Марк Смит - Moist

This was the part of his job that he enjoyed. Taking a collection of seemingly unrelated evidence and information and slowly piecing together a picture of what had happened. It was like archeology.

The clerk looked over his shoulder.

“That’s what you were waiting for?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I need to keep it cold?”

“Just keep it in the cooler.”

“You want me to send it to the lab?”

Don looked at the clerk.

“Yes.”

The clerk was oblivious to Don’s sarcastic tone.

“Okay.”

“Can you put a rush on it?”

“You have to call the lab for that.”

“All right. You get it over there right away and I’ll call the lab.”

The clerk nodded.

“I can do that.”

Maura was beginning to lose her patience. It wasn’t like her, but this new client just wasn’t getting it. Not that he was nervous or inhibited. In fact, he couldn’t wait to take off his clothes and wave his hard-on at her. But his motion, his stroke, it was spastic. Herky-jerky. She spoke to him softly, trying to get him to slow down, smooth out, enjoy the sensations. But he couldn’t do it. Like he had Tourette’s syndrome in his right arm.

It was the opposite of her night with Don. A night filled with smooth, gliding sensations. Their bodies linking up in the same rhythm.

Watching this guy was like chewing aluminum foil or hearing someone run their fingernails across a blackboard. It was horrible.

Maura couldn’t take it anymore. She impulsively did something she’d sworn she’d never do. She stopped him and took his cock in her hand.

“Here, let me show you.”

She jacked him off in a jiffy.

Amado sat on the couch watching his telenovela . It was a slow day on the hacienda. Fernando was up to something and Gloria was busy seducing the local padre. Amado was hoping that the priest wouldn’t fall for her cheap come-on. You decide to dedicate your life to the Church, then that’s what you do. It’s your calling.

Amado had a calling. He had devoted his life to thieving, fucking, and drinking. He embraced the sins of the flesh. He celebrated them by turning his body into an icon of carnal acts. He’d have to be loco to go into a church and declare himself a man worthy of God’s everlasting love. Just like the padre would have to be loco to suddenly fall into Gloria’s arms.

He could see that the padre was tempted; who wouldn’t be, looking down into Gloria’s cleavage, which was as deep and mysterious as the Marianas Trench, but Amado hoped that the padre would come to his senses, have a little integrity. The padre needed to remember why he’d chosen the path of God and resist the fleeting joys that Gloria offered. Otherwise he could never hold mass again.

Norberto and Martin entered the house. Norberto was filthy. He took his shoes off at the front door so as not to track dirt through the house.

“Hola.”

Amado looked up from the TV.

“Hola, pendejo. ¿Cómo fue?”

“Bien. Todo bien.”

Martin chimed in.

“Everything’s cool.”

“Curado, vato.”

Amado could tell from their body language that everything was not cool. But he played it off. Martin shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Is Esteban here?”

“He went home.”

Martin nodded.

“Maybe I’ll give him a call. Just to, you know, check in.”

“You do that.”

“Is your arm still here?”

“It’s in the fridge.”

Martin nodded.

“We should get rid of it.”

“Why?”

Norberto piped up.

“It’s evidence, man.”

“It’s my arm.”

“If the cops find it…”

“Las placas won’t find it. ¿Entiendes?”

Amado shot them a withering glance. But Martin wouldn’t let it go.

“Esteban said that we should get rid of it.”

“It’s not El Jefe’s arm.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Amado didn’t know the answer to that one.

“Keep it around.”

“Until the police find it.”

“It’s my arm, pendejo .”

He watched as Martin and Norberto exchanged glances.

“I need a shower, man.”

Amado didn’t say anything. Gloria was stroking the padre’s thigh.

“Yo necesito descansar, también.”

Amado looked up at Norberto.

“Vale, cabrón.”

Norberto and Martin stood there for a beat and then shuffled off. Amado rolled his eyes. They were hiding something. Either they’d botched the burial or they were planning something. Or they were stoned. With Martin you could never tell, he always seemed a little squirrelly. A baboso who thought he knew everything but really had a lot to learn about the way things work. Amado knew that, whatever they were trying to pull, the learning curve was going to be steep and hairy for Martin and Norberto.

He turned back to the TV just in time to see the padre fall into Gloria’s arms, burying his head between her huge soft breasts and praying for God’s forgiveness for what he was about to do.

Amado hated hypocrites.

Morris was still playing Tetris when Bob walked in.

“How high are you?”

Morris stopped playing.

“How high are you, man? Where the fuck have you been?”

“Out.”

“Duh.”

“Anybody notice I was gone?”

“Just the boss, the police, everyone at UCLA.”

“The boss mad?”

Morris shook his head.

“He’s worried, dude. We were all worried.”

“About me?”

“Yeah.”

Bob smiled.

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I’m not gay. I didn’t care, like, that much.”

Bob laughed.

“I better go tell the boss.”

“You better call the cops, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Bob turned to go.

“You must’ve really loved her, man.”

Bob stopped.

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend.”

Bob reminded himself to tell the truth.

“Yeah, I did.”

Esteban lowered himself into his bubbling Jacuzzi. He felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours begin to melt away. Amado had made a gazpacho out of everything, but at the end of the day he was still one of the few men that Esteban could count on. Count on and trust. He’d have a word with Amado about whatever freelancing he was doing with Carlos Vila, but he didn’t want Amado dead. He was too valuable.

Lupe came out with a bowl of guacamole and some chips. She was wearing a dark blue one-piece swimsuit, and Esteban couldn’t help but admire her body as she climbed into the Jacuzzi and put the dip down in front of him.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

She smiled at him. She had a beautiful smile.

Esteban wondered if it wasn’t time for him to settle down. Maybe get married. He’d always figured he’d end up married to an American, that’d make it easy to get a green card. But American women were so thin, skinny and preoccupied with shopping and their appearance. Esteban found them repulsive. They chatted endlessly about how they looked, how other women looked, and how they or their friends would look after surgical enhancements were completed. They lacked soul.

Esteban took a chip and dipped it into the guacamole. The cool thick avocado coated his tongue. It was somehow spicy, biting, and soothing all at the same time. It tasted of earth and sun, cilantro and jalapeño, onion and lime. It reminded him of Mexico. The good parts he’d left behind. Guacamole, he realized, was very soulful.

Lupe smiled at him as he ate another mouthful.

“Te gusta?”