I wove through Chinatown trying to remember the name of the poolhall. It was on Cardinal and no one was on the street. Everything is hidden in Dogtown. I parked my car and put on some red lipstick. My right hand was throbbing and beginning to turn dark where I had hit Monica Fullbright.

I have never owned a gun. My father has never owned a gun. I am against the death penalty. I am for gun control. I pushed the door to the poolhall open.

It was black inside with a string of red Christmas lights above the bar. The jukebox was playing Frank Sinatra. A tired hooker with sore feet drooped on the end of the bar, a watery coke in front of her. It was all just as I remembered it. Tim Watson looked up from the pool table where he had just made a triple bankshot—7 and 10 balls in the pockets, cue ball split right, hovering just to the side of the center pocket. He grinned.

“Heard you come in, Whitney,” he said and did his dainty fatman walk to where I stood.

In California it takes ten days to get a real gun from a real store. There is a licensing process. There is an investigation. There is recordkeeping. I put my hand out to Tim Watson.

“I need to get a gun,” I said to him in a low voice. I have never shot a gun, never seen anyone shoot a gun except on television or movies. I have never seen anyone who has been shot with a gun. Tim Watson’s hand was hot.

He smiled. “Miss Whitney Logan, I reckon you ought to get yourself to a store, then. Maybe that I. Magnin or Saks Fifth Avenue. Get yourself a real pretty little one with a pearl handle so it’ll go with your dresses. I’m real glad to see you still wearing those pretty dresses and not charging around in pants and bowties like them bull elephants I seen down at the courthouse.” He squeezed my hand.