She pulled it out of her purse. Slowly, cautiously, always looking around, making sure I was the only one who could see it. She said it was a .32. I believed her. Just as quickly as she showed it to me, she shoved it back in between a plastic bundle of tissues and what appeared to be a thin red wallet.
"That's why I'm drinking like this, mister." She chased her words with a shot of whiskey. Her fifth, by my count.
You know you can't stop there. Finish Cizak's masterful noir here.
Next: Clair Dickson's "Hit Women," featuring fiction's boldest and baddest detective, Bo Fexler.