The Last Flight of the Ariel

By Joseph Dylan and Hatcher

A drug dealer who doesn't want to deal anymore, Brazilian hit men, two shrewd trailer trash brothers, a mafia boss with a bad leg and a Chinese bodyguard fly through the pages of The Ariel. When it crashes, with 300 kilograms of pure cocaine, the trip is just beginning. Paul Hewlett is an Ivy League stockbroker crawls from the wreckage salvaging half the cargo. He has to unload it and disappear before the mob makes him disappear. The flight path takes you from Miami in the 80's, to an airstrip in Colombia, to the homes of Hollywood's rich and powerful, to an oil rig off Nigeria. Ahead of him is the American dream. Behind him is a trail of dead bodies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Jun 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456625696

Book preview

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Chapter One

Perched on the tarmac of the Miami International Airport was the Helio Super Courier. Looking like a sparrow hawk surrounded by sparrows, it gleamed under the torturing, tropical Florida sun. Tapered like a Champagne flute, its main purpose was to take men and supplies to short, undeveloped airstrips in the jungles and the mountains. As such, it was designated a STOL aircraft (Short Takeoff and Landing). With a Lycoming 480 Engine, capable of producing 295 horsepower, it was powerful enough to haul a thirteen hundred pound payload a thousand miles at nearly a hundred and thirty miles an hour. These numbers were straight out of Jane’s Aircraft of the World, a book that Paul Hewlett kept on the office desk of his condominium in Miami. Though beguiled by planes, he could no longer fly, because he had to surrender his pilot’s license when he was convicted of driving under the influence of alcohol as a teenager. It was his only brush with the law. Though the state eventually expunged his record, the FAA did not. Having his driving license taken away for a year paled in comparison to losing his flying license for good. However, he did keep up with flying by reading flight magazines and exploring regional airports. His favorite airstrip was at Miami International, for there, sooner or later, anything with wings flew through. But he always stopped to check out this particular Helio Super Courier. Owned by Skeeter Davis, it had Ariel discretely stenciled in small black letters on the vertical tail. Right below Ariel, in smaller black letters, was the name Davis Aviation. According to those who would talk to him, gossips or instructors, Davis did some things most pilots wouldn’t.

The plane was as airworthy as any F-18 you’d find on the deck of the Eisenhower. It was white with Ferrari red on the engine cowling, the wing tips and the vertical stabilizer on the tail. It had a soul, unlike the other planes at the Tamiami FBO, the fixed base operator. At airports across the States and overseas, FBOs were the refuge of private pilots who lingered in the lounge, buying their coffee from the FBO owner, while sipping on their coffee and getting stale sandwiches from their vending machines. It was here that the pilots plotted out their trips, checked the weather en route, called the flight service, filed flight plans and to a large degree lived between legs on their flight route.

This time Hewlett had come for more than a look. As always, the sight of the Ariel made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He got out of his vintage BMW and walked across the tarmac, towards the hangar. The waves wafted up from the macadam, its surface feeling as hot as a frying pan in hell. Though he was on not far from being on the cusp of forty, only the crow’s lines about his eyes belied his age. Like the stockbroker he was, he was conservative in all appearance. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cut well up above his ears, the part on the side. Furthermore, he was wearing a freshly pressed pair of beige Dockers pants, an IZOD navy polo shirt and Top-sider shoes. Though the sun above was delivering enough heat, it was the absorbed heat from the macadam suffusing up from and through the thin rubber of his Top-siders that made it worse. Slender to the point of being gaunt, Hewlett preferred to be perceived as thin and elegant. He glanced back at his car and smiled without moving his lips. The antiquated and corroded BMW had seen better days, but it was his. It was virtually all he got out of the divorce. In the settlement, she was awarded the condominium in West Palm Beach; she was awarded the Mercedes; and she was awarded the timeshare apartment loft in Aspen. Married scarcely less than ten years, it had been a tumultuous relationship for the majority of a decade. They had accumulated as much as some couples did in a lifetime. For a year of great sex and general pleasantries associated with most marriages, it all ended in divorce documents in which she listed his dependence on alcohol and illicit substances. What divorce from a man didn’t list abuse of some form? With it, she added mental cruelty. What divorce didn’t list mental cruelty? It was a given. The heat of hot, simmering sex had long ago gone cold, even freezing, before he appeared before the judge with his wife on the other side of the bench. He let that stand for fear that the SEC would dig deeper into the illicit substances and strip him of his license in the stockbroker’s profession. It had been less than a year since the judge’s decree, but it was still not over. At least not for him. Nor was it over for his wife who plagued him with demand after demand trickling down to him like a not quite vertical waterfall in Colorado. It was just the devastation of the divorce. No children, fortunately, were entangled in this separation.

It wasn’t whim that brought him here. Jake Townsend, his partner, had recommended Skeeter. He was once a young man pounding the pavement of Miami as a police officer. Now Davis was rumored to haul cocaine out of the mountainous jungles of Colombia. Kudos for Davis also came from Scruffy Brewer. Brewer was his best friend and had also been a cocaine dealer since the days when cocaine was easier to get than a parking ticket. Davis had transported product for Scruffy at least a dozen times. He had transported coke for Jake but once. Providence and the skill in handling the Ariel had kept him out of the grip of the DEA. Jake told him that once the DEA had a case against him for transporting cocaine. But Davis had a shrewd and seasoned lawyer and the case was thrown out. The legal fees, it was rumored, had cost Davis the better part of a year’s earnings. According to Scruffy, and verified by his cousin, Davis had served two tours of duty in the Vietnam War: one flying Phantom jets against the Viet Cong and one year hauling brave, almost forsaken and nearly forgotten soldiers into hostile territory in Huey helicopters. Among his bona fides, were years of flying mercenaries in and out of sub-Saharan Africa. One year it would be soldiers fighting for the republic; the next it would be troops on the other side of the conflict. According to Townsend, Skeeter Davis had but two true loyalties: first, to himself and second, to the greenback dollar. According to Brewer, these were his allegiances, but they included protecting his friends and providing service that was second to none. For Jake Townsend and Scruffy Brewer there was no one else they truly trusted. In their business, trust was everything but always came with a healthy dose of paranoia.

Knocking on the door corroded by the salty air, there was no answer. Finding it unlocked, he entered. When he shouted out, no one answered. Dangling from long black electrical cord was a naked sixty-watt bulb, providing little light. Each time the electrical fan carved out its arc, the naked bulb would gently sway in the hot, dank atmosphere.

Stepping in from the brightness of the outside sun into the relative darkness, all he could see was the tall and lean silhouette of a man. A man he presumed to be Davis. I see you let yourself in, grumbled the man.

Detecting a note of irritation, Hewlett protested, The door was open.

No, the door was closed. It simply wasn’t locked.

A fine point, replied Hewlett.

I’ll begrudge you that. In his arms he cradled a small motor composed of steel and aluminum with copper wiring that had to be heavier than it looked. Breathing hard, Davis hoisted it to the top of carpenter’s table. Before he spoke, he took a couple of deep breaths. A spare man, well over six feet, all sinew and bone in his coveralls, he had a beak for a nose, a full head of grey and pepper hair with a small cowlick giving the appearance of a muscular Jesuit priest. Or a pirate child. Failing to find any capitulation to age except for sunspots on his face and forehead that looked like cigarette burns, Hewlett thought he was in his early forties, but with his Vietnam experience, he had to be closer to fifty or fifty-five. Like the footwork of a welterweight, his Adam’s apple bobbed and weaved when he spoke. To add to Davis’ preternatural qualities was a voice out of The Old Testament. Just what do you want?

I’ve got something I need hauled.

What?

That’s rather delicate.

If you want something delicate, I suggest that you look in the women’s department at Macy’s downtown. He walked over to a utility sink.

Let me rephrase that then. I have about three hundred kilograms to bring out of Colombia. Davis quickly glanced at him again, his gaze slightly askance.

Just who referred you to me? Holding his hands under the faucet of a utility sink, Davis scrubbed his hands with a mechanic’s soap.

Tell me, Mr....

Hewlett. Paul Hewlett.

Tell me, Mr. Hewlett just how you came to know about my alleged services?

Do you recall a Mr. Jacob Townsend?

Townsend?...Townsend?...Townsend?

Just under six feet, light brown hair, southern drawl.

Doesn’t ring a bell? Should it?

A moment passed. Then like a fine timepiece set in motion, one could see the gears gathering speed in Davis’ mind. Let me guess. Talks about Texas as though it was God’s gift to the world? Doesn’t miss a single University of Texas football game on his satellite TV? Flunked out of school there in his first or second year?

One and the same. He’s a stockbroker now.

I pity the people who trust him with their money.

Actually, he’s not a bad stockbroker.

Bullshit. Every time I worked for him, payment was late and light. Hell it once took me six months to get my money from the man. Still owes me a thousand.

Really? Hewlett felt a little crestfallen from the news but knew it was not beneath Jake to hold out on paying bills until the bill collectors came knocking. But why anger those who helped you when it came down to moving illicit contraband. That was why, when he said he wanted to be in charge of finances of their small operation, Hewlett put his foot down. Well then, Scruffy Brewer also recommended you to me. You don’t have any problems with Scruffy, do you?

Well, Scruffy’s a different matter. I don’t know why the hell Townsend referred anyone to me. I think he’s a grade A asshole. One of life’s mysteries I guess.

You’d have to understand Jake to make sense of it. Jake, though I love him like a cousin, sometimes has the common sense of a lemming near a cliff. I think he was really impressed with your beast out there. I don’t know how else to put it.

Well, we all make mistakes.

Just how did you know he was my partner?

I’ve been married five times. After a while, things like marriages and partnerships are a dead giveaway. Besides, it would be typical for Jake to send someone else on an errand he shouldn’t entrust to anyone but himself or his partner. Given our history, he’d send his partner.

I see your point. Besides, this is a big haul.

You can’t expect me to haul something for you on Townsend’s recommendations.

No. Especially of this nature.

Let me guess. It involves an illicit cargo from a faraway land. He paused as he rinsed his hands under the faucet, first using Borax to remove the grease. Tell me, Mr. Hewlett. How can I trust you?

Scruffy Brewer will verify me as someone you can trust. Besides, you’d be paid handsomely. And I’m not Jake.

I haven’t spoken to Scruffy for a month or two. See what he has to say. He paused a moment. Jake Townsend. I was hoping to never hear that name again.

Scruffy and I go back a long ways. All the way to high school. If anything, he’s my best friend. Jake, well, Jake is just my cousin.

Your cousin! Davis took out a second cigarette and lit it. We all have our cross to bear. Taking a deep drag, he blew smoke rings in the dust-strewn light of the hangar. I guess we have no choice just whose blood we have in common when we’re born. I told my doctor I’d stop smoking. I’m down to five cigarettes a day. Just thinking of Townsend made me double my quota.

For those who knew Jake, there was no middle ground. They either loved or hated him. To the former, he was nothing but a glad-handing loser; to the latter, he was an ungrateful, irritating liar. Unfortunately, most of those who knew his cousin well fell into the second coterie. Hewlett, who knew Jake to be cheerful, positive and mercurial. He was also aware of his other side. He was unreliable, arrogant, self-centered, and, always, ungrateful. Many loathed him. Hewlett took the good with the bad.

Friends call me Skeeter, but we never reached that point, Townsend and me. As far as I’m concerned, you can call me Mr. Davis for now too. Oh, and it is a fairy tale. Deal in illicit drugs and sooner or later, you’re going to pay for it.

Why’s that Mr. Davis?’

It just is that way. Mr. Hewlett, get out while the getting is good.

I can’t.

Tell me Mr. Davis, where’d you pick up the nickname of Skeeter?

Have to live with it. Have to answer to it. But don’t have to explain it. Would have preferred something in a more normal range Mr. Hewlett...

Please call me Paul.

Well, Mr. Hewlett you caught me at low tide. As I said, I’ve got five ex-wives, and they’re all screaming for money. I’ve got a boy with a bad back. He needs surgery...the sooner the better. And he’s got no insurance. There’s irony for you: the richest, mightiest country in the world, and we can’t take care of our own when they get sick. And now some stranger I just met wants me to fly contraband to fix his back. I’ve got a daughter who just needs a couple thousand to break into the modelling business. And to top that off, I’ve got a son who’s convinced he’s the next George Lucas in the movie business. He tells me he just needs a start. I got no idea who George Lucas is. Davis paused. He picked a bottle of hand conditioner and rubbed it over his hands and forearms. My one glaring fault is that I can’t say ‘no’ to people. Some people claim it’s my temper that’s my fault, but that just ain’t so; it’s saying ‘no’ to people. It’s gotten me into more trouble than I’d care to remember. Come over here to my office. The inside of the hangar smelled like an auto mechanic’s used rag at the end of the day.

I tell you what. You join me having a beer, and I’ll tell you what I can or can’t do for you or that bullshitting partner of yours. Fair?

Fair enough. A beer sounds good about now.

Following Davis, he walked over to the office of the hanger and sat in the sofa, while Davis sat in the leather chair behind the desk. It fits you, Mr. Davis.

It does, doesn’t it? Davis stood up and walked out of the office into the hangar where there was a full-sized refrigerator. Opening the door, he retrieved two bottles of Michelob. He handed one bottle to Hewlett. Sitting down, Skeeter rocked back in his chair putting his feet on the desktop and took a sizeable gulp from his beer, followed by another. Ah, that hits the spot doesn’t it? Skeeter then rocked forward and took out a greasy, leather-bound notebook out of a briefcase next to the desk. He looked up Scruffy’s phone number and dialed. Scruffy, he said, holding his hand in the air so that Hewlett would not interrupt. How well do you know a Mr. Paul Hewlett? A few moments passed. Okay, Scruffy. Catch you for a beer one of these nights. Hanging up the receiver, he looked over at Hewlett and said, Scruffy says to trust you, Mr. Hewlett. Scruffy’s a good friend. A good judge of character. Apparently, a good friend to both of us.

When it comes to Scruffy, it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t like him. We’ve gotten past the first answer, so I’ll listen to your proposition. Cupping his hands behind his head while he placed his feet on the top of the desk, So how big is this haul of cocaine that you mentioned.

Three hundred kilograms.

Christ, that is big. My plane can handle three hundred kilograms, but are you sure they’ll fit?

I know.

How would you know?

I’ve got a copy of ‘Jane’s Airplanes of the World.’ It’s right in there.

How much is it worth?

Well, a gram should go for at least a hundred.

But how much did your people pay for it?

I understand about a million.

But they don’t trust you enough to tell you the exact amount.

Look Mr. Davis. I am just a peon in the organization. But I know for a fact that the people I represent paid no more than a million for it. They’d kill me if they knew I told you. The dealers will surely step on it. Most of them step on it with baby laxative. This should leave some people shitting for weeks. I can’t give you an idea of how much it’s worth when it’s been stepped on. They’ll probably step on it and then sell it for a hundred a gram.

Whose money is it?

It’s better you didn’t know. Look, Mr. Davis, I’m a paranoid man who’s survived by his paranoia.

Don’t be coy, Mr. Hewlett. Whose money is it? I won’t fly until I know.

Who do you think?

I think it’s the mob’s. Only they’d have the funds.

Hewlett nodded, You’re a pretty good guesser. He nodded and then ran his hand through his hair.

It’s not the cartel’s though, is it?

I don’t think so.

You sure?

Mr. Davis, the only thing that I am certain of right now is that the sun will rise in the east and descend in the west.

Well, I guess that’s as good as I can get. I wouldn’t fly for the cartels. The Colombian cartels are just too fucking crazy for me. Skeeter paused and took a deep slug of his Michelob. Well, back to business. Give me a hard figure on how much this cargo is worth to you?

I’d like to keep the numbers between just me and my investors.

I’ll do the job for you. Yeah, I’ll do it, but only if I know how much the cargo’s worth. How much are they paying for this product?

For the three hundred kilograms they’re paying about a million. Who knows how much it’ll bring on the streets when they get it on the streets of Miami. Hewlett felt a migraine coming on. These past weeks had been tense, and tension brought on his headaches. He never liked talking plain monetary figures, especially when they added up quite like they did in this case. He almost always got a migraine when he thought of the mob too much. Alcohol would only make the headache worse. He applied the cold bottle, beaded with condensation, to his forehead. It felt good. Still, it didn’t mask the pain he felt from the migraine.

Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You get headaches just like my daughter, the budding beauty queen. She gets migraines. The first thing she does is go to the refrigerator and find a cold bottle of Coke or Heineken and presses it against her forehead. Then she goes for the pain medication she keeps in the top drawer of her bureau. She sees some quack in Palm Beach who gives it to her. Something with codeine; something to take the edge off the pain. But she’s an uptight little filly. Tell me, Mr. Hewlett, are you the nervous type?

I’m more the paranoid type. For a few moments nothing was said.

That’s the only way to be in this business. To tell you the truth, I‘m more the paranoid type, too. I thought you might be. I’ve got some Anacin in the medicine cabinet back in the bathroom, if that would help.

No, I’ll be okay. They usually come and go within a half hour or so, if I take my medication. Give me a minute, he said as he reached down in his pack for an Imitrex tablet.

They’ll step on it; then, they’ll step on it again. If they step on it by half, it would be worth up to twenty to forty million dollars on the street. Skeeter whistled but continued to look him straight in the eye. That goes no further than you or me. I hear you told someone, the deal’s off. I’ll deny I ever spoke to you."

Speak up, said Davis. I can’t hear you. A pirate’s smile creased his face.

So you see, the value is a little hard to estimate.

Davis pulled his feet from the top of the desk, sitting forward in his chair. Now you’re talking. Don’t worry. I’m not about to tell anyone a thing.

They’d kill me.

Like I said, I’m not talking. Besides you can always say that I needed the weight to calculate the weights and balances on the plane.

Just so we understand.

That’s more than I could get out of your partner the one time I worked for him. Those are scary numbers.

Tell me about it. How much did they spend on getting the cocaine?

Perhaps a mill. I can’t be sure. It’s one thing that they won’t tell me. It must almost be pure to put that kind of money into it. They plan to sell it for twice as much.

The man from Sicily told me it was as pure as it gets. So did Jake.

Fuck Jake. Fuck Jack and fuck all the Jakes in this business. Fuck their bullshit. This business is rife with people like your cousin. If I had my way I’d line them all up against a wall and shoot them. Give me an honest man anytime. It’s just you and me here, Mr. Hewlett. As far as I’m concerned, my business is with you and not with Mr. Jacob Townsend. Understand? I think he’s playing you like a soccer ball. Kicks you one way and then spins you another.

Jake might not be the best one to trust in a tight situation, but he’s not pulling the strings. The mob is. I’m giving you the numbers they gave me. They wanted me to be particularly discreet when I sought out your services. Your problem with Jake is one thing, but this is another. Hewlett stood up and took out his money clip. He counted out ten hundred-dollar bills. This should clear up the debt that Jake has with you. From here on out, it’s just you and me. Jake has nothing to do with this.

Hallelujah.

Now we’re through with the bullshit.

So how much would you charge to ferry…such freight?

For the aggravation of working with Jake, I’ll charge you a million. He’s that kind of low-life liar. He’s promised me thousands up front, and I’ve never seen it. He’s promised me a thousand on the back end, and I’ve never seen it. He promised me percentages, and I’ve never seen it. More than likely, he’s not even being honest with you. Truth to your cousin is like the elusiveness of a beast in the jungle.

First, I’m going to tell you a story about my family, and then I’m going to tell you a story about my last adventure with Jake. I’ve only flown product for him once or twice, but each time he’s held out on me. He’s held out on me, and I’ve never gotten all that I’ve been promised. In all the time I’ve known him, it’s been hard to get a straight answer out of him. Tell me, have you ever known him to be on the level with you? Answer me honestly? Hewlett sat there abashed. Everyone in the business knew that Jake was his partner, and some of Jake’s bullshit would rub off on him.

This isn’t about Jake. It’s bigger than Jake. Besides, my friend from Sicily won’t ever go for that much.

He’ll have to.

My friend can be very persuasive.

Has he ever been on the level with you?

I’m just taking the Sicilian’s word on this one.

Who is this man from the mob?

I could give you a name, but I’m certain it’s a pseudonym.

But you never saw the cash?

No. They plan for me to go with you to pick it up. It will be in a briefcase handcuffed to my wrist.

If it’s the mob’s money, and you fuck up, you’ll be running the rest of your life. Or feeding the fish somewhere off one of the Florida Keys. That’s a given.

Don’t I know that? Look, they have me by the short hairs.

I’m going to tell you how it’s going to be. To fly to Colombia, I have to refill in the Dominican Republic.

Hewlett nodded his head. For my services, you pay me an even one million. You pay me one million, and the money has to be up front. Jake has burned me before. And I’m cautious, too.

Hewlett was expecting a quarter to half of that. Hewlett couldn’t imagine paying that much. He had paid a hundred thousand once before for a significantly smaller load from Colombia. If he knew it, so, too, did the mafia. Now, that’s outrageous.

You heard me: one million dollars. That may seem like a lot, but you have to consider just what I’m risking. The DEA catches me; they’ll put me away for twenty years. At my age, that’s a life sentence. How do I know they haven’t flipped Townsend?

Trust me, the DEA hasn’t touched him.

Yeah, Mr. Hewlett, but how can I be sure? See, right now, you’re asking me to take all the risk.

My friend from Sicily doesn’t see it that way; I don’t see it that way.

Well I do. Do you know what the DEA can do? Besides jail, they can confiscate my plane, take my license, and I’d never be able to fly again. For a moment, Davis seemed like a deflated balloon. With this, I’ll have my retirement. I’ll have my family problems taken care of. As it is, the mob has the money. They have more than enough money. Trust me. There are always other pilots. There are always other planes, but these pilots don’t know Colombia the way I do. Nor do they have the Ariel. In that beast, I can land and takeoff with thirteen hundred pounds of cargo on an unimproved strip less than five hundred feet in length. I made alterations in the configuration of the plane, so I can haul the more than three hundred kilograms. That would make up for what I’m charging. You know what the stall speed is of that plane?

It’s twenty-five knots or so.

You’ve done your homework. That would be more than enough to cover the one million I’m asking to do the job. The only plane that can beat those numbers is a Piper Cub, an Aviat Husky or a Bellanca Citabria. And they can’t haul shit. Furthermore, I have a range of about a thousand nautical miles. I can make Colombia in one with one stop. Flying there, I usually stop in the Dominican Republic. I have connections there. Then it’s another eight hundred or so nautical miles to Colombia. To get to the Dominican Republic is a long haul. It’s no shorty getting into Colombia. It’ll be stretching the range of the Ariel, but she can do it.

Hewlett sat there, feeling stunned. He would not like to play poker with Skeeter Davis. Not a lot was lost on him. Jake would not be a problem. The problem was the mob. Knowing his superior in the mob, he knew that he’d be furious at the demands Davis was making. He’d be furious, but in the end, he couldn’t imagine him not going along with Davis. If Rosario got word of his talking to Skeeter, he just might threaten Skeeter to pilot the plane whether he wanted to or not. He was just about to inform Skeeter of this, when he spoke up.

Where’s the strip?

Hewlett pulled out an airplane sectional. On the map, he pointed to the spot, about a hundred miles from the coast.

You’re talking Buendia’s airstrip, aren’t you? I’ve flown in and out of that strip a number of times. You can put your sectional away. I don’t need it to find Buendia’s strip.

I have no idea whose strip it is. It was all arranged by the higher ups in my organization. Have you been there?

Yeah, a couple of times. The last time I was there it was two years ago. I had no trouble getting in or out of there with the Ariel. And where’s it to be delivered?

To a small airstrip about ten miles southeast of Royal Fakapalm. A strip just outside the Glades.

What’s this makeshift strip like?

It’s six hundred feet. It shouldn’t be a problem for you or your plane.

You can get someone to clear the field and do a visual inspection of the airstrip before we go down there?

Better if you looked at it. I can get one of our associates to take you there tomorrow. Hewlett suspected that Davis knew about every hardscrabble airstrip that strung along the peninsula of Florida in and out of the Everglades.

I expect you to pay for my time tomorrow.

Of course. How much for the day?

That will be a thousand.

That shouldn’t be a problem.

Up front.

I should have guessed. Hewlett dug in his pocket and retrieved his money clip. He gave the thousand to Davis. There’ll be a man in the morning coming by to pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. Is that satisfactory? Skeeter just nodded his head.

Can we go early next week?

There’s a storm brewing, but they’re predicting that it will head east over the Atlantic.

Davis assured him that he could reach Buendia’s strip with just one stop for fuel.

And we can go next week? Early next week?

That’s fine by me. If he can just get decent aviation fuel we need for that big Lycoming engine at the airstrip in Colombia.

If this field checks out, we go in two days…But I’m not promising you.

That’s all I was expecting.

Chapter Two

The wind picked up and a fine drizzle began, an overture to the nastier storm that was gathering over the Eastern Seaboard. When it hit, it seemed to come from all directions at once. Palm fronds blew across the tarmac as if they were late for a business meeting, and then the tethered planes began to rock. It had started the minute he began to unlock his car. He ran back inside the hangar. Skeeter was already working on the motor. The gods seem to want us together, said Skeeter.

Then it would have to be Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.

I was speaking of gods, not saints, said Davis looking up. A hard rain now pummelled the corrugated metal shell of the hangar. It made the air inside seem to hum. Both Hewlett and Skeeter had to yell to be heard by each other.

And I just cleaned the Ariel.

Let’s pull her inside.

You’ll get wet.

I’m already wet. This will just cool me down.

They ran out to the Ariel. Skeeter steered from the tail wheel while Hewlett pushed on the port side strut. Together they maneuvered the plane back into the hangar. Ignoring their soaked clothes, Davis went into his office, returning with two metal coffee cups and a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. He poured a couple of fingers of whisky into each mug. Here’s to something, Davis said.

Soft landings and happy endings? Hewlett offered.

Nothing wrong with that. It’s just that Goddamned cousin and partner of yours is like a rock in my shoe. When I see you, I think of him.

You’ve got to get over that. He’s not part of this equation. Think of him as an X on a chalkboard that just got erased. And so they toasted.

Skeeter grabbed some dry rags and plastic buckets. "In Miami, rust never sleeps; it doesn’t even rest. I’m going to clean this beast off while it’s still wet. And if you