Read Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) for Free Online

performance still counted. 
    He pulled the pistol from the bag.  Ruger GP100® was engraved along the blued steel of the barrel.  And beneath that: .357 MAGNIM.   
    Jack turned it over in his hands.  So heavy… so solid… so totally cool .  He realized he was grinning, most likely like an idiot.
    I think I’m in love.
    He noticed a slip of paper on the Ziploc.  He pulled it out and unfolded it to reveal a note scrawled in a crabbed hand: Call for instruction – NOW!   A number followed.
    Okay, okay.  Will do.
    He grabbed some change and headed for the phone in the hallway.  Now was fine with him.  He wanted to fire this thing. 
     
    2
    He said his name was Dane Bertel.  Jack doubted that was true but didn’t much care.  He might have been the guy who’d sold him the gun.  Jack hadn’t given his real name either.  The only for-sure real thing between them was the hundred-dollar bill Jack had handed him.
    He’d obviously taught pistol safety before.  Maybe he did it for the NRA for folks with legal, registered weapons, and then freelanced on the side for people like Jack. 
    Jack had driven his Harley to the Calverton shooting range at damn near the end of the Long Island Expressway, almost to Riverhead at the fork.  Along the way he followed the speed limits like a Sunday-only driver.  If he got stopped he’d be an unlicensed driver on an unregistered vehicle transporting an illegal handgun.  Talk about a bad day. 
    Dane Bertel met him in the parking area.  He looked about sixty, with a shock of short gray hair that stood out in all directions.  He wasn’t dressed in fatigues or the like, but he had soldier written all over him.  Make that ex -soldier.
    After escorting Jack to the office where they paid their fees, he led him to what was basically a huge sand pit.  They set up at the short, ten-yard pistol range.  He grinned and shook his head when he saw the Ruger.
    “Abe and his revolvers.”  His voice sounded as if he’d just spent a day screaming at bootcamp grunts.
    “What do you mean?”
    “A long-running argument: I like semi-autos and he prefers revolvers.”
    Had Bertel given Abe shooting lessons too?
    “A pistol’s a pistol, right?  What’s wrong with revolvers?”
    Bertel shrugged.  “Sometimes six shots aren’t enough.”
    “Isn’t there something called ‘reloading’?”
    “Yes, but there’s also something called ‘no time.’  And don’t be smart, kid.”
    Why did people say “don’t be smart”?  He always wanted to stick his tongue out the side of his mouth and say, “Duh, okay.” 
    But what Bertel said made perfect sense.  Jack just hoped he was never in a spot where he needed more than six shots.  Ever.  Because if he found himself facing three machete-wielding matóns from the DR, he knew he’d want more.
    He was definitely getting tired of being called “kid.”
    “And let’s get something straight,” Bertel added, hefting the Ruger.  “This isn’t a pistol.  I’m something of a nerd about nomenclature, and by definition a pistol’s chamber is part of the barrel.”
    Nerd would have been the last word Jack would have used to describe Bertel, but he was sure as hell making a nerdy distinction, and not a completely clear one.  Jack couldn’t resist a little fun. 
    “Wait a sec.  That would make a shotgun a pistol.”
    Bertel eyed him.  “What?  Are you stupid or just being a wise ass?”
    “I prefer it to being a dumb ass.  But a shotgun’s chamber is part of the barrel, so–” 
    “Don’t sass me, boy.”
    “Hey, you’re the self-proclaimed nomenclature nerd.  You said–”
    Bertel took a breath.  “Allow me to rephrase: By definition a pistol is a handgun wherein the chamber is part of the barrel.  Clear?”
    “As glass.”
    “Therefore your typical semi-automatic handgun is a pistol.  A revolver’s chamber is in the cylinder, which is separate from the barrel.  So therefore we will refer to your Ruger