Moist (29 page)

The phone rang. Chino explained what had happened to Esteban.

. . .

Bob had watched Esteban as he talked on the phone with the producer from Telemundo. It seemed that Esteban had, once upon a time, arranged for some competitor of this guy to lose his green card and then just disappear. Now Esteban was calling in a favor.

So that was how it worked. People did favors for people and expected those favors to be returned someday. Everyone helps each other up the food chain.

Bob realized that he'd need a lot of favors from people, a lot of help. The banking end of it, moving money around, talking to investment bankers, that had all seemed pretty straightforward, pretty easy. The other part of it, laundering the money, moving it from the trunk of a car, letting it filter through a dummy corporation, a telemarketing business, the
phony payroll of a nonexistent construction company, a chain of fish taco restaurants, and a boxing gym; that part seemed too complicated. Wouldn't it be easier to just declare it as money earned doing something in Mexico? Then you could pay the taxes, and call it a day. Esteban had already built up a phony reputation as a papaya farmer. Why not say the money was from papayas? Why not actually buy a papaya plantation?

Esteban made another call, this time to a friend who would manufacture a fake identity for Bob. He'd get a U.S. passport, driver's license, social security card, everything. Esteban turned to Bob and asked him what he wanted to be called. Bob liked the name Roberto, but didn't really know what to use for a last name. Esteban suggested “Durán,” that way Roberto could say his name was “Roberto Durán,” like the boxer. Everyone would remember that.

Bob liked that. Maybe he'd go to the boxing gym and take some lessons.

Get in shape.

The third call Esteban made was not a good one. He was returning a page. Bob heard Esteban's voice fall, then become short, curt, explosive bursts of questions.

Esteban hung up and turned to Bob. They had work to do.

. . .

Don watched as the kid behind the counter cut some clumps of bright green grass and shoved them through a juicer. A liquid that looked more like an industrial cleaner than a health
panacea leaked out into a funnel. How could she drink that stuff? Don had ordered something a little more, well, tasty. He'd gotten one of those giant fruit smoothies. The kind that give you repeated brain freezes and taste like Styrofoam by the time you get to the bottom of the massive cup. He watched as Maura knocked back the shot of wheatgrass juice in one gulp. He shuddered.

But then Maura did lots of things that made Don shudder. Like having sex while holding a loaded gun. What was up with that? She had told him it gave her power, it was her
axis mundi
, a talisman, a fetish object. Don just thought it was a loaded fucking gun that could accidentally go off. It wasn't fun. It wasn't sexy. It was scary. Like wheatgrass juice.

His cell phone rang, and much to Don's surprise he found Detective Flores on the other end. Flores told him about some guy who had turned up staggering around in the desert and was now in a hospital in Palm Springs. Don figured Flores was just too lazy to get in his car and drive out there, so he was dumping it on him. But when Flores mentioned that one of the Ramirez brothers had been killed trying to get to the guy, well, Don couldn't wait to go. Whatever was going on in Sola's crime crew, it was big. If Esteban had to send the Ramirez brothers all the way to Palm Springs to whack some guy, well, maybe this guy had something to say about it.

Don wanted to get to Palm Springs fast, before Esteban sent someone else to finish what the Ramirez brothers had started. In fact, he didn't even stop to drop Maura back at her office. She was just going to have to park that sweet wheatgrass-drinkin' ass in the car and ride out with him. Which, as it turned out, was fine with her.

. . .

Bob entered the house and found Felicia standing on a ladder painting flowers along the top of the wall. She turned and looked at him. It was the kind of look that everyone hopes for when they come home. Her face lit up, her eyes twinkled, a laugh escaped from her body, and her smile was the best thing Bob had ever seen in his life.

“Hola, corazón.”

“Hi, sweetie.”

Bob came up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He gently lifted her off the ladder and set her down so he could look into her eyes and kiss her sweetly on the lips.

“I'm making
pozole.
”

Bob didn't know what to say. For a brief second he wondered why, when it was like ninety degrees out, he was going to be having hot soup twice in one day, but that thought quickly passed.

“I have to go to Palm Springs.”

“For how long?”

“Just for the night. I'll be back tomorrow.”

Felicia's smiled turned into a pout.

“I don't like it, Roberto.
No me gusta.
”

Bob was afraid that she'd react this way. It's so hard to balance a career and a relationship these days.

“But Felicia, honey, it's my job.”

“You should get another job. I don't want to make love to a killer.”

Bob laughed.

“I'm not a killer.”

Felicia wasn't convinced.

“Isn't that what you do for Esteban?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I haven't killed anyone. I mean, I hit a guy on the head with a shovel, but I kinda had to and it didn't kill him.”

“Really? You're telling me the truth?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Do I look like a killer?”

Felicia laughed.

“Honestly, no. But that's what I thought made you a good killer, because you didn't look like one.”

“I'm not a killer.”

Bob could see the smile return to Felicia's face. But just as her grin was starting to light up the room, it shorted out.

“Then what do you do for Esteban?”

“Well. I don't know. I'm kinda new. Right now he just wants me to look after his money, keep the business running. I guess I'm an executive or something.”

“An executive?”

“I guess that's what you'd call it.”

Felicia bit her lip.

“Do you know how to manage?”

Bob grinned.

“I'm learning.”

. . .

Amado sat in bed, just wearing an old cotton robe. He had his laptop on his lap, and he balanced a cold beer on a fat Spanish dictionary that lay in the middle of the bed. Cindy's beer was next to his. She sat on the other side of the bed wearing a tattered Fugazi T-shirt. She had her laptop open too.

Amado looked up from his work. He looked at Cindy and realized that for the first time in his life he felt content. He wasn't working in the fields, he wasn't stealing a car or hijacking a truck. He wasn't carting narcotics from a van to a storage unit somewhere. He didn't have to go hunt someone down and kill them. He didn't have to clean up any bone chips and guts. And best of all, nobody was going to try to kill him for sitting in bed wearing his robe and writing. He was safe. He was content.

Cindy didn't look up from her work. She was concentrating. Amado smiled to himself and got back to work.

The only sound was the clicker-clacking of laptop keys and the occasional soft belch.

They both had a lot to write about.

D
ON HAD TO
think of something. He couldn't very well tell the sheriff that he had brought his girlfriend along for the ride. So he told him that Maura was an assistant district attorney. The sheriff bought that without blinking, perhaps because he was admiring Maura's cleavage, and proceeded to tell Don and Maura about his day.

He took them down to the morgue to identify Tomás Ramirez's body. Don didn't want Maura to see something so gruesome, but there she was, standing right next to him as the sheriff pulled the sheet back and showed how he'd hit Ramirez in the torso nine times. Each bullet hole was neatly circled with a red marking pen, not that you'd miss them; they were black, nasty-looking wounds. The sheriff was proud of his work; his only regret was that he hadn't dropped the second one, but that guy hightailed it out of there like a scared jackrabbit.

Don felt like asking about the twenty-four shell casings found on the hospital room floor. If nine bullets went into Ramirez, where'd the other fifteen end up? Ramirez's gun had been fired once, a shot which had managed to hit the sheriff in the arm, and that shell had been found in the hallway.

Don watched as Maura asked the sheriff lots of questions about the kind of guns he used, how he liked them, and which gun had landed the most shots on target. For a vegetarian, she sure liked guns.

Don interrupted the impromptu gun seminar and asked the sheriff if he could see the suspect. He wanted to get his statement as soon as possible.

. . .

Esteban drove. Every now and then he'd look over and see Bob fidgeting, looking out the window. It reminded Esteban of himself when he was young. All the excitement, the nervous energy. The great people he'd met. Like everything in life there were some bad moments, some close calls. But, all in all, it had been a fun ride. They'd worked hard and played hard. Now, after twenty-some years of it, Esteban realized that he was tired. Tired of maintaining the tough-guy facade that used to come so naturally for him. Perhaps the money, the cars, the women, the lifestyle had softened him. Amado had warned him. Amado, despite all the money he'd socked away over the years, continued to live in a modest apartment in the barrio. He drove a dirty Ford Taurus. He ate at taco stands and drank in local bars. Amado had never gone far from his
trabajadores
roots. He was a
tipo
. A normal guy.

But then that enhanced Amado's
onda
. He was
misterioso
. A samurai. It gave him an edge. People thought of Amado as dangerous. They thought of Esteban as dangerous, too. But in a different way. Esteban was a shogun, a warlord, a businessman. It was not about who he was on the inside.

When he thought about it too much, he had to laugh. Being a gangster is such a superficial thing.

Bob rolled down the window and sucked in a big gulp of air.

“You okay, Roberto?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“You'll be fine.”

Bob didn't say anything for a minute.

“Esteban? Can I ask you something?”

“Claro.”

“I wouldn't normally bring this up, but how much are you paying me?”

“You want to know what you are worth to me?”

Bob nodded.

“Sí. Exacto.”

Esteban smiled.

“Muy bien
, Roberto.
Tu hablas español.”

“I'm learning.”

“Qué bueno.”

Esteban had to grin.

“How much do you think you should make?”

Esteban watched as Bob thought about it.

“I'll be honest with you, Esteban, I don't know what the going rate is for . . . you know, whatever it is I do.”

“You will make a lot of money, Roberto. But I will give you some advice. If you take the money and spend it, the tax people will find you, the police will find you, the federales will find you. You can't go spend the money.”

“So what do you do with the money?”

“You put it away. In a box in a bank, or in a business somewhere.”

Bob nodded.

“That's why you own all those businesses.”

Esteban nodded.

“Exacto.”

They rode in silence for a minute.

“So, like, how much will I make?”

Esteban suddenly pulled the car off the main road and turned down a dirt side road that went out straight into the middle of nowhere.

. . .

Martin rolled his head over to see what was going on. Man, did his head feel heavy; he might not be able to roll it back. He saw the fat sheriff lead a guy and some woman into the room. The guy was obviously some kind of detective. He had that air of importance, an earnestness that those fuckers always had. It went along with his fried-food-damaged tough-guy looks. In fact, the detective looked kind of like an actor from a TV show. The sports coat, the striped tie, the let'sget-down-to-business voice. He was saying something about how the woman was a district attorney or something. Wow. She had big tits for a lawyer.

Martin said something.

The woman with the big tits nodded. The detective put a small tape recorder on the bed and flicked it on.

Martin concentrated.
I need to tell them something
.

“Immunity. I want immunity from prosecution.”

That came out well.

The woman nodded, her boobs heaving as she spoke. They looked real, too. Man, you could just get lost in them.

The detective turned off the tape recorder, or maybe he turned it on. It was hard to tell. He then turned to Martin and started asking questions.

“What is your full and legal name?”

As if that were somehow important? It dawned on Martin that this was going to be a long and tedious process. He couldn't just blab about how he knew this or that, there was a method to this, bureaucratic bullshit to adhere to. It was going to be dull, dull, dull. Impossibly dull.

Martin decided to make a game of it. Every time he answered a question, he got to tweak his Demerol drip and give himself a little reward. Like a laboratory rat.

Martin gave his full legal name.

It felt good.

. . .

Bob was sweating. He loosened the tie on the suit that Esteban had lent him. Bob couldn't remember the last time he wore a suit, but man were they hot. He knew he shouldn't have asked about money. Nobody likes a pushy employee. Now here they were, bouncing down a dirt road in the middle of the fucking desert at night. The last time this happened, Martin had tried to kill him. Bob considered opening the door and jumping out, kind of like they do in the movies. He'd roll in the dirt, jump to his feet, and then sprint off across the rocky terrain. The night would become his friend. He'd disappear into its dark embrace.