Free Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife by Lucky Stevens Page A

door to get a better look. “I can’t see it from here,” he said bobbing and weaving like a boxer, looking for an opening.
    Following his lead, Whitman, staying behind the counter, walked to the end of it and took a look. “The Acura?”
    “Yeah.”
    Whitman hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Must be. It’s the only car out there,” he said mumbling and shaking his head a bit at the superfluousness of his comment.
    “That your wife out there?” Whitman asked, squinting and putting up his hand above his eyebrows. He accepted Hart’s credit card.
    “Uh, yeah, yeah. That’s the little woman—with the big mouth.”
    Whitman laughed causing Hart to smile, but right away he felt self-conscious—given the circumstances.
    Hart put up his hand. “Just kidding, of course. She’s a doll. Wouldn’t trade her for anything.”
    “Now wait a minute. You haven’t heard my offer yet,” said Whitman, exploding in laughter.
    Hart threw him a courtesy laugh and waved his finger at the man. “Good one, good one,” he said as he backed out of the little store as quickly as he could without appearing to be rude.
    Hart’s perfunctory smile faded as he turned on his heels and headed back to the car, grabbed the nozzle and went through the usual pump routine. Then he opened the driver’s side door. “I’m going to hit the bathroom. Frickin’ Aunt Jemima.”
    Summer chuckled. “Have fun.”
    Hart put his hand on his stomach. He winced, slammed the car door and headed for the men’s room, which according to the sign was around back. The door, however, wasn’t the only thud he heard. The jarring of the car caused the old sleeveless nozzle to disengage and hit the ground. Hart stopped and turned.
    “Shit,” he said, bending down and replacing the nozzle, his eyes locked on the slight scratch on the side of his rear panel caused, undoubtedly, by the falling gas nozzle. He sighed and gritted his teeth at the new blemish on his otherwise unmarred car as he walked away, once again to answer nature’s call.
    Hart could feel his stomach gurgling now as he walked, double-time, to the men’s room. Nature’s call was becoming a scream. Turning the corner, he oriented himself in a hurry. Ladies’ room. Men’s room—bingo. He quickly pounded the door open with his balled up hand, his way of knocking and opening the door at the same time.
    He spun to lock the door but found that the old-fashioned thumb screw turned and turned but was obviously broken and would not engage. Forget it .
    A quick mental survey of the quarters and its prewar fixtures was made as Hart got down to business. After a few minutes he glanced at the lock which at this point was nothing more than decoration. Not his favorite situation, but, oh well, no one seemed to be around anyway.
    The Smithsonian Institute should be informed of this place immediately. Those were his last thoughts when he heard the explosion.

SEVENTEEN
    N OT NEARLY DONE, Hart scrambled to pull his pants up, the sensation of shaking competing only with the booming noise that was ringing in his ears. His mind groped for answers as vivid, yet purely speculatory, images filled his head. What the hell?
    He bolted out the door of the restroom, moving with a restrained and guarded quickness; as fast as he could without running headlong into a danger he knew was there but whose details were completely undefined from his current and blind position.
    Peering around the corner, the images in his head morphed into the images that were in fact objective reality. His beautiful car—and everything in it—had been torn apart, burning wreckage scattered everywhere.
    His car seemed to be the nucleus of the explosion— at least to Hart, who couldn’t take his eyes off of it—but its fiery tentacles reached far and wide, flinging flaming auto parts against the walls of Huncke’s, into trees, and into the gas pumps which were moments away from becoming tag team tinderboxes ready to finish