Crackshot

The Brown Bag Bandit was feeding OO Buck into a Sage Sidewinder. Five fat magnum shells, each containing twelve copper-jacketed pellets instead of the standard nine. On fully automatic the stubby shotgun could put sixty chunks of lead into the air with devastating firepower.
The Bandit held the shotgun vertical, the pistol grip braced against his knee as he picked up each of the cartridges set out beside him and slid them carefully into the pump magazine slung beneath the short barrel. The action could be racked for single shot or with the trigger held depressed each new shell would spring into the breech as the spent cartridge ejected. The shotgun was just 24 inches long, ideal for concealment.
'I sure as hell don't know what's happening to this town, ' the girl continued her one-sided conversation as the Bandit remained absorbed in the ritual of loading the weapon. 'l mean, I came out of the Firefly, what was it, two, two-thirty-this morning and this kid grabs me, couldn't have been more than nine, ten years old and he's doing rock. Little hustler, I was his momma I'd have torn his heart out.' The girl was wearing a sheer silk blouse and a black leather miniskirt. She sat beside the bandit, her dancer's legs drawn up under her and tossed her tawny mane in disgust. 'I mean, kids like that running around the streets that time of night pushing crack.' She tossed her hair again. 'You used to know where you were around Manhattan. The gangsters were all guineas and street kids were jiving around like Westside Story: with weird names on the backs of their jackets, taking swipes at each other with switch blades. Now all you've got is babies messing with your life. I ought to write to the goddamn Mayor."
The Bandit continued his silent communion. The shotgun had always had been his favourite weapon. It commanded instant respect, and if things went wrong it did not demand great skills of marksmanship to get the job done. Yes, the shotgun always delivered. ''I've been meaning to ask you,' the girl said, watching him with growing fascination. 'You doing something with Marco?' Briefly she thought about her boss, the Colombian who owned the Firefly Club on 42nd Street where she performed as an erotic dancer. He had introduced them a month ago and right away the Bandit had moved in with her, taken her to bed without preamble, sweet and tender as a long time lover. Made her tingle. 'Not that I'm prying, you understand she hastened on. 'Only I ought to warn you that Marco's a bad, bad dude, if you rub him the wrong way. You're doing something with Marco, just watch yourself, that's all I'm saying.'
The Bandit ran his lingers lovingly down the length of the weapon and continued his meditation.
'Oh, and something else,' the girl said. 'I've been thinking about what you were saying about blood and all that born-again thing. OK, I'll buy it, so maybe the Sundance Kid didn't die at, where was it? San Vicente, only how can you tell you're his kin? I mean, how do you know for sure?'
The Bandit finished loading the Sidewinder and turned his face to her, still holding the shotgun erect. 'Hey,' the girl said, entranced by the phallic appeal of the stubby weapon, 'maybe I could use that thing in the act, sort of Annie Oakley routine, what d'you think?'
She looked into his eyes then and saw something so dangerous that she felt herself shudder as she leaned forwarded shimmied against the shotgun. The feel of the silk against the cold gunmetal as her breasts brushed the gun brought her nipples up hard. Her lips parted in a soft sigh as she reached along his thigh murmuring: 'Baby - are you turning me on.' Her eyes glazed and with the shotgun pressed between them she drew the bandit down on to the couch and began to work the tight miniskirt up over her hips. 'You do this with anybody else,' she whispered, 'I swear I'll kill you.'


Genre: Mystery