Марк Смит - Moist

Norberto hadn’t appreciated the genius of that. He’d had to argue with Norberto about that for an hour while the sun slowly crept over the horizon. Martin hadn’t realized how stupid Norberto was until now. Maybe it’d been a mistake to bring him in on the plan. There were advantages, of course, to having Norberto be so dumb. It would keep him from plotting against him. Norberto would need Martin, not just to pull this off but to help run the business after Esteban and Amado were put away. Norberto’s stupidity gave Martin a kind of job security.

Martin sipped his chocolate malt, washing the dirt out of his throat with its cold icy granules, and watched as Norberto demolished a Grand Slam breakfast. A grand slam. Clear the bases. Bring it all home. That’s what Martin was going to do, and when he was done, then Norberto would appreciate his genius. It was like a game of chess. Anyone could move the pieces, that was just logistics, lifting, grunt work. It was strategy that won the game.

Don drove home to quickly shave and change his clothes. Today was going to be a good one. Whatever forces that propelled the universe — be they energies of coincidence or karma — had conspired to bless him. Not only did he have a break in his case but his search for Bob had led him to this incredible woman. Don had gotten lucky.

Esteban carried his copy of La Opinion into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and took out a small glass. He took a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice out of the refrigerator, pausing for just a beat when he saw the two severed arms together on a cookie sheet on the bottom shelf. Esteban would be glad to get rid of those things. He never liked to have anything remotely resembling evidence around for long. He’d never store a shipment of drugs at his own home, always using warehouses, storage units, or, in an emergency, this safe house.

He sat at the kitchen table, sipped his orange juice, and read the paper. This new presidente in Mexico could be trouble. He was not part of the old guard that had kept Mexico in a kind of feudal society for centuries, with rich landowners, industrialists, and gangsters as kings and shoguns. He wasn’t a socialist, thank God, but he was a reformer. A reformer who made a lot of speeches about improving the lives of the Mexican working class. Part of that would be eliminating the drug trade and cracking down on corruption. Esteban chuckled. As if that would improve their lives.

Esteban relied on a time-honored tradition of bribes and corruption, giving officials their “little bites,” to move product through the country and over the border. How else could your average civil servant afford a satellite dish, a DVD player, or a Jeep Cherokee? But if this new guy was going to start cracking down, it could cause problems. Not that it would ever stop the flow of product into the States, there was just too much money to be made, but it could cause headaches, disruptions. Carajo, this new presidente was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.

Esteban looked up as he heard Bob and Amado pull into the driveway. He watched as the two men climbed out of the car, laughing and joking like they were old friends. As much as he liked Bob, Esteban was still a little unsure. It was a risk he wouldn’t normally take, but then this was not a normal situation. Still, there was something about him that seemed trustworthy. He was sincere. Not jaded like Martin and other anglos that Esteban knew. Anglos always seemed to think that they were entitled to everything. As if working was somehow beneath them. It was a kind of culturally inbred arrogance. It was not an attractive quality to someone who’d worked his way up from the strawberry fields.

Bob and Amado strolled into the kitchen. Bob was carrying a couple of cups from Starbucks. He handed one to Esteban.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I got you a cappuccino.”

Esteban took the coffee from Bob, touched by the gesture.

“ Gracias, Roberto. I like cappuccino.”

Esteban and Bob locked eyes for a moment. Esteban was surprised and, he had to admit, pleased when Bob didn’t look away. Bob wasn’t threatened by him.

“Roberto, did Felicia help you find your huevos ?”

“What?”

“Your balls.”

Bob blushed, a sly grin on his face. Amado smacked him on the back.

“He’s ready.”

Esteban sipped his cappuccino.

“You ready, Roberto?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Esteban got serious.

“I’ll tell you something about the police. Las placas can tell when you’re lying. They got some kind of sense about it. So the secret is simple. Do not lie. Tell them the truth. Maybe not the whole truth. But you tell them enough of the truth and they’ll believe you.”

“Because I’m telling the truth.”

“ Exacto . And remember, you’re not excited. You’re upset. This thing with your girlfriend was very upsetting.”

“I should be depressed?”

Amado joined in.

“Yes, a little sad, I think.”

“But I’d be lying. I’m not sad.”

Amado and Esteban exchanged looks.

“So you were celebrating after your breakup?”

Bob smiled at the men.

“I was celebrating.”

“ Bueno . Whatever is the most honest.”

Bob finished his coffee and put it down on the table.

“Where’s the arm?”

Esteban pointed.

“In the fridge.”

It felt strange to be back behind the wheel of the delivery car. Bob clicked on the radio, which was still tuned to the same station he’d been listening to before his life had changed so radically. Bob knew that he’d have to work at the lab for a week or two, then give notice. He had to be smart about it, he couldn’t just walk in and quit. That might give away the fact that he’d been up to something. Unless he got fired. That would work.

As he drove toward Parker Center he thought about Felicia. He compared her to Maura. He couldn’t help himself. He started to chastise himself for all the time he’d wasted being with her when he could’ve been with Felicia. But then he realized that he’d been happy with Maura. They’d had fun together. They’d loved each other. Maybe it wasn’t the intense love he felt for Felicia, but it wasn’t a waste. Maybe if he hadn’t been with Maura he wouldn’t have been ready for a woman like Felicia. Bob began to wonder if the world really was random like he’d always thought. Maybe there was a kind of plan to everything after all. It sure seemed like it.

Bob was beginning to believe in something. The higher power that the drunks and dope fiends talk about. The force, like in Star Wars. The laws of karma. The will of Allah. Jah love. It was real. He could feel it.

Don was pissed. He had left specific instructions with the evidence room clerk that the minute, no, the second that the arm was delivered they were to call him and detain the delivery guy. But they hadn’t. In fact, they hadn’t even called him and told him the arm had been delivered. He’d had to call down to ask.

Don didn’t wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, running down two at a time. He’d had a hunch that Bob was a normal, honest guy. That he’d been distraught over being dumped. And who wouldn’t with a woman like Maura? Still, after he got the arm sent over for fingerprints and DNA testing, he’d track Bob down and have a little chat with him. Help him get his priorities straight.

Don went into the evidence room. He tried to hide his annoyance, not that the clerk would’ve noticed. The clerk, a pudgy guy with extremely thick blond eyebrows, showed him the cooler. Don popped the lid and looked in. There it was. The arm last seen on the floor of Carlos Vila’s garage. Now Don would find out who it belonged to. Because he still couldn’t figure out why they’d leave Carlos’s body but take the body of the second victim. It just didn’t make sense.