I wasn’t angry with Robin. I did fight to keep my throat from closing off.
“There’s a lot about my sister that you don’t understand,” she said.
It ate me up, but I had to admit she was right.
Another pickup pulled in and another white guy got out, walking with a wide stride into the store. “Anyway,” she went on, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fall in love with you.” Her hand left mine. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I do. I love the feeling of your body against mine. I just don’t intend to get under your spell. That would be trouble.” In a different tone, she said, “Check this out.”
The long black Chevy Suburban bumped loudly from the street into the lot and drove straight to the front of the gun shop. It didn’t use a parking space but pulled up just ahead of the door. Two muscular Hispanic men got out. They weren’t bangers. Both wore suits without ties. The driver did a subtle scan of the surroundings and then they both went inside. They moved with a limber, professional gait. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were cops.
Another half hour passed, enough time for the other customer to leave. Soon after, the driver came out and opened the back of the Suburban-it had double doors. Then my new pal Barney wheeled out a cart stacked with long, thin boxes. The three men hefted them into the SUV. The operation took ten minutes at the most, but it was enough for three loads on Barney’s cart. The three men shook hands and the Hispanics sped away. Unless they were buying ammunition for local law enforcement, they were definitely not cops. At least not friendly ones.
I took another chance that evening following cocktails. After getting Robin in the guest room and setting the alarm, I walked around the corner to a bungalow on Encanto Boulevard. It belonged to a neighbor who we had over for dinner parties, when we used to have them, and saw at Central Church on Palm Lane, before Lindsey had decided that if God really did exist she hated him. The door opened after the first knock and Amy Preston invited me inside.
She was fair-haired and attractive, in a girl-next-door way, wearing her mid-thirties well. As usual, she was dressed in a conservative pants suit. If asked where she worked, she would say, “the Department of Justice.” But she really worked for what I kidded her was the “fun agency”: The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. The joke had been spoiled somewhat when the feds added “explosives” to the title.
