Марк Смит - Moist

Bob came over.

“Sorry. I’m just excited about tonight.”

Norberto nodded sagely.

“Felicia.”

“Yeah. I can’t wait.”

“Well, first we got some work to do, vato .”

Bob looked at the chain saws. His face fell.

“Us? You and me?”

Norberto nodded.

“Nosotros.”

Norberto studied Bob’s face. Now was the time when most people turned and ran. But Bob didn’t.

“Yeah, but we’re not going to kill him, right? We’re going to take him to the hospital after we get his arm, right?”

Norberto looked at Bob.

“We won’t kill him, okay? Promise?”

Norberto held up his hand like a Boy Scout.

“I’m not going to kill him, I promise.”

Bob smiled, relieved. Then he had a thought.

“It’s going to get messy. We should get some plastic ponchos and a couple of tarps.”

Norberto smiled.

“Seguro, Roberto, seguro.”

Larga was still dreaming, but his dream began to take on an unpleasant and painful buzz. It was his arm. His arm was being stung by bees, hundreds of them. Poking away with their little stingers, pumping bee venom until his arm began to swell up to Elephant Man proportions. It was horrible. Swelling until it seemed like it would explode.

Larga bolted awake. He looked at his arm and was shocked to see raw and slightly scabby tattoos. He looked around the room. He realized that he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.

He looked at his arm again. He made a fist and saw the word Hola appear as his fingers came together. Larga was confused. Why would he write a Spanish greeting on his knuckles? He twisted his arm in the light. Aside from some minor crosses and dots, stuff that looked like gang markings, the main feature on his arm was a stunning naked woman with a man performing cunnilingus on her. How did that get there? He didn’t remember going to a tattoo parlor. In fact, he didn’t remember much at all.

Larga had never wanted a tattoo. He’d never even been remotely interested in tattoos. But he had to admit, aesthetically speaking, whoever had done this was a fine artist. The expressiveness of line, the play of ink in skin, it was beautiful. It changed him. Hola .

He stood up, wobbly at first, and walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled up his sleeve and flexed his muscle. It hurt, the skin still tender, but it gave him an aura of toughness. A raw animal quality. He knew it was ridiculous, a tattooed cookbook author, but maybe this was a side of him that no one would know about. A hidden wild side. A leather jacket, big boots, mirrored sunglasses version of him. He could get a Harley and go out on Sundays, smoke cigars in roadhouses, show everyone his nasty tattoo.

But before he could do that, he had to figure out where he was and what was going on.

Martin sat in front of the television and lit a joint. Events, he realized, had gotten out of hand. Normally the criminal enterprise ran like a well-oiled machine. Goods and services were provided. The cash flowed. Simple. Easy. Nothing more complex than the business models he’d created as a project in his first year of graduate school.

As he held in a toke, Martin mused about how he had come up with all these labyrinthine money-laundering schemes, with layer upon layer of legitimate businesses funneling excess cash to dummy corporations in the Bahamas. He had spent weeks figuring it out, building it up until it was solid. Rock fucking solid. Of course, Esteban didn’t get it. Esteban understood business at the most basic level. The Paleolithic model. The sophisticated structures that Martin concocted, with their rococo flourishes of multiple retirement accounts in four countries, were simply over Esteban’s head.

Old-school criminal enterprise only worked as long as it was under the radar. Once the feds caught on to what you were doing, they’d dedicate themselves to raining shit on you. But Esteban didn’t care. He would rather keep the money in a vault in the basement. Never mind that the IRS could drag him into court for tax evasion. Take away the vault of cash, the safe house, the other house, the car, the satellite phone, everything. Clean him out like a fucking rainbow trout. Leave him on the street with twelve dollars and an old pair of shoes.

Then Esteban would wish he’d listened. Then he’d want those legit businesses for the tax shelters they provided. Keep his ass out of jail. Even if he went to jail he’d still have beaucoup bucks waiting for him when he got out. He wouldn’t end up some haggard old busboy clearing tables at El Chavo.

Martin stubbed the roach out on the side of the coffee table and kicked back. He thought about his parents. They never listened to him. They had a plan for him. They pulled the strings. He’d never realized before just how fucking controlling they’d been. They told him what schools to go to, what friends to have. If they didn’t like his girlfriend, he’d get a new one. They wanted him to get an MBA, he got one. But did they ever once listen to what he wanted? Did Esteban? Did anyone listen to him?

Martin chuckled to himself. He had done all right so far. He lived his life so that he didn’t have to do what he didn’t want to do. He didn’t want to wear a suit. He didn’t want to work in some corporate tower. He didn’t want to help anyone get rich except himself. It was pretty cushy, he had to admit.

Martin’s brain traipsed through the wonderland of his life, until it returned to the current mess. Events had gotten out of hand. Things were out of control. Amado had freelanced and created a problem. The arm was a problem. The police were a problem. Bob was a problem. The fat guy they’d kidnapped and tattooed was a problem. There were lots of fucking problems. Problems that threatened to take down Martin’s cushy life. Things had to be taken care of. Decisions had to be made.

Maybe Esteban was right. The quickest way from point A to point B is a straight line. Martin liked the logic of that. The simplest way to deal with all these problems would be to line everyone up against a wall and shoot them. Then burn the house to the ground.

Sometimes messy problems require messy solutions.

Larga tiptoed to the door of his room and slowly turned the knob. He expected it to be locked and was a little frightened when it turned all the way and opened. His heart began to beat quicker. He stood frozen, the door cracked, listening. He heard the murmur of a television and the distinct sound of a man snoring. He opened the door just enough for him to fit though, about halfway. Even with wall-to-wall carpeting, the floorboards of the house creaked and squealed as he tried to sneak down the hall. It was excruciating. As if he were accompanied by the UCLA marching band.

In the living room he saw a young white man watching television. Larga couldn’t be sure if the man was awake or asleep, but the stench of marijuana was so strong Larga was certain that he was stoned. Larga decided to try the back door. He crept around toward the kitchen. The sound of snoring resonated from one of the other bedrooms in the house. Larga peeked into the bedroom and saw a large dark figure laid out on the bed.

Holding his breath, his heart ready to seize up, his bowels urging him to shit, his bladder throbbing, Larga crept into the kitchen. He blew a silent sigh of relief when he found the kitchen empty. He looked around for a phone. His plan was to make a quick call to 911 and then run out the back door and down the street as fast as he could.

Then he heard the car pull into the driveway. Cold sweat erupted from his forehead. He wanted to grab the phone, but there wasn’t time. He saw a small broom closet against the far wall and quickly climbed inside.