Madame Shumann like

to have that poster?

I could take it out of the frame.

(CHUCKLES)

Pardon me for laughing, Claude.

But, you see, Madame Shumann's

burying the past...

with one of Matt Ord's

Diamond Blade bulldozers.

Why did she have to

go with that slob?

I don't know. And I don't care.

Well, I care. I...

I care.

Then get on your

white charger and...

do something about it.

What could I ever do but...

love her?

Hey, Burke? Burke!

Where are you going?

Where's everybody going?

Rog.

Rog.

Where are you, Rog?

Where in the hell are you?

(LAUGHTER)

- Well!

- Kind Sir.

Allow me to present myself.

The name, Sir, is

Richard Harding Davis.

What brings you here, Mr Davis?

Good question, Sir.

Very good. Shows your

reportorial training.

What manner of men are these?

Are these your so-called

gentlemen of the press,

or are they your

lavatory attendants?

In answer to your question, Sir,

I've come to Louisiana

without a banjo on my knee.

I've come here in

search of a story of...

Gave it a big enough

play, didn't I?

This is a story of stories, and

what have you done with it?

Is this what you call news?

Well, do you want to know what I

call it? I call it the dead facts.

The dead facts, strung together

by a deaf, dumb, blind editor!

Me, Burke Devlin,

I've got the story!

- Preserved in alcohol, no doubt.

- No.

I've got it in my aching heart,

and you wanna know how I got it?

By crawling through dirt and

filth and muck and smut!

By finding truth and beauty where

you'd never expect to find it.

Do you know who's lying dead

at the bottom of a lake?

The son of an Ohio country doctor,

a child who refused to follow

in his father's footsteps

because he was also a child

of the 20th century.

He was a boy who stole under

the tent of a faraway war

because he had outgrown the

motorbikes and motor cars,

and because he had a hunger

for the flying machine.

He knew no flags and no

enemy but one... death.

And when the war ended he found

himself a reluctant hero.

He hadn't asked for the

confetti and the flags...

- (PHONE RINGS)

- ...and he ran from them.

- Hello?

- The hell with that. You listen to this.

He was lost until he found those pylons,

those three bony fingers of death

sticking out of the earth, waiting

to bring him crashing down.

And he chased those pylons

from coast to coast,

Canada in the summer,

Mexico in the winter,

the four of them living out of

one suitcase and one can opener.

And it wasn't money he was

after anymore than Glory,

because the Glory only

lasted until the next race.

He was a man conquered

by the flying machine.

And that isn't all. He forsook

all earthbound vanities...

home, family and love. Why?

Because deep down he knew that a

man without blood in his veins

has got to fall down,

sooner or later.

And Roger Shumann fell down.

The night before he fell into the

lake, he fell so far and so hard

for the sake of the flying machine,

that the crankcase oil

burst from his veins

and a heart heavy with shame

pumped blood back into them.

Turning the last pylon, he was something

he thought he'd never be again...

a human being.

And he died only because he was thinking

of the human beings he might kill

if he tried to land on the field.

For among them was a woman and a boy

whose love he had finally accepted,

a wife and son... for whom he was gonna

forsake his flying machine that...

in the end forsook him.

He died the death of a hero,

and he deserves our tears.

So throw the dirt

gently into his grave.

Take off your hat.

Bow your head...

and read kindly his epitaph.

"Here lies Roger Shumann..."

"brother of the

unknown ancient man,"

"who first climbed onto a horse

and spanned the horizons."

I'm sorry. Real sorry.

I wish you'd come back to work.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

I'll probably be drunk.

Make it the day after tomorrow.

What happens now? With the girl?

She covers herself with dirt.

Matt Ord's dirt.

I think you're in love

with more than a story.

Yeah.

(KNOCK AT DOOR)

What do you want now?

This'll do for a start.

And how are you?

I said, what do you want now?

A mere 100 bucks. Or has

our bet slipped your mind?

- Good night.

- Man, where's your Dixie hospitality?

I haven't finished my drink yet.

And besides, I feel obliged to pass along

a couple of great publicity stunts

that have been distilling

in my remarkable brain.

- Some other time.

- It won't keep.

It's too hot, too sensational.

Listen to this.

You too, with the big,

beautiful glassy eyes.

- Ok. Get it over with.

- Wait till you hear this.

Laverne jumping out of the skies, wearing

nothing but long, black ballet stockings,

"Diamond Blade One" written on one,

"Diamond Blade Two" on the other.

Doesn't that smack of real class?

Ok, pal. Let's go.

Sit down!

Before I knock you down.

I've got a taxi waiting.

Goodbye.

You're going with me.

- Where?

- To the airport.

I hate airports. Too

many airplanes.

I'm putting you and Jack

on a plane to Chicago.

- What's in Chicago?

- Planes, trains and buses to Iowa.

- What's in Iowa?

- Black loam, yellow harvests,

and barns plastered with

faded Liberty Bond posters.

Ask a foolish question and there's always

a clown around with a foolish answer.

All right, Mr Clown, you've

been good for a few laughs.

Now go juggle your

vocabulary someplace else.

Matt, throw the clown out.

Pick up that phone and

I'll brain you with it.

Leave me alone!

You're not alone.

You're with Matt Ord.

And what for? Who are

you doing this for now?

- None of your business.

- That should be plain enough for you.

Are you doing it for Jack?

- I'm doing it for myself.

- You're lying.

All right! I am doing it for Jack!

I'll be putting the

boy through school.

Jack'll grow to hate you for it.

And he'll hate himself.

Don't do this to him.

He's taken enough of the whispers,

the smirks, the dirty laughs,

and the grease monkeys taunting him

with "Who's your old man today?"

- Oh, no!

- I saw it happen.

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