LOW PRESSURE

Chapter 1

Dent answered the phone with a grumble.  “What?”

 “You’re still in the sack?”

“What time is it?”

“You sound drunk.”

“Do I need to be sober?”

“If you want the job.”

“Today?”

"Soon as you can get here.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.  Is it worth my trouble?”

“Since when can you afford to turn down a charter?”

“Okay, okay.  How much?”

“Two thousand, down and back.”

“To?”

“Houston Hobby.”

“Overnight stay?”

“No.”

Dent sat up and placed his feet on the floor, testing his level of sobriety.  He raked his fingers through his hair then left his hand there, palming his muzzy head.  “Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

“The guy’s sick.  He’s going to M.D. Anderson for chemo.”

“Twenty-five hundred plus fuel costs.”

A 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 goose neck lamp and pulled it off the night stand.  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 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  530hp 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.