Марк Смит - Moist

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You knew it was something to be delivered to the police, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Why wouldn’t that be important?”

Bob hung his head.

“I see your point. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s a little late for ‘sorry,’ Bob.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

Bob wondered why the detective was working alone. Two guys had picked him up. If this was the bad cop, Bob wanted to see the good cop in action. The one who’d be sympathetic to Bob’s emotional distress. Of course, if this was the good cop and the other one was going to come in and break his arm… it was fine just having the one detective.

“So you didn’t return to the office after five or go home. You kept the car. Did you spend the night in the car?”

“No.”

“Where did you go?”

“I stayed in a motel.”

“Where? Do you remember?”

How could he forget.

“The TraveLodge in Glendale.”

The detective wrote that down and then gave Bob a very hard look.

“I’m going to check this out. Anything you want to change about your story?”

Bob looked him right in the eyes.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

The detective was pressing, trying to get in Bob’s face, rattle his cage. He succeeded. Bob lost his temper and began to rant.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry I didn’t make the delivery on time. Okay? I’m really sorry. But I have a life too. I had problems and I had to deal with them. Okay? So before you go judging me, think about what you’d do if your girlfriend dumped you. All right?”

Don watched as a uniformed officer escorted Bob out of the interrogation room. There was something about Bob that bothered Don. He couldn’t be sure if it was because Bob was Maura’s ex-boyfriend. It was possible that Don’s feelings for Maura were contaminating his impression of Bob. But it seemed to him that Bob’s response was just a little too contrived. Don had seen it before. People who think they know how the police think they should respond. Not overly dramatic, not overly detached. It was a kind of response that people had when they were guilty and had watched too many cop shows.

Don told Bob that he was going to have to sit tight while he checked out his story. Bob had protested about being held without being under arrest; that is, until Don had started to oblige him with obstruction-of-justice charges.

Don didn’t know why people got all pissed off about being held. If they were innocent, you’d think they’d want to be cooperative. But he knew from experience that the innocent ones always put up the biggest stink about hanging out in the precinct. And Bob had put up a big stink.

Still, it wouldn’t be long, all it would take was a visit to the TraveLodge in Glendale and he’d know the truth. If Bob was lying, this gave Don the license and leverage to turn up the heat, tighten the screws, and really fuck with the guy.

Martin sat in the backyard smoking a jumbo. Like a mantra, the words No guts, no glory kept rolling through his head. You had to break some eggs to make an omelette. You had to roll a joint before you could smoke it. No guts, no glory. One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

Norberto came out into the backyard. He was drinking a beer. Martin offered him the joint, but he shook his head and said, “I’m having second thoughts about the plan.”

Martin blinked. This was just so fucking typical. A few wispy clouds drifted along, violently white against the intense blue sky. He turned to Norberto.

“No guts, no glory.”

“What?”

“No guts, no glory.”

Norberto nodded like he understood.

“Yeah, but what if it backfires? Nos chingamos, man.”

“It won’t backfire. It’s airtight.”

“I don’t know, man. You’re counting on something that could easily fuck up.”

“What?”

“Las placas.”

“The police?”

“Yeah, man. You’re counting on the fucking jalapeños to come and arrest everybody. What if they don’t?”

“They will.”

Norberto shook his head.

“If they were so good, they’d have busted us by now.”

Martin turned on Norberto; he couldn’t hide his anger.

“They don’t have anything to bust us for. And you know why? Because of me. Because I make the plans. I launder the money. I take care of the legal shit. That’s why.”

“Or we’re just lucky.”

The roach burned Martin’s finger. The pain short-circuited his anger. He stood there for a beat as his synapses bounced around like Ping-Pong balls in that bouncy air-blower machine they use to pick the Lotto numbers. Finally, everything settled back into place. He stubbed the roach out on the ground and fixed his gaze on Norberto. Norberto’s sudden reluctance was killing his buzz.

“You’re just scared.”

“Maybe, man. Maybe.”

“I’ll watch your back.”

Norberto drained his beer.

“The people we’re up against, they don’t bother sneakin’ up behind you, man.”

Bob sat in the holding cell with a couple of other men. It was drab and smelly. His cellmates, one a ferocious-looking Vietnamese teenager, the other a burly Latino in his thirties, were stretched out on the hard benches. The Vietnamese boy looked slightly green, with a slick sheen of cold sweat covering his body, like he was going through some kind of jones for a sack of glue. The Latino just lay there like a boned chicken. They seemed resigned to whatever the Fates had in store.

Bob figured that the detective had him put in the cell to intimidate him, get him to crack, but the only threatening thing he could see was an exposed toilet that sat in the corner.

It was threatening because Bob had to piss. His bladder had swollen beyond the normal limits it might reach when stuck in traffic. It had grown from a dull reminder to a sharp, aching throb. His kidneys were even getting into the act, sending searing bolts of pain through his lower back. But Bob couldn’t bring himself to urinate. He was intimidated.

There was no sound in the cell. No talking, no radio. Bob’s pee would be the only source of news and entertainment in the room. Bob knew that if he got up and just trickled, he would be sodomized by noon. But if he got up and let loose a powerful and impressive stream, they’d back off. They wouldn’t fuck with him. It was performance anxiety of a whole new kind.

A single tear welled up in Bob’s eye and ran down his cheek. His bladder was screaming for release. He had no idea how much longer he might be held, it could be hours, but he did know that if he didn’t stand and deliver, he was going to wet himself. That wouldn’t be good.

Bob stood and quietly padded over to the steel toilet. He lifted the lid and slowly unzipped. He was glad he had his back to his cellmates as his penis turtled into his pants. It just wouldn’t stick its head out. Bob was reluctant to tug on his dick too much. He didn’t want them to think he was jacking off. He carefully pulled his penis out and held it with his right hand.

Nothing happened. He tried to relax. He thought about Felicia, walking though a park, a trip to the beach, anything to take him away from this stinky cell, these two guys, this shiny toilet, and this unbearable pain.

He took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

And then it began. It started softly. As if his fears were now about to become reality. But the sheer volume of urine in his body kept that from happening. It slowly gained power and momentum. Bob’s entire posture shifted. Another tear ran down his cheek. It was as if he had been holding his breath for a year and now he could take in some fresh air. His penis hung out bravely, looking and sounding much larger than it ever had before. Bob smiled.