[pshrynk]

Samuel Langhorne "Armistice" Walker swung lazily under the wing of his float plane on a hammock, the gentle tropical breezes of South Florida cooling him as much as the rum punch he occasionally sipped. His dog, Vivaldi was curled up on his stomach, muttering in his sleep. Above him the sounds of clanking and curses of Patrick Lamp, his copilot and mechanic, hung in the air. Life was good for them. They had the air mail contract for Cuba, Honduras, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica, plus the occasional small freight pick up. Just enough to keep ends together and not enough to count as real work.

"You about finished up there, Paddy?"

A pale, blue eyed face, topped with sparse blonde hair appeared over the wing of the plane. "I’m not Irish, so quit calling me ‘Paddy.’ What’s up with that? You’ve known me since we were kids and never once have I been called ‘Paddy.’ Now, for the past week, you’ve been in Irish mode."

"Well, it annoys you, for one. You owe me ten bucks from the poker game last week, for two. And there were a bunch of Irsihmen in the bar up Miami way a while back, and I just liked the sound of it."

"Well, I like the sound of a little bit of help up here so we can make the Havana run and get paid!"

Vivaldi looked up at them and said, "I like the sound of it being quiet. I’m trying to sleep here!"

"Shh!" said the humans.

The dog grumbled and curled up tighter. He started grumbling more a few minutes later when Armistice got out of the hammock. "I was just getting comfortable, there!"

Armistice walked down to the railhead of the trolley stop to check on the mail drop. There was a leather bag hanging on the hook with an airmail letter to somewhere in Havana, Cuba. Not much of a haul, thought Armistice. Maybe they’d just wait for a few more days and see if more came in. The letter was marked "urgent." He put it in the bag and threw it over his shoulder, whistling as he went back to the docking area for their plane.

He and Patrick had landed the contract the previous year after minimal competition. Some of the postal sites were tricky to get to for normal aircraft and they had the only float plane in the competition.

Arriving back at the Goos, Patrick was just locking down the hatches on the engines.

"She ready for a flight?" asked Armistice.

"All spiffed up. The carberators were giving me some problems but I wrestled them tot he ground."

"Did you fixt the Autopilot?"

A grey cloud gathered over the previously sunny disposition of the mechanic. "You know I don't have a Knack with electric stuff," he moped.

"Just checking. Do you have that auto switch on thingy solved at least?"

"I disconnected all the wires leading to what I think is the box it lives in. I can't gurantee that all the systems will work right, but I've got some electrician tape in my seat bag, just in case."

"I guess that will have to do," said Armisitce.

"I don't know why you guys don't just call in a priest, like I suggested a month ago," said Vivaldi.

"Shh!" said the humans.