From the driver's seat of the pearly white Mercedes, she studies the brick structure across the street. Behind the dark lenses of her large-framed sunglasses, she channels the essence of Jackie O, but the way she keeps glancing in the rear-view mirror and her choice to park between two buildings with an alleyway behind her shows that her fashion choice is more than a disguise – She wishes to go undiscovered.
She's staking out the establishment, contemplating her next move and trying to gain the courage to go inside. The sign hanging lopsidedly on the storefront tells her in peeling red letters that she's looking at 'Lucas Armory & Gunsmith'. The place looks rundown and is set in a less desirable location than the shops she has grown accustomed to, being the wife of a Senator.
Her husband, Leopold Blanchard, is a greedy man with deep pockets and ties to the community that reach far and wide. His peers describe him as a persistently driven man who works hard for what he wants. Regina is more familiar with the man who takes what he wants and lashes out at the nearest target when he doesn't get it; a man very different to the one she married seven years ago. That man drowned in too many decanters of bourbon while trying to climb to the top of Capitol Hill.
With a steeling of her nerves, Regina reaches for the handle on her car door, gently pushing it open. The clip-clop of her Prada sling backs on the pavement are drowned out by the beat of her heart in her ears as she makes her way across the street towards the entrance of the shop. The jangling of a bell as she pushes the door open startles her, but she recovers herself quickly, playing it off as she adjusts the strap of her Chanel tote.
There's an older woman behind the counter, with gray and white hair tied back in a loose bun. A TV is turned on in the corner, a local news station rolling that morning's reel. The old lady looks up from a clipboard, peering over the rims of her glasses. She stares, eyes narrow, at Regina with her designer chiffon blouse, slacks, shoes, handbag, and face-ware. She knows what this woman is thinking, has perceived it on the face of all the other gun-store owners she's seen over the last few weeks.
Holding her chin high, she makes a beeline for the register, noting the presence of a large man in a storeroom off to the right. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest and her voice does not sound like hers when she speaks, which Regina finds a rather good thing considering what she was here for.
"I'd like to buy a gun."
The old woman is still watching her, sizing her up. "I need to see two forms of identification and a proof of residency." Her tone is straightforward yet wary.
"I'd like to buy a gun anonymously," Regina says, her hand clenching around her handbag strap.
The old lady raises an eyebrow. "No ID, no gun."
Regina clamps her jaws together tightly and tries to take a long, deep breath to calm herself. She debates removing her red and black tortoiseshell shades, revealing the unattractive hues and busted blood vessels around her eye that she had failed to cover up that morning before leaving home. She reaches up, fingers resting against the shades. Her eyes flit to the TV. A reporter had come on, talking about the candidates for the upcoming election, and she sees a shot of Leopold giving a speech. It was from last Friday. She sees herself, in the corner of the frame, and her hand drops from her shades.
The old woman glances behind her, eyes following Regina's gaze, and sees the TV. She looks back at Regina and Regina knows that the old lady knows exactly who she is. For an uncomfortable moment, she doesn't know if the woman is going to help her or kick her out.
It was a long shot coming here in the first place, risky enough to be recognized out and about in a part of town like this, especially during this time of year when they've been launching televised campaigning. Her face has been in the papers, plastered all over the local news, on color print flyers for various charities and functions. It wouldn't do for the media to catch her trying to buy a gun from a derelict place like this.
"Doesn't your husband have guns you can use?"
Leopold had lots of guns. He had always been pro-gun, favors the Second Amendments rights as they stand. He owns his own collection of hunting rifles and pistols that stay locked away in a gun closet until the start of hunting season. Each gun was purchased legally, declaring them easily traceable. Exactly what Regina didn't want.
"I can pay." It's a stupid attempt to try and change a mind Regina is sure is already made up, but try she does. "Please."
The old lady taps her finger twice on the glass counter in front of her. "Give me a minute." She sidles off to the large door situated to the right of the cash wrap. She motions to the man in the storeroom, crooking a finger and signaling for him to follow her. He does and Regina is left alone in the showroom.
She takes in the neatly lined stacks of various ammunition, the case of mean looking knives, the tall display cabinet with long barrel rifles, and the wall that holds the more garish items that you'd only see in modern war movies. A large display case near the counter holds an impressive looking crossbow.
Glancing at the weaponry around her, she realizes she really shouldn't be here, doesn't belong in a place like this, and what the hell had she been thinking? Senators' wives don't buy guns. She knows her judgment had slipped too far in the past few days, she knows, and she wants to turn and run for the door. Her heart is racing again, thoughts scattering as the old lady comes back into the showroom and tells her, "Go on and see John in the back."
There isn't much to see in the backroom, just a mess of gun parts, tools, screws, table vices, and the large man from the storeroom. Her mouth goes dry as she tries to swallow her nerves, but she locks onto his eyes from behind the shield of her Versace shades and somehow regains her composure.
The man is giving her a half smile that shows skepticism and she's fighting the urge to cross her arms over the front of her body in a protective effort. Her knuckles must have gone white from where she's squeezing them around the chain strap of her purse. Her tongue pops out for just a second to wet her lips and she adjusts her weight from one hip to the other. The man – John – looks her up and down, assessing her the same way the old woman had when she first walked in to the store.
"Granny can't sell you a gun."
"Then why –" She points to the door, wondering why she had been sent back here if she wasn't going to be able to purchase what she wanted.
"But I know someone who can," John says, handing her a card. "Can teach you how to use it properly, too."
She takes the card from him, crumples it in her palm, and turns to leave. She doesn't glance at the woman – Granny – behind the counter as she goes, doesn't bother saying 'thank you' or 'good bye'.
She doesn't look at the card John had given her until she's back in the safety of her car, tinted windows rolled up and the world shut out. There isn't much on the card, just a phone number and a name handwritten in a spiky font.
Robin Locksley.