Moist (32 page)

One severed arm belonging to an unknown individual.

Four.

No witnesses. No testimony. The only evidence seemingly useless. And, if the mumblings of a deranged drug addict were to be believed, it was all because of some new über-gangster named Roberto.

Don wouldn't admit it to his captain, he wouldn't tell Flores or any of the other detectives working in his division, but he was worried. For the first time in his entire police career Don was worried. Whoever this Roberto was, he must be something else. Some kind of criminal mastermind. He had fucked with the LAPD. Brazenly. And they didn't know the first thing about him.

Don had done his best to find out. He'd kept Esteban and Bob in custody, trying to crack them. Trying to get something. He lied. He told Esteban that Bob had cracked and spilled everything. Did Esteban want to return the favor? He told Bob that Esteban had broken down and implicated him in a string of murders. Bob had laughed in the detective's face.

There was no evidence to hold them. He couldn't even get them on simple gun possession charges. A couple of guns had mysteriously appeared in his jacket pockets, machinery wiped clean of fingerprints, like a trick by Siegfried and Roy. He couldn't prove that Esteban or Bob had put them there. He couldn't prove that they had conspired to do anything. He couldn't prove shit.

What was he going to charge them with? Impersonating an attorney? Pretending to be a paralegal? What was that? That was bullshit. And bullshit rarely holds up in court.

Esteban and Bob had played it right, kept their mouths shut, hired a fancy lawyer and got out. The American legal system firing on all cylinders, working in all its crook-lovin' glory.

What a fucking mess.

Don hung his head. He'd already heard rumblings that he would be bounced out of the Criminal Intelligence unit and back over to Homicide.
Ugh. There is nothing worse than that. I'd rather be a traffic cop. Anything's better than looking at dead bodies all day. Especially in the summertime.

But Don wasn't a quitter. He was down but not out. Even though it appeared that Esteban Sola had skipped the country, Don knew he'd be back and he vowed to bring him down. Esteban and this mystery man, Roberto. One of these days they'd slip up again and next time, he'd grab them by their balls and squeeze.

Which is more than he could say about his balls. Since he'd broken off the, well, he couldn't really call it a relationship—it was more of an unhealthy fling, a sick fuck—he'd reverted back to his old routine. He'd leave work and saunter through the downtown streets. Watching the people drain out of the area like it was some kind of old bathtub, until it was empty, just some scum and a few drips left.

He might grab a taco or a little bag of fresh fruit with chili and lime from a cart on Broadway. He couldn't afford to have appetizers or dinner at the wine bar so he always tried to eat something before he got there. Then he'd perch at the bar and
let the vino tell him the truth. The version of the truth he wanted to hear.

. . .

Maura didn't mind the gray sweatsuit. She didn't mind the shouting of the instructor. She didn't mind the slow jog up and down the hills of Elysian Park. In fact, she was smiling. She couldn't help herself. Here she was, a cadet in the police academy. A year of training and she'd be out on the street. Working a beat.

It was a good change for her. She hadn't realized how burned out she'd gotten helping guys learn to jack off. Honestly, if they can't come by the skills naturally, they ought to just forget about it. No one's making you masturbate.

She jogged in formation with the other cadets, a mix of men and women, Asians, Latinos, blacks, and anglos of various ages. The youngest was an eighteen-year-old Chinese girl, the oldest was a forty-two-year-old washed-up screenwriter. All of them were committing themselves to change. It was inspirational.

Maura thought about her life. She hadn't expected too much out of it. An interesting job, if she was lucky. A boyfriend. A couple of good vacations. Maybe get married and have a kid.

She hadn't expected to be opened up and turned inside out by life. She hadn't expected new passions, obsessions even, to erupt out of her consciousness and explode fully formed into her world. She never even knew such things existed.

Now that she'd had a taste of them, there was no turning back.

. . .

Esteban felt his weight cause the hammock to swing gently side to side. A breeze came off the ocean, smell-ing like very fresh salt. Even though it was chilly in the shade of the palmthatched umbrella thing—was it called a
palapita
?—the sand around him reflected the warmth of the sun.

He could hear the clear blue waves crashing against the shore,
gaviotas
honking overhead, and the unmistakable sound of ice clinking in salt-rimmed glasses.

Esteban shifted, the hammock bouncing, and turned toward the sound. He squinted against the glare and saw Lupe, looking
guapísima
in a fluorescent orange bikini, walking toward him carrying a couple of drinks. Esteban saw a glint of rainbow, the flash of a large diamond, flicker on her left hand. He smiled. He was enjoying being married.

He took the drinks from her and tried to hold them steady as she eased her way into the hammock with him. He could feel the little grains of sand that had stuck to her body as she pressed herself close to him.

They sipped their drinks in silence.

There was nothing to say.

. . .

Felicia rolled over and looked Bob in the eyes. Bob shifted, turning so he could meet her gaze.

“What's up?”

“I'm just looking at you.”

Bob smiled.

“What do you see?”

“I see a good man. A man who is trying to do the right thing even when he doesn't always know what the right thing to do is.”

Bob laughed and stroked her hair.

“I do try.”

“I hope you always try, Roberto. The effort is more important than the results.”

She kissed him.

“And I see something else, my sweet Roberto.”

“What?”

“I see the father of my child.”

Bob couldn't believe it.

“What?”

Felicia grinned.

“I'm pregnant.”

Bob lay there, glazed with a strange kind of happiness. It was a new emotion. Electric and deep. A powerful completeness he'd never experienced.

“I don't know what to say.”

“Are you happy?”

A tear jumped out of Bob's eye and ran down his cheek.

“Yeah. I'm . . .”

He choked on his words, turned and dove into her, holding tightly. She stroked his hair.

“I'm thinking if it's a girl, we name her Frida.”

Bob lifted his head.

“And if it's a boy? Freddy?”

“No. Don't be silly. Freddy is not a good name for a boy.”

“Not Roberto.”

“Why not? Roberto is a lovely name.”

“
Yo soy
Roberto.”

Felicia laughed.

“There can only be one Roberto?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a name you like?”

Bob smiled.

“Diego.”

. . .

Amado couldn't believe it. He had always thought that crime was the most lucrative job around. Well, investment bankers might make more, but then that's a kind of crime. Isn't it?

But when Stan and his agent had finished squabbling on the phone Amado just shook his head in amazement. Writing for television paid far better than he could ever have imagined. He stopped off at a liquor store and bought a bottle of expensive French Champagne. He couldn't wait to tell Cindy the news.

R
OBERTO CAME TO
a stop with the rest of the traffic. He liked his new car, a metallic green Volkswagen Beetle. It looked like Kermit the Frog from
Sesame Street.
Friendly and cool, childish and groovy. Perfect for El Jefe's new consultant and second-in-command. Perfect for him.

He also liked that it had a small trunk. That meant he wouldn't be stuffing anyone in it anytime soon. The car had been Amado's idea. Why not go for a whole new image? The green bug and his slick new clothes—Felicia had decided he should wear khakis and guayaberas like Diego Rivera, sunglasses like that French actor who played the cool hit man in
The Professional
—everything about Roberto caught people off guard.

Members of
La Eme
wondered where he came from. How did he earn Esteban's trust? Had Roberto killed the other gringo? Just who was this dapper man in the froggy-colored car?

The word on the street was that Roberto was smart, fearless, and very ruthless. Amado backed up this story, telling everyone he knew how he'd been skimming some of Esteban's
profit and that Roberto found him out and marked him for death. Only after Amado begged for his life and promised to quit the business did Roberto show mercy.

He only took Amado's arm.

This story spread quickly throughout the criminal subculture of Los Angeles and earned Roberto some serious respect.

It also afforded him some latitude. Roberto wasn't a man of violence. He didn't like all the kidnapping and killing. So, except in extreme cases, he put a stop to it. He wanted the crew to be run like a legitimate business. Like that hippie ice cream company where everyone has long hair and is happy all the time.

It took a little while to convince Esteban that this kind of strategy would work. But even Esteban had to admit that he was tired of running drugs and stealing cars, he'd much rather move into the legitimate business world. So he gave Roberto the authority to slowly begin the process of transforming a hard-core criminal enterprise into a legitimate and diversified holding company.

Roberto was surprised at how eager his employees were to make a change. It seemed that, deep down, they all wanted to work on the right side of the law. They were tired of living in constant fear of arrest, deportation, or worse, some kind of hostile takeover from a rival crew. After their initial suspicions that Roberto was some kind of highly skilled FBI agent, almost everyone in the organization came around to his way of thinking.

And why wouldn't they? Roberto was open, friendly, smart, and persuasive. He would stop in at the chop shop and take all the guys out to lunch. He would give the coyotes gifts
for their kids. He instilled a pride of belonging in members of Esteban's crew.

For the more unpleasant work, still, sadly, a necessity, he hired a couple of bikers from the Mongols outlaw motorcyle club, earning their devotion when he paid for their rehab to cure a nasty crystal meth addiction.

He instituted a profit-sharing plan that gave everyone in the organization a big fat bonus. Roberto had even set up retirement plans for anyone who wanted to participate. That way your money would be laundered for you and you'd have something to live on when you decided to retire or got out of prison.

Roberto wasn't just respected, he was loved. Occasionally he would remember what it had been like to be Bob. But as time passed that was less and less often. He had been born a Bob. He had grown into a Roberto.

Roberto made his way toward the freeways, huge, slow-moving rivers of steel and glass. He popped a CD into the stereo. A stern yet reassuring voice came over the speakers and began to teach him how to conjugate verbs in
español.

All around the city, the jacaranda trees were in full bloom. Fantastic explosions of purple, courtesy of Brazil, they dotted the landscape and reminded Roberto that he lived in a special place. A tropical place with palm trees and sunshine. A city where roses and cacti grew side by side and bright orange-and-purple birds of paradise sprang up out of cracks in the sidewalk.

The sun was beginning to make its way west, the light filtering through the jacaranda trees, splashing the city in gold and lavender. Roberto listened carefully to his CD. He repeated the words in Spanish. It was like a magical mantra.

The beautiful language of revolution.

Roberto loved this city. With its millions of people from hundreds of countries, speaking ninety different languages, Roberto felt truly at home. People came here to find transformation. They surrendered their past and looked for a future. They lived
sin banderas,
without flags, they weren't Mexicans or Cambodians, Peruvians or Laotians, Salvadorans or Koreans, Africans or Americans, Pakistanis or Ecuadorians, Thai or Argentine; they were Angelenos.

Roberto was happy to be alive. He was happy he lived in Los Angeles, city of the future, hope of the world.

Amado walked out into the hallway and plugged some coins in the soda machine. He was getting used to this one-armed thing. It wasn't going to be as bad as he'd thought. At first he hadn't thought he'd be able to wipe his ass again. Now he could do all kinds of stuff. Well, he couldn't move heavy objects like Norberto's big dead body, but he could do lots of other stuff.

T
HE AUTHOR WOULD
like to thank Morgan Entrekin, Mary Evans, Brian Lipson, Jamison Stoltz, Deb Seager, and Eric Price for their enthusiasm, energy, and encouragement in making this book possible.