Марк Смит - Moist

The plan was simple. Kill Roberto because he was a liability, an amateur who’d easily crack under interrogation. Give Amado’s arm to the police. Let them arrest Amado for murder and then indict Esteban for racketeering. With those two in jail, Martin and Norberto could move in on Esteban’s businesses, take them over like they were doing him a favor, and make millions.

Norberto recognized that the plan was a good one. Martin was a smart guy. He’d figured it all out. Letting the cops come in and do the dirty work was a nice touch. It kept Norberto’s hands clean. Made him a victim of Esteban and Amado’s stupidity. For once he would be the smart one. Norberto liked that. He liked that a lot.

He didn’t, however, like the idea of killing Roberto. He enjoyed having him around. But he wasn’t the kind of man who’d let a thing like affection stand in the way of millions of dollars. He’d gutted people for a lot less.

The only thing that gave him pause was the simple fact that he’d never trusted Martin. Never liked him. Martin had that superior anglo attitude. The same attitude that the ESL teacher had when Norberto beat the living shit out of him. But maybe all anglos had this problem. Maybe they all needed to be taught a lesson. Would the other factions of La Eme let a gringo run the crew? No way, José. What would they think of Norberto taking orders from a gringo? Norberto realized the only way to make this work was to follow Martin’s plan to the letter and then kill him. Besides, if Martin made him kill Roberto, it would make him feel better to return the favor.

Maura woke up. Her body was relaxed. Loose and filled with heat like she’d just spent the last two hours going through an intense set of asanas in her yoga class. The detective’s body was tangled up with hers. She could feel his warmth, the moisture trapped between them where they touched. She could smell the wine on his breath. She stretched and slipped her body out of the knot they’d made.

She thought about what they’d done. She’d never had sex like that. But she realized that it wasn’t like Don had done anything to her. It wasn’t his skill or expertise. It was her mood, her energy. She had fully committed to the act. She climbed out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. She saw his pants puddled on the floor where she’d thrown them. She reached down and felt around for the heavy metal.

Maura shot a furtive glance over at the detective. He was sound asleep. A big man-lump on the bed. She gently pulled the gun out of its holster and held it in her hands. She’d always been afraid of guns. She believed that they should be banned. They were dangerous. They killed people. From a politically correct point of view she shouldn’t even be with a man who had a gun. And she definitely shouldn’t be standing naked in the middle of her bedroom holding his gun.

But she couldn’t help herself. She felt something inside her. A compulsion. An urgency. She held the gun in one hand and touched herself with the other. Breathless, excited, and honestly a little worried about herself, she came in less than a minute.

No matter how deep you dug, the fucking holes were never big enough. That’s the way it seemed to Norberto. He’d buried all shapes and sizes of people out here in the desert and it was never easy. Norberto couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. It always seemed to him that he was digging in the exact same spot where he buried the last guy, yet he never unearthed an old grave while digging a new one. Freaky.

Norberto wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked around for Martin. Their work was lit by one pathetic beam from a flashlight wedged between a couple of rocks. Luckily the stars were out, so they could see what they were doing without attracting attention. Like there was anyone around to see them.

Norberto heard the crunch of shoes on dirt and turned to see Martin coming back from the car with a couple bottles of water.

“You gonna help me, man, or what?”

“I was thirsty.”

Martin handed Norberto a bottle. Norberto drained it in a few greedy gulps while Martin picked up the flashlight and examined the hole.

“It looks big enough.”

“No way, man.”

“Let’s dump him in and see.”

Norberto looked at Martin. Martin shone the light in his face.

“Get that outta my face, maricón .”

“Sorry.”

Norberto couldn’t hide his annoyance.

“Once we dump him in, it’s, like, impossible to get him out, man. So we got to make sure it’s big.”

“It looks big.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“I told you we should’ve dumped him in the forest.”

“I told you, they find ’em in the forest.”

“They can’t find all of them.”

“I don’t care about all of them. I care about this one and we don’t want them finding this one.”

Norberto was getting pissed. There’s a right way to do things and a wrong way to do things. Why be half-assed about hiding evidence? This was a time to do things the right way.

He watched as Martin fired up a joint.

“What are you doing, man?”

“You want some?”

“I want some help diggin’ this fucking hole.”

“I’m just taking a break.”

Norberto glared at Martin. Then he realized that Martin couldn’t see his glare in the dark. Couldn’t see shit. Norberto watched as Martin’s silhouette blew a thick plume of smoke into the air. He knew Martin would be worthless now.

“Fuck it.”

Norberto went back to digging.

Felicia woke up and crawled out of bed. She went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. She sat on the toilet and thought about Roberto. Never in her life had she felt such devotion. Where did it come from? Roberto had fallen in love with a tattoo that looked like her. Actually it looked like lots of women she knew, but for some reason Roberto thought it was her. Was he crazy? No. She didn’t think he was crazy. Not in a clinical way. If he was crazy what did that say about her? She had felt a connection with him from the moment he entered the motel room.

Something was happening. She looked in the mirror and was surprised to see that she was smiling. She couldn’t help herself.

AMADO DROVE. BOB sat next to him with a moony grin on his face. Amado recognized the look as his own after he’d spent a night with a woman. Feeling hollowed out and reborn, spent and revitalized, all at the same time. You get kind of sex-goofy.

“You had a good night, Roberto?”

Bob grinned and nodded.

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

Amado laughed.

“You want to get a tattoo?”

“No, man. I want to get a ring. I want to marry her.”

Amado shook his head. Gringos were locos. Why were they always getting married?

“ Carajo, Roberto. What did she do to you?”

Bob started to answer, but then just grinned and shook his head. Amado laughed again.

“You’re not going to tell me? It’s some big secret?”

“No, Amado. No secret. I want to keep it to myself.”

Amado nodded. He respected that. He himself didn’t like to recount his exploits to his friends. He would show them a tattoo. But he liked to savor the memories of his sexual encounters in privacy. Just like Bob. Amado couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the realization that he and Bob were similar in some way. Not that they looked alike — they could not be more different — or that they came from the same background. There, too, they couldn’t be further apart. But there was something about Bob, a surprising soulfulness, that Amado connected to and admired.

Amado decided to change the subject.