Low Pressure

“That explains it.” After a beat, he asked, “What’s with you?”

“With me? Nothing.”

“Something.”

Dent took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m tired, is all.”

“Pull my other leg.”

“All right.” He folded down the stems of his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. “I’m tired of your questions.” He started for the hangar. “Got any coffee?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yeah, and it always sucks.”

“You’ve never complained before.”

“I’m too nice.”

Gall harrumphed. “Nice you ain’t.”

Dent muttered, “So I’ve recently been told.”

“She’s not making it with you, is she?”

Dent stopped and came around, his eyes throwing daggers.

Gall took his cigar from his mouth and shook his head with bafflement. “This ain’t like you, Ace.”

“Don’t go thinking I’ve lost my touch. She says no, it’s her problem.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“A woman says no, it ain’t like you to give a flip.”

Dent opened his mouth, but closed it before saying anything. Then he started toward the hangar again.

Gall said, “I’ll brew you a fresh pot.”

Dent called back, “I’ll brew it myself.”

By the time Gall had secured the senator’s airplane and rejoined them, Dent was foisting a mug of steaming coffee onto Bellamy. Using both hands, she took the oversized mug, looked into it, but didn’t drink from it.

“How’s your daddy?” Gall asked.

“No change. Still not good.”

“Sorry.”

She gave him a bleak smile. “I appreciate your asking.”

Dent, sipping his coffee, motioned toward his airplane. “Where’d you lay out the dummy?”

“Behind the left wheel. But the real dummy was that idiot.”

“You don’t have to be smart to be dangerous,” Dent said. “The man who attacked me has a lot of rage inside him. I felt it. Heard back from the sheriff’s deputy?”