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“How are you, Mr. Lopez?” he asked.
“Do you know my cousin, Charley Castillo?”
“I have not had that privilege,” the man said. “Brewster Walsh, Mr. Castillo.”
He enthusiastically pumped Castillo’s hand.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Mr. Walsh inquired, then added, “And a steal at seven million nine ninety-nine.”
“In other words, eight million, right?” Castillo asked, innocently.
“Can we have a look inside?” Fernando asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Walsh said.
Castillo, who was tired and wanted to get out to Hacienda San Jorge, was just about to politely decline the offer when he remembered what Fernando had said: “I didn’t. I think maybe you should.”
He meant that. He thinks I should buy this with Lorimer’s money.
He wouldn’t have said that unless he meant it. Jesus!
Castillo allowed himself to be waved up the stair door. He looked into the cockpit.
“Are you a pilot yourself, Mr. Castillo?” Mr. Walsh inquired, and, when Castillo nodded, went on, “Well, then you’ll really appreciate that panel.”
Castillo examined the flight instruments carefully. It was a nice panel, mostly Honeywell and Collins. It wasn’t on a par with the panel in the Lear, but then the Lear was nearly brand-new and this wasn’t.
“How old is this?” Castillo asked.
“I’m sure you’re aware that it isn’t how old an airplane is but rather how hard it’s been ridden.”
“Which makes it how old?”
“Total time, just over eight thousand hours,” Mr. Walsh replied. “Just over forty-five hundred landings, which means the average flight was less than two hours. And—and—the engines were replaced at eight thousand hours and are practically brand-new.”
“Which makes it how old by the calendar?” Castillo pursued.
“Twenty-three years,” Mr. Walsh replied, some what reluctantly. “Hard to believe looking at it, isn’t it?”
Yeah, it is. Jesus, it doesn’t look that old. It looks practically brand-new.
“And there was a complete refurbishment of the interior just six months ago,” Mr. Walsh added.
“Does ‘refurbished’ mean cleaned and shined?”
“Everything that showed the slightest signs of wear was replaced,” Mr. Walsh said.
Castillo looked down the luxuriously fitted-out passenger compartment. When he breathed in, he smiled at the rich smell of fine glove leather.
“It looks new,” he admitted.
“It has a maximum range of thirty-seven hundred nautical miles,” Mr. Walsh offered, “at four hundred fifty knots.”
“That would get you across the Atlantic in a hurry, wouldn’t it?” Fernando asked, over Mr. Walsh’s shoulder. “I mean, if a person had some reason to go to Europe. Me, if I had my way, I’d never leave Texas, much less the good ol’ USA.”
“Well, if you wanted to go to Europe,” Mr. Walsh said, “this little beauty would take you and twelve of your friends—and their golf clubs and their overnight bags.”
“In case you wanted to play a quick round at St. Andrews, for example, Carlos,” Fernando said, and then looked at Mr. Walsh. “Ol’ Carlos is quite a golfer.”
