(Below is the first of what we hope will be many partial short stories for readers' consideration and/or comment. We'll call this, Do You Want to Read More Day. Volunteer writers will submit the opening of their short story, you readers tell him/her if you want to read more. If you do, we'll publish the rest. If no, we'll move on to the next offering. Writers can contact me through The Famous Author, at firstname.lastname@example.org)
I’LL TAKE THE BERETTA
By Duke Hunter
I decided on the Baretta because of the smooth action, the extra magazines the guy offered, and because I drilled seven of nine rounds inside a one-and-a-half-inch circle. Much tighter grouping than the Glock. Since my plan was to fire enough bullets at Jimmy Cassiotta to cut him in half, the Italian-made nine millimeter with its bonus magazines seemed like the right choice.
I paid cash and left, thinking how much I loved Kentucky gun shows. A firing range on site. No waiting. No identification. Pick out what you want and split. Figured I’d stop for dinner on the drive home, maybe somewhere outside Columbus, but I ended up sailing all the way into West Virginia before I was hungry enough.
I look for lots of trucks. Shoney’s fit the bill, and that’s where I met Sophie. Her name tag rested on her chest, and was therefore hard to see, there being so much distraction.
“Whaddya want with the pot roast, honey?” she said. “You get three sides.”
“I want you, Sophie,” I said. “Up, down, and all around.”
Pretty lame line, but I got a smile right then, and later, over a beer when her shift was over, some laughs. When the sun came up next morning, Sophie was beside me in the motel bed. We hadn’t slept much, having kinda hit it off in the sex department, and both of us were feeling friendly. I made coffee, but we got back into bed to drink and talk.
“Take me with you, Vince. Please. If you get tired of me back in New Jersey, I’ll go my own way anytime you say. Right now, I just gotta get the hell out of West Virginia.”
I knew the feeling. I also had a few new ones stirring around on account of Sophie. She had a big heart inside that big chest, I could tell. Something I wasn’t used to in women. Not since my Mama died.
We were on the Pennsylvania Turnpike before ten, back on the Jersey Shore by dinner time. I dropped Sophie at my place in Long Branch, said I was going out for some food, and went to see a friend, a guy works behind the bar at Clooney’s Waterfront.
“So where is he?” I said.
Jason poured me a double Wild Turkey. “Haven’t seen him all weekend. You pick up your new assistant?”
“Yeah, a dark Italian. Very smooth talker.”
“You took him out for a demo?”
“Right on the spot. He made me look real good on the range.”
Jason nods. “It’s harder when it’s real."
(To be continued...maybe. Comment if you want to read more from Duke)