Марк Смит - Moist

Amado heaved a sigh. Young people, they just act impulsively, they never think things through. Never look at all the angles. It’s a mistake to be so impetuous. It’s estúpido. He knew he’d have to call Esteban and warn him, but first he needed to think. Drink a cold beer and contemplate his next move.

Amado popped the tab on the can and flicked on the TV. He was careful not to step in any of Norberto’s blood.

Bob stood on Third Street near the Guatamalteca Bakery. People, dozens of them, were lined up for pupusas, conchas , and whatever else they had in there. A middle-aged Mexican woman, wearing a bright blue sweater, was selling roast corn on the cob from a pot she pulled in a small red wagon. A couple of little kids trailed behind her, laughing and slapping at each other. Next to Bob, a man sold peeled mangoes on a stick. Bob realized he was hungry.

In the ensuing communication breakdown, Bob saw his succulent and sweet mango dredged in a mixture of salt and chili powder. Oh, well, when in Rome.

Bob bit into the mango and was surprised at how good it tasted with the bite of the salt and the heat of the chili. He reminded himself that he needed to be more open-minded. Los Angeles, city of the future and hope of the world, demanded it.

The pay phone rang and Bob jumped to pick it up.

“Roberto.”

He told Esteban what had happened, how he’d dropped the arm off, how the police had picked him up and tried to scare him, how he’d stood up to them, outsmarted them, and gotten away with it. Esteban told Roberto that he was proud of him. He’d have the ten thousand in cash brought over to him in a few days. Right now, all Roberto had to do was keep going to work, keep playing up the upset over his breakup, be normal. Esteban would call him in a few weeks and talk about other opportunities.

Bob hung up and finished eating his mango. He decided he’d better learn to speak Spanish. Rápido.

Martin drove up Beachwood Canyon looking for a parking spot. The duplex he wanted to go to was a block behind him. There was never any parking on this fucking street. What had originally been a quiet neighborhood was now dense with hipsters, the wannabe writers, actors, and directors who piled into Hollywood to earn their fortunes. Five people might be able to live together in one house, but that meant their five cars were scattered all over the street. So Martin drove on, hoping that he had good parking karma.

Eventually he found three-fourths of a spot and pulled in, letting the back of his car stick out into a red zone. Normally, he wouldn’t risk it. The tickets, the possibility of getting towed or, worse, booted, where some kind of medieval torture device is attached to the wheel of your car, kept him out of red zones. But he was out of pot, and tonight, of all nights, he needed some.

He turned the car off, set the handbrake, and unconsciously picked some loose french fries off the passenger seat and popped them in his mouth. They were cold and had a slightly metallic taste. He shuddered, wondering if they’d been the fries that were on Amado’s arm. The taste began to expand and take on a life of its own in his mouth. Growing from a dull greasy taste into a harsh accusation of cannibalism. A flavor that said, You have crossed the line, you are going to hell.

He reached for the tin of Altoids, the curiously strong peppermints, that he kept in the side-door pocket of his car, popped two in his mouth, and chewed them up. The mints effectively vaporized any residual french fry taste in his mouth.

He got out of his car and began the long walk down the hill to his dealer’s duplex. The mints coupled with the crisp night air made him feel awake, alert, and very alive.

Esteban drove quickly, not fast enough to draw the attention of the police. He couldn’t remember how many successful criminals had been undone by stupid traffic stops, but it was a lot. And it was, above all else, embarrassing. Let the FBI, the DEA, or some special task force bring him down. That was acceptable. He could go into la carcel knowing that the United States government had spent millions of dollars and invested thousands of man-hours putting together a case. But some lone maricón pulling him over for speeding?

Still, he pressed his luck. Amado had called and told him it was muy importante. Get over to Norberto’s ahora. Amado was not the kind of man who asked for help, so it must be muy importante.

It was annoying. He’d just talked to Roberto, and everything seemed to have gone smoothly. Roberto had done his part and had done it beautifully. He was strangely proud of Roberto. Like a father might be. And he had plans for him. Big plans. Roberto wasn’t just smart, he had a vibe, an onda, about him that Esteban thought could help. Bob was a people person. Just what Esteban needed.

Maura wanted to smoke. She craved one of those stinky-ass clove cigarettes that French people were always puffing in discos. Yeah. She pushed her plate of vegetable curry and brown rice aside and looked across the table at Don, who was plowing through his dinner like a refugee.

“This is really good.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.”

Don reached over and refilled her glass of wine before refilling his. A gentleman.

“Do you think this is a safe neighborhood?”

Don put his chopsticks down and considered her question.

“No more or less than any other. At the end of the day it’s a big city.”

She nodded.

“I don’t feel safe living by myself. That’s why I bought the gun.”

Don smiled at her.

“You’re amazing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. I guess when I think of someone who’s a vegetarian I don’t think of a gun owner.”

“I just don’t want to be a victim.”

Don looked at her, curious.

“Did something happen to you?”

“Women get victimized. Society is set up that way.”

“I don’t think a gun will solve society’s problems.”

“It’s not just a gun. It’s, I don’t know, it’s empowerment.”

“Empowerment? Just because you can shoot someone?”

Maura nodded.

“But it’s more than just shooting someone. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but it’s very sexy.”

Maura began to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to show Don how empowered she felt. Then maybe he’d understand. She took her shirt off, exposing her chest to him.

“Give me your gun.”

Don hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t stop. Don slowly reached around and took his gun out of its holster. He checked to make sure the safety was on.

“Be careful.”

Maura took the gun.

“It’s not about being careful.”

She pointed the gun at him.

“It’s about being intimate.”

Esteban parked in front of Norberto’s apartment. He checked his gun, making sure it was fully loaded and ready to go. He also checked his spare clip. No use jamming a new clip in only to find out that it was empty as well. He’d learned that the hard way when a couple of Mexican police had tried to jump him in a cantina in Juárez. Fortunately, the bartender had been a friend of his and had a twelve-gauge shotgun behind the bar.

Esteban knocked on the door and Amado let him in.

Esteban looked around the room. He wasn’t shocked to see Norberto lying dead in a pool of blood. He figured it was something like that.

“Who killed him?”

“Yo.”

That was surprising.

“¿Por qué?”