Марк Смит - Moist

“Thank you very much.”

Esteban nodded.

“The money will be wired into this account by the end of business today.”

“Excellent. And with a sum that large, might I suggest some investments that will not only protect it but allow it to compound and grow at a rate well above what you normally get with a savings program?”

Bob looked at Esteban.

“What do you think?”

Esteban smiled at Bob.

“Why don’t you decide, Roberto. Take the man’s card and talk to him about it tomorrow.”

Bob had the manager’s card in his hands before he could blink.

“Thanks.”

“Call me anytime, Roberto. My home number is on the back.”

Esteban stood. Bob followed his lead.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The men all shook hands. Bob followed Esteban to the door. He spoke quietly to Esteban.

“I didn’t know banks were so nice.”

“You never opened an account with twenty million dollars.”

The gunshot jolted Martin awake. It was followed by a couple of other gunshots, crashing sounds, some screaming. Martin tried to move his head, he wanted to see what was going on. But he was just too stoned. He knew, deep in his brain somewhere, that he should probably be scared. But his face held a dreamy Demerol grin, as if what he was watching was amusing.

A big blurry figure, it must be the sheriff, crossed the edge of the bed firing a pistol. Man, was that thing loud. Martin could feel his arms and legs twitching involuntarily with each report. There were a lot of shots now, and Martin felt like he was doing some kind of cool new dance. Like something the kids on MTV might be doing. Strapped down an’ twitchin’.

Martin felt his face get splattered with something wet. For a second he thought it was his own blood, that he’d been shot. But the liquid was clear and kept raining down in a constant stream. Martin turned his head toward the flow of fluids, and saw that his IV drip had taken a hit.

Bummer.

They met Amado at a Japanese noodle place downtown. Esteban watched as Bob used his chopsticks to scoop fat noodles out of a gigantic bowl of soup and noisily slurp them down. Amado sat across the table with some kind of punk-rock girl. Cindy Kim. Esteban thought that was un poco raro. Doesn’t she have a last name? Even Selena had a last name.

Esteban liked udon, but realized that it was necessary to tuck a napkin in under his chin to keep the soup from splashing all over his suit. He wished they were eating something a little less wet.

Amado slid a manila envelope across the table to Esteban.

“I need a favor.”

Esteban grinned. They always do. They always come back and beg you for something. That’s the best part of being powerful. They always come back.

“I asked a favor from you.”

Amado looked down at his soup.

“I’m sorry, Esteban. I’m just trying to make a change.”

Esteban carefully ate some of the pork floating in the soup. Couldn’t they have gotten media noches somewhere?

“I will need a favor in return.”

“I can’t do what I used to do.”

Amado held out his one arm to demonstrate.

“I need two arms.”

“I haven’t asked you to do anything yet.”

Esteban could see that it pained Amado to even have to ask this favor. Although part of him wanted to make sure that Amado understood he was still the boss, another part of him genuinely cared about Amado.

“Amado, you know I will help you.”

Bob chimed in.

“We’re family.”

Esteban looked at Bob. He must’ve seen that in a movie or something, but the mention of family touched both of the men at the table. Amado turned to Cindy.

“We’ve been through a lot together.”

Cindy just smiled. Esteban liked her. There was something about her. She was different from the other women Amado had been with. It signaled to him that Amado had made a change.

“I know you’ve got friends at Telemundo.”

It was true. Esteban knew everyone.

“ Cierto. ”

“I’ve written a script for a telenovela. ”

This took Esteban by surprise.

“¿Qué?”

“I wrote a script.”

Cindy interjected.

“It’s really good, too.”

Bob looked at Amado.

“That’s cool.”

Esteban was still trying to process the information.

“You wrote a script?”

“ Sí. And I want to know if you could get someone at the Telemundo to read it.”

“¿Tu eres un escritor?”

Amado shrugged.

“Un guionista. Sí.”

Cindy looked at Amado.

“ ¿Guionista? What’s that?”

“Scriptwriter.”

Esteban and Amado locked eyes.

“Of course I will help. Seguro. ”

“Gracias, Esteban. Muchas gracias.”

“De nada, amigo.”

Esteban looked over at Bob; Amado followed his look.

“I have a few things to clear up and then I’m going back to Mexico for a while. Roberto is going to look after things.”

Amado shot Esteban a look.

“Roberto?”

Esteban nodded.

“The favor I ask is that you watch out for him while I’m gone.”

Bob nodded.

“I might need, you know, a mentor or something.”

Amado smiled.

“I will always help Roberto. We are family.”

Thick smoke swirled around the ventilator as the air conditioning blew into the room. The smell of cordite hung in the air and assaulted Martin’s nose. It was stronger than any smelling salt and smacked him right out of his stupor. There were now lots of people in the room. Doctors, a few nurses, many policemen. One of the nurses was fixing the IV bag. That was a relief.

She said something to him about the dosage controller being damaged, but such technical terms didn’t matter as long as the narcotics kept flowing. The sheriff, his arm being bandaged by one of the doctors, turned to Martin.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Martin didn’t see anybody.

“Who?”

“The dead guy on the floor.”

Martin craned his neck. It was a horrible fucking mess. Broken glass, splintered wood, crap everywhere, and there, sprawled in a pool of blood, was Tomás Ramirez, as dead as a doornail.

Martin nodded.

“Yeah.”

Martin laid his head back down on the pillow.

The sheriff jumped up and screamed at Martin.

“Who the fuck is it? Huh? Gimme a name, asshole!”

The sheriff was, apparently, a little testy from the recent gun battle. He could use a nice, relaxing Demerol drip. But then, who couldn’t?

Martin found the little dial and cranked it. I don’t need this aggravation.

“Don’t yell, man.”

Martin watched as the sheriff’s face went through a few color changes.

“I’m sorry I yelled.”

Martin suddenly felt good. The warm waves of Demerol were back stronger and better than ever. But the situation had changed. He had credibility. A little juice.

“You didn’t believe me. You thought I was just some loser drug dealer in the desert.”

Several other policemen looked at the sheriff.

“I’m sorry. Okay?”

Martin didn’t think it was okay.

“You didn’t take me seriously. Why should I talk to you?”

“I’ll take you seriously now.”

“Too late.”

The sheriff moved to smack Martin, but his wound or whatever it was suddenly caused him great pain. He moaned and collapsed in a chair.

“Who do you want me to call?”

Martin thought about that. Call the president. Or better, call that rock star guy who’s always doing things to help political prisoners. I’m a political prisoner.