Марк Смит - Moist

Martin came over and sat with Bob. Martin needed to talk to him about something important. He wanted to tell Bob a story so he’d know why they had carjacked him and what they were planning to do with him. While Esteban watched fútbol on the television in the living room, Martin recounted the events of the last forty-eight hours that led up to Bob’s abduction. Then Martin made Bob an offer.

Bob couldn’t believe his ears. Not that he’d ever wanted to be a criminal or involved in a criminal enterprise. Frankly, the idea of jail had always been too frightening for him to even consider breaking the law. But here was a smart guy, a guy with a law degree, a guy who did his undergrad work at Yale, a guy just like him only more handsome, successful, and with better clothes, asking if Bob would work with them on one job. They would pay him ten thousand dollars and all he had to do was deliver the arm — technically a different arm — to Parker Center.

“A ten-thousand-dollar bonus for doing what you’d normally do.”

Bob thought about it. He had a moment of indecision. But there was something about Esteban — the same thing that made him scary — that gave Bob confidence. The more he thought about it the more excited he became. Martin waited for an answer. Finally…

“I’ll do it. But…”

Martin was taken aback.

“Bob, you’re not really in a position to negotiate.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

Martin nodded.

“Okay. What do you want?”

“I want to meet Felicia.”

“Who’s Felicia?”

Bob lifted Amado’s arm off the table and pointed to the tattoo.

“That’s Felicia.”

Esteban was surprised that Bob came around so easily. He could see that Bob, like Martin, was attracted to the glamorous aspect of the criminal life. Caucasians can be so naive. They think being a gangster is all fast cars, beautiful women, and cash. They watch too many movies. Esteban knew firsthand how much work was involved in maintaining a successful life of crime. The long hours, the late nights, the constant anxiety. Most of the older members of la familia had developed angina from the stress. An unlucky few were rotting away in jail somewhere. Others had just dropped dead from massive coronaries while pumping some whore. Viagra deaths, he called them. The drug turns your explorador into Superman and leaves the rest of you a saggy old abuelo trying desperately to keep up. Wheezing and huffing, hardly enjoying it at all. It was tragic, grown men acting like teenagers, but still Esteban figured that it was better to go out having fun with a woman than being shot in the head while sitting in your car.

The scrawny gringo came into the room holding a can of beer. Esteban gave him the glare and was satisfied to see the gringo look away. Esteban cleared his throat.

“You understand what this means?”

Bob looked first at Martin, then back to Esteban.

“I think so.”

“You’ll become an accessory to murder, and that is some heavy shit, my friend.”

Bob hesitated.

“I’m not going to kill anyone.”

Esteban could barely conceal his irritation. The nerve some people have. Thinking it’s easy to just go kill someone. Like anyone could do it. Even Amado, who had years of experience, bungled a simple hit.

“No. You’re not going to kill anyone.”

Martin interrupted.

“But you will be an accessory. I want you to understand that.”

Bob nodded.

“I understand.”

“You could go to jail.”

Esteban gave him the look.

“If you go to the police, we will kill you.”

Bob was almost annoyed.

“I get it.”

Esteban watched as Bob stood and pondered the possibilities. You could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. It wouldn’t have surprised Esteban if Bob had asked for a piece of paper and pencil so he could draw a line down the middle and write the pros on one side and the cons on the other. Americanos have no huevos .

But Bob surprised him.

“If I get to meet Felicia, it’ll be worth it.”

Esteban laughed out loud.

“You believe a woman is worth the risk?”

Bob nodded. He had never been so sure of anything in his life.

“She’s not just any woman.”

Esteban shook his head in amazement.

“Just so you understand.”

Bob sat down on the couch next to Martin. Martin slipped into business mode, closing the deal.

“The deal is we’re going to give Bob here ten thousand dollars and a night with Felicia.”

“And what does Bob give us?”

“He will deliver the arm, the new arm, and tell everyone that he’s been distraught over breaking up with his girlfriend and that’s why he’s late.”

“Did you break up with your girlfriend?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had a fight.”

Esteban sat back and sighed.

“I hope it was a good fight.”

Bob nodded.

“Pretty good.”

Martin chimed in.

“We could drive by and you could finish it off. I mean, really break up with her. That way the story would stick.”

Bob was enthusiastic.

“I’d like to do that before I see Felicia. You know, make it official and all. That way it wouldn’t be like I was cheating on her.”

Esteban just looked at the two gringos. Carajo . What a fucking mess.

“We still need an arm.”

IT WAS ONE of those great days in Los Angeles. The kind you see when you watch the Rose Parade on TV. The golden sun slicing across the city, bringing health, wealth, and warmth to the world. The blue sky spreading cheerfully overhead. The kind of day that makes you think that people in LA live in some fantastic world of promise, like vitamin C land or something.

Only city buses drove by instead of floral floats as Don sat on the steps of Parker Center and ate a big greasy hamburger with Detective Flores and a couple of uniformed officers.

Other LAPD personnel stood in line at the roach coach waiting for their food. Don felt great. It was great to be a police officer. Great to be out there making the world a better place. Great to be eating this big gloppy burger in the sun with his comrades. Don knew that tonight he’d have to have a green salad and maybe a little sashimi to counteract the effects of this gutbomb, but that was a small price to pay for the absolutely glorious way he felt right here, right now.

Don dipped his fries into a little paper cup of ketchup and mused. He imagined Esteban Sola stripped of his toupee and wearing a bright orange LA County Jail jumpsuit. Don relished the image of Esteban standing, bent and cuffed, ready to be deported to a Mexican jail. For too long Don had watched as Esteban had strutted and preened and lorded it over people. It was raw arrogance and nothing pissed Don off more than that. That’s why he’d targeted Esteban, made it his personal mission to bring that motherfucking Juarez wetback down.

Don slurped his diet root beer. He turned to Flores.

“That evidence delivered yet?”

Flores looked up, his mouth packed with carne asada burrito, and shook his head. No.

“Well, I can’t wait all day. I’m gonna make some calls and find out where this thing is.”

Don crumpled his gutbomb wrapper and arced it into the trash. He wiped his hands on his pants like a man and headed back into the building.

Don drove the dirty brown Caprice out of Parker Center. He didn’t understand why the UC cars always had to be dirty brown Chevrolets. Parked in a line in the LAPD parking lot they looked like giant piles of dog crap. What kind of message did that send? Why not have the detectives zipping around LA in BMWs or a Lincoln Town Car or something? The shit brown was just as recognizable to the crumbs as a black-and-white, it didn’t fool anyone, so why not mix it up? Driving one of these cars gave Don an understanding of why some detectives were on the take. It was not esteem-building. Sitting behind the wheel of a big stinking turd, who wouldn’t consider collecting a little extra cash now and then?