Марк Смит - Moist

Maura watched the detective heave a sigh.

“Why is everybody so suspicious nowadays?”

Maura thought about that. She didn’t think Bob would do anything crazy, but then again he was acting really weird.

“We broke up.”

“Was it his idea?”

“It was mine.”

“Was he upset?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea where he might go? Who he might see when he’s upset?”

“Did you try the apartment?”

The detective sighed again.

“Of course.”

Maura thought. If Bob was in trouble, where would he go? It was funny, she realized, you could think you know someone really well, on a really intimate level, but when it came down to it, you didn’t know them at all. She turned to the detective and shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Does he have any hobbies? Anything he likes to do?”

“He likes his computer.”

“Does he frequent an Internet café, something like that?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When did you break up with him?”

“I told him last night that I couldn’t stand the sight of his penis.”

The detective gave her a funny look. Maura defended herself.

“I’m just sick of it. That’s not a crime.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“He told me he never wanted to see me again.”

Maura suddenly broke down and started sobbing. The detective reached over and handed her a box of tissues.

“I’ll never see him again.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Maura blew her nose. She didn’t know what she wanted. What she wanted changed every day. Who the fuck actually knows what they want? Does anybody? A show of hands?

“I guess.”

The detective was growing impatient, and shifted in the chair.

“What do you do here?”

“I’m a masturbation coach.”

She looked at the detective, expecting the reaction she always got, the disbelieving and dismayed bug-eyed jaw drop. Instead, he seemed genuinely intrigued.

“Yeah? Is that like some kind of therapy?”

Maura nodded.

“There are many ways to enhance the orgasmic experience. There are breathing and relaxation techniques, different kinds of grips and strokes. A couple of sessions can really improve the quality of your masturbation.”

The detective stood and extended his hand.

“Do you have a card?”

Esteban stood in the kitchen of the safe house. Greasy wrappers from a take-out meal were strewn on the counter. Esteban belched. Greasy food never went down easily for him. He preferred good Mexican food. Not the kind you found in crappy Mexican restaurants up here but the kind you found in Mexico. Fresh, with flavor. There were a few spots around Los Angeles that he liked. La Serenata de Garibaldi in East LA. Another place way the hell out in the Valley. But even the gringos knew about those places. Esteban belched again and popped a Tums. Maybe he should open his own restaurant, get that molé recipe from his madre . Restaurants were excellent businesses for laundering money.

The sudden stench of marijuana got his attention. He walked into the living room to find Bob, Martin, Norberto, and Amado all stoned and watching a tape-delayed soccer game from Guadalajara. Esteban was suddenly hit with a strong desire to go back to his own house and crawl into his Jacuzzi with Lupe and her natural breasts. There are times, he realized, when being an organized crime boss was a real fucking drag.

Esteban walked in and faced the men. Norberto held up a burning joint.

“¿Quieres tostar el churro, Esteban?”

“No.”

Esteban picked up the remote, and flicked off the TV. Amado groaned.

“Qué bárbaro.”

Esteban turned to Norberto.

“Did you call the tattoo man?”

Norberto carefully stubbed the joint out with his fingers.

“Sí.”

“¿Y? ¿Dónde?”

“I don’t know, man. No se.”

Amado looked up.

“He likes the caballo. We should go to his shop.”

Esteban sighed. Great. A fucking junkie tattoo artist. Esteban didn’t approve of drugs. Even if he made millions of dollars off their importation. People who took drugs couldn’t be trusted. They were weak. Easily turned by the federales.

The four men continued to stare at the TV even though it was off. That must be some hierba buena. Esteban growled.

“Vamos.”

Norberto was getting tired of being bossed around. Tired of driving Esteban around like he was some kind of fucking chauffeur. Here he was enjoying himself, minding his own business, watching TV with Amado and the gringos and… and El Patrón comes and kills the buzz.

Norberto lifted the lid of the trunk and checked on El Gordo . Dried blood was crusted in the guy’s hair where he had blasted him with the bat. This dude is fucking out, thought Norberto. But he was still breathing, that was a good thing. Norberto was relieved. He’d thought he killed the guy. All the excitement of the day, the tension of the situation, and then the fucking guy goes and starts banging the inside of the trunk. It really irritated Norberto. He didn’t mean to hit the guy so hard.

The delivery guy, Roberto, sat up front between Norberto and Amado. Norberto had grown to like the guy. He thought Roberto was cool, and smart too, smart like Martin. Maybe when Norberto was head of his own crew, he’d have a smart gringo giving him advice like Esteban did. Maybe he and Roberto could start a crew together after this was all over. That’d be sweet. It’s cool to have a gringo sidekick to boss around.

Don was annoyed. In the old days people had real vices. You’re looking for a guy who likes to gamble, you find him at the track or one of those card rooms in Commerce. A guy likes to drink, you find him at his local bar. A guy’s a sex addict, you find him in bed. This guy Bob, what was his vice? Surfing the Internet? What was that? Don pondered the possibilities. He could canvass all the cyber cafés in Los Angeles, or look for some scraggly guy in a park typing into a laptop. Or he could do what he did. He went to UCLA to see if Bob had made his delivery there.

The first thing Don noticed when he entered the lab was a funky smell. It was a mix of chemical preservatives, stomach acids, and rotting flesh that assaulted his nostrils and made him gag. He walked past a group of four med students who were busy performing an autopsy on what looked to be a sixty-year-old Caucasian female. Don had seen his fair share of guts and corpses, but they were always in context. There was something about the detached way the students were working that made him feel slightly queasy.

One of the students scooped the intestines up and over.

“Are you going Friday night?”

“Where?”

“Party at Jill’s apartment.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You are now.”

“What’s the purple thing?”

“That’s the liver, right there.”

“Why does it look all splotchy?”

“Hard to say; let’s cut a sample.”

Don walked to the back of the lab and found a teaching assistant filing some papers. Don identified himself.

The car was parked in front of a tattoo parlor in Hollywood. Bob watched as Esteban and Amado went in. Bob turned to Norberto.

“Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”

Norberto smiled at Bob.

“Yeah, ese, get the fuckin’ Virgin of Guadalupe inked on your chest.”

“I was thinking maybe something, I don’t know, something tough.”

“Nothing’s tougher than a virgin, man.”

Norberto broke up laughing. Bob smiled, but he was deep in thought. Maybe like a tiger or a dragon or something on his arm. Then again, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.