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A small factory, churning out gun parts with no serial numbers. Legal, because they weren’t selling guns — just kits.Ghost guns, like bump stocks, were pretty much a dead end. For me at least.I needed serial numbers. Real ones, accurate ones.Vanessa and I were sipping wine, lazily looking out our Main Street windows. Holding hands, Leon Redbone instrumentals in the background.Pilar came in and sat beside me, took a sip of wine. She spoke casually — she hadn’t yet learned that that’s a tell. She was concerned about something.Vanessa smiled, “How you doing, honey?”“Okay. Good.” She turned to me, “Winter, what’s it mean when a boy, someone like Jerry Simmons, says he wants to be my friend?”“Sooner or later, panties will be involved.”Constance Grayson and Ash Collins came to Kansas City. To Sandra Fleming’s FBI office at 1300 Summit. The last time they were both here was the day Wexler grabbed Constance and, eventually, was allowed to escape with Ash as his hostage.Once again, I played. . to her current appearance. Maria, in the dressing room at Walmart, had even showed her what that might look like by pulling up her skirt, and pulling down her panties. Tiffany's assurance that no man could resist her if she shaved down there, had been taken with a grain of salt, at the time.But now she was much more interested in exploring this new idea. She had gotten the bra and panty set out several times, letting her fingers slide over the soft fabric, or pull and pluck at it. The material was a rich, dark maroon color, and felt as soft as the fur of a kitten. It was made of what she would have called yarn, though it was impossibly thin yarn, compared to what she had seen the old grandmothers working with in Russia. Plus it was woven loosely, which meant it would stretch easily. She tried the bra on once, and then performed antics in front of the mirror to see if it restrained her breasts as she jumped or danced. It did not. It framed them. It displayed them. But it did nothing.
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