Moist (12 page)

“Yeah, man, everybody's got a fuckin' tattoo now. It's all the rage.”

. . .

Don was getting frustrated. Sure, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. It was only a matter of time before he tracked Bob down. But right now, when he could be processing that arm, running the prints, beginning to piece together an indictment that could bring the Mexican mafia in southern California to its knees and make Don a law enforcement hero all in one fell swoop, right now Don was in the second act of a wild-goose chase, and it was starting to piss him off.

Don went over the checklist in his mind. He'd been to Bob's place of employment, apartment, and girlfriend's place of employment. Don smiled thinking about that. Who ever heard of a masturbation coach? Don had never given masturbation much thought. Sometimes he felt slightly, er, engorged, and just did it. It helped him fall asleep when he was stressed out. But he had to admit that the idea of a coach was exciting. Or maybe it was the idea of that particular coach. She was really attractive. He pulled her card out of his pocket and looked at it. Then he thought better of it. Maybe he just needed a girlfriend. Don put the card away.

Don hadn't had a girlfriend in about a year. He didn't know why. It wasn't as if his friends weren't always trying to set him up with some Amanda, Karen, or Dana. He'd just gotten into his work. With the exception of his enological pursuits, Don had done nothing but work. He had pored over every wiretap word by word, he had begun to learn Spanish, had gone through the income tax returns like an auditor, studied phone bills; thousands of tiny details about Esteban had been scrutinized. To clear his head, to keep his sanity, Don had spent nearly every night drinking a bottle of good wine.
Drinking alone in that fancy wine bar. Letting the wine wash the minutiae away in broad burgundy strokes.

Don sat in his car, stuck in traffic. This was annoying. Why did Bob have to break up with his girlfriend today? Why couldn't he just do his job? Don was doing his. He wasn't mooning over some lost love somewhere. He considered arresting Bob for obstruction, not that the DA could ever make it stick, but just to fuck with him. Let him stew in jail for a few days. Run him around a little, just like he was running Don around now.

Don had to laugh at himself. He was not normally a vindictive person. He didn't usually get emotional about the small glitches that occur in any investigation. But Don had to admit that he was growing tired of his obsession. It had gotten to him. Ground him down. That's why he was so anxious to find Bob and get that arm over to Processing.

. . .

Bob and Norberto led the stocky guy into the tattoo parlor. The drugs were kicking in fast, the guy's legs functioning sporadically and then not at all. Bob shifted his grip.

“Heavy fucker.”

Norberto agreed.

“Gringos eat too much, man. They eat the fuckin' world.”

After they went through the front door a bearded man in a tattered leather motorcycle jacket and ripped jeans flipped the sign around so it read
CLOSED
and locked the door behind them. When the biker guy walked he produced a distinct rhythm, his biker boots clomp-clomping as a long wallet chain ka-chinged against his leg. Bob was impressed, not so much
with the place but with himself.
Here I am in a real tattoo parlor with a real Hell's Angel–looking tattoo artist. Cool.

The tattoo artist looked at Larga.

“This the guy?”

Esteban nodded.

“He looks fucked-up, man.”

Norberto answered this one.

“He is, man, trust me.”

The biker shrugged.

“Put him in the chair and hold him down.”

Bob and Norberto dragged Larga to a chair in back and plopped him down. Larga flopped over like a dead geranium.

Amado had met them there and nodded to Bob like,
Job well done
. A little sheepish, Bob nodded back, then turned and took in his surroundings. He couldn't believe all the different designs displayed on the wall. There were hundreds of them. Cool-looking Celtic bands, panthers, Mayan suns, Maori tribal face tattoos. There were pictures of Japanese dudes whose entire bodies were covered with the most incredible and colorful tattoos. Bob was excited, he desperately wanted a tattoo. He thought it would perfectly symbolize his newfound freedom. But what image? Then Bob was struck by another thought. He turned to the bearded tattoo artist.

“Does it hurt?”

The tattoo artist smiled at him.

“What do you think?”

. . .

Martin stood near the back and watched as the tattoo artist, who looked like the poster boy for a Harley-Davidson ad, held
Amado's severed arm under a light. The old biker looked at Amado.

“What was her name?”

Amado grunted.

“Felicia.”

The tattoo artist looked back at the arm.

“I can't make it look exactly the same. It's gonna look new. No way I can fix that.”

Esteban had an expression on his face that Martin had seen before. It was the look of a man who had reached his limit, who was ready to explode into a rage and kill everyone in the room. But Martin knew that Esteban had a masochistic streak. He would hold the rage in as long as he could. He would push it down into his belly and hold it there. He would be needing some Maalox soon.

“The police haven't seen it yet, they just have some photos. It'll be fine.”

Norberto chimed in.

“It doesn't have to be exact,
cabrón
. Just make it close enough.”

Martin watched as Bob went over to Esteban.

“Can I get one?”

Martin held his breath. He was certain Esteban was just going to punch Bob in the stomach. Martin had seen it countless times. He knew that getting hit in the stomach hurt, it knocked the wind out of you, but no matter how excruciating the pain, you had to stay on your feet. If you fell to the floor, Esteban would kick you until you were unconscious.

But, to Martin's surprise, Esteban laughed.

“Sure.”

A stream of drool suddenly spilled out of the fat guy's mouth. The tattoo artist looked concerned.

“Is he dead?”

“He's just sleepy.”

“He looks dead.”

Norberto patted the fat guy on the head.

“No, man, I just slipped him some Rohypnol.”

“What's that?”

“You know, man, it's the date-rape drug.”

“What is it?”

“Guys slip it to
las mujeres
and it knocks them out.
Entonces tú puedes meterla hasta los puños.
When they wake up they can't remember anything.”

Esteban leaned in for a better view.

“No te acuerdas de nada?”

Norberto nodded and pointed to Larga's unconscious body.

“Yeah, man, you can fuck him if you want. He'll never know.”

The men looked at each other for an excruciating minute. Esteban broke the silence.

“Jesús Cristo, pendejo. No somos bujarrones.”

Norberto shrugged.

“He wouldn't know, that's all I'm saying.”

Martin looked at his hands. They were wrapped around the back of a chair, white-knuckled, digging into the wood until they hurt. Martin released his grip, clenched and unclenched his fists. He couldn't believe how tense he was.
At this rate I'll be dead of a heart attack before I'm thirty,
he thought. He needed to talk to Esteban about letting him get
an office. He needed some kind of sanctuary from this madness. Running around, riding in cars, kidnapping people, it was all getting to be a little much. Martin realized he really needed a smoke. He nodded to Esteban.

“I need some air.”

Esteban didn't seem to care, and for that matter nobody else seemed to care either, so Martin walked through the tattoo shop, past the ratty back room with its old TV set and battered refrigerator. He opened the back door and stepped out into the sunlight. The alley behind the tattoo parlor was nice. Sunny and clean and quiet. The light hitting the warm red bricks and spilling down to the pocked asphalt. Martin looked around, and didn't see anyone. He pulled a nice smooth jumbo out of his pocket and fired it up. As he exhaled a deep plume of gray into the air he realized that if he had an office, he could smoke all day. Plop his butt on a couch, put his feet up, pop open a cold can of soda and zone out. He'd still get his work done. He was responsible. But he wouldn't have to ride around in the car endlessly. He'd demand that Esteban make appointments. He took a heavy pull on the joint and held it in his lungs. He liked this idea.

Norberto came out and silently took the joint from Martin's fingers. He took a hit.

“Nice day.”

. . .

Amado watched as the tattoo artist worked diligently to counterfeit his severed arm. His arm was lying right next to
Larga's as the artist went back and forth, measuring, calculating the scale and line, trying to make it as close to perfection as he could.

It was like some kind of strange dream. A
sueño con locotes
calling the shots. The big boss, El Pez Gordo, Esteban stood over the tattoo artist like a nervous schoolteacher, making sure he didn't fuck it up. Amado remembered when Esteban was tough, really tough. In the old days he dealt with problems quickly, showing no mercy. He never lost his cool, he had ice in his veins.

Nowadays he just acted tough. Amado could tell by the look in his eyes. He knew Esteban was afraid. He had gone gringo,
agringarse
. In the old days, Esteban would've just shrugged, and said, “
Chingado.
” And that would have been that. If
las placas
bust us, they bust us. That's
la vida.
Now all Esteban seemed to care about was staying in El Norte and making big money, trying to be legit, respectable. As if being a fucking gangster wasn't respectable enough. Of course Amado realized that there was an upside to Esteban's change of heart, because in the old days he would be dead by now.

. . .

Bob made up his mind. He turned to the tattoo artist.

“Could I get, like, a coffee cup right here on my arm, you know, and spell Felicia's name in the steam?”

“How big?”

“Not too big. A little one.”

Bob held his finger and thumb about two inches apart.

“Sit down.”

Esteban stepped forward.

“Do we have time for this?”

The tattoo artist looked at him.

“The outline ink needs to set before I do the shading. It won't take long.”

Bob winced as the machine, kind of like an engraver—a skin engraver—started buzzing. It hurt, but not as bad as he thought it would.

Bob looked up at Amado.

“When do I get to meet her?”

“Felicia?”

“That's the deal.”

Amado and Esteban exchanged glances.

“You want to meet her tonight?”

“That'd be awesome.”

Esteban nodded.

“We need to get you an alibi. Someplace where you spent the night.”

Bob turned to the tattoo artist.

“I'm really upset because I broke up with my girlfriend.”

The tattoo artist nodded and stroked his beard philosophically.

“Fuckin' chicks, man.”

Then he went back to tattooing.

Bob looked over at the guy in the matching track suit. Kidnapped, knocked out, tattooed. Wow. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bob felt sorry for him. Of course, Bob realized, none of this was his fault. They had originally planned to kill him and destroy the arm, then the smart white guy had come up with this other plan. That saved his life. His life for a stranger's arm. It wasn't great, but it was better than the alternative.

Bob was curious about the fat guy. He reached over and pulled a wallet out of the tracksuit. Esteban growled.

“What are you doing?”

“I just want to see who this guy is.”

With one hand Bob flipped the wallet open and saw the driver's license.

“Max Larga.”

Bob flipped through the wallet.

“He's an organ donor.”

Esteban ripped the wallet out of Bob's hand.

“Look,
pendejo,
you don't want to know too much about people.
¿Entiendes?”

“Why not?”

“Just trust me on this. It's better not to know.”

Bob looked at Amado. Amado nodded.
“Es mejor,
Roberto,
es mejor.”

Bob nodded.

“Okay.”

Bob looked at his arm and watched as the tattoo artist inked and dabbed, inked and dabbed. A beautiful coffee cup and saucer were appearing.

“Can you put some color in?”

“No problem.”

. . .

Amado stood up and looked at the clock. He turned to the tattoo artist.

“You got a TV?”

“In the back.”

“My
telenovela
's starting.”

“Make yourself at home.”

Amado walked into the back, past Esteban, who was rolling his eyes. He found the TV and a ratty old couch. Amado clicked on the tube, walked over to the wheezing refrigerator, and opened it. He pulled out a long-neck Budweiser and settled in on the couch to watch his show. The thick sweet smell of
mota
came drifting in from the alley where Norberto and Martin were getting stoned.

As the theme music for the
telenovela
began, Norberto came scurrying in.

“¡Ay, qué padre!”

Amado made a shushing sound as Norberto flopped on the couch next to him.

The lead actress—Amado had a huge crush on her—walked into a doctor's office on the small screen. Amado turned to Norberto.

“Ella es cojonuda.”

“Como tú.”

Amado smiled at the compliment. He was proud of his reputation—he had
cojones
, and everyone knew it. No matter what anyone said,
cojones
counted.