"Mad fucker," he said. "That's why they call it a smoking gun." His hand didn't shake much, all things considered.
"Now, listen," I told him. "You and McCarver ripped off the girl and the check-cashing place. I know you didn't get much, but I like the way you handled yourself. You sure you've never robbed before?"
"Just did it for the kick, man. No, no, that's not right. Look, I never know where the next book deal is coming from, do I? Layoffs, authors losing contracts, editors getting fired left and right. I have a wife, a baby. I was desperate, and crikey, was I pissed off."
"Does your wife know how you're earning money on this trip?"
He started to stand. I waved the .38. "Aw, sit down. I'm not going to tell her or the FBI. But what was that you said about deals and layoffs and getting fired?"
I reached into my pocket and tossed him a pack of cigarettes.
[Read all of The Baltimore Drive-by so far here. And remember: This is fiction. None of it has really happened.]
© Peter Rozovsky 2009