Марк Смит - Moist

“Sí. Muy rico.”

He watched as she slowly submerged herself in the water. He admired her. She didn’t need a bikini or fake tits. She was who she was and she was beautiful that way. She was honest and earthy and soulful. Like guacamole.

Maura walked around to the front of the building. A sign told her that the entrance was in the rear. It seemed strange to her, there was a perfectly functional front door, but it had a metal gate across it. It was probably a security precaution, although if someone were going to rob the store they could just as easily use the back door.

She walked up and around, down the alley, to the back of the building. She pulled open the glass doors, passed a serious-looking metal detector, and took a look around. It was a little overwhelming. She’d never been in a gun store before, and the variety and sheer number of guns took her by surprise. The air was a heady mix of oil and gunpowder, metal and wood. Intoxicating.

Maura strolled slowly through the room, entranced. What was it about these things? What caused her insides to quiver when she held one? Maura didn’t understand what was happening to her. All she knew was that when she held a gun in her hand it triggered something deep inside. It was a connection to a primal, sexual power. Life and death, creation and destruction. Explosion and silence. It was nothing she’d ever felt before.

She laughed at herself

A friendly employee came up to her and spoke directly to her breasts.

“Lookin’ for home protection? Or somethin’ to carry in your purse?”

“I don’t know.”

In fact, she had no idea what she was doing there.

“Lookin’ for somethin’ versatile?”

“Let’s start with that.”

The employee, a round and red-faced American with an LA Dodgers cap, sized her up.

“This your first time?”

Maura nodded.

“Don’t be scared. You use these right, they’ll never hurt you.”

“Okay.”

He walked around behind a glass display case filled with all makes and models of handguns. There were scary black Glocks, lethal-looking Walthers, efficient Smith & Wessons, a truckload of semiautomatic handguns, revolvers, and all manner of death-delivering devices. He pulled out a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. It was big, black, menacing. It meant business. The kind of gun that bad guys used in the movies.

He pulled back the top part to reveal the chamber.

“A Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. Italian-made. Excellent quality. Double action. Fifteen-shot magazine. Guaranteed to drop an intruder before he can get his pants down.”

Maura picked up the gun. It was surprisingly heavy.

“I got it in a slightly smaller version called a Centurion. That’s what some of the female police officers are using.”

Maura pushed down on a lever and the pistol sprang together with a vicious snap.

“Yikes.”

“Just keep your fingers clear. That sucker can pinch like the devil.”

Maura didn’t like the gun, it had no personality.

“I want a more old-fashioned-looking gun.”

“Like a cowboy gun?”

“Like the detectives carry in the movies.”

“I gotcha.”

He pulled out a Colt Detective Special. A snubby little pocket revolver with a two-inch barrel. It was not inspiring. Maura held it like it was a dead fish.

“Do you have something a little… bigger?”

“Surely.”

He pulled out a Colt Anaconda and plopped it on a felt pad. Now, this was a gun. Shiny and silver with a long nine-inch barrel and a big wooden grip.

“It’s heavy. You might have trouble getting a good shot off with this one.”

“It’s really pretty.”

He nodded.

“Yeah, it’s a good-looking pistol. Effective, too. Six-shot. Combat-style finger grooves. Full-length ejector-rod housing, ventilated barrel rib, because you got yourself a real long barrel there, wide-spur hammer, stainless steel.”

The more he described the gun, the sexier it sounded. Maura could feel her pulse quicken, her palms getting sweaty, as she held the pistol in her hands.

“How much?”

“Six hundred bucks.”

Maura was surprised. That wasn’t expensive for such an incredible machine.

“I’ll take it.”

The helpful employee looked at her.

“Can I be honest?”

“Sure.”

“You’re not going to be able to shoot this too good. It’s just too damn big for your pretty little hands.”

Maura didn’t care about shooting the gun.

“I just like the way it looks.”

“There’s lots of guns that’d be good for you to shoot. They’re pretty too.”

“I want this one.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

Maura smiled at him.

“I’m happy.”

Bob couldn’t believe it. It was just like on TV. Two detectives had picked him up at the office and driven him down to Parker Center. They hadn’t said anything at all in the car. The ride was taken in complete silence. Then he was whisked up an elevator and brought here, to this small interrogation room.

Bob sat at a cruddy institutional table on a metal folding chair. Fluorescent lights hummed down from the ceiling. There wasn’t a window, only some kind of see-through two-way mirror on one wall. Stale air drifted in through a vent.

The detective sat on the other side of the table drinking a cup of coffee. Bob watched the detective as he wrote down information on a notepad. He was trying to put some kind of chronology together.

“And after you confronted her at her office?”

“It wasn’t a confrontation. We were just talking.”

“Okay. What did you do after you talked?”

“Drove around.”

“Where?”

“Hollywood. Up Laurel Canyon and down into Studio City.”

“Did you stop anywhere?”

“I think I stopped at Starbucks.”

“Which Starbucks would that be?”

“I don’t know. There’s, like, a million of them.”

Although the questioning was thorough, even intense at times, Bob never felt too nervous. He didn’t sweat or tremble. He did sometimes hesitate, but he wasn’t cocky or cool. He had just the right level of nervousness. He wanted to appear a little nervous. After all, even a completely innocent individual gets anxious around the police.

“Was this in the Valley?”

Bob nodded.

“Yeah. I think so.”

The detective made a note.

“During this time were you under the influence of alcohol or drugs?”

“I’m not a drunk driver, okay?”

The detective looked at him.

“I don’t care if you were, I just want to know.”

Bob sighed.

“I’d had a couple of drinks.”

“What kind of drinks?”

“Tequila.”

“Where did you drink the tequila?”

“In my car.”

“You were driving around drinking tequila in your car.”

“I was parked.”

“Do you recall where you were parked?”

“Some street somewhere.”

“In Studio City?”

“Burbank, I think.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I fell asleep.”

“In your car?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that you had things to deliver?”

“Well, yeah.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I was upset.”

“You were upset.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t want to work.”

“You could’ve driven back to the lab and asked for the day off.”

Bob nodded.

“I wish I’d thought of that.”

The detective made more notes in his notepad. Bob gave him a very sincere look.

“I’m sorry if I messed up something. I didn’t mean to.”

The detective kept his expression serious.

“You’ve hampered a very important murder investigation.”