Марк Смит - Moist

When the car made a turn to the left, Bob’s arm stung under the weight of the fat guy combined with the centrifugal force of the car. Bob was worried that his tattoo might smear or become damaged. He put his foot on the door, deciding to wait until the car made a hard right and then use his leg to muscle the fat guy over on Martin.

While this reverse tug-of-war was going on, Martin sat there reading him the riot act. Telling him that he didn’t know the first fucking thing about La Eme. As if Martin were Don Corleone and Bob some chump who’d just fallen off the turnip truck. The more Martin talked, the more annoyed Bob became. He realized that there is nothing worse than a know-it-all stoner telling you what your problem is.

In the front seat Bob saw that Amado and Norberto were chuckling. Laughing at the two white boys in the back. Talking about them softly in Spanish. Bob felt a pressure beginning to build in his chest. He tried to control it, but Martin was still going on and on.

Bob snapped. He shifted in his seat for a better angle and then drove his right fist into the side of Martin’s head.

“Shut up.”

Sucker punched, Martin’s head snapped hard to one side and banged against the window frame. Then he slumped against the door. Lights out.

Bob shoved the fat guy over on top of Martin.

Then he had a thought. Dread washed over Bob. He wondered if he’d crossed the line and now they were going to kill him. But that didn’t happen. Esteban turned to Bob and looked him right in the eye.

“Gracias, Roberto.”

Bob nodded that knowing head bob that means “It’s cool” or “No problem.”

Amado and Norberto giggled in the front seat like schoolgirls.

“Qué bárbaro.”

Amado turned to Esteban, and said, “Maybe we should change his name from Roberto to Lucho because he likes to fight.”

Bob smiled. Maybe smacking Martin upside the head was a good thing. It improved his standing with the guys and, surprisingly, relaxed him. He flexed his hand, the knuckles red from impact. Bob felt good. He rolled down his window and took a breath of fresh air. He checked his tattoo to see if it was all right. It was still as beautiful as ever.

Don sat in his car across the street from Maura’s apartment building just off Sunset Boulevard in the Silver Lake neighborhood of LA. Don had told the captain that he needed to put in some overtime to try to track down some missing evidence, but that was only part of it. Don couldn’t help himself. There was something about Maura that he found so interesting and so compelling that here he was, sitting in his car, waiting for her to come home.

He saw her drive past in an old Galaxy 500. The car looked to be in pretty good shape; she must’ve had it restored. A cool car for a cool woman. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. Don watched her get out of her car and enter the building. He admired the way she walked. She had a purpose, a sense of herself. And those tits. The way they heaved slightly as she moved. Don tried not to think about women in the overtly sexual way he heard in the precinct locker room. In his mind, he was looking for someone with more than a nice rack. Still, when a man’s confronted with a pair of breasts, well, he can’t help but think in those terms. He watched her ass as she walked into her building. Nice rack, tight ass. She was a great-looking package.

Don knew from experience to give her a few minutes to use the bathroom, check her messages, and relax a little. Otherwise she’d be unsettled and try to get rid of him. Give her some time and she might even welcome him in, pour him a glass of wine. Don smiled at the thought of that. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes.

The more Maura thought about it, the angrier she got. Who the fuck did Bob think he was? She had been the one who was changing her life, putting the wheels in motion, building up a head of steam. She was the one who was going to venture forth into the big and exciting world. But no. Bob had beaten her to the punch. He’d stolen her thunder. Cut her off from her momentum. Let the air out of her tires. Now she was stuck looking at all their crappy furniture in this funky old apartment. Her life with Bob hung from her neck like a giant inflatable mascot in a used-car lot. A forty-foot plastic albatross. God, it pissed her off.

She saw his laptop sitting on the desk and impulsively slid it into the trash can with a satisfying thunk. She looked at if for a moment, realized the immaturity of her act, and then reached in and put it back on the desk. It pissed her off that she was so pissed off. Who was Bob that he could push her buttons like that? He was just a fucking guy. A young dude. Oh, he had some special qualities, she had to admit, but nothing earth-shattering. No, Bob was not one in a million, he was one of a million. Maura realized she was grinding her teeth.

The knock on the door came as a relief.

“I hope I’m not bothering you.”

Maura recognized the detective.

“No. Please.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a seat.”

She closed the door behind him and pointed to the couch. She saw the detective take in the room with a couple of quick sweeping glances.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“I could make coffee. Or I’ve got some wine.”

“Wine sounds great.”

The detective sat on the couch as Maura hurried into the kitchen. She returned with two glasses and a bottle of pinot noir from somewhere in Oregon.

“Sorry, this is all I’ve got.”

The detective smiled at her.

“That’s a good bottle.”

She was surprised.

“You like wine?”

“It’s sort of a passion of mine.”

Maura shrugged.

“I thought cops drank beer.”

“We usually do.”

She expertly uncorked the bottle and poured him a glass.

“Thanks.”

She watched as he spun the wine around to aerate it and then took a small slurpy sip, allowing the wine to dance on his tongue.

“Nice.”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

The detective inhaled deeply.

“It’s a little young still. If you like this you should really try the wines from the Loire Valley.”

“I love French wines.”

“Then I know just the place. Care to have dinner tonight?”

This took Maura by surprise. She’d planned to go to her yoga class and try and get centered, work her anger out. But the wine was warming her up, making her feel soft and happy. Why not go out with the detective? Fall off the horse and get right back in the saddle. Besides, he hadn’t cringed or mocked her or laughed nervously when she told him what she did. He was different.

“I’d love to, but…”

“But what?”

“I forgot your name.”

“Don.”

Maura sipped her wine and smiled at him.

“Don.”

Martin’s jaw hurt. His face burned with embarrassment. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. But he couldn’t. He knew enough from being around Esteban that a man just sucks it up. You get punched, it’s not supposed to bother you. You just shrug, say “ No chingues, ” and move on. These stupid fucking cowboys. They were never going to move into the legit business world if they hung on to those macho attitudes. Martin wondered why Esteban didn’t stick up for him. He could’ve killed Bob right then and there.

And Bob? What was he thinking? Martin had been instrumental in saving his life and as his reward he got sucker punched. That’s not right.

The more Martin thought about it, the angrier he got. Here he was working to keep his boss out of jail and some fucking delivery boy alive, and what do they do? They laugh at him. They abuse him.