Moist (22 page)

Fuck.

He thought about running over and just, you know, tossing it in through the front door, but then he realized they'd have security cameras filming him. They'd eventually track him down, drag him in for questioning. And how do you explain that you just found a severed arm that was supposed to be in police custody?

Fuck.

Martin sat back in defeat. He was out of weed, out of ideas, out of luck. He thought that he should probably just put the arm back in the fridge and go back to business as usual. Taking orders from illiterates. Trying to explain the simplest possible business strategies to violent thugs who only knew how to rob, cheat, steal, and kill.

Fuck.

That was the last thing he wanted. He closed his eyes.

And then, like what happens many times in our lives, just when he felt completely defeated, just as the obstacles to his success appeared insurmountable, inspiration came in the form of a gay man walking his immaculately groomed schnauzer. Martin saw the man walk up to a blue mailbox on the corner and drop in a large envelope.

Fuck, yeah.

Martin quickly wrapped the arm up in the plastic, sealing a few french fries in with it, jumped out of his car, and jammed the arm into the mailbox.

N
ORBERTO, FRESHLY SHOWERED
and dressed in newly pressed clothes, sat in his comfortable chair watching television. He had his shoes off, his feet up on an old cardboard box which once held a stolen computer, and sipped a cold beer. He realized he hadn't relaxed, hadn't had any sense of his normal life since Amado had showed up at his door without his arm. It had all gone totally loco. But now that everything was
resuelto,
he could get back to the simple pleasures he enjoyed. Driving over to Van Nuys or out to Venice to collect money for Esteban. Maybe going with Amado to drop a trunkload of narcotics at some storage unit in Glendale. Sometimes going to the East Side to sell some guns and eat some
carnitas
.

It was easy, undemanding. As long as you kept your cool and dealt with professionals like yourself, not a whole lot could fuck it up. And then there were the perks. Free drinks at numerous bars. No waiting in line at the clubs. And the women . . .
caramba
, man, the women were all over him.
¿Y por qué no?
He was a sharp dresser, young,
guapo,
skilled at the salsa, the samba, and the cumbia. He drove a
nice car and always carried the cash and the drugs to keep the party rolling all night long.

On the one hand, Amado's getting into trouble like that had helped Norberto. He had proven his
cojones
with El Jefe. That was
muy importante.
But on the other hand, it had been a dangerous run. Any number of things could've fucked it all up and ruined everything. But, for the most part, it seemed to have worked out.

Norberto realized he needed to distance himself from Martin. That gringo was
peligroso.
Norberto considered telling Amado and Esteban about Martin's plan. Although he knew it was bad to be a rat, this was an exception, and could help him get in good with El Jefe even more. Besides, Martin annoyed him. If they had to have a gringo around, Norberto preferred Roberto. Roberto was
simpático.

There was a loud knock on the door, and Norberto got up to answer it. It was Amado.

“Hola, ese. ¿Qué onda?”

Amado walked in and looked around.

“Vale pendejo,
where's
mi brazo?”

Norberto looked stunned.

“What?”

“My arm. Where's my fucking arm?
¿Dónde?”

Norberto quickly grasped the seriousness of what was happening.

“
¡Hijo de puta!
I can't believe it, man.”

“What?”

Norberto walked over and clicked the TV off. He looked at Amado.

“Martin talked to me about taking your arm and giving
it to
las placas.
But I said no fucking way, man. It's loco. I didn't do it, man.”

Norberto looked at Amado. He was waiting for Amado to say something, to react. But Amado didn't say anything. He pulled a gun from behind his back and shot Norberto twice in the heart.

. . .

When Bob told Felicia that he didn't have a place to live, she immediately insisted that he move in with her. Bob was flattered and more than a little surprised by her offer. Sure, they were experiencing a kind of strange and intense passion together, but still, didn't it go against the rules somehow? He reminded himself that there was a kind of destiny to everything that was happening. It was preordained that he would be with her. It was just happening so fast. Destiny had its foot on the gas.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to the hundreds of Fridas staring at him, but then, it wasn't like he was Diego Rivera. He wasn't a cad or a playboy. Sure, maybe he liked to look at porn on the Internet, but . . . Maura looked at naked guys all day. So he figured they were kind of even.

For a brief moment he wondered if Felicia modeled herself after Frida Kahlo. That wouldn't be good. Women who go in for that kind of self-torture really need to see a shrink. He watched her as she painted her toenails a bright orange. She was beautiful, wearing just a T-shirt, her feet propped up on a tile-topped coffee table. He realized that his fears, his hesitation, were just what they were. Not real. They were feelings that he could easily overcome.

Bob took the Polaroid of Amado's tattoo out of his pocket and looked at it. He thought for a moment and then stuck the photograph on the wall, right next to a picture of Frida.

Felicia laughed.

“You like that tattoo?”

“Yes.”

“It's funny.”

“What?”

“You. In love with a tattoo.”

Bob shrugged.

“It's like all these Fridas.”

Felicia looked at the Polaroid.

“Amado told you that was me?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope I'm prettier than that.”

Bob looked at the Polaroid and then at Felicia. It was the first time he'd compared the two.

“I'm surprised he didn't get your hair right.”

Felicia laughed.

“I'm surprised you think it's me.”

Bob couldn't tell if she was joking or not.

“So you and Amado never . . . did . . . this?”

She smiled.

“Maybe in his dreams.”

Bob was perplexed. Felicia noticed this and kissed him.

“If you want it to be me, it can be me. I don't mind.”

“You're way better than any tattoo.”

“I should hope so. Can a tattoo do this?”

She started kissing him passionately. Bob began to melt under the onslaught of tongue and saliva when suddenly he
remembered that he still had to call Esteban. He broke from the embrace.

“Shit. I need to make a phone call.”

She looked off toward the kitchen.

“The phone is by the stove.”

“I need to use a pay phone.”

Felicia's demeanor changed.

“Business. With Esteban, no?”

Bob nodded.

“I have to call him. Tell him what happened.”

She was disappointed in him.

“I thought you were a normal guy.”

“I am a normal guy.”

“Roberto, if you're calling Esteban you are not a normal guy.”

“I know it's not a normal thing, but I'm a normal guy doing things that normal guys don't normally do. Honestly, I don't know what else to do right now, but I won't do this forever. Not if it bothers you.”

Felicia looked at him and smiled.

“Just be careful, okay? And get some limes at
la tienda
.”

. . .

Amado looked at Norberto. Man, was that
pendejo
dead. A huge and seemingly endless pool of blood spread like a big evil pancake across the floor.

He wanted to drag Norberto's body out of the living room and stuff it in a closet or something, but he'd come to the sudden and exasperating realization that while it might
just take one little trigger finger to whack someone, it took two hands to dispose of a body.

Amado went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He half hoped that his arm would be in there, that Norberto had been lying. But there was nothing but some moldy take-out, some bottled salsa picante, and a half-dozen beers. He took out a cold Pacifica and went back into the living room. He knew Norberto and Martin had been up to something, he just didn't think it was anything so stupid as going to the police.

Amado heaved a sigh. Young people, they just act impulsively, they never think things through. Never look at all the angles. It's a mistake to be so impetuous. It's
estúpido.
He knew he'd have to call Esteban and warn him, but first he needed to think. Drink a cold beer and contemplate his next move.

Amado popped the tab on the can and flicked on the TV. He was careful not to step in any of Norberto's blood.

. . .

Bob stood on Third Street near the Guatamalteca Bakery. People, dozens of them, were lined up for
pupusas, conchas
, and whatever else they had in there. A middle-aged Mexican woman, wearing a bright blue sweater, was selling roast corn on the cob from a pot she pulled in a small red wagon. A couple of little kids trailed behind her, laughing and slapping at each other. Next to Bob, a man sold peeled mangoes on a stick. Bob realized he was hungry.

In the ensuing communication breakdown, Bob saw his succulent and sweet mango dredged in a mixture of salt and chili powder. Oh, well, when in Rome.

Bob bit into the mango and was surprised at how good it tasted with the bite of the salt and the heat of the chili. He reminded himself that he needed to be more open-minded. Los Angeles, city of the future and hope of the world, demanded it.

The pay phone rang and Bob jumped to pick it up.

“Roberto.”

He told Esteban what had happened, how he'd dropped the arm off, how the police had picked him up and tried to scare him, how he'd stood up to them, outsmarted them, and gotten away with it. Esteban told Roberto that he was proud of him. He'd have the ten thousand in cash brought over to him in a few days. Right now, all Roberto had to do was keep going to work, keep playing up the upset over his breakup, be normal. Esteban would call him in a few weeks and talk about other opportunities.

Bob hung up and finished eating his mango. He decided he'd better learn to speak Spanish.
Rápido.

. . .

Martin drove up Beachwood Canyon looking for a parking spot. The duplex he wanted to go to was a block behind him. There was never any parking on this fucking street. What had originally been a quiet neighborhood was now dense with hipsters, the wannabe writers, actors, and directors who piled into Hollywood to earn their fortunes. Five people might be able to live together in one house, but that meant their five cars were scattered all over the street. So Martin drove on, hoping that he had good parking karma.

Eventually he found three-fourths of a spot and pulled in, letting the back of his car stick out into a red zone. Normally, he wouldn't risk it. The tickets, the possibility of getting towed or, worse, booted, where some kind of medieval torture device is attached to the wheel of your car, kept him out of red zones. But he was out of pot, and tonight, of all nights, he needed some.

He turned the car off, set the handbrake, and unconsciously picked some loose french fries off the passenger seat and popped them in his mouth. They were cold and had a slightly metallic taste. He shuddered, wondering if they'd been the fries that were on Amado's arm. The taste began to expand and take on a life of its own in his mouth. Growing from a dull greasy taste into a harsh accusation of cannibalism. A flavor that said, You have crossed the line, you are going to hell.

He reached for the tin of Altoids, the curiously strong peppermints, that he kept in the side-door pocket of his car, popped two in his mouth, and chewed them up. The mints effectively vaporized any residual french fry taste in his mouth.

He got out of his car and began the long walk down the hill to his dealer's duplex. The mints coupled with the crisp night air made him feel awake, alert, and very alive.

. . .

Esteban drove quickly, not fast enough to draw the attention of the police. He couldn't remember how many successful criminals had been undone by stupid traffic stops, but it was a lot. And it was, above all else, embarrassing. Let the FBI, the DEA, or some special task force bring him down. That
was acceptable. He could go into
la carcel
knowing that the United States government had spent millions of dollars and invested thousands of man-hours putting together a case. But some lone
maricón
pulling him over for speeding?

Still, he pressed his luck. Amado had called and told him it was
muy importante.
Get over to Norberto's
ahora.
Amado was not the kind of man who asked for help, so it must be
muy importante.

It was annoying. He'd just talked to Roberto, and everything seemed to have gone smoothly. Roberto had done his part and had done it beautifully. He was strangely proud of Roberto. Like a father might be. And he had plans for him. Big plans. Roberto wasn't just smart, he had a vibe, an
onda,
about him that Esteban thought could help. Bob was a people person. Just what Esteban needed.

. . .

Maura wanted to smoke. She craved one of those stinky-ass clove cigarettes that French people were always puffing in discos. Yeah. She pushed her plate of vegetable curry and brown rice aside and looked across the table at Don, who was plowing through his dinner like a refugee.

“This is really good.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.”

Don reached over and refilled her glass of wine before refilling his. A gentleman.