Dying Breath. Wendy Corsi Staub

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      Eddie Casalino grew up in Atlantic City; he knows the beach, the boardwalk, and most of the casinos inside and out.

      Not that he gambles. What a waste of hard-earned cash.

      At twenty-two, he’s got better plans for his money: big plans. For a year now, he’s been saving every spare dollar from his day job at Packages Plus and his night job as a desk clerk at Bally’s. A few more months, and he’ll have enough for a bike. Not just any bike—a Harley. Used, but in great condition.

      Then he’ll be able to move to a better apartment, someplace off the public transportation route.

      Yeah, by fall, he’ll be riding his bike back and forth to work, living someplace with decent plumbing, maybe even a yard or a balcony. Who knows? Maybe a view of the ocean.

      Dream big…that’s what his mother always told him.

      Last week, he went to Kaminski, his boss at Packages Plus, to ask for a raise.

      “You need to step it up a little, Eddie. Talk to the customers. Don’t just hand them their mail, weigh their packages, take their money. Be friendly. If I see more initiative from you, I’ll think about a raise.”

      He’s been remembering to do what Kaminski said. He’s stepped it up at Bally’s, too, making small talk with guests as they check in and out. He’s never been much of a chatterbox, so it doesn’t come naturally to ask people where they’re from, if they’ve ever been to Atlantic City before, whatever. He tries to act interested in their answers, but he really doesn’t give a shit.

      “Night, Eddie,” calls Angela, one of the blackjack dealers, as she passes him on his way to Pacific Avenue.

      “Morning, Angela,” he returns, as usual, and they smile before continuing on in opposite directions. She’s about to clock in; he’s about to take the jitney to his rented room and catch a few hours’ sleep before he has to be back behind the counter at Packages Plus.

      Sometimes, he imagines asking Angela—who, he’s heard through the grapevine, is divorced with a couple of kids—if she wants to go out with him. But a hot older woman like her wouldn’t want to ride the bus to T.G.I. Fridays and the multiplex.

      It’ll have to wait until fall.

      As he walks along the deserted street toward the bus stop, Eddie smiles at the thought of Angela on the back of his new bike, her arms and legs wrapped around him.

      Dream big. Yup.

      All he needs is—

      “Dude!” he blurts involuntarily as a figure abruptly steps out of the shadows in front of him.

      Startled, Eddie stops short—he has no choice, the person is standing squarely on the sidewalk, facing him, blocking his way.

      “What—”

      Then he sees the gun.

      In the split second before it goes off, he looks up. In shocked recognition of the shooter’s face, his voice clogged with dread, he begins to ask, “Why—–”

      Then a flash of blinding pain, and everything shatters: his bewilderment, his big dreams, his skull.

      Lying on the sidewalk with his brains spattered around him, Eddie Casalino dies.

      The lone witness is his black-clad killer, who whispers, “Sorry, dude,” before tucking away the gun and disappearing into the night.