“That’s the LeMat I sold your technical director,” I said.
“It is. He sold it to me yesterday. He said now that we have the replicas made, we don’t need it anymore.”
She slipped her finger in the trigger, closed one eye, and pointed the thing at my front door. I put a hand on the barrel and lowered the muzzle.
She clucked her tongue. “Don’t worry, it’s unloaded.”
I kept my hand on it. “Every gun is loaded until you check.”
She didn’t look the least bit chastened, but nonetheless laid the gun on the counter. I rotated the cylinder and checked each chamber, gave the shotgun barrel a good examination too. Outside, her bodyguard/chauffeur scanned the sidewalk. Maybe he was expecting fans to rush out of nowhere like some Hollywood-dazzled flash flood, but unless the folks at the taqueria spotted Portia, he’d have no trouble today.
She watched me. “Do you have bullets for it?”
“It doesn’t take bullets. You need lead balls and caps and wadding, black powder too.” I sent the gun back her way. “And yes, I sell those. But a LeMat is a pain to load, and it will run a chain fire on you in a heartbeat.”
“The TD said the same thing. But I haven’t had any problems with it.”
I was surprised. “You fired this on set?”
“Not this one, one of the replicas. They won’t allow real weapons on set.” She ran her index finger along the barrel. “It made a lot of noise, but that was it. Noise and smoke and nothing else. But this gun…this gun has history. I can sense it when I hold it in my hand.”
I’d heard similar talk from my clients. Antiques supposedly soaked up the past like some kind of metaphysical battery. Reenactors spoke of tapping that energy on the field, feeling it connect them to the long-dead soldiers who’d carried the relics into battle.
“I understand the appeal,” I said, “but if this were my gun, I wouldn’t be shooting it.”
“Why not? Is it dangerous?”
“Probably not. This one’s in solid shape. But shooting it could destroy its resale value.”
“I won’t be reselling it.”
She took it in hand again, but didn’t point it. Her expression was curious and cunning, very Mad Luna, but also analytical and shrewd. Very Portia Ray, I decided. Unlike my reenactment clients, she felt no stirring inside her, no connection to a larger purpose. It was a tool to her, as practical as a screwdriver.
“Regardless,” I said, “if you plan to take it anywhere besides your car or home or place of business, you’ll need a carry license.”
“Can I get that from you? Ammunition too, the whole deal?”
“The license comes from the probate office, but I can supply the rest, including a nice carry bag. If you’d like to pick one out—”
“No, you do it. Send everything to me in care of the TD. Put it on the Moonshine tab.”
“Of course. I’ll have it delivered in the morning.”
“Thank you.” She returned the gun to her bag. “I’ll admit, I’m not very good with guns and bullets and such. But if Luna and I are in it for the long haul, I need to learn.”
I smiled. “Very admirable.”
She smiled too, regarding me with frank appraisal. She was here for something that had nothing to do with the gun. I was about to quiz her when she got down to business.
“What were you really doing at the set, Tai Randolph?”
I blanked my expression. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Nicky said you were bringing props. But you weren’t. I checked with the TD.” She leaned forward in a just-between-us pose, propped her elbows on the counter. “Yours wasn’t the only pass Nicky approved that day. He also approved one for this tall drink of water in an Italian suit, one Trey Seaver, currently of Phoenix Corporate Security, formerly of the Atlanta Police Department.”
Dang it, I thought. She’s a better detective than I am.
“And?” I said.
“And that means you’re no ordinary gun supplier. Because I remember Trey Seaver. Very well.” She tapped my countertop with her forefinger. “And you two left together. In a Ferrari.”
Crap. She’d seen everything.
“Is that why you’re here?” I said. “To quiz me about Trey?”
“I’m here because I want to know what’s up. It’s something with Nicky, isn’t it? What is it this time? Drugs? Sex parties? He hasn’t gone off the deep end again, has he?” Her cheeks flushed with sudden emotion. “Quint came out here because of him, did you know that? Nicky started using again, and Quint had to give everything up to take care of him. Has Nicky dearest explained that?”
I got a pang of empathy and reminded myself that she was an actress. This was her job, provoking a response in me. Was Quint really that caring a brother? I had a hard time believing it. From what I’d seen, he wanted to control Nick more than care for him. And if he and Portia were so cozy, why was he living in the guest house?
Portia shook her head. “Addison thinks she cured him. He was all cute and dangerous when she met him, a bad boy in need of a good girl. Nicky mumbling nonsense? Nicky not bathing? She won’t want any part of that. Wait until she sees him in his underpants with breakfast still in his beard.”
I remembered Addison the night of Nick’s crash. She was getting a taste of the challenges, that was for sure. And stepping up to the plate, I had to admit, even if she carried a whiff of martyrdom about her. Like saving Nick Talbot was her ticket to heaven, and she was willing to mow down anyone in her path to do it.
Portia’s eyes grew bright and wet, but her jaw was taut with anger, not sadness. “I’m sorry. I
