The fan disc had spun through nearly five thousand cycles since then. Around seven start-ups a day for two years, with time off for maintenance. Not enough to fatigue, not enough to shift out of alignment, not enough to get scored in any way, shape or form. Not nearly enough.
Tom was frustrated by the paucity of information on the docket. If the fan disc had been the original, it would have run to six pages. As it was, all he had was the installation date, the disc serial number – B501-7776512 – the initials and signature of the mechanic who had performed the task, and three subsequent maintenance checks, each one unremarkable, adding more to his well of knowledge about dirty fingerprints than about the possible causes of the failure of the number-two engine.
The original manufacturers’ paperwork wasn’t even attached, although it might have been in the box he hadn’t finished searching. At least he had the serial number. If Lowell Dexter hadn’t been a prick, he could have checked that on their computer records.
It was frustrating to have to rely on ephemera like paper and digital records when what he really wanted was to hold the fan disc in his hands and run his thumbs and eyes over its surface, checking for imperfections.
He frowned. The Pride of Maine wreckage was long gone.
But there was still the South African jet.
The phone rang and he looked at the ceiling while he waited to hear if Lenny had anything else to say.
‘Hi, Tom. Want to play some cards?’
*
Tom had lost sixteen thousand dollars when Ness put her hand on his neck. He felt himself flush with embarrassment. He was being pulled out of the game, stuck on the bench.
He’d played a stinker.
Outside she hitched one perfect shoulder and half smiled. ‘That’s just the way it goes sometimes.’
She was wrong and they both knew it. He’d been beaten by his own arrogance. Any pocket pair in Hold ’Em was a big deal; kings were even better. But he’d hung in there too long with too much pouring into the pot, not wanting to believe the low straight that was unfolding on the table. His ego refused to let him throw in pocket kings: he wanted to beat someone with them, to be called and flip them over and see the looks on the faces of the other players.
Tom felt the sun warming his shoulders after the cool air of the club, and shivered.
‘You want to get a drink or something?’
He grimaced. ‘A pity drink? No, thanks.’
She smiled. ‘You have your pride,’ she teased, and the Lotus beeped and flashed as she unlocked it.
He held the door open and watched her slide in and drive away.
‘Yeah,’ he said, under his breath, ‘for whatever that’s worth.’
15
‘YOU KNOW THIS guy?’
Halo peered at the signature on the white tag Tom had stolen from CalSuperior, while Tom leaned against his Mustang in the LAX lot. He noticed the side-view mirror glass had been replaced.
‘Sure. Niño Alvarez.’
‘He here?’
‘Nope. Three days off now. Back Friday. Why?’
‘He replaced the fan disc on the Pride of Maine.’
‘You think there was something wrong with the job?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. The job or the part. Maybe. That’s why I want to talk to him.’
Halo nodded but looked away. Tom could almost see the cogs whirring.
‘You know where he lives?’
‘You want me to show you?’
He had known Halo would offer.
Strangely for a Latino in LA, Niño Alvarez lived in Koreatown, with its ugly stone-coloured buildings covered with boxy, garish signs in a strange language. Tom realized why when the door of the apartment was opened by a Korean woman looking harassed and hot, with her sleeves rolled up and a paste brush in her hand.
‘Oh, hi, Halo.’ She looked perplexed now as well as harassed, and shot a wary glance at Tom.
‘Hi, Sylvia. Decorating?’
‘Wallpapering.’
‘Need a hand?’
Surprise pushed the other expressions off her face, then she smiled. ‘You can paper?’
‘I bet I could …’
She laughed then, and Tom was amazed to see her relax visibly as she pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes with a wrist. It was like magic. How the hell had Halo done that?
