Free Fatal by Eric Drouant Page B

a pair of smallish but very nice breasts. She stopped, looked around uncertainly, and finally found Kenny with those eyes.
    “Hi,” he said, getting up from a chair behind the counter. This customer looked a lot more interesting than the two-year old copy of Guns and Ammo he was reading. “What can I do for you?”
    The girl smiled, still looking uncertain. “I don’t know. I guess I need some help. I don’t know much about guns.”
    “Okay, that’s what they pay me for. What kind of gun are you looking for?”
    “I don’t know.” She smiled again, pulled her hair back with both hands, and twisted it into a rope over her shoulder. Kenny was having a little trouble concentrating. He sensed a sale, but somehow the sale was playing a deep second fiddle to the chance to talk to this girl. He was accustomed to fat old men, or eager young men who thought they already knew everything about weapons. They usually didn’t know shit. But this. This girl was the best thing to walk into the shop in months.
    “Here’s the thing,” she was saying. “My dad likes to hunt deer. I don’t know why, he just gives them away after he kills the poor things ‘cause my mom won’t even let him near the house with one that’s dead and she won’t let him mount one of those heads up on the wall either. That’s gross.” She was talking fast and a little out of breath. Kenny knew because he was watching her chest. “Anyway, she wants to get him a gun to kill deer with. What’s a good gun for that?” She caught up with herself. “Oh yeah, and some kind of pistol, and a holster with one of those leg tie things, you know what I mean? Like, to hold it down? My mom says guys like that because it makes them feel like cowboys or something.”
    Kenny Watt figured he had died and gone to heaven and he was going to do it with a little cash in his pocket. He took his time, nodding along with her, pretending to think over everything she was saying. He gave her a minute to fiddle with her hair, rubbed his chin.
    “Well, I think we can come up with something. What kind of rifle does he use now?”
    The question seemed to stump her. “That’s the thing, he just started last year and his friend lends him a gun. That’s why my mom wants to get him his own. He goes on the weekends with his buddy.”
    “Oh yeah, a man has to have his own rifle,” Kenny said, nodding his head. “But let me ask you one more. Was your dad ever in the Army?”
    “Yeah, but only for a couple of years. He got out because he hurt his back.”
    “Let me show you a rifle he’ll be familiar with then. It might bring back some old memories for him and he won’t have to get used to it. We just got these in. They’re Army surplus but they’re brand new, still in the wrapping.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Cassie walked out with an M1 Garand rifle chambered for 30-06, a .38 pistol, and a box of bullets for each. Kenny Watt had $600.00, a grin, a fake phone number, and a decidedly better outlook on the weapons business as a whole. She placed the package on the back seat, waved through the plate glass window at Kenny, who was still very interested in her as a customer, and drove off. Ronnie was waiting at a convenience store three blocks down, sitting on the curb drinking an Icee. He got in and slammed the door.
    “How’d it go?” Ronnie asked.
    “No problem. He would have sold me the whole store if my shorts were just a little higher,” Cassie said. “You men are so easy to manipulate.”
    “I don’t blame the guy. I see you every day, but when you wear those shorts I always get a little...”
    “What?” Cassie said.
    “Umm ... compliant,” Ronnie said.
     
    *****
     
    Luke Francis spent a few hours on the phone after Cassie hung up on him. The time difference between the U.S. and Russia was a problem, as was the fact that he had nothing in place that would allow him to make enquiries into his agent’s welfare. You just didn’t send someone to the KGB