Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

“Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

An unintelligible mutter about greed, then, “I think I can swing that.”

“You do, and it’s a deal. What’s the weather like?”

“Hot, muggy, Texas in May.”

“Precip?”

“Possible scattered thundershowers late this evening. Nothing you can’t dodge, nothing scary.” After a hesitation, “You’re sure you’re okay to fly?”

“Gas up the plane.”

On his way to the bathroom, his bare foot hooked the electrical cord of the gooseneck lamp and pulled it off the nightstand. It fell with a thud, but fortunately the bulb didn’t break. He kicked the lamp and a heap of discarded clothing out of his path and stumbled into the bathroom, cursing the cold glare when he switched on the light.

He shaved by feel in the shower, brushed his teeth bent over the sink, and decided to let his hair dry naturally rather than use the dryer. Any grooming inconveniences these shortcuts imposed were preferable to looking at himself in the mirror.

Back in the bedroom, he dressed in his flight uniform: jeans, white oxford cloth shirt, black necktie, which he knotted but left loose beneath his open collar. He stamped into his boots, then scooped his wallet, keys, and aviator sunglasses off the dresser. At the door he paused to look back at the naked woman in his bed. She, whatever her name was, was still out cold. He considered leaving a note asking her to please lock the door when she left the apartment.

Then his bloodshot eyes swept the place, and he thought, Why bother ? There was nothing in it that a thief could possibly want.

Morning rush hour was over, so traffic was reasonably light. The one remnant of Dent’s former life was red, equipped with an after-market-enhanced 530-hp engine, six-speed transmission, long tube headers, and a Corsa titanium exhaust. Punching the Corvette up to eighty whenever he had a clearing, he sped it beyond Austin’s northern city limit to the private airfield.

He could have kept his airplane at a fancier FBO, one with a control tower, but there were loyalty issues to take into account. Besides, this one suited him better.

His airplane was parked on the tarmac, which formed a concrete apron in front of the corrugated metal hangar. It had seen better days. It had seen better days twenty or so years ago, when Dent had first started hanging around.

Johnsongrass grew like fringe around the base of the rusted exterior walls of the hangar. The faded orange wind sock was the only one Dent had ever seen there, and he figured it was the original that had been attached to the pole shortly after World War II.

Parked in back, out of keeping with the rundown appearance of the building and Gall’s beat-up pickup truck, was a shiny black Escalade with darkly tinted windows.

Dent drove the Vette into the hangar, jerked it to a stop with a squeal of tires, cut the engine, and got out. Gall was seated behind the cluttered desk inside the hangar office, which amounted to one cloudy glass wall overlooking the hangar’s interior and three other walls constructed of unpainted, untaped Sheetrock. The enclosure was ten feet square, and it was jam-packed.

Maps, diagrams, topographical charts, and yellowed newspaper clippings of aviation stories were thumbtacked to the walls, which were pocked with pinholes. Outdated flight magazines with curling covers were stacked on every available surface. Sitting atop a rusty, dented file cabinet was a stuffed raccoon that had cobwebs over its glass eyes and bald spots in its fur. The calendar above it was from 1978 and was stuck on Miss March, who wore nothing except an inviting grin and a strategically placed butterfly.

When Dent walked in, Gall stood. Planting his fists on his hips, he looked Dent up and down, then harrumphed in undisguised disapproval and rolled his unlit cigar from one side of his stained lips to the other. “You look like hammered shit.”

“Got my money?”

“Yeah.”

“Then spare me the insults and let’s get to it.”

“Not so fast, Ace. I brokered this charter and take responsibility for the safety of the three passengers.”

“I can fly the goddamn plane.”

Gall Hathaway was unfazed by Dent’s tone. He was the only person on earth Dent would answer to because Gall’s opinion was the only one that mattered to him. The old man fixed a baleful stare on him, and he backed down.

“Come on, Gall. Would I fly if I wasn’t fit to?”

Gall hesitated for a few moments more, then slid a folded check from the pocket of his oil-stained coveralls and passed it to Dent.

“A check?”

“It’s good. I already called the bank.”

Dent unfolded the check, saw that it was drawn on a Georgetown bank for two thousand five hundred dollars payable to him and signed. All seemed to be in order. He put the check in his wallet.

“I pumped in ninety gallons of gas,” Gall said. “She’ll cover the fuel bill when you get back.”

Dent gave Gall a hard look.

“I trust her. She left her credit card as collateral.” Gall opened the lap drawer of his metal desk. In it were stubby pencils, bent paper clips, orphaned keys, a Bic pen with a fuzzy tip, and an American Express Platinum card. “She assured me it was valid. I checked anyhow. It is. For two more years. What FBO do you want to use? She left it up to you.”

Dent named the one he preferred.

“Cheaper fuel?” Gall asked.

“Fresher popcorn. Ground transportation?”

“She asked me to arrange for a limo to be waiting. That’s done.”

“They’re waiting in the Escalade?”

“She said it was too hot and stuffy inside the hangar.”

“ She seems to be running the show.”

“I guess you could say.” Gall was suddenly having trouble looking him in the eye. “The old man is awful sick. Be pleasant.”

“I’m always pleasant.”

Gall snuffled. “Just remember, you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Anything else? Mother?” Gall snarled, but Dent headed off whatever he was about to say with a question about coffee. “Still hot?”

“Ain’t it always?”

“Tell them I need twenty minutes, then we’ll take off. Anything they need to do in the meantime, go to the bathroom, whatever—”

“I know the drill.” Gall mumbled something Dent didn’t catch, which was probably just as well, then he added, “Before they see you, squirt some of that stuff over your eyeballs. They look like road maps.”

Dent went into the hangar proper and sat down at a table where the computer stayed linked to his favorite weather Web site. He made a note of the storms forecast for that evening, but the skies were presently clear.

He had made the flight to Houston Hobby many times. Nevertheless, he reviewed the information he needed for the flight portion of the trip as well as for the airport. He had Garmin in the cockpit. The Airport Facilities Directory for each state, plus FBO data, were downloaded onto his iPad, which he could access from the cockpit. But as a safety precaution he always printed out and carried with him information pertaining to takeoff, the destination airport, and an alternate airport. Lastly, he called ATC and filed a flight plan.

Outside, he went through the preflight check of his airplane, even knowing that Gall already had. He got under the wings to drain gasoline from five different locations, checking the glass tube to be sure no water had collected in the fuel tanks. It was a time-consuming chore, but he’d known a guy who’d failed to do it. He’d crashed and died.

Satisfied that his plane was ready, he signaled Gall with a thumbs-up. “Good to go if they are.” He went into the restroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and washed down three aspirin tablets with the dregs of his coffee, which hadn’t been as hot as Gall had boasted but was double the recommended strength. And, as advised, he put in eye drops guaranteed to get the red out. All the same, he put on his sunglasses.