Free The Last Kind Word by David Housewright Page B

I’m a woman.”
    â€œSweetie, I could tell you’re a woman from a thousand yards, and it wouldn’t matter how you’re dressed.”
    She smiled slightly at the remark and nodded, also slightly, as if she appreciated the compliment but thought it was in questionable taste.
    I sat at the kitchen table. It wobbled again, and I automatically looked down to see which of its flimsy legs was the culprit. Jill was already sitting there and staring wistfully out the window. There was a mug of coffee in front of her along with an untouched plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns.
    â€œGood morning,” I said.
    â€œMorning,” she replied in a soft, middle-C voice.
    I gestured at her food. “Not hungry?”
    Jill smiled weakly and shook her head in response, and I had to fight the urge to cup her smooth, cool face in my hands, kiss her forehead, and promise her only laughter and love. I was a lifelong bachelor—not necessarily by choice—and the truth of it is, no matter how much we claim that we prize our independence above all else, bachelors tend to fall in love quite easily. I hadn’t heard this beautiful, unhappy young woman speak more than a half dozen words, yet I was prepared to do just about anything to protect her. I suspect Nina would have understood. She had a sense of me that I didn’t comprehend myself. She knew, for example, that I was going to help Harry and Bullert even while I was telling her that it was never going to happen. Maybe that’s why she had yet to give me a definitive answer even though I had proposed to her three times over the past three years. She knew something I didn’t.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Jimmy asked. He wasn’t speaking to me, yet I turned in my chair to examine him just the same. He was wearing a nylon jacket with an elastic waistband; the jacket zipped to a couple of inches below his throat. There was a discernible bulge above his left hip.
    â€œIs that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” I said.
    â€œYou can see it?”
    â€œUnzip your jacket, let it hang loose. Let your arms hang at your sides.” He did. The bulge disappeared. “Do you have anything a little more appropriate for the weather? A light windbreaker?” He shook his head. I stepped next to him and pulled the hem of the jacket away to reveal a 9 mm Browning stuck in his belt. “Are you left-handed?” I asked.
    â€œNo, right-handed.”
    â€œAs a general rule, you don’t want to cross-draw unless you’re sitting down. In any case, you’ll want to practice, especially if you’re all thumbs.”
    Jimmy reached across his body and pulled the Browning. Both the 45⁄8 inch barrel and front sight caught on his jeans.
    â€œThat happens with big automatics like this,” I said. “Listen, do you have a smaller gun? A .32 caliber snub-nose with a concealed hammer is my choice. It’s less likely to catch on your clothes.”
    â€œI have a .38 S&W, but I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “It’s smaller, and it only has five shots. The Browning has ten plus one more in the chamber.”
    â€œYou point a gun at someone, it’s going to look as big as a howitzer no matter what size it is. My opinion, a wheel gun is more reliable, less likely to jam, okay? It’s not going to eject your empties all over the place, either, in case you left your print on a shell casing.”
    â€œBut five shots…”
    â€œKid, if you can’t seal the deal with five, an extra six isn’t going to help. Trust me on this.”
    â€œWhat do you know about combat?” I glanced over Jimmy’s shoulder to see Roy standing in the doorway that led to the bedrooms. He was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle in the port position.
    â€œWhoa,” I said. “Where did you get that?”
    I reached for the rifle, but Roy turned his shoulder away like a child