Burning with a Blue Flame

By Sebastian Dureaux-Russell

Pilot Elmer Darrell will get the jaunt of his life after he agrees to compete against racecar driver Humboldt Bratka in the latest craze, SPEED. As each man seeks to outdistance his past, their passions collide against a roaring background of speakeasies, masked balls, and jazz! Will "Elm" fall for the flapper t

• Language: English
• Publisher: IngramSpark
• Release date: Oct 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218237059

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Burning

with a

Blue Flame

SEBASTIAN DUREAUX-RUSSELL

~ THE REVIEWS ARE IN ~

In Sebastian Dureaux-Russell’s new novel, Burning with a Blue Flame, we are plunged into the roaring twenties in Daytona Beach, Florida where a former air service pilot called Elm, who is now barnstorming his small plane with mid-air stunts, falls in love with the cocky, handsome race-car driver Bolt. Both men court risk, but Bolt is a force which cannot be contained and Elm’s love for him will not go away. And in Elm’s mind is always the precariousness of life and his bare survival in the Great War which ended only seven years before. The novel’s pages are full of hard prohibition drinking, glamorous girls, the Mafia underworld and the intricacies and dangers of breaking speed and altitude in the early planes and racing cars and trying to mold a future from it. Burning with a Blue Flame is a vivid portrait of a world lived fast and on the edge of danger a hundred years ago.

~ Stephanie Cowell, author, The Boy in the Rain

* * *

Nicely captures the exhilaration of a time and place where everything seems brand-new and full of promise – the about-to-boom state of Florida, the novelty of flying aeroplanes and racing motorcars (both very well researched), the liberated life of a thoroughly modern woman, and above all the discovery of first real love for two very different young men.

~ Lance Ringel, author, Flower of Iowa

* * *

A modern Jazz-Age classic that packs a wallop! Women characters compete neck ‘n’ neck against the men in this smoky pub-crawl a’ la Gertrude Stein. Not to be missed, the cross-dressing lesbian Phil Gravatt, owner of Le Fat Cat...

~ Jane DeLynn, author, Don Juan in the Village

* * *

A deliciously intense romp! This rip-snorting saga offers rich and colorful, historical details that conjure forth the Silver Screen.

~ Jay Blotcher, editor, Gilbert Baker’s Rainbow Warrior:

My Life in Color

* * *

"Sebastian Dureaux-Russell’s Burning with a Blue Flame is a stunning debut—A tightly constructed, well-tuned tale wonderfully evocative of the Lost Generation."

~ Kris Haggblom, author, Broken Time Machine

* * *

The meet-cute of a lifetime—a flashy plane vs. car race on the golden sands of Daytona Beach … that felt like a win! BWABF puts its best foot forward through the crisp, rarely-turned purple writing … Dureaux-Russell really did his research. Right as rain…a love story with twists and turns…makes the time fly with antsy fun!

~ Maxx Fidalgo, writer, reviewer, originally published

on Reedsy Discovery

Copyright © 2023 by Sebastian Dureaux-Russell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Burning with a Blue Flame is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyrighted materials (artwork and song lyrics) are all from works published before 1928 and are permitted for use without the copyright holder’s permission. This is considered Fair Use/Fair Deal by the Federal Copyright Law.

Book design by Jonathan Ballenger with Sebastian Dureaux-Russell, © 2023

Photograph of Daytona Beach by Sebastian Dureaux-Russell

Author photo courtesy of Little Rickie’s, Greenwich Village, N.Y.

ISBN: 979-8-218-23664-9 (paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-218-23705-9 (Ebook)

Published by: IngramSpark

Instagram: Sebastian_photographs

Michael-

Since I first met you,

In a moonlit garden fair, Cupid,

He is warden there.

Just like the flowers you’re true,

Waiting and dreaming a garden of roses.

Hawaiian Butterfly

By Little, Baskette & Santley

Indian Revelry

We loop in the purple twilight,

We spin in the silvery dawn,

With a trail of smoke behind us,

To show where our comrades have gone.

So stand to your glasses steady,

This world is a world full of lies

Here’s a toast to the dead already,

…And hurrah for the next man to die!

William Francis Thompson

1808-1842

Contents

1 Runnin’ Wild – 1

2 The Sheik of Alabam’ – 21

3 Alcoholic Blues (Some Blues) – 41

4 Come On, Spark Plug! – 61

5 I Parted My Hair in the Middle – 85

6 Does The Spearmint Lose its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight? – 109

7 I’m a Jazz Vampire – 133

8 When The Moon Shines on the Moonshine – 163

9 Rhapsody in Blue – 187

10 Follow the Swallow – 207

11 On Patrol in No Man’s Land – 235

12 I’ve Never Seen a Straight Banana – 263

Epilogue: Give the Man a Horse He Can Ride – 299

Burning with a

Blue Flame

SEBASTIAN DUREAUX-RUSSELL

~ Chapter 1 ~

RUNNIN’ WILD

"Running wild, lost control, Running wild, mighty bold

Feeling gay, reckless too. Carefree mind, all the time, never blue."

Take me to Webster Hall, 119 E. 11th Street, Elm directed the hack in front of the Plaza Hotel. It was the address the concierge had given him, along with his card and a flyer for a Carnival Ball. Already dressed to the nines for a cortege, Elm went in pursuit of a place to recover his confidence.

The taxi drove crosstown, the cobblestone streets’ usual clickety-clack muted by the snowfall. The night wind scattered flakes like shards of broken glass around the dim cast from streetlamps. The village echoed the lazy allure of Paris. It reminded Elm of Montmartre; the windmill bathed in red light, the alley of suppressed desire.

Elm walked up the steps to the iron-canopied entrance to the ballroom. The doorman said, Gotta ticket? and Elm handed him the business card of the concierge. The doorman gave him the once-over and said, The pageant’s over but the jazz band will play until sunrise. I’ll just charge you half-cover since you missed the new queen being crowned.

Elm crossed the threshold into the velvety valor of the previous century with its plush-curtained opulent lobby. Cherubs and gingerbread balustrades accentuated a marble staircase to a balcony of opera boxes. Liquor poured free, and without disguise. To his right, a fair contingent of androgynous debauched sheiks and sheba’s slinked across the marble dance floor. Directly before Elm stood a large wooden stage and the band, Fool’s Gold. The musicians sat behind empty thrones of the departed celebrated beauties. They were playing How You Gonna Keep ‘Em Down On The Farm (After They’ve seen Paree)?

"Ruben, I’m not fakin, tho you may think it’s strange, but wine and women

play the mischief with a boy who’s loose with change

How you gonna keep ‘em away from Broadway, jazzin’ around and paintin’ the town

They’ll never want to see a rake or plow and who the deuce can parleyvous a cow?"

That ditty always made Elm think of the end of the war. He lit up a Lucky and wandered down a marble staircase. There he found a small horseshoe shaped bar with convening patrons. They were all men, except one who wore a sash and tiara. All eyes were focused on Elm, so he squared his shoulders and approached the bar.

Sir?

Whiskey, neat.

The guy next to him spoke up.

Hey, buddy, don’t I know you?

He was about the same age as Elm, or a bit younger. He did not slick his hair but let it curl. He was built like a soldier.

I’m not from here, Elm said, while he took a sip of his whiskey.

Got another fag? the young man said.

Sure thing, Elm said, as he extracted his cigarette case and handed it to him.

My name is Clyde.

Elm.

The name was not familiar, as Elm was bad about names. The face however---

Unusual case. Looks like munitions metal, hand carved. Was this from the war?

Yes. You must’ve been there too? Elm questioned, but even as he asked it, he knew the answer. Behind Clyde’s eyes lurked that haunted look, a look only recognized by another seasoned soldier.

Clyde now turned and Elm saw his eyes were hazel with arched brows over a flat nose. He fidgeted.

Did you make this in a trench?

Clyde’s hands trembled over its engraved letters, his nails bit to the quick.

Nah, my buddy made it.

"Nice phrase that: liberté, fraternité, égalité. I haven’t thought of that for years, but he left out ‘Ou la mort.’"

Perhaps it was too morbid.

I’m gonna wait till you remember me, Clyde said, while he blew smoke rings across the bar.

Who did you fight with?

The 99th.

An observation boy.

We were all boys then…

You and I crossed paths?

More than once.

Was it in Champagne?

No, we didn’t fight there.

Army Air Service was based out of Toul...

Correct, but it wasn’t there.

Elm took a moment to listen to the trumpets of war in his head. They played reveille and allowed the memories to come. Observation, reconnaissance, you had contact with those pilots. They were your eyes. You protected them from enemy attack.

Might I partake in another fag?

Something about the jocular way he used that term. Then he remembered: the guy who was a tramp for cigarettes! Most people called him The Tramp while others bastardized it to the French expression, Dã trop. Clyde was la bouche in the latrine. The court jester with bestial favors.

In a series of flashes, he saw three exchanges with this Clyde: a hand-delivered directive from Commander Pershing, aerial photographs taken over St. Michel for the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, and then a shared foxhole. He recalled the foxhole keenest of all. How they waited together at a radio command station. Without warning, shells hit 250 yards away, in no man’s land. Then the gas crawled across the ground and rose as it approached, like a wall of terror. Elm, Clyde, and the communications man quickly jumped into a trench.

Willard?!

Yes, that’s my surname.

St. Mihiel via Verdun into Meuse-Argonne offensive.

How soon they forget! He offered a dramatic sigh, eyes rolling. And I carried such a torch for you!

Paradise lost, Elm said, shrugging.

Whatever became of you? Clyde asked, signaling the bartender for two more drinks.

After the war, I went to Florida to work as a barnstormer.

Wow. Nifty. So, what brings you to our fair city?

I’m just here seeing off a good friend.

"European holiday?

Something like that.

The one who made this case?

Nah, I never saw that one again.

Someone else we fought with? Clyde said, blowing smoke.

Bolt Bratka. Elm said, before taking a swig of whiskey.

Clyde’s eyes popped. The racecar driver! How did you come to know such a daredevil?

We were all daredevils then… Elm began, It was on Daytona Beach, 1925—

* * *

WHO IS FASTEST? enticed the billboard on Florida’s Dixie Highway. "Aeroplane vs. Automobile, Darrell vs. Bratka." The poster depicted color portraits of the two contestants framed by a naïve sketch of an aeroplane hovering over a racecar. They faced each other as if squaring off for a duel. The pilot, Elmer Darrell, "Elm" appeared blond, cool, and detached. The driver, Humboldt Bratka, "Bolt" projected dark, brooding mystery.

Below the artwork were the race location and dates: Daytona Beach, November 21-22, 1925. The 21st, Saturday, would offer the competition and wing-walkers. The event for Sunday, Thanksgiving weekend, was a ladies’ exhibition race. In honor of the holiday, the Seabreeze Ladies’ Auxiliary offered free live turkeys to the first fifty ticketholders.

Elmer Elm Darrell stood resolutely on the packed sand of Seabreeze Beach, Florida. The mammoth Hotel Clarendon lurked behind him. Somewhere far off, he heard what sounded like a gaggle of migrating birds. When he looked up, he saw nothing. In profile, he watched clouds float past Daytona towards the lighthouse of Mosquito Inlet. This southerly wind would give his plane the extra advantage of tailwind. The air was cool, and Elm wore a V-necked argyle sweater with his jodhpurs. Mechanically he began to loosen and re-do the laces on his right leather boot, which aggravated the scars on his leg.

Elm did not like to do things fast, and he hated to be pushed. He preferred his freelance work for Hotel Clarendon. They paid him to fly aerial advertisement banners over the beach.

In the distance he saw the hefty figure of his boss run back and forth before a crop of trees.

Both of Elm’s employers, Daytona Flight School, and Hotel Clarendon, were among the sponsors for this historic event. Barnstorming was the latest fad of the day and Elm felt reluctant to be its pioneer. He was not a poseur. He liked to fly, plain and simple. Flight maneuvers like nose-dives, wingovers, loops, and barrel rolls were things he had been trained to do during the war. The conundrum was how to live off those same maneuvers. The term barnstorming was literal: an aeroplane that flew over farmland to draw attention. Once a crowd was drawn, the pilot would offer rides for money. There was a certain freedom to barnstorming. Fly in, make money, fly out. Flying circuses on the other hand, made Elm feel like a trained animal.

That bird sound again. A clear warble. Awkwardly, his boss approached as he clutched a turkey! Maybe this was his problem; Chuck ‘Fats’ Jenkins possessed no physical attraction. None. Zip. Zero.

Damnit Elm… Fats yelled, his face red now to match his hair, We was supposed to start 15 minutes ago! The Navy loaned you this brand-spanking-new flying machine, so let’s go!

It was a lot like being in the Great War again. Despite the thrill he got from performing stunts, the risks involved were only slightly less than fighting Germans.

Where’s the fire?

That goddamn turkey give-a-way. I thought the ladies’ auxiliary was gonna oversee it, but it was a hullaballoo. Now, git in that damn plane and start the damn race!

Elm growled low like a yard dog. It was his sign to back off. It had started in his childhood.

Please, Elm…

Blank, blanky, blankety… Elm muttered and pulled on his leather aviator cap. As he gleaned his reflection in the polished Curtiss R3c-1, he exclaimed, Gads! What a magnificent beast!

The wooden R3c-1 one was the first of its kind: a single cockpit, designed for water or air. The R3c streamlined the Jennies wingspan to half, boasting a V-1400 engine as opposed to a V-8. The Navy expected a record to be set in this race.

At the start, the red Alfa Romeo RL Targa Florio racecar Red Rooster revved its engine. Its driver, Humboldt Bratka was not a patient man; he did everything fast. Hence, he was Bolt to everyone. Underneath his racing gear, perspiration trickled down his flanks, like the cold sweat of a racehorse. All his limbs twitched while his hands clenched the steering wheel.

Hey Flyboy! he yelled over the engine, "Do you wanna go for a ride, or a RIDE?!"

Flabbergasted by the effrontery, Elm raised his leather glove at his opponent, "A RIDE!"

In a series of well-rehearsed, fluid motions, Elm climbed into the sleek single cockpit while Fats assisted with the propping. For a second, he stewed about the arrogant driver who continued to rev his engine. Humboldt Bratka was not Sir Malcom Campbell, but he was known as a comer. For the last few years, he had won just about everything. There was something else --

Switch off? Fats called out.

Switch off, replied Elm, while he turned the switch knob downwards.

Petrol on?

Petrol on. Elm adjusted the throttle. About Bolt - - oh yeah, the flappers were wild about him. What had Zella called him? Devilish. Zella read all the magazines.

Air closed?

Air closed, Elm closed the extra air intakes.

Suck in, Fats called out.

He then gripped the propeller by each blade in turn and pulled the engine over. He made several revolutions to suck in the gas to facilitate ignition. Once the cylinders were charged, Fats stood clear and yelled, Contact?

Elm turned the switch knob upwards.

Contact. He gave a thumbs-up signal in case his voice was not heard.

Elm started the engine with a vigorous crank of the hand start magneto. He shifted into neutral, taxied down the beach, pulled back the control stick and lifted off into the air. Elm banked to the left over the ocean and approached the racecar on the beach.

You buggerin’ muttonhead! shouted Bolt.

Among other things, Bolt was known for his colorful language. A real New Yorker. He was also known as a sheik, a gambler, and a boozehound. The decade had been one long party for the driver of the Farnsworth racecars and limousines. Dark, lithe, and handsome, he sported a pencil-thin mustache like John Gilbert, accented by full lips and a cleft chin. He was known on the party circuit from New York to Miami. Pursued by women and men alike, he was one of those people who never had money but always spent it.

The two drivers threw a glance in each other’s direction before the revolver resounded to start the race. The plane and car both burst into speed-- their polished wood and steel encasements dazzling in the sun, forcing viewers to shield their eyes. Bolt shifted gears, gained speed, and began his race song:

"Always going, don’t know where. Always showing, I don’t care.

Don’t love nobody, it’s not worthwhile, all alone, Running Wild!"

Bolt identified with an arrow. He loved to ride its crest, like a wave to the shore. Through his steering wheel he felt the power of acceleration, as it changed velocity. Controlling its trajectory over a distance was the equivalent to being shot from a cannon. When it happened, it was like a spectacular sunrise. His racecar made a sonic sound, but he was unable to hear. Bolt could only drive straight through the vector into its center. When he crossed the finish line, like a swimmer to the surface, his senses returned to normal.

Elm felt the push of the tailwind and noted he would need longer to land and come to a full stop. Once details were secure, his mind could wander. Inevitably, he would recall the war. He could still remember with exactitude air routes over the outskirts of France. His rage had been directed at Germany’s master pilot, Manfred von Richthofen. Richthofen had the most kills during the war, flew a red Fokker and was known simply as The Red Baron.

I curse you still, Red Baron, Elm said, with a raised fist. And your damn flying circus!

The feeling of battle was exacerbated by a pair of Curtiss-Jennies that flew alarmingly close to take photographs. They circled like buzzards, while the crowd below teemed.

* * *

The four-mile race ended with two men who waved checkboard flags. The aeroplane crossed the finish line at 125 miles per hour and, five seconds later, the racecar at 120.

Elm felt fantastic. He had flown an exceptionally clean run.

The racers taxied for another mile down the beach and trailed a cloud of sand. Elm’s team helped push his plane to a complete stop.

Fans and press rushed forward like ants over an abandoned picnic. They pushed and jockeyed for the best angle to view the challengers. Fans thrusted out photos and flyers to be signed. Teams for the pilot and driver addressed the machines.

Both men removed their goggles and dismounted their crafts. Elm removed his flight cap, and the wind blew his locks about his forehead. Bolt kept his race helmet on; a dark figure who approached slowly and sized up the victor…

Congratulations, Mr. Darrell! shouted a proctor who brandished a stopwatch. You have a new aeroplane speed record, 125 miles per hour!

They met in profile, betwixt plane and car, silhouetted by the clouds. Photographers moved in for the shot they would sell to the tabloids and weeklies.

Elm removed his glove and extended a calloused ranch hand, Capital race, bastard. That was as near as damnit... he said with gusto and smiled a toothy smile.

Bolt gave a tight smirk and grasped Elm’s hand. Who you callin’ bastard, old chap? Elm felt a nasty pinch from Bolt’s signet ring.

An electrical charge, like lightning, passed between the two men. Elm felt like he had suddenly received communion after a year’s spell in a monk cell. Bolt’s anthracite eyes offered a kind of serenity at odds with his stormy surface.

The men still held hands, both unable to unclasp, oblivious to the hubbub around them.

That’s quite a grip you got there... Elm said and returned the steely stare with one of his own.

"We called it the Princeton Press," Bolt said, feeling almost hypnotized by Elm. Like a chess game, this exchange played out as flashbulbs ignited around them.

On the ranch we called ‘em good milkin’ hands. Go your hardest... Elm said, in a low husky tone. Bolt pulled the pilot close enough for horseshoes. Elm couldn’t help but notice he had several inches on his opponent and yet, he was bossy. He had one of those barrel chests that expanded when he held his breath.

An impressive record; it must be your first. I don’t recall you from last season. And I would remember a hunky, corn-fed, war pilot who just made a fool of me, Bolt simmered. Elmer Darrell, he said with a final shake. I taught, up in the air, all year. Tell me, does it always feel this sensational to win? he asked, smiling again.

Bolt tossed back his head and laughed out loud. Elmer was infinitely more appealing when he smiled. "Enjoy it while it lasts; the