Moist (25 page)

It was nothing special. Bills. Letters. People usually dump their keys by the front door when they come in. Don didn't see any keys, which led him to believe that Larga was probably stuffed in the trunk of his car somewhere. He'd get the license plate number and put it out. It'd turn up eventually. Either a patrol unit would find it, or some neighbor would smell it. They always turn up.

Don kept sifting. He was trying to find something that might connect Larga to Carlos Vila or Esteban Sola or anybody. Somehow there was a connection. There had to be.

Time to go through the dead guy's dresser drawers.

. . .

By the time they finally reached the deserted nether regions of the Joshua Tree State Park, Martin was sick and tired of driving. He desperately needed a cold drink and a hot jumbo. He had pulled off the paved road and jounced down some pocked dirt trail for what seemed like a day. His car looking distinctly geishalike with all the finely powdered dirt covering it. Bob had actually fallen asleep during the drive, the poor guy complaining about how tired he was, how hungry he was. Martin got sick of hearing it, and stopped at a Burger King in one of the strange little podunk suburbs they had passed through.

Martin killed the engine and rolled a joint. He was careful to discard any seeds as he lovingly crumbled the dried leafy bits into the rolling paper.

Bob woke up.

“Where are we?”

Martin lit his joint.

“In the desert.”

Martin took a strong pull of the reefer and handed it to Bob. Bob shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

Martin shrugged.

“It's your funeral.”

Bob got out of the car to stretch his legs. Martin took another hit. He watched Bob. It was kind of like he was watching a movie about Bob. As the THC hit his bloodstream Martin began to feel detached. Floaty. He was in the audience watching a movie about a skilled and daring hit man about to pull off yet another job. That was him. He was the star of this movie. There was Bob. He was the job. The victim-to-be.

But it was also strange. Martin felt like he was in the movie but he was also not in the movie. He was watching himself watch himself think of himself in a movie about a cool hit man. Fuck, this was good shit.

Martin got out of the car. He watched himself get out of the car and heard himself speak.

“Hey, Bob.”

Martin pulled the Glock out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at Bob. Bob looked really surprised. Martin watched himself watching Bob's surprised expression.

“You look surprised, Bob.”

“What're you doing, man?”

Martin thought that was a really stupid question. Just like all of Bob's questions.

“Do I have to make the obvious explicit?”

Bob nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I'm pointing a gun at you.”

“I see that. Why?”

Martin went around and popped open the trunk.

“Because I'm going to kill you.”

Martin watched Bob's reaction. That would be a closeup in the movie. Bob's big reaction.

“I did everything like I was supposed to.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but he watched himself not laughing and figured he'd better play it straight. This was a time to be serious.

“You did a great job.”

Bob looked very sad.

“Did Esteban tell you to do this?”

“No. Esteban has his own problems to worry about.”

Bob looked around quickly, like he was going to run.

“Don't try it.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It's all about goals, Bob. I have goals. This is one of the steps I must take to attain my goals.”

Martin took a shovel out of the trunk. He handed it to Bob.

“Dig.”

Bob took the shovel and hit Martin over the head with it. He hit him hard. Martin watched himself see himself get hit hard on the head with the shovel. He saw stars, actual particles of lightning-colored phosphorescence in his field of vision. He watched himself drop the gun and fall to the ground. Then he felt himself see himself hit the ground as blood erupted from a massive gash on his scalp.

Martin heard the car start up and drive off.

A fine layer of dust rose up in the air and slowly settled on him.

This, he realized, was not good.

. . .

Don pulled open the drawer to Larga's bedside table. People always put their most personal items there. Maybe because
they spent so much time in bed, or because they did things in bed they didn't do in the kitchen. He looked in the drawer. Condoms, lubricants, a pamphlet about understanding conflict in relationships, some sleeping pills of some kind, loose change, a couple of business cards. There was usually a gun or pepper spray. Once he found a Taser. Those are wild.

One of the business cards caught Don's eye. He picked it up.

It was Maura's.

. . .

There was no sound but the steady drip from one of the showers in the locker room and the occasional gasp or moan from Cindy, the screenwriter with pink pigtails. Amado was on his knees. The hard tile floor didn't bother him at all, he was a man on a mission. Cindy stood over him, her legs slightly spread, her mouth open in surprise. He lifted Cindy's dress with his teeth as he pulled off her panties with his hand. He began to lick and nibble at her inner thighs, working his way between her legs. She tasted good.

She let her body relax, giving herself over fully to Amado and the experience. Amado unbuckled his pants, unleashing his hard cock. He picked her up with his one arm, entered her, and fucked her against a wall of lockers. He was surprised at how strong he felt. He felt really good.

Cindy, pinned against the lockers, was crying out in bursts of staccato moans and squeals. She was getting some life experience.

Now she had something to write about.

W
HEN
B
OB TURNED
onto the paved road he took a breath. He sucked in a deep gulp of oxygen and hit the gas. He realized he hadn't taken a breath since he had hit Martin with the shovel and taken off. That's what it seemed like, anyway.

Bob was pretty sure he hadn't killed Martin, but he'd hurt him, and he'd left him with a good twenty-mile walk through the desert. But he wasn't dead. Martin would be back. Bob would have to deal with him.

So Bob drove fast. He wanted to put as much time and space between himself and Martin as he could. He needed to figure out what to do. He tried to calm his mind, but it was on fire. Was Esteban behind this? Should he go back and finish Martin off? With what? Martin had the gun and the shovel. Bob thought maybe he could just run over him with the car. But what if it damaged the car? Then he'd be stranded in the desert.

Bob realized he needed a plan. To formulate a plan he needed to consult a professional. He decided he needed to trust his instincts.

Bob pulled over at a gas station, went to the pay phone, and punched in Esteban's number. He went inside and bought a bottle of Cherry Coke while he waited for Esteban to call him back.

When the phone rang, Bob couldn't contain himself.

“Martin tried to kill me.”

Esteban remained calm on the other end.

“Roberto? Are you all right?”

“He was going to shoot me and leave me in the desert.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the desert somewhere.”

“Is he alive?”

“I think so.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“I hit him with a shovel.”

There was a pause.

“Good work, Roberto.”

Bob didn't know what to say.

“What do I do now?”

Esteban's voice was soothing, reassuring.

“Tell me where you are and where you think Martin is. I will send some people to find him.”

“What about me?”

“You should go home and wait for me to call.”

That wasn't what Bob wanted to hear.

“He'll try to kill me again.”

“Roberto. I will protect you.
¿Entiendes?
”

Bob wasn't so sure, but what could he say?

“Okay.”

“Now tell me where he is.”

. . .

Amado sat at his kitchen table. His new laptop computer was beeping at him. Although he'd never used a computer before, Amado was surprised at how simple it was. He had loaded the screenwriting software in a couple of minutes.

The phone rang.

Amado looked at it. He didn't really want to be bothered right now, but it wasn't like he had dozens of amigos who'd just call up. And he had given his number to Cindy, in case she felt the desire for more life experience. So he answered it.

It was Esteban telling him Roberto's story.

Normally, Amado would've just said
Sí, está bien,
and he'd have been out the door. But now, what could he do? He could drive out in the desert, find Martin, and blast him. He'd be happy to. But he couldn't dig a hole or move a carcass. You can't rely on the vultures to dispose of it. They'd leave Martin's teeth, and he'd be identified through his dental records.

Besides, Amado was just sitting down to start writing his episode of the
telenovela.
He had it all planned in his mind. He had his new computer with the cool software. He had some cold
cerveza
in the fridge. And he'd had a
buena cogida
with Cindy earlier that afternoon.

The last thing he wanted to do was drive over the fucking hills and kill someone.

Amado suggested Esteban call the Ramirez brothers. They had been doing odd jobs, errands, small stuff for the crew. It was time to bring them up. Give them a mission. Sure, they were drug addicts with a touch of
caballero
about them, but they would jump at the chance to make their bones with Esteban.

Besides, Amado had work of his own.

. . .

Don drove over to Maura's office. He didn't know what to think. So Larga had Maura's card in a drawer. Was he a client? Were they friends? Was Maura involved in his disappearance somehow?

On one hand, he was glad that he had something to go on. Otherwise it was looking random. No motive. No leads. Just some poor fucker with bad luck. Those sorts of cases were unsolvable.

As Don pulled into the parking lot by Maura's office he spotted Larga's car. He picked up his radio and called it in.

Don parked and walked over to Larga's car. He hated this part. If he'd had to bet, he would've wagered a thousand dollars on Larga's body being in the trunk. Don leaned close to the trunk and took an exploratory sniff.

The stench of rotting flesh did not assault Don's senses as he'd feared it would. He bent close to the trunk and sniffed again. It just smelled like a car. Don was relieved. It takes days to get the smell of a corpse out of your nose and mouth. You need to gargle with gin and eat raw onions and lemons. And still your brain remembers. The sensation of the smell lingers for weeks, sometimes longer. It's nasty.

. . .

Esteban hung up the phone. He was disappointed in Amado, but he understood. Amado couldn't do the things he once could. Esteban could no longer rely on Amado to take care of the necessary but unfortunate side of the business that required murder, mayhem, and an unflinching ability to inflict pain, suffering, and even more pain. Amado was now disabled. A gimp. He could use those special parking spots.

Esteban reluctantly dialed the Ramirez brothers.

It's not that they were incompetent. If you needed a bar smashed up, a car stolen, or some money collected from a deadbeat dealer, you couldn't ask for two more competent employees. The thing that gave Esteban pause was that the Ramirez brothers actually enjoyed their job. They were sociopaths and sadists.

He and Amado had, over the years, dished out death, torture, and punishment. But they'd never enjoyed it. It had never felt good. It had always been a real drag.
Bárbaro.
They'd felt bad about it, no matter how justified they were.
Los hermanos
Ramirez thought it was fun.

It gave Esteban the creeps.

But, he figured, if anyone deserved an afternoon with the Ramirez brothers, it was Martin.

. . .

Martin felt the sun slowly baking him. His body basting in its own sweat. He rolled over and felt his head. A crunchy crust of clotted blood had formed and stopped the bleeding. Still, judging from the number of flies buzzing around his wound, it wasn't good.

Martin slowly sat up. He was dizzy. His head throbbing like a motherfucker. But he wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.

He sat there and took stock of his situation. There were, he realized, a number of variables. If Roberto had called Esteban and ratted him out, then Amado was on his way to kill him. If Roberto had thought Esteban was behind this, well, he'd just run for cover and they'd never see him again.
Martin preferred the latter. But either way, he had to get back to civilization, and an emergency room, soon.

He got to his feet and saw that the Glock was on the ground a few feet away. He bent down to pick it up, feeling a little dizzy as he did. He noticed the shovel on the ground. A divot of his scalp, the wispy hairs sticking up, was still stuck to the shovel's blade.

Martin didn't want to think about it. Time to move.

. . .

Maura was surprised and happy to see Don.

“Hey, what're you doing here?”

She gave him a nice wet kiss, wrapping her arms around him as she did. Actually, the kiss could've led somewhere. It was one of those I've-got-the-time-and-the-interest kind of kisses. Don pulled back.

“Hey, I hate to do this. But I've got to ask you some questions.”

Maura was concerned.

“You didn't get an infection or anything?”

“No. These are police questions.”

Maura swallowed. Don was looking at her in a different way. A new way. He was studying her reactions. Even though she hadn't ever broken any laws or done anything bad, except for a little recreational drug use, Maura suddenly began to sweat.