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Goodman in an effort to secure the big man's assistance. Goodman looked from Russel to the three toughs with him. They were mean bastards, but their blank faces told him only what he already knew. Whatever came by the boards with Whip was the way they'd go.
    Goodman sighed. "I'll hate myself for this." He started for the hangar where the motorcycles had been hidden, then turned. The four bikers hadn't moved an inch.
    Sudden fury assailed them from the fat man. "You asked for my help," Goodman snarled. "Now trust me, goddamnit."
    Whip led off, the others following. In the hangar, working against time, Goodman and the four bikers heaped dust and sawdust from the floor onto the motorcycles. Rags and a canvas cover were tossed loosely onto the bikes and the floor surrounding. Without saying another word Goodman led the way to the rear of the hangar, motioning the foursome to climb through the entrance door of a silvery twin-engined Lockheed 10. Still angry at what he was doing, bewildered by his motivation, Goodman yanked the chocks and entered the airplane, stomping up the narrow aisleway to the cockpit. He hardly noticed Whip cautiously easing into the copilot's seat, he was so busy in his mixture of self-anger and starting up the Lockheed. The engines banged into life and with only a passing glance at the gauges Goodman taxied toward the active runway. He was turning into the wind for his run-up when he saw a dust cloud rapidly approaching the field.
    "Shit." He said only that one word, fed power to the right engine and rolled onto the runway, violating the cardinal rule of checking out the engines and aircraft systems. No time. He knew, and so did the others the moment they saw the nearing cloud, that the police were rushing toward the field. It didn't matter any longer. No one had seen Whip and his toughs come onto the airport. If the motorcycles were found, they had already cooled and their metal would be cold to the touch. Even if the cops saw through the dust and rags tossed about.
    Goodman's right hand went forward on the throttles.
    With full power the tail came up quickly and he sped along the runway, easing into a turn away from the field as he came off the ground and punched up the gear. All the cops had was a glimpse of a silvery machine disappearing in the distance.
    Goodman's plan was simple. Just fly the four of them to a field about a hundred miles away. Make a telephone call from the isolated airport to a friend who had a motorcycle shop in the small town. Two hours from then, Whip and his friends would ride into Los Angeles, not away from the scene of the killing. It was a good plan and it worked, but not exactly the way Goodman had planned.
    He was at four thousand feet when he finally glanced to his right. He was so startled he was unable to voice the anger that had continued to build within him.
    Whip Russel sat in a half-trance, fingers caressing the control yoke, his eyes wide and staring. Lou Goodman knew the signs. The anger melted away. "All right, kid," he said as softly as he could over the hammering roar of the engines. "You take it."
    Whip looked at him, startled and delighted. Suddenly the tough kid from the motorcycle gang was another youngster to whom the sky had miraculously beckoned. Lou Goodman told him what to do, how to handle the yoke gently, to pick a point on the distant horizon and fly toward that point, how to mix experience with feeling. He let Whip stay on the controls with him during the flight and the descent into the small field, and after he made his telephone call to the friend with the bike shop, only three of the gang rode motorcycles back to Los Angeles. Whip returned with him, never off the controls for a moment, never thinking of anything but the flying that had so abruptly, exhilaratingly, overwhelmed him.
    "They never did tumble to what we did that day," Goodman said.
    Whip sprawled across the packing-crate couch. "You'll never believe it." He grinned crookedly. "I got a