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Margot nodded and took the gun out of her purse. She ejected the magazine and made sure there wasn’t a bullet in the chamber. She tossed the magazine into an empty pizza box and left the gun by the door.
“You didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t going to shoot you.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“I was telling the truth about how he likes to talk about himself.”
“I believed you.”
“The thing is, he’ll talk about this guy he saw last night. No names or what he looked like, but he’ll tell me about what he did to him, mostly so he can talk about how great he is.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I could use another hundred without a kick to the face if you're interested. I’ll probably see him tonight after my shift at the club.”
“I am interested,” Margot said as she got a business card out of her purse. She handed it to Trixie. “Put the number in your phone and then get rid of the card. You don’t want Barger finding that.”
Trixie nodded and read from the card, “Private detective? Cool. How do you get a job like that?”
“You ruin all your other options.”
“No shit, that’s how I got my job too.”
“Call me anytime.”
“You got it Margot,” Trixie said before she blew a kiss.
Margot walked out, not sure if Trixie was just messing with her or not.
Chapter 9
Margot spent the drive over to Mal’s ‘safe house’ trying to not think about how she had used Trixie as a punching bag for no real reason other than she could. She had plenty of time to think since, in trying to make sure she wasn’t followed, she turned a fifteen-minute drive into a forty-five-minute one. She could think of multiple plays she could have employed before kicking in the door. Anything she told herself to justify it just sounded like the things she’d heard out of Randy’s mouth—or even worse, her dad’s—after they’d spoken with their fists instead of their words.
On the way to the pay-by-the-week motel Mal used when he needed to be scarce, she stopped by a taco shop and picked up a couple of Carne Asada burritos. The fact Mal had a regular arrangement with the owner of the Seashell Motor Lodge should have been a red flag back in the day when they were a couple. It should be a red flag today when he worked for her. Things like the Seashell Motor Lodge arrangement made it hard to keep believing he wasn’t as dirty as OSPD thought he was.
Because by now the police could be looking for her car—and they were definitel
y looking for Mal—she parked a block away on the street and walked down an alley to get to the Seashell. Someone smart might figure it out, but it was better than parking in front of Mal’s room and more or less advertising where he was to any cop who drove by.
She knocked on the door and said, “It’s me, Margot.”
“Door’s open.”
She walked in and found him sitting on the bed staring mindlessly at the television, his phone was on the nightstand and a chrome-plated Colt Python in his lap. She was glad she had identified herself before walking in.
“New gun?”
“Yeah, well new to me, anyway.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t buy it two weeks ago,” Margot said, referring to the mandatory two-week waiting period to buy a handgun.
Mal grinned like he always did when he was spewing out a line of bullshit, “Of course I did, otherwise it’d be illegal.”
Margot decided she really didn’t want to know where and how Mal found himself a hand cannon. Instead she asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Like some asshole shot me. Is that a Carne Asada burrito in the bag?”
“Sure is.”
