57
“So, are we done?” Mike prayed they were.
The three of them sat on high stools around a stainless-steel table. The deck of The Hub restaurant overlooked the Tacoma Narrows Airport runway. Every five or ten minutes some small plane flitted along the single runway.
The number of them increased significantly around lunchtime and were all parked just beyond the windbreak of glass that ringed the deck. Soon The Hub was half full of people who apparently just flew in for lunch. He liked the familiar feeling of seeing so much iced tea and lemonade.
The three of them were still technically at work, but any pilots also had to follow the FAA’s eight-hours-from-bottle-to-throttle rule. Only passengers were lucky enough to have a beer at lunch.
It was frustrating, because he could see that it
