I know what I saw, ok, I mean jesus, why you guys always gotta give me shit about this stuff. Fuck!” She’s leaning against the wall, the torn Gucci shirt has fallen over the edge of her shoulder. She is visibly shaken, the incident has taken some of the polish off her demeanor, but my god is she ever mad. You do not want to get within arms reach of her now. We’ve only gone and pissed her off further with our line of questioning. Standing across from her in the tiny interrogation room, she moves to lift her leg to scratch at a newly formed scab on her calf, she stops abruptly and pulls a long drag off of her cigarette instead. The accumulated ash tumbles off the edge, and lands on the front of her skirt. It’s tweed, an A-line cut, as my wife would later describe it to me, and looks to have been expensive, that is, until some dipshit bro thought she needed a date for the evening.
“Look, I am not here to bust your balls, ok? I just need some answers. Your clothes are all kinds of fucked up, and we’ve got what’s left of some dudes corpse downstairs.” She flinches at the mention of the body, I can tell she’s more shaken than she’s letting on. I should offer the counselors services again, but the last one got an earful, and a gold pen to the kneecap.
The smoke she is exhaling is hanging above us in lazy curls. Wafting up to the ceiling, and settling in a haze by the flickering phosphorescent lights. The tiles on the wall are chipped and cracking. The light here is a dim blue, meant to stop junkies from easily finding a vein. The chatter from out in the hallway is just barely audible. A constant smattering of barks, shouts and ringing phones. I can hear a reel to reel recorder in the next room, tick, tick, ticking as the end of the tape flaps freely. Restless people are watching us from behind a smudged, and dirty two way mirror. They are shuffling in their seats, it’s the squeak of the vinyl that gives them away.
“Why does it always stink like farts in here man, like, what the fuck you guys eat in here anyhow?” Trying to antagonize us – always brings a smile to her face. Underneath that Sephora make up is a ruthless, cunning lawyer with sharks teeth in her vagina. She’s not going to give us anything. Running down the clock, and we’ll just stand here, dicks in our hands, mouths agape while she lights up cigarette after cigarette. They are a crisp bright white, and that very fine linen paper, with the ultra wide filter tips. The brown matches her shoes. I have no clue if that’s intentional with Sophia or not.
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