Марк Смит - Moist

“Perhaps because you are loyal.”

Bob thought about that. Martin didn’t seem the type, but then what did Bob know about corporate politics? He’d always stayed under the radar, able to steal paper clips or goof around with impunity.

“He’s trying to take over.”

Bob was surprised.

“Really?”

“He gave Amado’s arm to the police. He killed Norberto. He tried to kill you.”

Bob was stunned.

“Norberto’s dead?”

Esteban nodded.

“Listen, Roberto, there are many people who would like to see me dead as well. People who would like to take over my business. I think Martin was working with some of them. I am going to need your help.”

“What can I do?”

Bob was afraid that Esteban would ask him to go kill a bunch of people. Bob knew that he could’ve killed Martin, that he should’ve killed Martin, but that was different. Self-defense. Bob was not so sure that he could go around whacking Esteban’s enemies. It was too cold-blooded. Too calculated. It wasn’t what Bob wanted to do. He could never be like Amado.

“I’m not a hit man.”

Esteban laughed.

“I know, Roberto. I don’t need a hit man, sabes ? I need someone I can trust.”

Esteban looked him in the eye.

“Can I trust you?”

Bob nodded.

“Absolutely.”

Esteban slapped his knees and stood.

“ Vale. We’ve got work to do, and we don’t have much time.”

Martin lay in the hospital bed. He was feeling good. Very good now that he’d found the little plastic dial thing that controlled the Demerol dripping into his veins. He loved how the Demerol rolled into his brain like waves. Whoosh. It hit with a mild rush and then kind of receded until… whoosh. One after the other, taking him deeper and deeper into a dreamy kind of trance.

He wondered if he could overdose on it.

The fat sheriff sat on the bed eating a double cheese-burger and supersized fries from some fast-food joint. Martin had watched, curious and horrified, as the sheriff had dumped the fries into the bag, then sprinkled in two packets of salt before rolling the bag closed and vigorously shaking it like a giant oily maraca. The sound was not soothing. Martin hit the dial.

Big grease spots pocked the sides of the brightly colored bag, as the sheriff dipped his hands in and pulled out clumps of glistening fries. The sheriff was saying something, Martin wasn’t sure what, but the sheriff’s voice was irritating. Not the sound of it, but that kind of condescending cadence that authority figures liked to use when they were talking to you. The more he blabbed, the more Martin flicked the dial on the drip.

He wished he’d had this IV drip all the time. Someone annoys you, flick the dial. Traffic’s backed up and there’s only commercials on the fucking radio, dial this in. Yeah. A Demerol drip could greatly improve your quality of life.

Amado sat in bed, the covers tangled around him, and watched as Cindy read his script. He had to admit he was nervous. Giddy because he’d finished his first draft, and proud because he felt that he’d actually accomplished something. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d had an idea, sat down, and just done it. From start to finish. Sure, he’d been given orders and carried them out. Start by finding someone, finish by burying them in some field. But that was different. It didn’t take a lot of brains to do something like that. It wasn’t personal. He’d never gotten emotionally invested in the day-to-day business of organized crime. He’d been going along with it because it was easy and the money was good.

But it was an empty experience.

Amado found that having characters live and breathe through his imagination, putting raw emotions on blank paper, inventing a story that was compelling, a story that just had to be told, these things were fulfilling. He felt good about himself. It wasn’t easy, but he loved writing.

He was also strangely nervous and giddy about Cindy. She was different from the women he was used to. For one, she was petite, small and slender, not the usual voluptuous Latina with a great heaving rack. He could easily cup Cindy’s small breasts in the palm of his hand. She had just the faintest wisp of pubic hair. Her hips and ass were slightly flat, almost like a boy’s. But Amado was crazy about her.

It dawned on him that maybe what he found so compelling and sexy about Cindy was not her body but her brain, her personality. She was smart and funny and unlike anyone he’d ever met before. She was interested in things: people, places, ideas, words. She was curious. And she wasn’t afraid.

He watched as she paged through his script, her interest and delight in everything. She was so beautiful, her pink pigtails in post-sex disarray, her surprisingly strong body lying brazen and naked on top of the covers.

“Amado, I don’t read Spanish.”

Amado smiled.

“You want me to read it to you? To translate it?”

“Yeah.”

She squirmed under the covers, like a little kid about to be tucked in.

Amado began to read.

Maura sat in an extremely uncomfortable chair next to Don’s desk. She amused herself by leafing through a catalogue of law-enforcement equipment. Holsters, handcuffs, Tasers, pepper spray, Kevlar vests, all kinds of cool stuff. Even the different styles of shoes appealed to her. She was going to ask Don if you had to be a police officer to order from this catalogue, or if you could just be a normal citizen. It would be fun to dress up like a policewoman and handcuff Don to the bed. Maybe with these cool plastic cuffs; strong, light, and affordable. Perfect for civil unrest. And if Don felt uncomfortable about using firearms in bed, maybe this nightstick would be the ticket.

Don hung up the phone and turned to her.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“How well do you know your ex-boyfriend?”

Maura thought about it for a second. She knew Bob as well as you could know someone. They’d been intimate. They’d shared their hopes and dreams. But then they’d never been as intimate as she and Don had. It was a difficult question.

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve got two severed arms. One is unidentified. The prints on it don’t match any in our existing database. Although I’m sure if the body of a one-armed gangbanger showed up I’d find a match.

“The other belonged to Max Larga. Your ex, Bob, delivered Larga’s arm. Larga was a client of yours. Larga was supposed to see you, but Bob came in and saw you instead. Yet Larga’s car was parked by your office.”

Maura stared at him, blankly.

“I don’t follow.”

“Let’s assume that Larga wasn’t involved in a crime, that he didn’t have anything to do with the Mexican mafia.”

“So what did Bob have to do with it?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

Maura shrugged.

“I honestly don’t know. But I don’t think Bob was mixed up with any mafia types. I mean, I can’t imagine it.”

Don fixed his serious, I’ve-got-bad-news expression on his face.

“You may not like this, but I’m starting to think that Bob had something to do with Larga’s disappearance.”

Maura burst out laughing.

“Cool.”

“Cool?”

Maura tried to contain herself.

“It’s just, well, it’s just that if you knew Bob… it’s unbelievable. If he really did, well, wouldn’t that be cool?”

Don started to say something, then caught himself and heaved a sigh.

“Let’s go try and find him.”

Maura jumped up.

“Cool.”

Bob and Esteban had just finished signing the last of the signature cards. The bank manager, a reedy-looking dude in a fancy suit, smiled at them.