[pshrynk]

Harv Wallbanger woke up with the usual hangover. Being a pilot, he felt there were only two things to do with one's time. Fly, or drink. He tried really hard not to do both, but the occasional emergency cropped up, so what were you going to do?

Lately, however, he had been without a plane, so the second choice was leaned on heavily. It didn't help much that he was in Havana, where rum was cheap and plentiful. As he rubbed his skull and tried to figure out exactly why a family of feral cats had moved into his mouth, he vaguely wished that it was also "good."

He was without a plane entirely without fault to himself. This time. He had landed a job with the Postal Service flying Airmail between Havana and Miami. A sweet little deal that paid well and on time. Then the Depression had taken yet another downturn and the volume of mail had dropped off. As had his job. From the face of the Earth.

If he weren't really good at playing poker, he would have starved by now. As it were, he had to stay out of the sights of the mafia bosses who really ran the country. Too much skimming of their, to them rightful profits from gambling, and he'd soon be an ex-pilot as well as person.

So, he kept a room at a boarding hotel and hoofed it everywhere he went. He didn't make too much in a night and occasionally lost to the right people.

And he waited. Waited for the right opportunity to fly again. Waited for the right snake to skin. Waited for some sign that the Statue of Limitations was going to be shortened in Wisconsin. Waited, in vain, for love.

And today, he was also waiting for hot water. The tap was putting out a luke-warm and brown stream. He really hated shaving in cold water. It was just too much like when he had been in the RAAF back in the Big One. Or in the German POW camp. Or back home in Wisconsin.

Looking in the mirror, he decided that a stubble made him look manly and mysterious and skipped shaving today.