My professor really liked my story

He said it was hilarious and that I could write well, which was a major confidence boost. I decided to go ahead and post the story here, since I'm really happy with it.


The Rocket Scientist
I ordered the salmon, but I only ate the truffle risotto.
The Lakers game played over the bar, a huddled mass cheering and booing with each throw or pass. Seated in front of me, the girl whined like an incontinent puppy begging to go out, only the girl just wanted my attention. I focused on her big, marble-colored eyes and her bleach blonde curls. Her name was Sofia, but everyone called her Newt. For what reason, I didn’t ask. It’s unprofessional to get too personal in my line of work. She had delicately shattered the caramel shell of her crème brulee, eating it in tiny nibbles, as though small portions would keep her trim. Well, it had worked so far. “Mr. Fletcher,” she said, pushing out her pouty lips.
“What is it, Newt?” I asked, my finger thoughtfully rubbing condensation from my cup of watered-down cherry Kool-Aid. I always ordered Kool-Aid when a Lakers game was on. So far, my good luck charm had worked somewhere around 27 of 56 games. Too close to give up the superstition, especially this close to the championship.
“I want answers,” she said.
“And I want my cartoons published in the New Yorker, but we can’t always get what we want.” I began tapping my foot gingerly, cursing myself as the Rolling Stones got stuck in my head.
Newt gave me a vacant stare, and I began to realize how she earned the amphibian nickname. I took pity and said, “yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. You want to know who whacked your hay feverish hubby.”
She nodded like a bobble-head, curls falling from her temples. “Well,” I said, “it wasn’t the shark from Jaws, I can tell you that much. It was Jimmy Fontanero who gave him the facelift at the Edison’s mall map.”
“Jimmy Fontanardo—Fontanerio—Font—“
“They call him the ‘Hurricane.’”
“Oh…. Wh—why’d he kill him?”
“Your hubby got too deep into Jimmy’s gang. Got scared, y’see? So he went to the cops and sang like a parakeet. Hay fever and all, what a trooper.”
“What was he into that made Mr. The Hurricane so angry?” Newt’s poodle poked its head out of her purse. I thought she said the mutt’s name was Wallie, but I’ll be damned if I could bother to remember. I should have asked for something added to this Kool-Aid.
“Hurricane has lots of irons in the fire. My informants tell me that your husband was into a gambling ring, but was coming up like the kid who can’t ride the roller coaster.” She blinked again. “Short,” I added, thinking I needed to come up with better similes. The huddled mass cheered when the buzzer sounded. The game would soon be over. I looked and saw, between the gaggle of jersey-wearing fans and t-shirts, some shady folks in black hats. Hurricane’s men never were much for subtlety. “Excuse me one second, Newt. I’ve gotta visit the john.”
“What for?”
“To go put in a tampon, what do you think, sweetheart?” I stood to go, keeping my eyes on the hats. I was pretty sure they were Hurricane’s mooks, but I wanted to be certain. I studied them carefully from where I stood. Yep, folks in black hats couldn’t be anything but mooks. Except for wizards, but that seemed unlikely.
“You talk funny, Mr. Fletcher,” said Newt.
“Shut up.” I like to think I sauntered over to the bathroom as cool as the Fonz, but I’ll be the first to admit that it was probably more of a half run than anything. I splashed some cool water on my face and looked into the mirror. Yes, still good looking. Still working the dark and mysterious. I took a breath and walked back to Newt, who was lost in the reflection in her pocket mirror. For a moment, I was worried that statement was literal. “Newt.”
Breaking free from her enchantment, she looked up, her eyes a little wider than before. “Yes?” I sat back down in front of her, the cold plate of salmon between us.
“I don’t want you to panic,” I whispered, expecting her to panic no matter what, “but Hurricane has two guys in the crowd that probably want you next.”
Thankfully, she was silent, but her eyes started darting to-and-fro. “Relax, I have a plan.” Right on cue, she quit her jumping about and focused on me. “It’s gonna be a bit… extreme, but you seem like a good actress.”
“I made 128 films when I was in Hollywood for a year.”
“Jeeze Louise. Any I’ve heard of?”
“Depends. Do you stay up late with Cinemax on?”
“Ye—I—let’s get back to the plan. You’re gonna take a bite of this salmon, and then… choke on it. Or pretend to choke, depends on if you’re into that method acting mumbo jumbo. I’ve got a buddy who’s an ambulance dispatcher. He’ll send over an ambulance with a getaway driver that’ll take you to the airport, and put you on a plane to Canada.”
“Why there? I hate the cold.”
“It’s either being cold in the north, or cold and pushing up daisies. Your choice.”
She crossed her arms and sighed. “Fine.”
“I’m going to follow you in my Caddy XLR. When we get to the airport--”
“Mr. Fletcher?” The two black hat mooks from earlier were standing over us. “What a Wonderful World” started playing over the speakers which, if movies taught me anything, meant bad news was coming.
“What’s it to you, beardless Hagrid?” I said, looking up at his gargantuan height.
“You’re under arrest,” the first black hat said as his companion took me up by the armpits like a parent taking their kid out of a high chair.
“For what?” I said, kicking as though the child being taken out of the high chair still wanted his apple sauce.
“Practicing private detective work without a license.” As the first mook put his handcuffs on me and led me out of the restaurant, I heard Newt shouting for me inside.
“Mr. Fletcher! Do you still want me to do the choking thing?”
Newt was a lot of things: widow, dog-owner, probably a porn star, but she was no rocket scientist. Then again, she wasn’t the one being led away in handcuffs.