Марк Смит - Moist

Martin stopped at a light and put the arm under the seat.

The light changed and he continued up, leaving the Valley behind him. When he reached the ridgeline of the mountains and saw the view, Martin made a quick right turn and pulled over. He got out of the car, away from the arm, which was still making his skin crawl, and stood looking at the vista as twilight descended.

All of Los Angeles, the great grid, stretched out in front of him. It carpeted a vast basin, going off in every direction as far as he could see. The city twinkled in its own atmosphere, the lights looking like strangely vivacious galaxy. Overhead, jet streams caught the last rays of the sun and glowed pink in the darkening sky.

Martin liked Los Angeles. It offered such a plastic facade. The sunshine and palm trees, convertibles and blondes. We love it . But if you really looked at the city, if you dug beneath the ever-tightening facelift it showed the world, you’d find that it was a much more complex, much more sinister, place.

On the surface you had one layer. The layer of people doing their daily things. Working. Shopping. Going to school. Dating. Mating. The obvious layer. Under that you had another layer. An invisible subculture that trades with the obvious layer. Money for drugs. Money for sex. Money for bootleg DVDs. Money for the things that make living in the obvious layer bearable. Money paid by hardworking people, struggling to get by or struggling to pay for their new BMW, desperate for any small pleasure that would take them away from their pain and make them feel special. Billions of dollars sucked into a dark labyrinth in the name of fleeting pleasures. More money than the fucking IRS will ever collect, circulating in an invisible world.

And beneath that world, another invisible world. And another. Like those Russian dolls that nestle inside each other, getting smaller and smaller.

Martin was skilled at taking the money from the invisible layers and, like a Las Vegas magician, making it real. Making it part of the obvious layer. It was a good trick. But he’d been doing it for others, and now it was time to become entrepreneurial.

Martin began to roll another jumbo. He was surprised to discover that he was almost out of weed.

Don had finished typing the request for a search warrant. He’d been informed that the courts were backed up today and that if it was an emergency they could push it through; otherwise, wait until tomorrow. Normally Don would’ve tried to push it through, making some kind of claim that Larga might still be alive inside his house and they needed to rescue him immediately. But Don was pretty sure that Larga was dead and his body wasn’t going to decay that much more in the next twelve hours. Besides, he had a date with Maura and wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. So Don had left the request with the DA’s office and jumped in his car.

As he was making his way toward Hollywood and Maura’s apartment, he suddenly pulled over and went into a bookstore named Book Soup.

It didn’t take him long to locate the works of Max Larga. They were all clumped together. Sophisticated Cooking, More Sophisticated Cooking , and the best-selling Sophisticated Cooking Made Easy. Don picked up a copy and studied it. Larga’s face, smug and arrogant, his hair styled in a way to make him look hip, graced the covers of all three books. How did this guy get mixed up with Esteban Sola? It just didn’t make any sense.

Don leafed through the book reading the recipes. There were fresh figs stuffed with foie gras, caviar blinis with white truffle oil, roast loin of pork with rosemary and grapes, and an entire section devoted to the proper decanting of red wine, as well as a list of recommended dishes and the wines that they complemented.

Don decided he could use a good cookbook.

Felicia opened her door.

“ Hola, Roberto.”

Bob was so happy to see her that all he could do was just stand there and grin.

“You want to come in?”

“Absolutely.”

Bob entered, still grinning, and looked around her place. It was marvelous. In the living room alone, four walls painted four different colors fought for attention. There was a fuchsia pink wall next to a chartreuse green next to a vibrant orange next to a deep purple. Paper flags depicting skeletons from el Día de los Muertos festooned the ceiling. Scented candles burned on various tables and shelves.

But it was the walls that really got Bob’s attention. The walls were splattered floor to ceiling with various milagros and representations of Frida Kahlo and her work. There must’ve been a thousand of them.

“You must like Frida Kahlo.”

Felicia smiled.

“You know of her?”

“Of course.”

“She is my patron saint.”

Bob was puzzled.

“She’s a saint?”

“She’s my saint.”

“Your own personal saint?”

“She gives me power, Roberto.”

With that, Felicia came up to Bob and wrapped her arms around him before planting a big wet kiss on his lips.

“Do you feel it?”

“Maybe, just a little.” Felicia kissed him again.

“Oh, yeah.”

It was like some kind of Mayan vision. Lupe stood naked in front of him, her dark brown skin and soft breasts glowing, moist and luminous in the dim light of the Jacuzzi. She looked like a goddess. Esteban floated in the hot water, felt the tequila flowing through his veins, and gazed up at her. Mother Mexico.

She stood above him holding a terra-cotta bowl filled with fresh guacamole. An offering from a Mayan goddess. That’s when it hit him. That’s when he realized that he was in love.

“I made more.”

Esteban dipped his finger into the bowl and tasted it.

“You make the best guacamole I have ever had.”

“¿Verdao?”

“Cierto.”

Esteban couldn’t help himself. He put his hand in the guacamole and smeared it on her belly. She didn’t resist, recoil, or react. She was nonjudgmental.

He took another handful and coated her breasts. He dug his fingers into the bowl and fed her, feeling her hot tongue sucking the avocado off his fingers. She moaned.

“I love guacamole.”

Lupe lay down on the warm cement as Esteban began licking the thick green goo off her belly, working his way slowly up to her breasts, until he was on top of her. He felt her underneath him, soft and strong. He felt the residual guacamole, sticky between their bodies, causing them to stick and slide as they moved. He felt the heat that was emanating from his skin. It was like the midday sun over the zócalo .

Martin hit the brakes. Fuck, that light changed fast. Were the yellows getting shorter? It fucking seemed like it. He looked at the floor and saw that Amado’s arm had slid out from under the seat. The plastic had come unwrapped and a couple of the fingers were exposed. No way I’m touching that .

He looked around and saw a Burger King. The jolly orange-and-red sign sent a message to his brain. His synapses fired rapidly, if chaotically, as his brain relayed an urgent message to his stomach. His stomach received the message and, anticipating a meal, began to expand and growl.

The light changed but Martin didn’t go. He had a sudden attack of the munchies. His stomach was demanding some kind of nourishment.

Some prick in an SUV honked Martin out of his catatonia. Martin stomped on the gas and jerked his car into the Burger King’s drive-thru lane. He pulled up in front of the menu board and contemplated the selections. He’d recently seen yet another special on mad cow disease and had decided to swear off beef and other red meat. But variety was offered here. Little fried things, other fried things stuffed with stuff. Kids’ meals, cookies, onion rings. A metallic voice demanded that he decide, but Martin kept his cool.