Moist (19 page)

He turned back to the TV just in time to see the padre fall into Gloria's arms, burying his head between her huge soft breasts and praying for God's forgiveness for what he was about to do.

Amado hated hypocrites.

. . .

Morris was still playing Tetris when Bob walked in.

“How high are you?”

Morris stopped playing.

“How high are you, man? Where the fuck have you been?”

“Out.”

“Duh.”

“Anybody notice I was gone?”

“Just the boss, the police, everyone at UCLA.”

“The boss mad?”

Morris shook his head.

“He's worried, dude. We were all worried.”

“About me?”

“Yeah.”

Bob smiled.

“I didn't know you cared.”

“I'm not gay. I didn't care, like, that much.”

Bob laughed.

“I better go tell the boss.”

“You better call the cops, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Bob turned to go.

“You must've really loved her, man.”

Bob stopped.

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend.”

Bob reminded himself to tell the truth.

“Yeah, I did.”

. . .

Esteban lowered himself into his bubbling Jacuzzi. He felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours begin to melt away. Amado had made a gazpacho out of everything, but at the end of the day he was still one of the few men that Esteban could count on. Count on and trust. He'd have a word with Amado about whatever freelancing he was doing with Carlos Vila, but he didn't want Amado dead. He was too valuable.

Lupe came out with a bowl of guacamole and some chips. She was wearing a dark blue one-piece swimsuit, and Esteban couldn't help but admire her body as she climbed into the Jacuzzi and put the dip down in front of him.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

She smiled at him. She had a beautiful smile.

Esteban wondered if it wasn't time for him to settle down. Maybe get married. He'd always figured he'd end up married to an American, that'd make it easy to get a green card. But
American women were so thin, skinny and preoccupied with shopping and their appearance. Esteban found them repulsive. They chatted endlessly about how they looked, how other women looked, and how they or their friends would look after surgical enhancements were completed. They lacked soul.

Esteban took a chip and dipped it into the guacamole. The cool thick avocado coated his tongue. It was somehow spicy, biting, and soothing all at the same time. It tasted of earth and sun, cilantro and jalapeño, onion and lime. It reminded him of Mexico. The good parts he'd left behind. Guacamole, he realized, was very soulful.

Lupe smiled at him as he ate another mouthful.

“Te gusta?”

“Sí. Muy rico.”

He watched as she slowly submerged herself in the water. He admired her. She didn't need a bikini or fake tits. She was who she was and she was beautiful that way. She was honest and earthy and soulful. Like guacamole.

. . .

Maura walked around to the front of the building. A sign told her that the entrance was in the rear. It seemed strange to her, there was a perfectly functional front door, but it had a metal gate across it. It was probably a security precaution, although if someone were going to rob the store they could just as easily use the back door.

She walked up and around, down the alley, to the back of the building. She pulled open the glass doors, passed a serious-looking metal detector, and took a look around. It was a little overwhelming. She'd never been in a gun store before,
and the variety and sheer number of guns took her by surprise. The air was a heady mix of oil and gunpowder, metal and wood. Intoxicating.

Maura strolled slowly through the room, entranced. What was it about these things? What caused her insides to quiver when she held one? Maura didn't understand what was happening to her. All she knew was that when she held a gun in her hand it triggered something deep inside. It was a connection to a primal, sexual power. Life and death, creation and destruction. Explosion and silence. It was nothing she'd ever felt before.

She laughed at herself

A friendly employee came up to her and spoke directly to her breasts.

“Lookin' for home protection? Or somethin' to carry in your purse?”

“I don't know.”

In fact, she had no idea what she was doing there.

“Lookin' for somethin' versatile?”

“Let's start with that.”

The employee, a round and red-faced American with an LA Dodgers cap, sized her up.

“This your first time?”

Maura nodded.

“Don't be scared. You use these right, they'll never hurt you.”

“Okay.”

He walked around behind a glass display case filled with all makes and models of handguns. There were scary black Glocks, lethal-looking Walthers, efficient Smith & Wessons, a truckload of semiautomatic handguns, revolvers, and all manner
of death-delivering devices. He pulled out a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. It was big, black, menacing. It meant business. The kind of gun that bad guys used in the movies.

He pulled back the top part to reveal the chamber.

“A Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. Italian-made. Excellent quality. Double action. Fifteen-shot magazine. Guaranteed to drop an intruder before he can get his pants down.”

Maura picked up the gun. It was surprisingly heavy.

“I got it in a slightly smaller version called a Centurion. That's what some of the female police officers are using.”

Maura pushed down on a lever and the pistol sprang together with a vicious snap.

“Yikes.”

“Just keep your fingers clear. That sucker can pinch like the devil.”

Maura didn't like the gun, it had no personality.

“I want a more old-fashioned-looking gun.”

“Like a cowboy gun?”

“Like the detectives carry in the movies.”

“I gotcha.”

He pulled out a Colt Detective Special. A snubby little pocket revolver with a two-inch barrel. It was not inspiring. Maura held it like it was a dead fish.

“Do you have something a little . . . bigger?”

“Surely.”

He pulled out a Colt Anaconda and plopped it on a felt pad. Now, this was a gun. Shiny and silver with a long nine-inch barrel and a big wooden grip.

“It's heavy. You might have trouble getting a good shot off with this one.”

“It's really pretty.”

He nodded.

“Yeah, it's a good-looking pistol. Effective, too. Six-shot. Combat-style finger grooves. Full-length ejector-rod housing, ventilated barrel rib, because you got yourself a real long barrel there, wide-spur hammer, stainless steel.”

The more he described the gun, the sexier it sounded. Maura could feel her pulse quicken, her palms getting sweaty, as she held the pistol in her hands.

“How much?”

“Six hundred bucks.”

Maura was surprised. That wasn't expensive for such an incredible machine.

“I'll take it.”

The helpful employee looked at her.

“Can I be honest?”

“Sure.”

“You're not going to be able to shoot this too good. It's just too damn big for your pretty little hands.”

Maura didn't care about shooting the gun.

“I just like the way it looks.”

“There's lots of guns that'd be good for you to shoot. They're pretty too.”

“I want this one.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

Maura smiled at him.

“I'm happy.”

. . .

Bob couldn't believe it. It was just like on TV. Two detectives had picked him up at the office and driven him down to Parker
Center. They hadn't said anything at all in the car. The ride was taken in complete silence. Then he was whisked up an elevator and brought here, to this small interrogation room.

Bob sat at a cruddy institutional table on a metal folding chair. Fluorescent lights hummed down from the ceiling. There wasn't a window, only some kind of see-through two-way mirror on one wall. Stale air drifted in through a vent.

The detective sat on the other side of the table drinking a cup of coffee. Bob watched the detective as he wrote down information on a notepad. He was trying to put some kind of chronology together.

“And after you confronted her at her office?”

“It wasn't a confrontation. We were just talking.”

“Okay. What did you do after you talked?”

“Drove around.”

“Where?”

“Hollywood. Up Laurel Canyon and down into Studio City.”

“Did you stop anywhere?”

“I think I stopped at Starbucks.”

“Which Starbucks would that be?”

“I don't know. There's, like, a million of them.”

Although the questioning was thorough, even intense at times, Bob never felt too nervous. He didn't sweat or tremble. He did sometimes hesitate, but he wasn't cocky or cool. He had just the right level of nervousness. He wanted to appear a little nervous. After all, even a completely innocent individual gets anxious around the police.

“Was this in the Valley?”

Bob nodded.

“Yeah. I think so.”

The detective made a note.

“During this time were you under the influence of alcohol or drugs?”

“I'm not a drunk driver, okay?”

The detective looked at him.

“I don't care if you were, I just want to know.”

Bob sighed.

“I'd had a couple of drinks.”

“What kind of drinks?”

“Tequila.”

“Where did you drink the tequila?”

“In my car.”

“You were driving around drinking tequila in your car.”

“I was parked.”

“Do you recall where you were parked?”

“Some street somewhere.”

“In Studio City?”

“Burbank, I think.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I fell asleep.”

“In your car?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn't it occur to you that you had things to deliver?”

“Well, yeah.”

“So why didn't you?”

“I was upset.”

“You were upset.”

“Yeah, and I didn't want to work.”

“You could've driven back to the lab and asked for the day off.”

Bob nodded.

“I wish I'd thought of that.”

The detective made more notes in his notepad. Bob gave him a very sincere look.

“I'm sorry if I messed up something. I didn't mean to.”

The detective kept his expression serious.

“You've hampered a very important murder investigation.”

“I'm really sorry. I didn't know.”

“You knew it was something to be delivered to the police, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Why wouldn't that be important?”

Bob hung his head.

“I see your point. I'm really sorry.”

“It's a little late for ‘sorry,' Bob.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

Bob wondered why the detective was working alone. Two guys had picked him up. If this was the bad cop, Bob wanted to see the good cop in action. The one who'd be sympathetic to Bob's emotional distress. Of course, if this was the good cop and the other one was going to come in and break his arm . . . it was fine just having the one detective.

“So you didn't return to the office after five or go home. You kept the car. Did you spend the night in the car?”

“No.”

“Where did you go?”

“I stayed in a motel.”

“Where? Do you remember?”

How could he forget.

“The TraveLodge in Glendale.”

The detective wrote that down and then gave Bob a very hard look.

“I'm going to check this out. Anything you want to change about your story?”

Bob looked him right in the eyes.

“No.”

“You're sure?”

The detective was pressing, trying to get in Bob's face, rattle his cage. He succeeded. Bob lost his temper and began to rant.

“Hey, man, I'm sorry I didn't make the delivery on time. Okay? I'm really sorry. But I have a life too. I had problems and I had to deal with them. Okay? So before you go judging me, think about what you'd do if your girlfriend dumped you. All right?”

. . .

Don watched as a uniformed officer escorted Bob out of the interrogation room. There was something about Bob that bothered Don. He couldn't be sure if it was because Bob was Maura's ex-boyfriend. It was possible that Don's feelings for Maura were contaminating his impression of Bob. But it seemed to him that Bob's response was just a little too contrived. Don had seen it before. People who think they know how the police think they should respond. Not
overly dramatic, not overly detached. It was a kind of response that people had when they were guilty and had watched too many cop shows.

Don told Bob that he was going to have to sit tight while he checked out his story. Bob had protested about being held without being under arrest; that is, until Don had started to oblige him with obstruction-of-justice charges.

Don didn't know why people got all pissed off about being held. If they were innocent, you'd think they'd want to be cooperative. But he knew from experience that the innocent ones always put up the biggest stink about hanging out in the precinct. And Bob had put up a big stink.

Still, it wouldn't be long, all it would take was a visit to the TraveLodge in Glendale and he'd know the truth. If Bob was lying, this gave Don the license and leverage to turn up the heat, tighten the screws, and really fuck with the guy.

. . .

Martin sat in the backyard smoking a jumbo. Like a mantra, the words
No guts, no glory
kept rolling through his head. You had to break some eggs to make an omelette. You had to roll a joint before you could smoke it. No guts, no glory. One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.