“From what I saw on TV,” Larry said, “your insurance agent is gonna want to total out the plane, cut you some lowball check and call it a day. But that airplane, Logan, is your livelihood. And, besides, I know how much you care about the piece of junk — like it’s your little buddy or something.”

“What are you telling me, Larry?”

“I’m telling you to tell your insurance agent to stick it when he gets out his checkbook. Tell him you’ll take him to court if he doesn’t give you every penny of what that plane’s really worth. Then hire a flatbed, get the Duck back up here to Rancho Bonita, and I’ll put it back together for you. We can work out the money later.”

Hookers and nurses are supposed to have hearts of gold. But nearsighted, 320-pound airplane mechanics with bad knees and terrible outlooks on life are not typically known for their generosity.

“You’re a credit to your species, Larry, whatever species that is.”

“I’m trying to cut you a break and you call me names?”

He was right. My plane was in pieces, my ex-wife wasn’t talking to me, my cat was AWOL, and somebody wanted me dead. But there’s never any excuse for bad manners.

“I’m sorry, Larry. I’ll repay you. Just as soon as business picks up. A few more students and I’ll be back in the black. Every dime. I swear.”

He snorted like he’d heard the same promise from me many times before which, in truth, he had.

“Listen,” Larry said, “I’m just glad you’re OK — but that doesn’t mean we’re goddamn engaged or anything. You’ll still owe me. Let’s not forget that.”

“I won’t forget, Larry.”

I passed on my regards to Mrs. Larry and their teenaged daughter, neither of whom I’d ever met face-to-face, and walked into Champion Jet Center.

Kimberly the counter clerk was not scheduled to work until the next day, according to the young woman on duty who was garbed, like Kimberly, in a navy blue skirt and matching blazer. Her name tag identified her as “Rita.” She claimed to know nothing of what had happened to the Ruptured Duck the day before. Any questions as to who may have had access to my airplane while it was parked in front of Champion would have to be directed to her manager, she said, and he had the day off. I asked her if Champion maintained any surveillance cameras that could’ve showed someone tinkering with the Ruptured Duck’s engine. She shrugged apologetically.

“I’m really sorry. I just started working here. Maybe you could talk to the airport director. I’m pretty sure his office is, like, in the terminal. He’s, like, in charge of everything.”

“That’s, like, an excellent idea.”

I left my card along with a request to have her manager call me as soon as he got in.

The airport’s director was away for the day — does anyone in this country still work anymore? — but his assistant was in. He was a ginger-haired thirty-year-old with a pencil neck and baggy, tired eyes who said he’d heard about the crash and wanted to offer his condolences. His name, he said, shaking my hand flaccidly, was Andrew Gresham.

“Somebody tampered with my engine. That’s why my plane went down.”

“Geez. You’re kidding. Hadn’t heard that one.”

I asked about the airport’s surveillance cameras. Andrew said he wasn’t authorized to discuss airport security measures. I asked whether the airport maintained a master list of people who had access to transient airplanes parked along the flight line. He said there was undoubtedly such a list but that I would not be allowed access to it.

“You’re not helping much, Andy. In fact, you’re the opposite of help. My airplane’s in pieces because somebody at your airport decided to test the theory that what goes up must come down, and you can’t — or won’t — provide me any information that could help me locate the people responsible? What if this guy is some kind of deranged wacko who has it in for general aviation? Do you have any idea how many pilots could be at risk?”

Granted, I was laying it on thick, but I figured I had nothing to lose.

“Sir, I get where you’re coming from,” Andrew said, “and our office will cooperate fully with any investigation the FAA has going, or any other agency, for that matter, but I really can’t—”

“What if it was your airplane, Andy?” I said, cutting him off. “What would you do, wait for some government investigation to play out? That could take years. Have you worked with the FAA? Look up the word ‘bureaucracy’ in the dictionary. Do you know what you’ll find? A picture of FAA headquarters.”

Andy reiterated that he empathized with my situation, but said his hands were tied. He simply was not authorized to release any information.

The words, “I understand,” slipped from my mouth before I realized I’d even formed them. I found myself more pleased than upset. Understanding is the first step toward acceptance, and acceptance is the first step to achieving inner peace — even if there still remained a large part of me that wanted to wring Andy’s bureaucratic pencil neck on principle alone.

It was nearly noon by the time I left the airport manager’s office. Inside the terminal lobby, I caught a whiff of Mexican food. Nothing quite whets the appetite like the fragrance of boiling lard, especially when you’ve missed breakfast. A sign pointed to a restaurant on the terminal building’s second floor. I bounded up the stairs.

“Welcome to Casa Machado. Would you like a table by the window? You can see the airplanes that way.”

“Bueno.”

I followed the young hostess in her colorful Mexican skirt. The restaurant was Spanish baroque in décor. Models of airplanes hung from the ceiling. A busboy delivered water, salsa, and a basket of warm tortilla chips almost before I’d sat down.

“Would you like something to drink? Iced tea?”

“How ’bout an Arnold Palmer?”

The busboy nodded regally, almost bowing, and went to fetch my drink.

I scanned the menu, then punched in Savannah’s number on my phone again. Still no answer. Her conspicuous silence weighed heavily. It’s hard to reconcile with a former spouse when she’s about as communicative as a terrorist on the lam.

“Have you had a chance to decide?” The waitress was big and brown, with a moist radiant smile.

“What is your expert opinion of the chile verde burrito?”

“Muy delicioso.”

“Sold.”

She jotted down my order, scooped up my menu, smiled that smile, and left for the kitchen. I gazed out the window as a yellow airplane came in for landing.

Two old men, each pushing ninety, were sitting at the next table over, both finished with lunch, eyeing the same plane.

“What is that, a T-6?” one of them asked me, squinting hard out the window.

“It is.”

“Thought so. Did my advanced training in one of those babies.” His accent was straight out of Chicago. His wire-frame aviator bifocals seemed too large for his wizened face, as did his “56th Fighter Group” baseball cap. “Good airplane, that Texan.”

“Great airplane, that Texan,” I said. It took me a second to remember him. “Didn’t I see you on TV last night?”

He grinned yellow teeth. “Sure hope it wasn’t on America’s Most Wanted.”

“On the news. You heard the engine on that Cessna before it went down.”

“Been near seventy years since I heard an engine like that. It was attached to the airplane I was flying at the time. Cost me two years, cooling my heels in a German stalag, courtesy of Herr Hitler.”

He’d gone to work for Pan Am flying DC-3’s after the war, he volunteered without me asking, and retired three decades later as a 747 captain, with more than 40,000 hours logged. I was impressed.

“The 56th flew Thunderbolts,” I said, pointing to his cap.

He seemed pleased that I would know such trivia. “You a pilot?”