Марк Смит - Moist

“We’re not going to kill him, are we?”

“No, man. Nobody fucks up, nobody dies.” Suddenly the car lurched as the weight in the trunk began to shift and stir.

“Looks like sleepyhead is waking up.”

Norberto took a bottle of water out of a paper bag and unscrewed the lid, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny vial. He quickly dumped the contents of the vial into the bottle of water and screwed the cap back on.

“What’s that?”

“Rohypnol.”

“What’s that do?”

“It knocks them out, man. Knocks them out and they don’t remember shit when they wake up.”

Esteban stuck his head out of the tattoo parlor door and signaled for them to come in.

Bob was more than a little nervous when they went around to open the trunk.

“What if he tries to get away?”

“Relax, man, he won’t even know his name.”

Norberto popped the trunk. Inside, the stocky guy in the track suit lay curled up and disoriented. He blinked up at Norberto and flinched, expecting to get hit again. Norberto spoke to him in a soothing voice.

“It’s cool, man. You’re all right. You must be thirsty. Here, have some water.”

The guy just nodded blankly and took the water from Norberto. He drained it in a few gluttonous gulps.

“Can you get up? Do you need some help?”

The guy tried, but his legs must’ve been asleep or something. Bob and Norberto each grabbed an arm and hoisted the guy out of the trunk. The guy looked at Bob.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, man. Feel like getting a tattoo?”

The guy looked up at the garish designs painted on the tattoo shop’s facade.

“A tattoo?”

Norberto patted the guy on the shoulder.

“Yeah, man, everybody’s got a fuckin’ tattoo now. It’s all the rage.”

Don was getting frustrated. Sure, the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. It was only a matter of time before he tracked Bob down. But right now, when he could be processing that arm, running the prints, beginning to piece together an indictment that could bring the Mexican mafia in southern California to its knees and make Don a law enforcement hero all in one fell swoop, right now Don was in the second act of a wild-goose chase, and it was starting to piss him off.

Don went over the checklist in his mind. He’d been to Bob’s place of employment, apartment, and girlfriend’s place of employment. Don smiled thinking about that. Who ever heard of a masturbation coach? Don had never given masturbation much thought. Sometimes he felt slightly, er, engorged, and just did it. It helped him fall asleep when he was stressed out. But he had to admit that the idea of a coach was exciting. Or maybe it was the idea of that particular coach. She was really attractive. He pulled her card out of his pocket and looked at it. Then he thought better of it. Maybe he just needed a girlfriend. Don put the card away.

Don hadn’t had a girlfriend in about a year. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if his friends weren’t always trying to set him up with some Amanda, Karen, or Dana. He’d just gotten into his work. With the exception of his enological pursuits, Don had done nothing but work. He had pored over every wiretap word by word, he had begun to learn Spanish, had gone through the income tax returns like an auditor, studied phone bills; thousands of tiny details about Esteban had been scrutinized. To clear his head, to keep his sanity, Don had spent nearly every night drinking a bottle of good wine. Drinking alone in that fancy wine bar. Letting the wine wash the minutiae away in broad burgundy strokes.

Don sat in his car, stuck in traffic. This was annoying. Why did Bob have to break up with his girlfriend today? Why couldn’t he just do his job? Don was doing his. He wasn’t mooning over some lost love somewhere. He considered arresting Bob for obstruction, not that the DA could ever make it stick, but just to fuck with him. Let him stew in jail for a few days. Run him around a little, just like he was running Don around now.

Don had to laugh at himself. He was not normally a vindictive person. He didn’t usually get emotional about the small glitches that occur in any investigation. But Don had to admit that he was growing tired of his obsession. It had gotten to him. Ground him down. That’s why he was so anxious to find Bob and get that arm over to Processing.

Bob and Norberto led the stocky guy into the tattoo parlor. The drugs were kicking in fast, the guy’s legs functioning sporadically and then not at all. Bob shifted his grip.

“Heavy fucker.”

Norberto agreed.

“Gringos eat too much, man. They eat the fuckin’ world.”

After they went through the front door a bearded man in a tattered leather motorcycle jacket and ripped jeans flipped the sign around so it read CLOSED and locked the door behind them. When the biker guy walked he produced a distinct rhythm, his biker boots clomp-clomping as a long wallet chain ka-chinged against his leg. Bob was impressed, not so much with the place but with himself. Here I am in a real tattoo parlor with a real Hell’s Angel — looking tattoo artist. Cool.

The tattoo artist looked at Larga.

“This the guy?”

Esteban nodded.

“He looks fucked-up, man.”

Norberto answered this one.

“He is, man, trust me.”

The biker shrugged.

“Put him in the chair and hold him down.”

Bob and Norberto dragged Larga to a chair in back and plopped him down. Larga flopped over like a dead geranium.

Amado had met them there and nodded to Bob like, Job well done . A little sheepish, Bob nodded back, then turned and took in his surroundings. He couldn’t believe all the different designs displayed on the wall. There were hundreds of them. Cool-looking Celtic bands, panthers, Mayan suns, Maori tribal face tattoos. There were pictures of Japanese dudes whose entire bodies were covered with the most incredible and colorful tattoos. Bob was excited, he desperately wanted a tattoo. He thought it would perfectly symbolize his newfound freedom. But what image? Then Bob was struck by another thought. He turned to the bearded tattoo artist.

“Does it hurt?”

The tattoo artist smiled at him.

“What do you think?”

Martin stood near the back and watched as the tattoo artist, who looked like the poster boy for a Harley-Davidson ad, held Amado’s severed arm under a light. The old biker looked at Amado.

“What was her name?”

Amado grunted.

“Felicia.”

The tattoo artist looked back at the arm.

“I can’t make it look exactly the same. It’s gonna look new. No way I can fix that.”

Esteban had an expression on his face that Martin had seen before. It was the look of a man who had reached his limit, who was ready to explode into a rage and kill everyone in the room. But Martin knew that Esteban had a masochistic streak. He would hold the rage in as long as he could. He would push it down into his belly and hold it there. He would be needing some Maalox soon.

“The police haven’t seen it yet, they just have some photos. It’ll be fine.”

Norberto chimed in.

“It doesn’t have to be exact, cabrón . Just make it close enough.”

Martin watched as Bob went over to Esteban.

“Can I get one?”

Martin held his breath. He was certain Esteban was just going to punch Bob in the stomach. Martin had seen it countless times. He knew that getting hit in the stomach hurt, it knocked the wind out of you, but no matter how excruciating the pain, you had to stay on your feet. If you fell to the floor, Esteban would kick you until you were unconscious.