Марк Смит - Moist

“Are you ready for today, Roberto?”

Bob looked over at him.

“You did your part. I’ll do mine.”

“All you gotta do is tell the truth.”

Bob nodded and ran through the alibi.

“I broke up with my girlfriend. I was very upset. I drove around for hours. I went to a bar. I met someone. We spent the night at the TraveLodge in Glendale.”

“Exacto.”

“And do you know what the good thing is about that?”

“What?”

“It’s all true.”

“ Exacto, Roberto. You should never lie.”

“I could pass a polygraph test.”

“Exactamente.”

Bob looked out the window at the passing strip malls and car dealerships, the landscape of the Valley.

“Can we stop at a Starbucks? I could really use a latte.”

Felicia sat on the bed in the motel room drinking coffee and watching TV. She was wrapped in several clean white towels, her body slathered with free moisturizer. Her hair perfumed and soft from the free shampoo and conditioner. She stretched and lounged and felt very, very good. She didn’t have to check out until noon so she lay back and enjoyed the comfort and tranquility of the king-size bed, the cool hum of the air conditioner, the safety of a sanitized toilet. Now, this was living.

She thought about Roberto. She hadn’t noticed his tattoo, the one with her name on it, until they’d been in the shower that morning. Felicia felt so honored that she’d given him a blow job right then and there. Her knees on the wet tile with the nonslip strips, hot water streaming over them. His face obscured by clouds of steam. His moans echoing off the walls. She liked that. She was doing something dirty, but she felt really clean.

As she watched the noticias on Channel 34, she began to feel different. Her instinct was to resist this feeling. It was a wonderful feeling, but at the same time it was threatening. She valued her independence. It was her vida, and if she gave this feeling a chance it would take over. So she tried to push this feeling as far away as possible. She filed her nails, then applied a new layer of color.

This worked for a little while, and then an image of Roberto, kissing her tenderly on the ankle, would pop into her mind. She found herself thinking about him. Remembering what his skin felt like, how his mouth tasted. He was a good kisser and had a nice big cock. But what stuck with her was the way he had looked at her. His eyes shone with a passion, a force, like one of those pictures of Jesus. His eyes filled with devotion. But his love and devotion wasn’t for all the sinners of the world, Roberto’s love was for her.

She had never felt love like that before. Not once. Sure, many men had said that they loved her, but once they’d fucked her they didn’t seem to love her as much as they claimed. She was used to it. She had steeled her heart against it. When they said they loved her, she didn’t believe them, and, even better, she didn’t care. But he hadn’t said anything. He didn’t have to.

The more she thought about Roberto, the stronger the feeling became. It finally became so powerful and insistent that she couldn’t push it away any longer. She succumbed. She let the feeling wash over her in a delicious rush. It made her nervous. It scared her. Because this feeling had a life, an energy, and a power. It could hurt her. It could cut deep into her heart. It could change her for the better or it could fuck her over. But she couldn’t resist. It felt too good. She was enamorada.

Don sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tracing the funky yellow Formica boomerangs as he sipped a cup of coffee. Maura was wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and spreading butter on some toast. She waved a piece of toast at him.

“Sure you’re not hungry?”

Don shook his head.

“I’ve got to get going.”

Maura took her toast and sat at the table. There was an awkward pause, a beat of indecision and dread.

“Am I going to see you again?”

Don sighed. He had been afraid to ask this question in case he got the answer he didn’t want to hear. But she just flat-out asked. She wasn’t afraid. This, Don realized, was one of the things that made her so attractive. She didn’t play games. If she wanted something, she asked for it. It was refreshing.

“I hope so.”

Maura smiled. Now it was Don’s turn.

“I’d like to see you tonight. If you’re not too busy.”

“Can I cook for you?”

Don reached out across the table and gently took her hand.

“Whatever you want to do.”

Maura smiled.

“Then I’ll cook.”

Don finished his coffee and stood up to go.

“I hate to bring up work, but if you hear from your ex-boyfriend would you call me?”

“Can I call you just to talk?”

Don smiled.

“Absolutely.”

Don patted himself, feeling for his gun, his badge, the tools of his trade. Reassured that they were all in place, he walked over and gave her a kiss. Maura held on to him, stroking his back, giving his ass a playful squeeze, her hand stopping and holding on his gun for a moment, and then she broke from the embrace.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

Norberto and Martin sat in a booth at Denny’s. Norberto was famished, exhausted, agotado, having just spent the night working like a fucking campesino . He wasn’t in the mood to talk, especially not in English. When he was tired, or really drunk, or sick, his ability to habla Inglés left him. It just vanished. He knew Martin was one of those gringos who thought they spoke Spanish. They would speak loudly and confidently with all the vocabulary and syntax of a first-grader. Norberto hadn’t gone to college, he couldn’t claim to be an expert or anything, but listening to gringos fracture grammar and mix tenses was just annoying.

So Norberto didn’t say anything. He dipped his paper napkin in his water glass and tried to wipe some of the grit off his face. He looked across the table at Martin, who was staring out the window with a stony grin plastered on his face. All Norberto could think of was what a maricón Martin was. At one point he had wanted to shoot Martin and dump him in the hole with the dead guy. But, typical, the hole was barely big enough for the dead guy by himself, and there was no fucking way he was going to dig it bigger.

Norberto realized that Martin might be smart but he was also lazy. Flojo. Lazy was dangerous. Lazy made mistakes. He would have to keep his eye on Martin. Make sure he didn’t get sloppy and leave loose ends. Loose ends were always followed, if not by las placas then by Esteban. He didn’t know how they did it, but somehow loose ends always unraveled whatever scam you were pulling. That’s why Carlos Vila was dead.

Norberto drank his coffee, then his water. He was dehydrated, grumpy, and really hungry.

Martin was hungry too. His appetite fueled more by the effects of copious quantities of marijuana than by physical effort. Still, he’d helped chuck the corpse into the hole. He’d helped cover it up. He wasn’t a laborer. He wasn’t a — Martin had to catch himself when he thought of this one — Mexican. He had a graduate degree. He worked with his mind, not with his back. Sorry, but that’s just the way it was.

Despite what Norberto thought, and Martin could tell he was annoyed, Martin was thinking. Planning. Being strategic. Maybe he didn’t help dig the hole, but he put his mind to work, doing his best to keep it from looking like a fresh grave in the middle of the desert. He’d had the great idea of building a campfire on top of the grave to make it look like it was some kind of campsite.