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“Hand the keys to Balky and walk away.”
“That’s it?”
“I’ll pick up my money first.”
“Who did you fly today?”
“A cattle rancher and his foreman from Arkansas came to look at a bull. I picked them up in Texarkana this morning. They spent most of the day negotiating a price with the owner of the bull, a man named Anderson who owns a large spread near here. It’s his plane. He hired me to ferry them back and forth.”
“It’s a very nice plane,” she said, glancing back at it.
“Worth about ninety-five grand. A Queen Aire.”
“Sounds like a mattress.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Grinning, he entered the building. “Hey, Balky.” The mechanic turned and Key tossed him the keys to the airplane.
“Any problems?”
“Smooth sailing. Where’s my money?”
Balky wiped his hands on a rag as he moved into the small room where Lara had found Key asleep the morning of Letty Leonard’s accident. He went to the desk in the corner opposite the cot and switched on a gooseneck lamp. From a drawer he withdrew a standard white envelope and handed it to Key.
“Thanks.”
“Sure ’nough.”
Balky left them. Key opened the envelope and counted the bills inside, then stuck it in the breast pocket of his shirt.
“He paid you in cash?” Lara asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“No invoice? No record of the transaction?”
“I struck a verbal agreement with my client. Why involve anybody else?”
“Like the IRS?”
“I pay taxes.”
“Hmm. The FAA?”
“Mounds of paperwork for every little trip. Who needs it?”
“Don’t you have to file a flight plan, stuff like that?”
“Up to twelve hundred feet is uncontrolled airspace. The ‘see and avoid’ rule applies.”
“You always keep to the twelve-hundred-foot ceiling?”
He had tired of the patter. “Interested in flight instruction, Doc? I’ve got my instructor’s license and could have you soloing in no time. I’m expensive, but I’m good.”
“I’m not interested in flight instruction.”
“You just happened by to shoot the breeze?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you.”
