Марк Смит - Moist

Fuck.

Martin sat back in defeat. He was out of weed, out of ideas, out of luck. He thought that he should probably just put the arm back in the fridge and go back to business as usual. Taking orders from illiterates. Trying to explain the simplest possible business strategies to violent thugs who only knew how to rob, cheat, steal, and kill.

Fuck.

That was the last thing he wanted. He closed his eyes.

And then, like what happens many times in our lives, just when he felt completely defeated, just as the obstacles to his success appeared insurmountable, inspiration came in the form of a gay man walking his immaculately groomed schnauzer. Martin saw the man walk up to a blue mailbox on the corner and drop in a large envelope.

Fuck, yeah.

Martin quickly wrapped the arm up in the plastic, sealing a few french fries in with it, jumped out of his car, and jammed the arm into the mailbox.

NORBERTO, FRESHLY SHOWERED and dressed in newly pressed clothes, sat in his comfortable chair watching television. He had his shoes off, his feet up on an old cardboard box which once held a stolen computer, and sipped a cold beer. He realized he hadn’t relaxed, hadn’t had any sense of his normal life since Amado had showed up at his door without his arm. It had all gone totally loco. But now that everything was resuelto, he could get back to the simple pleasures he enjoyed. Driving over to Van Nuys or out to Venice to collect money for Esteban. Maybe going with Amado to drop a trunkload of narcotics at some storage unit in Glendale. Sometimes going to the East Side to sell some guns and eat some carnitas .

It was easy, undemanding. As long as you kept your cool and dealt with professionals like yourself, not a whole lot could fuck it up. And then there were the perks. Free drinks at numerous bars. No waiting in line at the clubs. And the women… caramba , man, the women were all over him. ¿Y por qué no? He was a sharp dresser, young, guapo, skilled at the salsa, the samba, and the cumbia. He drove a nice car and always carried the cash and the drugs to keep the party rolling all night long.

On the one hand, Amado’s getting into trouble like that had helped Norberto. He had proven his cojones with El Jefe. That was muy importante. But on the other hand, it had been a dangerous run. Any number of things could’ve fucked it all up and ruined everything. But, for the most part, it seemed to have worked out.

Norberto realized he needed to distance himself from Martin. That gringo was peligroso. Norberto considered telling Amado and Esteban about Martin’s plan. Although he knew it was bad to be a rat, this was an exception, and could help him get in good with El Jefe even more. Besides, Martin annoyed him. If they had to have a gringo around, Norberto preferred Roberto. Roberto was simpático.

There was a loud knock on the door, and Norberto got up to answer it. It was Amado.

“Hola, ese. ¿Qué onda?”

Amado walked in and looked around.

“Vale pendejo, where’s mi brazo?”

Norberto looked stunned.

“What?”

“My arm. Where’s my fucking arm? ¿Dónde?”

Norberto quickly grasped the seriousness of what was happening.

“ ¡Hijo de puta! I can’t believe it, man.”

“What?”

Norberto walked over and clicked the TV off. He looked at Amado.

“Martin talked to me about taking your arm and giving it to las placas. But I said no fucking way, man. It’s loco. I didn’t do it, man.”

Norberto looked at Amado. He was waiting for Amado to say something, to react. But Amado didn’t say anything. He pulled a gun from behind his back and shot Norberto twice in the heart.

When Bob told Felicia that he didn’t have a place to live, she immediately insisted that he move in with her. Bob was flattered and more than a little surprised by her offer. Sure, they were experiencing a kind of strange and intense passion together, but still, didn’t it go against the rules somehow? He reminded himself that there was a kind of destiny to everything that was happening. It was preordained that he would be with her. It was just happening so fast. Destiny had its foot on the gas.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the hundreds of Fridas staring at him, but then, it wasn’t like he was Diego Rivera. He wasn’t a cad or a playboy. Sure, maybe he liked to look at porn on the Internet, but… Maura looked at naked guys all day. So he figured they were kind of even.

For a brief moment he wondered if Felicia modeled herself after Frida Kahlo. That wouldn’t be good. Women who go in for that kind of self-torture really need to see a shrink. He watched her as she painted her toenails a bright orange. She was beautiful, wearing just a T-shirt, her feet propped up on a tile-topped coffee table. He realized that his fears, his hesitation, were just what they were. Not real. They were feelings that he could easily overcome.

Bob took the Polaroid of Amado’s tattoo out of his pocket and looked at it. He thought for a moment and then stuck the photograph on the wall, right next to a picture of Frida.

Felicia laughed.

“You like that tattoo?”

“Yes.”

“It’s funny.”

“What?”

“You. In love with a tattoo.”

Bob shrugged.

“It’s like all these Fridas.”

Felicia looked at the Polaroid.

“Amado told you that was me?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope I’m prettier than that.”

Bob looked at the Polaroid and then at Felicia. It was the first time he’d compared the two.

“I’m surprised he didn’t get your hair right.”

Felicia laughed.

“I’m surprised you think it’s me.”

Bob couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“So you and Amado never… did… this?”

She smiled.

“Maybe in his dreams.”

Bob was perplexed. Felicia noticed this and kissed him.

“If you want it to be me, it can be me. I don’t mind.”

“You’re way better than any tattoo.”

“I should hope so. Can a tattoo do this?”

She started kissing him passionately. Bob began to melt under the onslaught of tongue and saliva when suddenly he remembered that he still had to call Esteban. He broke from the embrace.

“Shit. I need to make a phone call.”

She looked off toward the kitchen.

“The phone is by the stove.”

“I need to use a pay phone.”

Felicia’s demeanor changed.

“Business. With Esteban, no?”

Bob nodded.

“I have to call him. Tell him what happened.”

She was disappointed in him.

“I thought you were a normal guy.”

“I am a normal guy.”

“Roberto, if you’re calling Esteban you are not a normal guy.”

“I know it’s not a normal thing, but I’m a normal guy doing things that normal guys don’t normally do. Honestly, I don’t know what else to do right now, but I won’t do this forever. Not if it bothers you.”

Felicia looked at him and smiled.

“Just be careful, okay? And get some limes at la tienda .”

Amado looked at Norberto. Man, was that pendejo dead. A huge and seemingly endless pool of blood spread like a big evil pancake across the floor.

He wanted to drag Norberto’s body out of the living room and stuff it in a closet or something, but he’d come to the sudden and exasperating realization that while it might just take one little trigger finger to whack someone, it took two hands to dispose of a body.

Amado went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He half hoped that his arm would be in there, that Norberto had been lying. But there was nothing but some moldy take-out, some bottled salsa picante, and a half-dozen beers. He took out a cold Pacifica and went back into the living room. He knew Norberto and Martin had been up to something, he just didn’t think it was anything so stupid as going to the police.