Moist (20 page)

Norberto came out into the backyard. He was drinking a beer. Martin offered him the joint, but he shook his head and said, “I'm having second thoughts about the plan.”

Martin blinked. This was just so fucking typical. A few wispy clouds drifted along, violently white against the intense blue sky. He turned to Norberto.

“No guts, no glory.”

“What?”

“No guts, no glory.”

Norberto nodded like he understood.

“Yeah, but what if it backfires?
Nos chingamos,
man.”

“It won't backfire. It's airtight.”

“I don't know, man. You're counting on something that could easily fuck up.”

“What?”

“Las placas.”

“The police?”

“Yeah, man. You're counting on the fucking jalapeños to come and arrest everybody. What if they don't?”

“They will.”

Norberto shook his head.

“If they were so good, they'd have busted us by now.”

Martin turned on Norberto; he couldn't hide his anger.

“They don't have anything to bust us for. And you know why? Because of me. Because I make the plans. I launder the money. I take care of the legal shit. That's why.”

“Or we're just lucky.”

The roach burned Martin's finger. The pain short-circuited his anger. He stood there for a beat as his synapses bounced around like Ping-Pong balls in that bouncy air-blower machine they use to pick the Lotto numbers. Finally, everything settled back into place. He stubbed the roach out on the ground and fixed his gaze on Norberto. Norberto's sudden reluctance was killing his buzz.

“You're just scared.”

“Maybe, man. Maybe.”

“I'll watch your back.”

Norberto drained his beer.

“The people we're up against, they don't bother sneakin' up behind you, man.”

. . .

Bob sat in the holding cell with a couple of other men. It was drab and smelly. His cellmates, one a ferocious-looking Vietnamese teenager, the other a burly Latino in his thirties, were stretched out on the hard benches. The Vietnamese boy looked slightly green, with a slick sheen of cold sweat covering his body, like he was going through some kind of jones for a sack of glue. The Latino just lay there like a boned chicken. They seemed resigned to whatever the Fates had in store.

Bob figured that the detective had him put in the cell to intimidate him, get him to crack, but the only threatening thing he could see was an exposed toilet that sat in the corner.

It was threatening because Bob had to piss. His bladder had swollen beyond the normal limits it might reach when stuck in traffic. It had grown from a dull reminder to a sharp, aching throb. His kidneys were even getting into the act, sending searing bolts of pain through his lower back. But Bob couldn't bring himself to urinate. He was intimidated.

There was no sound in the cell. No talking, no radio. Bob's pee would be the only source of news and entertainment in the room. Bob knew that if he got up and just trickled, he would be sodomized by noon. But if he got up and let loose a powerful and impressive stream, they'd back off. They wouldn't fuck with him. It was performance anxiety of a whole new kind.

A single tear welled up in Bob's eye and ran down his cheek. His bladder was screaming for release. He had no idea how much longer he might be held, it could be hours, but he did know that if he didn't stand and deliver, he was going to wet himself. That wouldn't be good.

Bob stood and quietly padded over to the steel toilet. He lifted the lid and slowly unzipped. He was glad he had his back to his cellmates as his penis turtled into his pants. It just wouldn't stick its head out. Bob was reluctant to tug on his dick too much. He didn't want them to think he was jacking off. He carefully pulled his penis out and held it with his right hand.

Nothing happened. He tried to relax. He thought about Felicia, walking though a park, a trip to the beach, anything to take him away from this stinky cell, these two guys, this shiny toilet, and this unbearable pain.

He took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

And then it began. It started softly. As if his fears were now about to become reality. But the sheer volume of urine in his body kept that from happening. It slowly gained power and momentum. Bob's entire posture shifted. Another tear ran down his cheek. It was as if he had been holding his breath for a year and now he could take in some fresh air. His penis hung out bravely, looking and sounding much larger than it ever had before. Bob smiled.

He was pissing like a racehorse.

. . .

Don came back from the TraveLodge in Glendale and found the envelope on his desk. Flores sat at the next desk reading the sports page.

“When did this get here?”

“While you were out.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

“And spoil the surprise?”

Don ripped open the envelope and looked at the report.

“Who the hell is Max Larga?”

Flores shrugged.

“You're the detective.”

. . .

Bob was showing his tattoo to the Latino man in the holding cell when Don came down for him. Bob knew his story would hold up. He had made small talk with the clerk at the TraveLodge when he checked out. Now he listened as Don told him that he was being released but that the LAPD would reserve the right to press obstruction-of-justice charges at a later time if they found him uncooperative or lying or complicit. It was just so much blah, blah, blah. Bob nodded. Getting out of there was his primary concern. They were starting to serve a lunch of creamed corn and some kind of meat patty. The smell was nauseating, overpowering, like boiled dog food. Even though it brought up a slight gag reflex it was also, strangely, making his stomach growl.

As they were leaving the holding area, Don turned to him.

“Does the name Max Larga ring any bells?”

“Who?”

“Max Larga.”

Bob appeared thoughtful.

“No. Sorry.”

Don handed him his business card.

“If you do remember who he is, or think of anything, let me know. Okay?”

Bob took the card.

“Sure.”

. . .

Martin walked into the house. Amado lay snoring on the sofa, the TV still rattling away in Spanish. Norberto had gone back to his apartment. Martin walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside, wrapped in Saran Wrap, was Amado's arm. In the harsh light of the fridge it looked like a leftover sandwich or something. Martin blinked at it through his sensimilla-tinted eyeballs. He saw a jar of pickles and had to have one. He stood, with the door open, and fished an icy pickle out of the jar. The cold crunch and briny taste snapped him back to his mission. No guts, no glory.

As he chewed on the pickle and looked at the severed arm, Martin heard voices in his head: his parents urging him to finish business school and get that MBA; his friends bragging about mergers and acquisitions; even his old swim team coach in high school. They all said the same thing. Make something of yourself. Be a winner.

Martin put the pickles back, grabbed the arm, secured the plastic around it, and scurried out of the house.

D
ON WATCHED AS
Bob punched the button for the elevator. He watched as Bob looked around nonchalantly, like he visited a police station every day. He watched as Bob picked at his fingernails, looked at his feet, and practically jumped out of his skin when the elevator finally arrived.

The sensation, an unpleasant gnawing feeling, started in the pit of his stomach. Don felt it build and rise up into his chest. It was his instinct telling him that something was not kosher. He smelled a rat.

Bob had been too uninterested in Larga. Studiously casual. Just like when he was waiting for the elevator. Don saw how Bob was bouncing in his shoes. Did he think he'd gotten away with something?

Don checked himself. Could it be that he was jealous of Bob? After all, Bob had been Maura's boyfriend. She had chosen to move in with him. They lived together. Something Don had not yet managed to accomplish. She must've loved Bob at some point. Don realized that he didn't know her that well. She had shared her life with Bob, a man who couldn't be more different from Don. If she'd done that,
what did she see in Don? Maybe she had matured. Learned a lesson living with a slacker gadfly like Bob. Maybe now she wanted a grown-up man. Stable, honest, and hardworking. Yeah, that was it. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

But Don was annoyed. His feelings for Maura had put the whammy on his instincts. He reminded himself that he'd worked too hard to let this investigation get away from him. He needed to be fully focused. He needed to scrutinize every detail. Look for inconsistencies. Make connections between disparate incidents. Piece the puzzle together.

Don's fully focused, steel-trap policeman's mind drifted for a moment. A flash of Maura's breasts, golden in candlelight and heaving in unison, shook him. He needed another doughnut.

. . .

Bob walked out of Parker Center and into the deep orange glare of a Los Angeles sunset. He felt great. Energized. On top of the world. He'd survived a police interrogation and actually pulled it off. God, was it making him horny.

He couldn't wait to tell Esteban how he'd handled the cops. Expertly, in his opinion. They didn't have a fucking clue. His story was believable, he told the truth, it hung together. In frustration, they'd tried to sweat him in a holding tank filled with hardened and dangerous criminals, but they didn't crack him. In fact, he'd earned the respect of his cellmates with his prodigious pissing ability. He was tougher than they thought, smarter than they knew. His cock stiffened slightly in his pants. A call to celebrate.

Esteban had made him memorize a special number to call when he got out. He was supposed to find a pay phone and dial the number, say his name, and then hang up and wait. Esteban said he'd return the call in less than five minutes. It was some kind of satellite deal. Untraceable. Or if it was traceable it would only lead back to some pay phone on the street somewhere and not to Bob. Bob knew he should call Esteban, but something else was on his mind. He found a pay phone and called Felicia.

. . .

The can of Comet and scrubby sponge were still in the bathtub. So was the bloodstain.
There's no fucking way it's coming out now,
Norberto thought. But he realized he wouldn't want to take a bath in the tub if he could still see the stain, so he got to work. He ran cold water and scrubbed as hard as he could. It was like sanding porcelain, but it was working. The stain was lifting.

Norberto thought about what Martin had said. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. Did he really believe that the other crews in
La Eme
would just sit around with their thumbs up their asses while he and Martin took over Esteban's powerful and lucrative enterprise? Why wouldn't someone from another crew move in? Someone like Jared Samuel or Tomás Hernández would pounce on their operation so fast they wouldn't have time to grab their cocks and pray.

If he were really going to try and take power from Esteban he'd need someone like Amado, someone whom everyone respected.
He'd need that or he'd be fucked. That, and a whole lot of guns.

Norberto shook his head in disbelief. He was glad he'd come to his senses and told Martin to forget about it. But how did he let Martin talk him into it in the first place? How could he be so stupid? He must've been high to even think it could work. Then he remembered.

He
was
high.

. . .

Martin turned off Ventura onto Laurel and began the drive up the canyon. He was heading over the hill into Hollywood. He figured he'd drop the arm off at the police station in West Hollywood. Let the LAPD and the West Hollywood police fight over jurisdiction. Create a bureaucratic clusterfuck.

The arm was resting on the passenger seat. It jiggled and bounced and, at least to Martin, seemed to become uncomfortably animated. It was starting to creep him out a little. Even in the plastic he could see the fingers moving, reminding him of a horror movie he'd once seen in which the hand of a murderer acted on its own, killing anyone who got near it. Amado had murdered people. This was definitely the arm of a murderer.

Martin stopped at a light and put the arm under the seat.

The light changed and he continued up, leaving the Valley behind him. When he reached the ridgeline of the mountains and saw the view, Martin made a quick right turn and pulled over. He got out of the car, away from the arm,
which was still making his skin crawl, and stood looking at the vista as twilight descended.

All of Los Angeles, the great grid, stretched out in front of him. It carpeted a vast basin, going off in every direction as far as he could see. The city twinkled in its own atmosphere, the lights looking like strangely vivacious galaxy. Overhead, jet streams caught the last rays of the sun and glowed pink in the darkening sky.

Martin liked Los Angeles. It offered such a plastic facade. The sunshine and palm trees, convertibles and blondes.
We love it
. But if you really looked at the city, if you dug beneath the ever-tightening facelift it showed the world, you'd find that it was a much more complex, much more sinister, place.

On the surface you had one layer. The layer of people doing their daily things. Working. Shopping. Going to school. Dating. Mating. The obvious layer. Under that you had another layer. An invisible subculture that trades with the obvious layer. Money for drugs. Money for sex. Money for bootleg DVDs. Money for the things that make living in the obvious layer bearable. Money paid by hardworking people, struggling to get by or struggling to pay for their new BMW, desperate for any small pleasure that would take them away from their pain and make them feel special. Billions of dollars sucked into a dark labyrinth in the name of fleeting pleasures. More money than the fucking IRS will ever collect, circulating in an invisible world.