Free Heartshot by Steven F. Havill Page B

immediately. In mock threat, he waved what looked like wire nippers.
    I laughed. “You know me pretty well, Jim. How you doin’?” I patted the pocket flap back in place, fighting that strange reflex that smokers have when they’re meeting someone and about to talk. I saw the pan of oil under the plane’s nose and the neat cans of Aeroshell lined up on the floor.
    “I’m tired and cranky and tryin’ to keep the customers happy. How about yourself?” Bergin said.
    I glanced at my watch. It was twelve forty-six. “Damn picky customers to make a man work this late.”
    Bergin offered one of his easy smiles. “Nah. There’s a big bird coming in to pick up about five tons of milling parts from Consolidated. Maybe you saw the truck over on the north side of the parking lot?” I shook my head and Bergin added, “Their plane blew a tire in Pueblo, and that, plus thunderboomers, puts them about five hours late.” He glanced at his watch. “So I figure about three o’clock.”
    “And you get stuck waiting for them, huh?” I ran a hand over the smooth alloy of the Cessna’s prop.
    Bergin shrugged and wiped his hands on a clean rag. “They want a fast turnaround and fuel. I’ll help get them squared away and sell ’em a few hundred gallons of fuel besides. Hell, might as well make a dime. I don’t have anything else to do.” He grinned. “Corporate schedules assume people are not mortal, you know. What are you sniffin’ around after?”
    “Just out, Jim. Swung by here and saw a light. Whose plane is this, anyway?”
    “Doc Sprague’s.”
    “No shit?” I thumped the end of the spinner. “I didn’t think he was still flying.”
    “Oh, yeah. He quit for a little while. About the time his daughter died. Just as well. A man’s got to keep his mind on business up in the air. He just wasn’t in any shape. But he picked it up again about eight months ago. In fact, he just bought this bird in June.”
    “Bunch of moola.”
    “You’d better believe it.”
    I walked around and looked inside at the fancy fabric and all the dials, knobs, and levers. “Wow.” There was a messy hole in the middle of the dash, though, where Bergin had obviously been working. “Something break?”
    “Putting in a new radio. He’s got to have the best, you know. I figured I might as well change the oil while I was working and waiting for the charter. It’s due.”
    I muttered some pleasantry in agreement and looked back along the fuselage.
    “You seen anything of the government yet?” Bergin looked quizzical, and I added, “The DEA is going to be running a plane out of here.”
    “That’s good news,” Bergin said, and flapped his eyebrows. “There’s nothing like government credit cards to boost gas sales. I hope they use a helicopter, and not some gas-sippin’ bird. They’re going to push the border again, huh?”
    “Yup.”
    “I wish ’em all the luck. But unless they can cover the whole thing twenty-four hours a day, it isn’t going to do much good. What are they flying, do you know?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. Just that they’re coming.”
    Bergin nodded. “Probably bringing in one of their mix-masters. Complete waste.” He shook his head sadly. “You know, if they’d go down into Mexico and bribe the right people, they’d probably be provided with a flight plan for each drug runner. But what the hell.” He waved the wire cutter in disgust, then grinned again. “At two dollars and nine cents a gallon for av-gas, I hope they work the border for about six months. Then I can retire.”
    I was about to say something when I heard a car blasting down the state road past the airport. It caught my attention because the sound was that of a big engine being pushed until it howled. About the time I half-turned to look outside toward the road, we saw the flash of red lights. It was a county car, and flying low.
    “Your boys are hotdogging it,” Bergin observed dryly.
    “Young blood,