LOW PRESSURE

Chapter 4

Dent fumbled for his ringing cell phone, squinted at the caller ID, and answered with a snarl.  “Are you kidding me?  Two mornings in a row?”

“Get your ass out here.”

Gall hung up without saying anything more, which wasn’t like him.  He lived to argue.  He reveled in arguing with Dent.  Something was up. 

Dent threw off the sheet and repeated the procedure of the day before, except that he didn’t shave and substituted the white shirt and necktie for a chambray cowboy shirt.  He was out the door within five minutes.

He got to the airfield in under twenty, where Gall was inside the hangar, standing beside Dent’s airplane.  His hands were planted on his hips and the soggy cigar was getting a workout between chomping teeth.

As Dent walked toward him, Gall motioned with disgust toward the aircraft, but Dent had seen the damage the moment he got out of his car.  The cockpit windshield had been cracked.  There were dents as large as softballs in the fuselage.  The tires had been punctured.  A blade on one of the propellers had been bent.  The worst of it were the gashes cut into the top of each wing, like they’d been taken to with a giant can opener.    

He made a slow circuit of the aircraft, surveying the vicious handiwork, his outrage mounting.  When he rejoined Gall he had to unclench his jaw to ask, “Mechanical?”

“I haven’t checked anything yet.  Thought I ought to leave it as it is till the insurance man sees it.  Called the sheriff’s office, too.  They’re sending somebody out.  The wings alone, or the propellor by itself, either one would ground you for a spell.  But both. . .”

Dent looked at him.

He shrugged, saying ruefully, “A month, at least.  Probably longer.”

Dent swore elaborately.  To him, this wasn’t just an airplane.  Or just his livelihood.  This was his life.  If he’d been attacked with a hammer and sharp blade, he couldn’t have felt it any more personally.  “How’d he get in?”

“Used bolt cutters on the padlock.  I’ve been meaning to replace it with one of the newer kind, but, you know. . .never got around to it.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Gall.  You didn’t do this.  If I ever get my hands on the person or persons who did -- ”

“Promise to save me a piece of the son of a bitch.”  He tossed his cigar into the fifty gallon oil drum that served as a trash can.  “Here comes Johnny Law.”

The next hour and a half were spent with the investigating deputy who seemed capable enough, but this crime wasn’t going to get top priority when it came to detective work.  His questioning implied that the vandalism was retaliation for which Dent was responsible.

“You have any unpaid debts, Mr. Carter?”

“No.”

“I’m not talking Master Card.  A bookie maybe?  Loan -- ” “No.”

“Any enemies?  Been in any arguments lately?  Got on anybody’s fighting side?  Know of any grudges against you?”

“No.”

He looked Dent up and down as though unconvinced of that, but, discouraged by Dent’s scowl, he didn’t press it.  He began directing questions to Gall while Dent joined the insurance adjuster who’d arrived shortly after the deputy.

Stiff, starched, and buttoned up, the kind of corporate team player Dent despised, he asked a lot of questions, most of which Dent thought were unnecessary or stupid.  He made a lot of notes, took a lot of pictures, and filled out a lot of forms which he snapped into his briefcase with annoying efficiency but not one word of commiseration.