One “Croggon Hainey sends his regards, but he isn’t up for hire,” Josephine Early declared grimly as she crumpled the telegram in her fist. She flicked the wad of paper into the tiny round wastebin beside her desk and took a deep breath that came out in a hard sigh. “So we’ll have to find another pilot, goddammit.” “Ma’am, the airyard’s full of pilots,” her assistant, Marylin Quantrill, replied. She leaned back in her seat and tapped her fingers on the chair’s armrest. “Not pilots like him.” “Hainey … he’s a colored fellow, isn’t he? One of the Macon Madmen?” “Yes, and he’s the best flier I know. But I can’t blame him for turning us down. It’s asking a lot, for him to come so far south while he’s still wanted—and we don’t have the money to pay him what he’s worth, much less compensate him for the extra danger.” Marylin nodded, disappointed but understanding. “It didn’t hurt to ask.” “No. And if it were me, I wouldn’t take the job either.” Josephine ceased her tapping and shifted her weight, further wedging her voluminous blue dress into the narrow confines of the worn mahogany chair’s rigid arms. “But I sure was hoping he’d say yes. He’s perfect for the job, and perfect doesn’t come along every day. We won’t find anyone half so perfect hanging about