Chapter Eight
Points for Style
Heck Shultz walked into hanger number three at the Key West airport and looked around. Dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket. Squinted at it. One of the fuel guys looked up.
“Help you?”
“Which one of these is a... um, a Serious, is it?” He read off the registration number from the paperwork in Palm Beach.
The guy smirked. “Cirrus. Right over there. The one with SR-22-T painted on the nose and those numbers down the fuselage. You know, in big black letters on a white background? Handy like.”
“Easy on the mouth, Gomer. I’m just asking.”
“And I’m just saying.”
Shultz glared at him to no effect.
“Who owns it?” he said.
The kid gave him a measured look.
“Who’s asking?”
“Who the f**k you think?”
The second fuel guy walked out. Motioned to the door. “Y
