Марк Смит - Moist

Amado smiled. You don’t know the half of it.

“ Sí. One or two.”

Cindy looked at him, looked deep into his eyes.

“I haven’t.”

Amado sipped his lemon-lime soda and shrugged.

“You are young.”

The other students started back into the lecture hall.

“How did you lose your arm?”

“Maybe I will tell you after class.”

Don jimmied the door to Larga’s house. A uniformed officer and several crime-scene investigators stood behind him. Don drew his revolver and entered the house.

“Mr. Larga?”

He listened for a second.

“This is the police. Mr. Larga?”

Don nodded, and the uniformed officer and some of the crime-scene guys entered. They moved quickly in pairs, covering each other as they entered one room after another.

“Bedroom, clear.”

“Bathroom, clear.”

“Kitchen, clear.”

It was not a big house, and they were able to search and declare it clear of dead bodies, hostages, or intruders in about thirty-two seconds.

One of the crime-scene guys, a balding man with those eyeglasses that make your eyes look really big, and who enjoyed collecting bugs off corpses because forensic entomology was his hobby, came up to Don.

“Looks like this isn’t a crime scene. We’re going to pack it up.”

“No problem.”

“Call me when you find the rest of his body.”

Don nodded. Yeah, so you can pick the maggots out of his eyes. Like I want to see that?

As the uniformed officer tacked a notice to the front door, Don began to sift through Larga’s mail.

It was nothing special. Bills. Letters. People usually dump their keys by the front door when they come in. Don didn’t see any keys, which led him to believe that Larga was probably stuffed in the trunk of his car somewhere. He’d get the license plate number and put it out. It’d turn up eventually. Either a patrol unit would find it, or some neighbor would smell it. They always turn up.

Don kept sifting. He was trying to find something that might connect Larga to Carlos Vila or Esteban Sola or anybody. Somehow there was a connection. There had to be.

Time to go through the dead guy’s dresser drawers.

By the time they finally reached the deserted nether regions of the Joshua Tree State Park, Martin was sick and tired of driving. He desperately needed a cold drink and a hot jumbo. He had pulled off the paved road and jounced down some pocked dirt trail for what seemed like a day. His car looking distinctly geishalike with all the finely powdered dirt covering it. Bob had actually fallen asleep during the drive, the poor guy complaining about how tired he was, how hungry he was. Martin got sick of hearing it, and stopped at a Burger King in one of the strange little podunk suburbs they had passed through.

Martin killed the engine and rolled a joint. He was careful to discard any seeds as he lovingly crumbled the dried leafy bits into the rolling paper.

Bob woke up.

“Where are we?”

Martin lit his joint.

“In the desert.”

Martin took a strong pull of the reefer and handed it to Bob. Bob shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

Martin shrugged.

“It’s your funeral.”

Bob got out of the car to stretch his legs. Martin took another hit. He watched Bob. It was kind of like he was watching a movie about Bob. As the THC hit his bloodstream Martin began to feel detached. Floaty. He was in the audience watching a movie about a skilled and daring hit man about to pull off yet another job. That was him. He was the star of this movie. There was Bob. He was the job. The victim-to-be.

But it was also strange. Martin felt like he was in the movie but he was also not in the movie. He was watching himself watch himself think of himself in a movie about a cool hit man. Fuck, this was good shit.

Martin got out of the car. He watched himself get out of the car and heard himself speak.

“Hey, Bob.”

Martin pulled the Glock out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at Bob. Bob looked really surprised. Martin watched himself watching Bob’s surprised expression.

“You look surprised, Bob.”

“What’re you doing, man?”

Martin thought that was a really stupid question. Just like all of Bob’s questions.

“Do I have to make the obvious explicit?”

Bob nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I’m pointing a gun at you.”

“I see that. Why?”

Martin went around and popped open the trunk.

“Because I’m going to kill you.”

Martin watched Bob’s reaction. That would be a closeup in the movie. Bob’s big reaction.

“I did everything like I was supposed to.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but he watched himself not laughing and figured he’d better play it straight. This was a time to be serious.

“You did a great job.”

Bob looked very sad.

“Did Esteban tell you to do this?”

“No. Esteban has his own problems to worry about.”

Bob looked around quickly, like he was going to run.

“Don’t try it.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s all about goals, Bob. I have goals. This is one of the steps I must take to attain my goals.”

Martin took a shovel out of the trunk. He handed it to Bob.

“Dig.”

Bob took the shovel and hit Martin over the head with it. He hit him hard. Martin watched himself see himself get hit hard on the head with the shovel. He saw stars, actual particles of lightning-colored phosphorescence in his field of vision. He watched himself drop the gun and fall to the ground. Then he felt himself see himself hit the ground as blood erupted from a massive gash on his scalp.

Martin heard the car start up and drive off.

A fine layer of dust rose up in the air and slowly settled on him.

This, he realized, was not good.

Don pulled open the drawer to Larga’s bedside table. People always put their most personal items there. Maybe because they spent so much time in bed, or because they did things in bed they didn’t do in the kitchen. He looked in the drawer. Condoms, lubricants, a pamphlet about understanding conflict in relationships, some sleeping pills of some kind, loose change, a couple of business cards. There was usually a gun or pepper spray. Once he found a Taser. Those are wild.

One of the business cards caught Don’s eye. He picked it up.

It was Maura’s.

There was no sound but the steady drip from one of the showers in the locker room and the occasional gasp or moan from Cindy, the screenwriter with pink pigtails. Amado was on his knees. The hard tile floor didn’t bother him at all, he was a man on a mission. Cindy stood over him, her legs slightly spread, her mouth open in surprise. He lifted Cindy’s dress with his teeth as he pulled off her panties with his hand. He began to lick and nibble at her inner thighs, working his way between her legs. She tasted good.

She let her body relax, giving herself over fully to Amado and the experience. Amado unbuckled his pants, unleashing his hard cock. He picked her up with his one arm, entered her, and fucked her against a wall of lockers. He was surprised at how strong he felt. He felt really good.

Cindy, pinned against the lockers, was crying out in bursts of staccato moans and squeals. She was getting some life experience.

Now she had something to write about.

WHEN BOB TURNED onto the paved road he took a breath. He sucked in a deep gulp of oxygen and hit the gas. He realized he hadn’t taken a breath since he had hit Martin with the shovel and taken off. That’s what it seemed like, anyway.