Марк Смит - Moist

DON RETURNED TO Parker Center. He was beat. He had a headache. The drive back from Hollywood hadn’t helped. He felt frayed, like everything he’d been working for was starting to unravel because some loser broke up with his girlfriend. He realized he should’ve stopped at a Starbucks and gotten a latte or something.

Flores was at his desk reading the paper when Don sat down next to him.

“Didn’t you already read that?”

Flores looked up.

“Yeah.”

“So why’re you reading it again?”

“I’m bored.”

Don rifled through his messages.

“The evidence ever show up anywhere?”

“The arm?”

“Yeah, the arm.”

“Nope.”

Don slammed some paper into his trash can in frustration.

“Where the fuck is it?”

“Wait a day, you’ll be able to smell it.”

Don wrinkled his nose. He did not like the smell of dead things. That was one of the reasons he’d moved from Homicide to Criminal Intelligence. Much better to sit in a van pulling surveillance for twenty-four mind-numbing hours than to pop the trunk on a Ford Taurus at LAX that’s got a month-old corpse. Even though the delay was driving him crazy, Don was glad that they’d sent the arm to the lab for treatment.

“They treated it. It won’t smell.”

Flores put down his paper.

“Yeah, right.”

“Well, it’s not supposed to smell as bad.”

“Dead things smell.”

Flores went back to reading his paper. Don headed for the coffeemaker. He needed some caffeine. It might help him focus. He knew that when he got frustrated his brain had a tendency to become fragmented, to drift off down meaningless tributaries, winding around until it finally came to a complete and utter dead end. Don needed to get back to basics. Back to the who, what, why, when, where, and how of criminal investigation.

He poured a cup of the thick institutional brew, stirred in a packet of chemical sweetener and a blop of Irish crème-flavored nondairy additive, and headed back to his desk. Don had always considered himself a good judge of character. His instincts were sharp. First things first. Find Bob. Don sipped his coffee and thought about it. If he were Bob and he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, what would he do? Don knew instantly what he’d do. He’d go crawling back to Maura. He turned to Flores.

“I’m going to be putting in some overtime tonight.”

Flores didn’t even bother to look up from the paper. He was asleep.

Esteban was amazed. Despite the fact that one of the arms was gray and getting a little shriveled, they were almost identical.

“You, my friend, are a true artist.”

The biker smiled.

“Give it some time to set and it’ll look even better.”

Esteban grunted.

“It’s good enough right now.”

The biker stood up and wiped the ink off his fingers.

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but I have to admit I’m curious what you’re going to do with these two arms.”

Esteban smiled. This was the part he liked, the gossip that would circulate around the criminal underworld of Los Angeles for the next few weeks. No one would know exactly what he was up to, they would just know that he was carrying around a severed arm. This would enhance his reputation. Make people wonder. Instill a little fear. It was good for business.

“It’s a practical joke.”

“A joke?”

“On the police.”

The biker grinned.

“Those are the best kind.”

Norberto was shaken. He’d been so stoned that he’d forgotten to turn off Esteban’s psycho antitheft device. He was just lowering himself into the driver’s seat when Esteban shouted at him. Another second and he’d have gotten fifteen inches of cold metal fleshette rammed up his ass. But Esteban shouted, causing him to launch himself out of the car in the nick of time. He sprawled on the street, his heart pounding so fast he thought it might come popping right out of his chest.

It had been a milagro. Some saint was looking down on him and decided to spare him. Maybe this was a lesson. Maybe an omen. Norberto didn’t know for sure, but he knew it was something. Someone was trying to send him a message.

Even as his mind filled with the Holy Spirit and his adrenal glands pulsated furiously, Norberto felt so relaxed, and so high, that all he could do was lie on the street laughing uncontrollably. He was sure he’d shit himself. And that only made him laugh harder.

Amado extended his hand.

“Come on, pendejo, get up.”

Norberto couldn’t. He was paralyzed with laughter. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I shit myself, cabrón. ”

“You still have to get up, vato. ”

Norberto saw Esteban out of the corner of his eye. Esteban’s face was screwed up and cold. Killer cold. It scared Norberto straight enough to take Amado’s hand and stand up.

“Sorry. Sorry, Esteban.”

Esteban took the keys from Norberto.

“Vamos.”

Norberto wiped the tears from his eyes and went around to the passenger side. His face flushed with embarrassment, just like when he went to school and the teachers made fun of him for doing something stupid. Norberto hated that feeling. He got in the car and buckled his seat belt.

Bob was sitting in back with Martin. The fat guy was crushed between the two gringos, his head flopped over onto Bob’s shoulder, a thin line of spittle running the length of his torso. Bob pushed the fat guy over toward Martin. Martin pushed him back.

“What the fuck’re you doin’, man?”

“My tattoo’s getting jammed against the door.”

“Well, you should’ve thought of that.”

“I thought we were going to put him back in the trunk.”

Norberto loved to hear the gringos bicker. That whiny nasal edge coming into their voices. There was never any threat of violence. No one would throw a punch or pull a knife. Gringos were too polite. They’d just argue like old women for the rest of the ride home.

Norberto wiggled his butt against the seat, trying to feel if he had actually shit himself. He didn’t detect anything sticky or slimy so… no problema, man. He could sit back, relax, let Esteban drive, and see if he could locate the buzz he’d had before.

Then Esteban turned to him, and said, “We need a chain saw.”

And that killed what was left of his buzz.

Maura watched as her last client of the day, a thin wisp of a man with a giant penis, slowly reached orgasm. What a strange day she’d had.

Even though her thoughts were elsewhere she spoke soothingly to the man in the chair as he stroked his cock furiously.

“Relax. Breathe into the sensation. Let it ascend slowly up your spine until it reaches your cerebral cortex.”

A surprisingly small drop of spunk leaped out of him and landed on his arm. Maura handed him a box of tissues.

“Let the energy of the orgasm flow through your entire body, refreshing, replenishing, and reenergizing you.”

It suddenly flashed in her mind that maybe that’s what Bob’s problem was. He’d repressed his wild side for so long that now he was on some kind of rampage. Bob was in trouble. He would probably lose his job. The police were looking for him. He was moving out. He’d probably end up homeless. Maura hoped that didn’t happen. Bob on a rampage was still Bob.

Bob sat in the back of the car pinned under the unconscious fat guy. His tattoo was being rubbed raw against the door. Bob pushed the fat guy over toward Martin, but Martin must’ve had some kind of leverage because Bob pushed as hard as he could and the only thing that changed was the fat guy’s breathing.