G Is for Gumshoe

never gone to college. I was strictly blue-collar lineage-like this guy, come to think of it. Like Dietz.
    I took Rockpit for half a mile until the hangars and assorted outbuildings of Neptune Air appeared on the left. "Here," he said. I slowed the Rolls and turned in. Messinger sat forward, peering through the windshield, which had been spritzed with fine mist.
    There were four miscellaneous vehicles parked in the lot, but there was no sign of Rochelle's rental car. Messinger had me park the Rolls in the lee of a metal-sided hangar. Under the inverted V of the roofline, illuminated by a single bulb, the sign read: flight instruction, FAA REPAIR STATION, 24 HOUR CHARTERS, PIPER dealer, and avionics sales services. The perimeter fence was made of chain link, wrapped with barbed wire on top, and padlocked. Warnings were posted at intervals. Floodlights on the far side of the hangar glowed blankly on the empty runway.
    We left the car. It was cold and a wind whipped along the tarmac, blowing my hair in all directions. As we crossed the parking lot, Messinger took me by the elbow in a gesture so reminiscent of Dietz that the air caught in my throat.
    The offices of Neptune Air were closed, the interior darkened, one dim light shining through the plate glass. We circled the building. A broad redwood deck stretched out across the rear. A picnic table and two benches had been set up for those waiting for their charter flights. I pictured the Neptune employees (all three of them) eating lunch out here, watching planes land, drinking canned sodas from the vending machine. To the right, there was a line of small private planes tied down on the tarmac. Beyond them, half a mile away, I could see the Santa Teresa Airport, the upper portion of its tower peeking up above a row of storage sheds. On one of the runways, a United 737 was lumbering across the field in preparation for takeoff. Messinger gestured and we sat down on opposite sides of the picnic table. "It's fuckin' cold out," he said.
    I heard voices behind me. I turned and watched as two workmen, probably fuelers, locked the exit door to the hangar and moved off toward the parking lot. Messinger rose to his feet, peering in their direction. He pulled the nose of the.45 up and pointed, making little noises with his mouth… pow, pow. He blew imaginary smoke away from the barrel and then he smiled. "They don't know how lucky they are, do they?"
    "I guess not," I said.
    He sat down again.
    His hair had dried into ringlets and the wind lifted them playfully. His eyes glinted in the light from a bulb at the upper corner of the building. He was watching me with interest. "Your daddy ever bring you out here to watch planes?"
    "He died when I was five."
    "Mine didn't either. Cocksucker. No wonder I turned out bad."
    "What, he didn't show up to watch you play Little League?"
    "He didn't do much of anything except drink, fornicate, and kill folk. That's where I got all my talent. From him."
    My fear had receded and in its place, I was beginning to feel a characteristic crankiness settle in. It was one thing to die, and quite another being forced to sit around in a cold wind making small talk with a fatuous ass like Messinger. I'd been thinking I better make nice. Now I wondered what the point was. In the meantime, he was staring at my face. I stared back, just to see what it would feel like.
    He nodded judiciously. "Your black eye's looking better."
    I ran a finger along my orbital ridge. I kept forgetting what I must look like to the uninitiated observer. The last time I'd assayed my various injuries, I'd noticed the bruises had changed hues dramatically. A lemon-yellow backdrop now blended into lime-green, which was overlaid with plum. "You nearly got me that round."
    He waved the compliment away. "That was just a warm-up. I wasn't serious."
    "What'd Eric think of it?"
    "Didn't bother him. Look at cartoons. Kids see violence all the time and it doesn't count for shit. People don't really die. It's all special effects."
    "I doubt he's going to feel that way if you shoot his mom."
    "Not if I shoot her-when." I saw his gaze shift.
    Out on the runway, a tiny plane had landed, sounding like a VW in need of a new fan belt. I lost sight of the aircraft behind some outbuildings and then the plane appeared again, puttering toward us. He got to his feet. "I bet this is him. Come on. And keep your mouth shut or I'll pop you one."
    The plane reached the concrete apron beside the hangar and