Moist (3 page)

“I'm really horny.”

“And I'm really not.”

“Aw, c'mon.”

“Go beat off.”

Bob scoffed. He'd heard this before. As if masturbating was the answer to everything.

“You know, some guys actually like to make love to a warm body.”

“Yeah, well, this warm body's going to yoga, so if you wanna squirt, you're gonna have to do it yourself.”

“Maybe I should make an appointment.”

“You can't afford it. Your health insurance doesn't cover it.”

Bob was surprised.

“You take insurance?”

“Of course. I'm a health care provider.”

Bob nodded dimly.

“What did you think? I was like some kind of massage parlor? Giving hand jobs for thirty bucks?”

“I, uh, I didn't know you took insurance. That's all.”

“That's because you never ask about me. You have no interest in me.”

Bob rose to his defense, his voice cracking into a high whine.

“That's not true! I just asked you to have sex.”

Maura looked at him with an eyebrow raised. Bob stood there, shifting from foot to foot, ready for it. Ready for Maura's volcanic temper to erupt. He'd seen it many times before. The change in her voice, the blood surging to her face, the gulping for air, the shouting, sometimes slamming furniture around. Bob stood as relaxed as possible, like a palm tree waiting for the hurricane to arrive. Maura struggled for self-control.

“I don't have time for this.”

With that, Maura walked into the bedroom and pulled off her blouse. Bob watched from the living room, beer gripped tightly, as Maura changed into her yoga clothes.

Maura came back into the room clutching her sticky mat and Mexican blankets.

“See you later, sweetie.”

And she was gone.

. . .

Norberto didn't waste any time with the back door. He just kicked it in. He clicked on his penlight and swept it around the garage. Crime-scene tape fluttered festively in the wind
like streamers from a little kid's birthday party. Otherwise the garage was unexceptional. Old cans of paint stacked on shelves. A shovel. A rake. Plastic containers of transmission fluid. Liquid Plumber. Junk. The penlight beam stopped on a sled. The faded words Radio Flyer painted in red. Norberto, born and raised in Juarez, wasn't immediately sure what it was. He'd heard of sleds, but had never seen one before. He looked at the rails, the wood slats. A sled in LA. What the fuck did Carlos need with a sled?
Raro,
man.

Norberto continued sweeping the room with the tiny beam. He saw a ratchet set from Sears. Norberto knew that those were supposed to be worth some money. He considered boosting it for a second, then changed his mind. The beam of light stopped on the chalk outline where Carlo's body must've been. There was a dark splotch, blood or motor oil, Norberto couldn't tell, next to the outline. A few feet away from that was another chalk outline. This one smaller. About the size and shape of Amado's right arm.

. . .

Max Larga stood in his modern, gourmet-equipped kitchen picking his nose. This action was reflected and distorted over and over in the gleaming appliances and cookware that surrounded him. He pulled his pinky out of his nostril and admired the prize. Without thinking he stuck the gleaming mucus ball into his mouth, smacking his thick lips like it was a fresh tiny oyster, and went about preparing dinner.

He took a starched white apron off a hook and strapped it around his corpulent waist. He pulled a roasting pan out of a drawer and plopped a large leg of lamb into it. Larga took
fresh marjoram out of the Sub-Zero. Using a large knife he expertly diced the herbs and dumped them in a bowl with a small amount of olive oil. He added salt and pepper and then stuck his hands in the bowl and began mixing. Larga carried the bowl over to the leg of lamb and began rubbing the oil and spices on the meat. His shiny hands caressed the soft, pink meat as he worked the spices into the flesh. Larga found himself getting slightly aroused. He unconsciously pressed his crotch against the butcher-block counter with a gentle rocking motion. He caught himself, his face flushing in embarrassment, when he realized he was using his newly acquired masturbation strokes on the lamb.

He quickly washed his hands, threw the lamb in the oven, and opened a bottle of merlot.

. . .

Esteban was frustrated. How many times was he going to sneak guys over the border, give them jobs, give them a chance, give them a fucking life? And what do these fucking
maricóns
do? They fuck it up. They were always fucking things up. They didn't appreciate what crime could do for you. Crime could fucking pay,
cabrón
. Crime could add inches to your cock. Crime could set you up in a life like you never even dreamed. But some people just didn't get it. Esteban knew that Amado didn't get it. Didn't appreciate the opportunity. The Caucasians knew about loyalty. It was the fucking
caballeros
who were trouble. Esteban knew he'd be better off hiring out-of-work linebackers from Texas A & M. At least the dumb white guys appreciated a chance to do something with a little action, a little adrenaline. They'd be loyal. But
Esteban felt a certain loyalty himself, a connection with La Raza. Despite all the trouble they caused, he compulsively helped his countrymen.

Esteban put down his beer and looked at Martin. The young man stubbed out his cigarette and stared back at Esteban without blinking. Perhaps because he felt smarter than Esteban or because he was stoned all the time, Martin wasn't afraid to tell Esteban the truth . . . even if it pissed Esteban off. Esteban was wise enough to know not to surround himself with ass kissers. Still, there's something to be said for being surrounded by ass kissers. Esteban sighed.

“I call someone. I tell them to come to me. And what happens? They disappear. What's that?”

“We all need to communicate better.”

Esteban scoffed.

“It's beyond that. It's fuckin' disrespectful.”

Martin nodded.

“But if we had digital cell phones—”

Esteban cut him off.

“I'm thinking we should make an example of him.”

“What good would that do?”

Esteban lit a cigarette.

“Part of the job is keeping people afraid of you.”

Martin nodded.

“A branding strategy.”

Esteban blew smoke out across the room. Christ, this kid was smart. He didn't know what a “branding strategy” was . . . but this kid, with his brains . . . he could go places. If he would only listen to Esteban and learn from his experience.

Esteban understood the difference between book smart and street smart. The high-tech, fast-track, polished-chrome-and-glass world of brokerage firms and high-rise office towers with young secretaries in tight little suits versus the low-tech, testosterone-fueled, down-and-dirty world of cheap motels, panel vans, and arbitration by firing squad.

Martin was white bread. Groomed to be a corporate lawyer. He didn't quite comprehend the subtle nuances of running an organized crime crew for La Eme. He didn't understand that 90 percent of being El Jefe was showing you had
huevos
to spare. Fucking computers and cell phones wouldn't do it. Esteban didn't want his men to call him up, he wanted them to crawl naked through a cactus field if he asked. That's respect. Respect for El Jefe and respect for his
huevos
.

Esteban looked at Martin.

“
Exacto
. We take the
maricón
and we brand his ass.”

“We need to find him first.”

Esteban stood up.

“Then we find him.
Vamos.
”

N
ORBERTO RETURNED TO
his house to find the door wide open.

“Fuck, man.”

He walked in, closed the door, and bolted it shut. He turned and yelled toward the bathroom door.

“I told you to shut the fucking door, man.”

There was no answer from the bathroom. Norberto turned and walked toward it.

“You dead?”

He paused. There was no answer.

“I hope you saved me some Herradura, man.”

Norberto entered the bathroom. Amado was gone. The tequila was gone. Only a sick-looking streak of drying blood remained. Norberto turned on the water and started cleaning the tub. Blood is hard to clean. Especially if it's dried.

I need some scrubbing fucking bubbles, man. This is a tough stain.

Norberto reached under the sink and pulled out a can of Comet and a scrubby sponge. He shook the Comet out all over the tub. A green dusting of caustic powder fell over the blood. He began to vigorously attack the stain.

Norberto, engrossed in trying to clean the tub, didn't hear Esteban and Martin as they entered the bathroom.

“You having your period,
maricón
?”

Norberto wheeled around. Upon seeing Esteban his first instinct was to run for his life. But he knew that was pointless, since Esteban would eventually find him, and there was only one way out of the bathroom anyhow. Thinking quickly, Norberto decided, despite the rapidly spreading stain in his underwear, to play it cool. He affected a casual tone.

“Hey, Esteban. You want me to come clean your tub? No charge, man.”

Esteban turned the water off.

“I got a maid.”

“Whatever,
cabrón
, you need me, I'm there.”

Norberto realized that he was acting a little too easy to please. But by then it was too late. Esteban turned to Martin.

“See this? This
pendejo
's got no
huevos
. He's wants to lick my asshole.”

“No, man. Fuck, no. I don't wanna do that.”

Esteban continued, not looking at Norberto.

“I think he's got something to hide.”

Norberto knew that pain was on its way.

“What? I'm not hiding nothing, nada.”

Martin closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. He opened a small black leather pouch he was carrying in his jacket pocket. It looked like a cigar holder.

“We'll see about that.”

Martin took a syringe and a vial of clear liquid out of the pouch. Norberto looked at Esteban.

“What the fuck is that, man?”

Esteban just grinned.

“Don't you wanna ask me something? I got nothing to hide, man. You don't have to do this, man.”

Norberto was beginning to freak. Martin held the vial upside down and, just like he'd seen on television, filled the syringe with the clear fluid. He put the vial back in the bag and tapped the air bubble to the top of the syringe.

“What is that shit, man?”

Esteban looked at Norberto. He liked this. This was fun. Watching Norberto shit his pants, beg for his life. This was gonna be good.

“Where's Amado?”

Norberto told the truth.

“He was here, man. I went out to get something and when I came back he was gone.”

“What's with the tub?”

Norberto looked at the bloodstain, the Comet, and the scrubby sponge he still clutched tightly in his fist.

“Blood, man. It's just blood.”

“Whose blood is it?”

“Amado's.”

“Did you kill Amado?”

“No, man.”

Esteban laughed.

“He cut himself shaving?”

Norberto looked at Esteban. Then he looked over at Martin. Martin gave the syringe a little squirt. That shit looked evil.

“Look, Esteban, I didn't have nothing to do with this, man.”

“Dígame.”

“Amado hurt his arm.”

“He go to the hospital?”

“No, man, it's more fucked up than that.”

Esteban hated to lose his temper. All his heroes, the bad guys in the movies, Marlon Brando as the Godfather or anything with Christopher Walken in it, those guys never lost their temper until they were pushed too far. Esteban admired that. He wanted to be cool like that. But Brando didn't have to put up with wetback fuckups like he did. Esteban slapped Norberto across the face. Slapped him hard. Norberto reeled, hitting his head against the side of the tub, breaking open a nasty gash. Norberto's blood oozed down into the Comet.

“What happened? What happened to Amado's arm?”

Not wanting to get hit again, Norberto blurted it out.

“It got cut off, man.”

The look that crossed Esteban's face was unusual. A mixture of mirth, disgust, and genuine shock.

“Bullshit.”

“
Es a verdad
.”

Esteban smacked Norberto again.

“Amado killed Carlos Vila, but somehow he got his arm cut off.”

Esteban was surprised by this.

“He killed Carlos?
¿Por qué?
”

“I don't know nothing about it, man. But they had some kind of deal and Carlos was cheating Amado. So, you know Amado, he whacked him.”

Martin and Esteban exchanged a look. Martin spoke first.

“They can reattach that arm.”

Norberto shook his head.

“No, they can't, man.”

“With advancements in microsurgery all kinds of things are possible. He may not have full range of motion again, but—”

Norberto interrupted Martin.

“He left his fucking arm there, man. He don't got it.”

Esteban leaned in close to Norberto. Norberto squirmed, squinted, and waited for the violence.

“What?”

“He left his arm with Carlos, man.”

Esteban stared at Norberto.

“Give him the shot.”

. . .

Amado woke up. His arm, or more precisely the spot where his arm used to be, was throbbing. His eyes focused on the ceiling. Cottage cheese with specks of glittering gold. A lamp on the bedside table cast a muted yellow glow around the room. Amado twisted his neck and saw that the chest of drawers had been draped with a sheet and was lined with stainless steel doctor tools. Amado noticed that an IV drip had been attached to his arm. He heard something in the next room and croaked a sound out of his mouth.