Марк Смит - Moist

But, to Martin’s surprise, Esteban laughed.

“Sure.”

A stream of drool suddenly spilled out of the fat guy’s mouth. The tattoo artist looked concerned.

“Is he dead?”

“He’s just sleepy.”

“He looks dead.”

Norberto patted the fat guy on the head.

“No, man, I just slipped him some Rohypnol.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, man, it’s the date-rape drug.”

“What is it?”

“Guys slip it to las mujeres and it knocks them out. Entonces tú puedes meterla hasta los puños. When they wake up they can’t remember anything.”

Esteban leaned in for a better view.

“No te acuerdas de nada?”

Norberto nodded and pointed to Larga’s unconscious body.

“Yeah, man, you can fuck him if you want. He’ll never know.”

The men looked at each other for an excruciating minute. Esteban broke the silence.

“Jesús Cristo, pendejo. No somos bujarrones.”

Norberto shrugged.

“He wouldn’t know, that’s all I’m saying.”

Martin looked at his hands. They were wrapped around the back of a chair, white-knuckled, digging into the wood until they hurt. Martin released his grip, clenched and unclenched his fists. He couldn’t believe how tense he was. At this rate I’ll be dead of a heart attack before I’m thirty, he thought. He needed to talk to Esteban about letting him get an office. He needed some kind of sanctuary from this madness. Running around, riding in cars, kidnapping people, it was all getting to be a little much. Martin realized he really needed a smoke. He nodded to Esteban.

“I need some air.”

Esteban didn’t seem to care, and for that matter nobody else seemed to care either, so Martin walked through the tattoo shop, past the ratty back room with its old TV set and battered refrigerator. He opened the back door and stepped out into the sunlight. The alley behind the tattoo parlor was nice. Sunny and clean and quiet. The light hitting the warm red bricks and spilling down to the pocked asphalt. Martin looked around, and didn’t see anyone. He pulled a nice smooth jumbo out of his pocket and fired it up. As he exhaled a deep plume of gray into the air he realized that if he had an office, he could smoke all day. Plop his butt on a couch, put his feet up, pop open a cold can of soda and zone out. He’d still get his work done. He was responsible. But he wouldn’t have to ride around in the car endlessly. He’d demand that Esteban make appointments. He took a heavy pull on the joint and held it in his lungs. He liked this idea.

Norberto came out and silently took the joint from Martin’s fingers. He took a hit.

“Nice day.”

Amado watched as the tattoo artist worked diligently to counterfeit his severed arm. His arm was lying right next to Larga’s as the artist went back and forth, measuring, calculating the scale and line, trying to make it as close to perfection as he could.

It was like some kind of strange dream. A sueño con locotes calling the shots. The big boss, El Pez Gordo, Esteban stood over the tattoo artist like a nervous schoolteacher, making sure he didn’t fuck it up. Amado remembered when Esteban was tough, really tough. In the old days he dealt with problems quickly, showing no mercy. He never lost his cool, he had ice in his veins.

Nowadays he just acted tough. Amado could tell by the look in his eyes. He knew Esteban was afraid. He had gone gringo, agringarse . In the old days, Esteban would’ve just shrugged, and said, “ Chingado. ” And that would have been that. If las placas bust us, they bust us. That’s la vida. Now all Esteban seemed to care about was staying in El Norte and making big money, trying to be legit, respectable. As if being a fucking gangster wasn’t respectable enough. Of course Amado realized that there was an upside to Esteban’s change of heart, because in the old days he would be dead by now.

Bob made up his mind. He turned to the tattoo artist.

“Could I get, like, a coffee cup right here on my arm, you know, and spell Felicia’s name in the steam?”

“How big?”

“Not too big. A little one.”

Bob held his finger and thumb about two inches apart.

“Sit down.”

Esteban stepped forward.

“Do we have time for this?”

The tattoo artist looked at him.

“The outline ink needs to set before I do the shading. It won’t take long.”

Bob winced as the machine, kind of like an engraver — a skin engraver — started buzzing. It hurt, but not as bad as he thought it would.

Bob looked up at Amado.

“When do I get to meet her?”

“Felicia?”

“That’s the deal.”

Amado and Esteban exchanged glances.

“You want to meet her tonight?”

“That’d be awesome.”

Esteban nodded.

“We need to get you an alibi. Someplace where you spent the night.”

Bob turned to the tattoo artist.

“I’m really upset because I broke up with my girlfriend.”

The tattoo artist nodded and stroked his beard philosophically.

“Fuckin’ chicks, man.”

Then he went back to tattooing.

Bob looked over at the guy in the matching track suit. Kidnapped, knocked out, tattooed. Wow. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bob felt sorry for him. Of course, Bob realized, none of this was his fault. They had originally planned to kill him and destroy the arm, then the smart white guy had come up with this other plan. That saved his life. His life for a stranger’s arm. It wasn’t great, but it was better than the alternative.

Bob was curious about the fat guy. He reached over and pulled a wallet out of the tracksuit. Esteban growled.

“What are you doing?”

“I just want to see who this guy is.”

With one hand Bob flipped the wallet open and saw the driver’s license.

“Max Larga.”

Bob flipped through the wallet.

“He’s an organ donor.”

Esteban ripped the wallet out of Bob’s hand.

“Look, pendejo, you don’t want to know too much about people. ¿Entiendes?”

“Why not?”

“Just trust me on this. It’s better not to know.”

Bob looked at Amado. Amado nodded. “Es mejor, Roberto, es mejor.”

Bob nodded.

“Okay.”

Bob looked at his arm and watched as the tattoo artist inked and dabbed, inked and dabbed. A beautiful coffee cup and saucer were appearing.

“Can you put some color in?”

“No problem.”

Amado stood up and looked at the clock. He turned to the tattoo artist.

“You got a TV?”

“In the back.”

“My telenovela ’s starting.”

“Make yourself at home.”

Amado walked into the back, past Esteban, who was rolling his eyes. He found the TV and a ratty old couch. Amado clicked on the tube, walked over to the wheezing refrigerator, and opened it. He pulled out a long-neck Budweiser and settled in on the couch to watch his show. The thick sweet smell of mota came drifting in from the alley where Norberto and Martin were getting stoned.

As the theme music for the telenovela began, Norberto came scurrying in.

“¡Ay, qué padre!”

Amado made a shushing sound as Norberto flopped on the couch next to him.

The lead actress — Amado had a huge crush on her — walked into a doctor’s office on the small screen. Amado turned to Norberto.

“Ella es cojonuda.”

“Como tú.”

Amado smiled at the compliment. He was proud of his reputation — he had cojones , and everyone knew it. No matter what anyone said, cojones counted.