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“You a cop?”
“No.”
“You look like a cop. You even smell like a cop.”
“What’s a cop smell like?”
“It’s the breath. You smell like you’ve been sucking pig dick.”
“How do you know what that smells like?”
“Go fuck yourself, cock breath.”
Trixie started to shut the door, but Margot drove the heel of her Nikes into it. The kick broke the chain and knocked Trixie over on her butt.
Margot stepped in and shut the door behind her.
Trixie lived in a nicer building, but her place was trashed. Take-out boxes and liquor bottles shared floor space with overflowing ashtrays and drug paraphernalia. The only furniture was a big sectional that at one time might have been blue. Trixie crawled over to it, knocking trash out of the way to get there and reached under the cushion.
Margot stepped over the trash and grabbed Trixie’s arm. She pinned her wrist against the sofa and put the palm of her other hand against Trixie’s elbow. She began to slowly push the elbow joint in a direction it wasn’t meant to go.
“I can let go and you can bring your hand out empty or I can break your arm. To be honest, I hope you choose broken arm.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“You told me to fuck off and said my breath smells like pig dick. You’re lucky I don’t break your arm just for that.”
“If you’re a cop, you can’t just bust down my door and break my arm. I have rights.”
“I told you, I’m not a cop. I just wanted to talk to you about what Dr. Barger did last night.”
“Why would I want to tell you shit?”
“Well, there is the whole broken arm thing and I was going to give you a hundred bucks.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“I said I’d make it worth your while.”
“Okay, my hand’s empty.”
Margot took her palm off the elbow but kept a grip on her wrist as Trixie pulled her hand out from under the cushion.
Once Margot saw she wasn’t holding anything, she pointed to the other side of the sofa and said, “Sit over there.”
Trixie did as she was told.
Margot lifted the cushion and found a little twenty-two semi-automatic. She picked it up and put it in her purse.
“Popular gun,” she said, thinking it was the same caliber as Katrina Stone’s pistol.
“It’s not mine,” Trixie said.
“I don’t really care.”
“They’ll be mad if you take it.”
“Once we’re done, I’ll put it back.”
