Moist (31 page)

The sheriff smiled.

“You betcha. Did it myself.”

“Perhaps I should go in and consult with him in private. It's his constitutional right.”

The sheriff nodded. He hated lawyers.

“Well, we wouldn't want to upset the founding fathers, would we?”

The sheriff opened the door.

Bob followed Esteban into the room. He saw Martin lying on the bed looking pale and sweaty with a big bandage on his head where Bob had whacked him with the shovel. Bob jumped a little when he saw the detective from Parker Center there. What a coincidence.

But what really knocked the wind out of him was when he saw Maura sitting in the corner.

“Bob?”

“Maura?”

No one said anything for what seemed like a week. Martin mumbled something.

“Fuckin' Roberto.”

That's what it sounded like. But it was hard to tell.

Bob could feel his tie getting extremely tight, like he was choking. But Esteban didn't miss a beat.

“I've been hired to represent that man there.”

He pointed to Martin.

“I would like to speak to him in private.”

Maura stood up.

“Bob? What are you doing here?”

“He is my paralegal assistant. He's here to take notes.”

Bob nodded.

“I'm here to take notes.”

He looked at Maura.

“What are
you
doing here?”

Maura smiled at Bob.

“I'm the assistant district attorney.”

Bob blinked.

“You're not a lawyer.”

“You're not a paralegal.”

Esteban interrupted them.

“It's my client's constitutional right to have a conference with his attorney.”

Don smirked.

“I know who you are, and if you think I'm leaving you alone with a federal witness, you're mistaken.”

Esteban persisted.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what you are talking about. I have been retained to represent my client.”

Bob watched as the detective stood up and got in Esteban's face. The detective wore a kind of victorious smirk on his face. Bob was waiting for Esteban to wipe it off.

“Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know who you are? Do you honestly think I believe any of this? You're done, my friend. Your goose is cooked.”

The detective was convincing. Bob felt like caving. Admitting everything and throwing himself on the mercy of the court. He looked to Esteban. Esteban wasn't about to yield to the detective's tactics.

“I just want you to realize that, if you persist with this wild accusation, anything this man says will not be allowed in court. You are not affording him his rights.”

Maura interrupted.

“Bob? What's going on?”

Bob shrugged.

“I needed a second job. It costs a lot to move out. Set up a new apartment.”

Esteban looked at Bob.

“She's my ex-girlfriend.”

Esteban nodded.

“I have heard so much about you.”

Bob didn't like that.

“Not that much. I don't talk about you that much.”

The detective smiled at them.

“I just want you to know one thing.”

Esteban looked at him.

“What is that?”

Don leaned close to Esteban; you could tell from the way he delivered his line that he really got off on saying it.

“You're under arrest.”

But before Esteban could reply, he was interrupted by two gunshots from the hallway. The detective pulled his pistol out and leveled it at the door. Esteban stepped back out of the way. He shot a quick glance over at Bob. The glance said, Relax. Wait.

Bob stepped away from the door, out of the detective's line of fire. The door burst open and Chino Ramirez stepped in, his gun pointed right at the detective.

No one moved.

Chino looked over at Esteban and Bob, surprised to see them here. He looked back at the detective.

“Drop it.”

“You drop it.”

The detective was calm.

“I am a police officer and I'm asking you to drop your weapon.”

“No.”

Bob realized he was watching a real old-fashioned Mexican standoff. Chino wasn't going to put down his gun, the detective sure as hell wasn't, and there was nothing anyone could do.

Bob, whose arms and knees were actually trembling, looked across the room at Maura. She had a strange look in her eye.

Chino's eyes stayed glued to the detective. One twitch and he was going to pull the trigger. The detective's face was calm, too relaxed, like he did this every day.

And then.

The blast was painfully loud in the small room. Bob flinched. Chino was gone, blown out the door by the shot. Bob watched as the detective, a quizzical expression on his face, turned toward Maura. Bob saw Maura standing there with a smoking gun in her hands and an excited smile on her face.

“Did I get him?”

The detective turned toward Esteban.

“Don't fucking move.”

Esteban put his hands up in the air. Bob followed his lead.

“Did I get him?”

The detective looked out in the hallway.

“Yeah. You got him.”

Maura squealed.

“Yes!”

Maura ran to the door to take a look. Bob heard Esteban whisper.

“Tranquilo,
Roberto.
Tranquilo.”

He felt Esteban's hand reach around under his jacket and remove the handgun. Esteban then slipped the gun into the detective's jacket that was hanging on the chair.

Bob turned his attention to Martin, who hadn't said much of anything for a while. Martin's face was white. His lips a bright blueberry blue. He wasn't breathing. In fact, he was very very dead.

“Esteban.”

Esteban followed Bob's look. He broke into a wry grin.

“You see, Roberto, sometimes God smiles on us.”

. . .

Chino got out of his car and walked in through the loading dock in the back of the hospital. He knew that the police might be watching the front doors, and that they'd definitely be watching the door to the guy's room.

Chino felt bad that he'd failed Esteban. Esteban had provided for him and his brother. Had helped them come to LA. Set them up. Given them false green cards and lots of work. He'd given them something outside the scruffy dirtball life they'd had extorting and murdering in Mexico. Of course, they did the same things, you just got paid a lot better for it in the States.

He was halfway to Juárez, listening to some kind of motivational speaker on the car radio, when he realized that the voice coming out of the dashboard was right. What's the point of running from obstacles? There's no growth in that. If he wanted to be successful in business, and in life, he needed to face his difficulties and overcome them.

Besides, that fat fucker had killed his brother.

Chino decided he'd have to shoot his way in, hopefully killing that fat guy with all the guns, whack the rat, and then shoot his way out. He'd have to overcome the obstacles that kept him from realizing his full potential.

It was all pretty straightforward. He took the stairs, opened the door, and there was the fat guy reading a
People
magazine. Chino took out his gun, stepped out of the stairwell, and put two bullets into the fat guy's heart before he even looked up.

The real surprise came when Chino threw open the door to the room. He'd expected a cop or two in there. But it was a fucking fiesta. Esteban, some guy who was with Esteban, a cop, and some
chica con pechos grandes
.

Chino quickly realized that he could turn this difficult situation into an opportunity. It wasn't a single hit anymore. Now he'd have to kill the cop, the chick, and maybe the other guy. That's four hits. He'd also do Esteban the favor of getting him out of a jam.
Hombre,
that motivational speaker guy was so right. Running from problems is never the answer.

Chino took aim at the detective. He figured if he could squeeze a shot off and hit the guy in the head, well, then he wouldn't have the muscle control or coordination to shoot back. He'd be dead.

He had the detective's forehead lined up when he heard the shot.

It wasn't like the movies, where the guy who gets shot looks around and then realizes he's been hit. That's bullshit. There is no mistaking a burning hot piece of metal ripping through your body at high speed.

Chino felt himself roll backward, his legs not working anymore, and fall out of the room. He landed with a splat. He couldn't tell if he'd landed in the fat guy's blood or his own blood.

It didn't matter. He was dead.

A
MADO DIDN'T KNOW
how long they'd kept him waiting. He'd always worn a watch on his other arm and it just felt weird to wear one now. He didn't mind waiting. The lobby was nice. Very nice. Lots of magazines, lamps, and fancy telephones you could use for free. There were cushy sofas and funny-looking chairs with shiny metal legs and seats that looked like coffee-shop booths. A large potted ficus tree swayed as the air conditioner blasted cold, clean air into the room.

Above the sofa was a series of photos. It was the cast of the
telenovela.
They looked fantastic, bigger than life. Amado hoped he'd get to meet a couple of them.

A young woman with extremely long legs came into the lobby and handed him a tiny plastic bottle of mineral water from France. Amado smiled at her; he couldn't help admiring those legs—man, were they long.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Amado wedged the bottle of water between his knees and carefully twisted the top off. He was about to take a sip when an anglo in a dark suit entered the lobby.

“You must be Amado.”

Amado did a quick juggling act, trying to put the water on the table, stand up, and shake hands all at once. He couldn't believe how nervous he suddenly was.

“
Sí
. Yes.”

“I'm Stan. Thanks for coming down.”

“No problem.”

“Did they take care of you?”

Amado picked up his water.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Follow me.”

Stan spun on his heel and started walking at a quick and important pace. He led Amado through a doorway and into a large open area. There were assistants in cubicles in the middle. Important offices on both sides. The atmosphere was hushed, serious, and very businesslike. Amado realized that he hadn't really known what to expect. But he hadn't expected something so corporate.

Stan was talking.

“I gotta tell you, normally we don't accept submissions without an agent. But you, sir, you've got friends in high places.”

“I know some people.”

“Well, we're glad you do, because that script blew our minds.”

Amado blinked. Stan continued.

“It's like you're psychic.”

Stan turned and they entered a conference room.

“Take a seat.”

Amado, from years of habit, sat facing the door. He gave Stan a curious look.

“Did you like my script?”

Stan laughed.

“If I didn't like it, you wouldn't be sitting here.”

Amado felt a rush of relief.

“Your script hit the nail on the head. It was inspirational.”

“I like the show very much.”

“That's obvious. But, frankly, the show is in trouble. Ratings are declining. We've been having a series of discussions, did some focus groups, deep market research, and want to tweak the show in a slightly different direction.”

Stan flopped into a chair and loosened his tie.

“We didn't know what that direction was until we read your script.”

Amado was still processing the earlier information.

“I don't understand. People don't like the show?”

“It needs some edge.”

“Edge?”

“You know, some street. Some barrio. Reality with a big
R
. The kind of stuff you write. Gritty. That's what the show needs. That's what we're looking for, and that's why I want to offer you a job.”

“A job?”

“Yeah. You want to write for the show, right?”

“Cierto.”

“Well, we want you to join our staff.”

Amado couldn't believe his ears.

“When?”

Stan looked at him.

“Can you start today? We can close a deal right after lunch.”

“I don't have an agent.”

Stan looked at him.

“A writer as good as you should have an agent.”

Amado shrugged.

“I'm just starting.”

“Don't worry about it. I've got a friend in the Lit Department at ICM. She'll take care of you. In fact, let's conference her in now.”

Stan hit a button on a star-shaped telephone sitting in the middle of the conference table.

“Lois? Get Allie Williams on the phone. Tell her it's important.”

Stan looked up at Amado and smiled.

“You, my friend, are going to be a big star in this business.”

Amado sipped his water as the assistant at ICM put Stan on hold. Stan looked at him.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“What happened to your arm?”

. . .

Don sat at his desk typing. There are clusterfucks and then there are clusterfucks. This, he realized, was the mother of all clusterfucks. The granddaddy of all fuckups. A Saddam Hussein supersized fuckup. And who was responsible for this royal fuckup?

He was.

Don checked his list. Two murders, the one that started this whole mess—Carlos Vila—and the sheriff in Palm Springs. The two police shootings, both ruled justifiable, of
the Ramirez brothers. One death ruled an accidental drug overdose. One severed arm attributed to a missing, and presumed dead, cookbook author.

Make that three murders.