Марк Смит - Moist

“What is your full and legal name?”

As if that were somehow important? It dawned on Martin that this was going to be a long and tedious process. He couldn’t just blab about how he knew this or that, there was a method to this, bureaucratic bullshit to adhere to. It was going to be dull, dull, dull. Impossibly dull.

Martin decided to make a game of it. Every time he answered a question, he got to tweak his Demerol drip and give himself a little reward. Like a laboratory rat.

Martin gave his full legal name.

It felt good.

Bob was sweating. He loosened the tie on the suit that Esteban had lent him. Bob couldn’t remember the last time he wore a suit, but man were they hot. He knew he shouldn’t have asked about money. Nobody likes a pushy employee. Now here they were, bouncing down a dirt road in the middle of the fucking desert at night. The last time this happened, Martin had tried to kill him. Bob considered opening the door and jumping out, kind of like they do in the movies. He’d roll in the dirt, jump to his feet, and then sprint off across the rocky terrain. The night would become his friend. He’d disappear into its dark embrace.

He looked out the window and saw nothing but pain flying by in the glare of the headlights. Rocks, broken glass, cacti, and barbed-wire fences. He turned to Esteban.

“Where are we going?”

Esteban smiled at him.

“Don’t be nervous.”

“Well, I know this isn’t the way to Palm Springs.”

Esteban laughed.

“You need some practice, Roberto.”

“I was just asking.”

Esteban laughed some more.

“It never hurts to ask.”

“You will get paid mucho, Roberto. Don’t worry. If you need a number I will say two hundred thousand dollars a year.”

Bob couldn’t believe it.

“Really?”

“You will make much more, my friend.”

Bob didn’t know what to say. The most he’d ever made was the thirty-five grand a year he pulled down at the pathology lab, and he thought that was living large.

Esteban pulled the car to a stop and got out.

“ Vale , Roberto.”

Bob climbed out of the car and looked around. You sure could see a lot of stars at night in the desert. Behind him were the mountains, black now, just a couple of radio towers shining their little red warning lights from the peak. Off to the east he saw a distant glow. That must be Palm Springs.

Esteban popped open the trunk and took out a toolbox. Bob watched as he opened the toolbox. There were screwdrivers, a ratchet, a few wire cutters. Esteban lifted the top tray out to reveal a bottom section filled with rags. He carefully picked up one of the rags and handed it to Bob.

“Be careful.”

The rag was surprisingly heavy. Bob knew instantly what he was holding. It was a gun. A big, serious gun.

“What’s this for?”

Esteban was loading rounds of ammunition into a clip. He turned and looked at Bob.

“Emergencies.”

Using the car’s headlights, Bob studied the gun’s mechanisms.

“Don’t look. You need to learn to do this by feel.”

Esteban handed Bob a clip and began to teach him how to load and unload the gun. Bob was surprised at how easy it was. No wonder little kids got their dad’s guns and took them to school. A monkey could operate one of these.

“Try shooting.”

“What should I shoot?”

“It doesn’t matter. How about that tree?”

Bob thought Joshua trees were somehow special. He didn’t want to shoot one.

“No. Something else?”

“Why not the tree?”

“That’s a Joshua tree.”

“Roberto? So what?”

“I just don’t want to. Okay?”

Esteban sighed and pulled a bottle of windshield-wiper fluid out of the trunk. He walked about twenty feet away and balanced the bottle on a rock.

“¿Mejor?”

“Yes. Sí. Thank you.”

Bob took aim at the bottle and squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand like an electrocuted cat.

“Did I hit it?”

“It’s still there.”

Bob tried again. And again. Esteban offered some advice. Relax. Breathe out, hold it, squeeze. It didn’t seem to help.

“Maybe it’s the gun.”

Esteban calmly took the gun from him, turned, and blasted the bottle of windshield-wiper fluid. Bob could smell faint traces of ammonia in the air.

“I guess it’s not the gun.”

Esteban handed him the gun back.

“Don’t worry, Roberto. Just do the best you can. Pull the trigger a lot. Maybe you’ll get lucky. At the very least you’ll make a lot of noise and scare people.”

Bob looked at his feet. He felt humiliated, embarrassed.

“Do I still get the job?”

Esteban smiled at him.

“ Claro, Roberto. You are the man.”

“I should probably learn to shoot better. Maybe I can take some lessons.”

Esteban closed the trunk and got back in the car.

“That’s a good idea.”

Maura couldn’t believe how cool it all was. First she got to see a dead guy, all shot up and stiff in one of those giant steel refrigerators. Now she was interviewing the consigliere to the Mexican mob. At least that’s what the guy was trying to say. He was a little out of it. He’d mumble on about bank accounts and businesses, switching to small personal details about how much lime you need to put in someone named Esteban’s margarita. Esteban was the Godfather. That’s what Don had said. Then the guy would switch topics and start complaining bitterly about being stuck with fake breasts, while Esteban got the real ones. Maura didn’t understand that. Did organized crime members have implants? Maybe it was some kind of criminal slang.

Maura thought Don looked very sexy in his role as police detective. He had an intensity, like he was really concentrating, as he listened to the disjointed diatribe. Sometimes he’d gently pull the information out of the guy, other times he’d ask questions that would make the perp cry. Like when Don asked the perp about his parents. Man, turn on the waterworks.

You’d think a member of the mob would suck it up, say nothing, be a hard-ass. But here was the perp, bawling like a baby. Perp. Maura liked saying that. Maura hoped Don would interview her in the hotel room later that night. They could make a little game of it.

Don pressed the perp for information about the other members of the crew. He answered with a rambling tirade — he seemed to get more and more out of it as the interview progressed — about someone named Roberto. How this Roberto was really dangerous. How Roberto looked meek and mild but was taking over everything. Blood was going to flow through the streets of Los Angeles and it was all because of Roberto.

She saw Don perk up as Martin told him how Roberto was behind all the severed arms showing up. Maura shuddered. Some cracked sociopath running wild in the streets, hacking off limbs and sending them to the police. It was crazy. Like something out of Batman. This Roberto had to be stopped.

Bob got out of the car and followed Esteban into the hospital. The gun was wedged into the back of his pants, his suit jacket covering it. It was big, hard, and not at all comfortable. Maybe that’s a good thing. This way I’ll know it’s there.

Bob’s nerves were getting all jangly, his breathing shallow and rapid. He was nervous. Not scared; he thought he’d be petrified, but it was more like a sensation in his muscles, a readiness. A tension. Like a steel trap ready to snap shut. It felt good. Exciting. He was jazzed, juiced, and ready.

Bob couldn’t help but marvel at his transformation. A week ago he’d been a slacker cyber-surfer; today he had a new name, a tattoo on his arm, and a gun wedged down the crack of his ass. He was Roberto Durán. He was going to speak Spanish. He was going to help his boss kill a rat. Which, actually, when he thought about it, made him feel slightly queasy. But Esteban had assured him that the actual murdering part he would handle himself. Bob would stand lookout. Be ready for any contingencies should something go wrong with the plan.