Марк Смит - Moist

“What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine. I’m hoping you can help.”

“Of course I’ll help.”

Don looked at her and then pulled out a cookbook.

“Do you recognize this man?”

He showed her the picture of Larga on the cover.

“Yes. That’s Max Larga. Although you know that, because his name’s right there on the cover of the book.”

Maura caught herself. Why do I feel so nervous?

“Do you know him?”

“Sure. He’s a client.”

Don nodded.

“This is important. When was the last time you saw him?”

Maura thought for a second.

“I can tell you exactly.”

She went to her desk and pulled out her schedule book. Looking through it, she realized that she might need to take out an ad in one of the holistic newspapers. Business had been slack.

“He was supposed to come the other day, but he didn’t show up.”

Don wrote down the exact date and time.

“You sure he didn’t show up?”

“Yeah. I was annoyed. He didn’t even call.”

“We found his car in the parking lot.”

Maura blinked.

“That’s weird.”

Don nodded.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Bob turned on the car’s radio. He hit the scan button, and station after station came into the car, blared a commercial, and then drifted off into a static void. Didn’t anyone play music on the radio anymore? It was all talk. Somebody selling something. Even the news was selling something. Bob believed that people watched the news on TV or listened to the news on the radio so they could feel superior. They didn’t want to be informed, they weren’t interested in politics, half the time they didn’t even vote. People watched the news so they could say, I’m better than the poor fuckers fighting floodwaters in Iowa; I’m smarter than the guy driving wildly down the freeway to avoid arrest. My life is better, not because of the luck of being born in the First World, but because I am inherently superior to the hungry masses rioting in Botswana, robbing banks in Van Nuys, and selling their bodies on the streets of Bangkok.

Bob’s theory was that the news comforted people by showing them how horrifying the rest of life was. You couldn’t help but feel safe and smug when confronted with the stupidity that raged outside your walls.

At least that’s what Bob thought. So he didn’t pay much attention to the news.

Finally, the radio landed on an AM station and stuck there. It was in Spanish. It was all talk. But Bob could tell from the passion and inflection in the speaker’s voice that it was religious. A preacher speaking Spanish, imploring people to follow the word of God. Bob liked the cadence of the preaching. It was somehow reassuring.

Bob could not help but marvel at the fact that he was still alive. Twice in the last few days he’d been kidnapped and marked for death. Only each time he’d gained a reprieve. He had been lucky. He had cheated death.

There was a reason for it. He was sure of that. He didn’t know what the reason was. It was somehow connected to Felicia. They were in love. Was it love that kept him alive, or some higher power? Maybe love was the higher power.

The preacher continued to spread the word of Jesus as Bob drove down from the mountains and into the Valley. Bob knew that he was on a path. He could feel it. He didn’t know where it was heading, he couldn’t foresee the twists and turns that he knew lay ahead. But he’d been trusting his instincts, relying on luck, and so far things were unfolding in miraculous ways.

There was a reason he was lucky.

As he drove toward Felicia’s house, Bob was overcome by two distinct feelings. The first was a great sense of relief that traveled from the top of his head down to his sweaty toes, and made his blood pulse and his lungs suck in big heaps of air. He was alive. The sun was shining, the trees were waving in the wind. He could see the world in all its glory. The other feeling that tugged at him, and this urge was even more compelling than a feeling of general well-being and appreciation for the beauty of life and the surrounding world, was the sensation of being incredibly horny.

He couldn’t wait to get home to Felicia.

Martin had walked about three miles when he saw a pickup truck heading toward him. He stopped in his tracks. His adrenal glands began to furiously pump adrenaline through his body. He was finding it difficult to stay upright. He clenched his teeth and fought back the urge to barf.

This was probably Amado. Martin knew he needed to stay calm, stay focused. He clenched the Glock tightly in his pocket. When Amado got close, really close, he’d whip that sucker out and just start blasting.

But it wasn’t Amado. It was the park ranger.

The pickup stopped in a cloud of desert dust, and a lanky young man, his face looking like it had been hit with a blowtorch from all the acne and sunburn it had experienced, hopped out. The ranger had a concerned expression.

“Hey, mister, are you okay?”

Martin didn’t know how to answer that question. It seemed so stupid that he felt like shooting the guy right then and there. Just look at me, he thought, how could you ask that question?

“I fell and hit my head.”

It was probably better not to kill the ranger.

“Let me take a look at it.”

The ranger walked close to Martin and looked at his scalp.

“I think I need to go to the hospital.”

The ranger nodded.

“I’ll say you do.”

The ranger helped Martin into the passenger seat of the pickup. Martin suddenly felt weak. Like he was going to black out. The ranger hit the air conditioner and did a quick 180. The cold air dried the sweat on Martin’s face, sending a chill through his body. It wasn’t a bad chill, it was a good chill. It would be the chill of the hospital, the cold stinging burn of antiseptic and suture. The cold air of safety.

As the pickup left the trail and started off down the paved road toward town, Martin got another kind of chill. The chill you get when you see the Ramirez brothers go flying by in an SUV.

Ah, fuck. This was bad.

He became lightheaded. In fact, he felt his head detach from his neck and float. It would’ve drifted out the window if it had been open. A prickly sensation rushed through his arms, and then everything went black.

Martin passed out, his head lurching forward and hitting the dashboard. The ranger looked over, dismayed as the wound had opened and a soft trickle of blood was dripping on his pickup’s interior.

The ranger grabbed a box of tissues and, taking out three or four, smushed them into the wound. The tissues stuck up, out of Martin’s head. They waved in the air-conditioned breeze as they slowly turned red. Like a beautiful rose.

Maura had seen these interview rooms on TV shows. Drab, institutional, kinda grotty. But what you couldn’t get from television was the smell. The sweet, gag-inducing perfume of fear and desperation. She was surprised. You’d think it wouldn’t be so noticeable. But there it was. Unmistakable. Pure animal fear.

The smell didn’t just nauseate her, it infected her. Soon her skin was covered in a cool, clammy sweat. Nerves jangled and on edge. The smell rising off her.

Why?

What had she done wrong? Why was Don being so weird with her? She wondered if this was what he was really like.

Don entered the room carrying a cup of hot tea for her.

“I’m really sorry about this.”

Maura took the tea. She didn’t feel like talking.

“It’s just easier if we can run through the sequence of events again.”

She sipped her tea.