Марк Смит - Moist

“I want to make a deal. I want immunity.”

“Then you’d better tell me who you want to talk to.”

Martin liked that. The sheriff wasn’t important enough to talk to. Now everyone knew it. Martin was important. He was a big-deal criminal. A political prisoner. Soon there would be concerts at Dodger Stadium to raise money for his defense fund, to raise awareness of his plight.

“The dead guy’s name is Tomás Ramirez. Call the LAPD. They’ll know who to send.”

Martin cranked the Demerol dial. He saw Dodger Stadium, filled with thousands of people, all of them wearing T-shirts with his picture on it. Freedom for Martin! Freedom! A band hit the stage amid flashing lasers and lots of smoke. The lead singer, his hair perfect, his sunglasses still on, pumped his fist in the air and started the chant. “Free Martin! Free Martin!”

Maybe they’d let him sing on their next CD.

Chino Ramirez tied his blue bandanna around his wrist as tight as he could, using his teeth and his good arm to pull it. He had lost some blood, but not too much. He got out of his car and hustled over to the pay phone as quickly as he could. He knew he had about twenty minutes to either ditch the car or get the hell out of town, before the genius policemen would look at the hospital parking-lot security camera’s videotape and see him walk out and drive off.

He dialed a number, waited for the beep, then punched in the number of the pay phone where he was. He hung up the phone and looked at his watch.

Chino kept his eyes scanning the road for any signs of police activity. As he did, he fumbled around in his pockets until he pulled out a folded square of paper. He’d need something to cut the pain once the initial shock wore off. He wished he had nailed that fucking cop. Who knew that Martin would be guarded by some kind of psycho jarhead? They’d come in, stolen some threads to look like orderlies or whatever they were. Walked down the hall with a bucket and a mop. Nobody’s ever going to bother a Latino with a bucket and a mop. You look like you belong.

They get to the room, pull their guns, and move in real quick. Next thing they know some guy’s got like twelve guns out and he’s just emptying the clips at them. Chino didn’t even get off a shot before he was back out the door and moving his ass as fast as he could down the hallway. He turned and saw Tomás take eight or nine hits before he went down. That’s when he caught a ricochet in the wrist. Even though he was in a hospital and could’ve used a doctor, Chino salió . No point in hanging around for more pain.

The phone rang. Chino explained what had happened to Esteban.

Bob had watched Esteban as he talked on the phone with the producer from Telemundo. It seemed that Esteban had, once upon a time, arranged for some competitor of this guy to lose his green card and then just disappear. Now Esteban was calling in a favor.

So that was how it worked. People did favors for people and expected those favors to be returned someday. Everyone helps each other up the food chain.

Bob realized that he’d need a lot of favors from people, a lot of help. The banking end of it, moving money around, talking to investment bankers, that had all seemed pretty straightforward, pretty easy. The other part of it, laundering the money, moving it from the trunk of a car, letting it filter through a dummy corporation, a telemarketing business, the phony payroll of a nonexistent construction company, a chain of fish taco restaurants, and a boxing gym; that part seemed too complicated. Wouldn’t it be easier to just declare it as money earned doing something in Mexico? Then you could pay the taxes, and call it a day. Esteban had already built up a phony reputation as a papaya farmer. Why not say the money was from papayas? Why not actually buy a papaya plantation?

Esteban made another call, this time to a friend who would manufacture a fake identity for Bob. He’d get a U.S. passport, driver’s license, social security card, everything. Esteban turned to Bob and asked him what he wanted to be called. Bob liked the name Roberto, but didn’t really know what to use for a last name. Esteban suggested “Durán,” that way Roberto could say his name was “Roberto Durán,” like the boxer. Everyone would remember that.

Bob liked that. Maybe he’d go to the boxing gym and take some lessons.

Get in shape.

The third call Esteban made was not a good one. He was returning a page. Bob heard Esteban’s voice fall, then become short, curt, explosive bursts of questions.

Esteban hung up and turned to Bob. They had work to do.

Don watched as the kid behind the counter cut some clumps of bright green grass and shoved them through a juicer. A liquid that looked more like an industrial cleaner than a health panacea leaked out into a funnel. How could she drink that stuff? Don had ordered something a little more, well, tasty. He’d gotten one of those giant fruit smoothies. The kind that give you repeated brain freezes and taste like Styrofoam by the time you get to the bottom of the massive cup. He watched as Maura knocked back the shot of wheatgrass juice in one gulp. He shuddered.

But then Maura did lots of things that made Don shudder. Like having sex while holding a loaded gun. What was up with that? She had told him it gave her power, it was her axis mundi , a talisman, a fetish object. Don just thought it was a loaded fucking gun that could accidentally go off. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t sexy. It was scary. Like wheatgrass juice.

His cell phone rang, and much to Don’s surprise he found Detective Flores on the other end. Flores told him about some guy who had turned up staggering around in the desert and was now in a hospital in Palm Springs. Don figured Flores was just too lazy to get in his car and drive out there, so he was dumping it on him. But when Flores mentioned that one of the Ramirez brothers had been killed trying to get to the guy, well, Don couldn’t wait to go. Whatever was going on in Sola’s crime crew, it was big. If Esteban had to send the Ramirez brothers all the way to Palm Springs to whack some guy, well, maybe this guy had something to say about it.

Don wanted to get to Palm Springs fast, before Esteban sent someone else to finish what the Ramirez brothers had started. In fact, he didn’t even stop to drop Maura back at her office. She was just going to have to park that sweet wheatgrass-drinkin’ ass in the car and ride out with him. Which, as it turned out, was fine with her.

Bob entered the house and found Felicia standing on a ladder painting flowers along the top of the wall. She turned and looked at him. It was the kind of look that everyone hopes for when they come home. Her face lit up, her eyes twinkled, a laugh escaped from her body, and her smile was the best thing Bob had ever seen in his life.

“Hola, corazón.”

“Hi, sweetie.”

Bob came up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He gently lifted her off the ladder and set her down so he could look into her eyes and kiss her sweetly on the lips.

“I’m making pozole. ”

Bob didn’t know what to say. For a brief second he wondered why, when it was like ninety degrees out, he was going to be having hot soup twice in one day, but that thought quickly passed.

“I have to go to Palm Springs.”

“For how long?”

“Just for the night. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Felicia’s smiled turned into a pout.

“I don’t like it, Roberto. No me gusta. ”

Bob was afraid that she’d react this way. It’s so hard to balance a career and a relationship these days.

“But Felicia, honey, it’s my job.”