P90

We sat down on the couch, with Murphy's heavy bag on the coffee table. Murphy snacked on dry Cheerios from a bowl with her fingers. "Okay," I told her. "First things first. Where is my gun?"
Murphy snorted and nodded at her bag. I got in and opened it. My .44 was inside. So was Murphy's boxy little submachine gun. I picked it up and eyed it, then lifted it experimentally to my shoulder. "What the hell kind of gun is this?"
"It's a P90," Murphy said.
"See-through plastic?" I asked.
"That's the magazine," she said. "You can always see how many rounds you have left."
I grunted. "It's tiny."
"On a hyperthyroid stork like you, sure," Murphy said.
I frowned and said, "Full automatic. Ah. Is this weapon precisely legal? Even for you?"
She snorted. "No."
"Where'd you get it?" I asked.
"Kincaid," she said. "Last year. Gave it to me in a box of Belgian chocolate."
I took the weapon down from my shoulder, flipped it over, and eyed a little engraved plate on the butt. " 'We'll always have Hawaii,' " I read aloud. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"


White Night Chapter 43, Page 466-467