Moist (21 page)

And beneath that world, another invisible world. And another. Like those Russian dolls that nestle inside each other, getting smaller and smaller.

Martin was skilled at taking the money from the invisible layers and, like a Las Vegas magician, making it real.
Making it part of the obvious layer. It was a good trick. But he'd been doing it for others, and now it was time to become entrepreneurial.

Martin began to roll another jumbo. He was surprised to discover that he was almost out of weed.

. . .

Don had finished typing the request for a search warrant. He'd been informed that the courts were backed up today and that if it was an emergency they could push it through; otherwise, wait until tomorrow. Normally Don would've tried to push it through, making some kind of claim that Larga might still be alive inside his house and they needed to rescue him immediately. But Don was pretty sure that Larga was dead and his body wasn't going to decay that much more in the next twelve hours. Besides, he had a date with Maura and wanted to get out of there as fast as he could. So Don had left the request with the DA's office and jumped in his car.

As he was making his way toward Hollywood and Maura's apartment, he suddenly pulled over and went into a bookstore named Book Soup.

It didn't take him long to locate the works of Max Larga. They were all clumped together.
Sophisticated Cooking, More Sophisticated Cooking
, and the best-selling
Sophisticated Cooking Made Easy.
Don picked up a copy and studied it. Larga's face, smug and arrogant, his hair styled in a way to make him look hip, graced the covers of all three books. How did this guy get mixed up with Esteban Sola? It just didn't make any sense.

Don leafed through the book reading the recipes. There were fresh figs stuffed with foie gras, caviar blinis with white
truffle oil, roast loin of pork with rosemary and grapes, and an entire section devoted to the proper decanting of red wine, as well as a list of recommended dishes and the wines that they complemented.

Don decided he could use a good cookbook.

. . .

Felicia opened her door.

“
Hola,
Roberto.”

Bob was so happy to see her that all he could do was just stand there and grin.

“You want to come in?”

“Absolutely.”

Bob entered, still grinning, and looked around her place. It was marvelous. In the living room alone, four walls painted four different colors fought for attention. There was a fuchsia pink wall next to a chartreuse green next to a vibrant orange next to a deep purple. Paper flags depicting skeletons from
el Día de los Muertos
festooned the ceiling. Scented candles burned on various tables and shelves.

But it was the walls that really got Bob's attention. The walls were splattered floor to ceiling with various
milagros
and representations of Frida Kahlo and her work. There must've been a thousand of them.

“You must like Frida Kahlo.”

Felicia smiled.

“You know of her?”

“Of course.”

“She is my patron saint.”

Bob was puzzled.

“She's a saint?”

“She's my saint.”

“Your own personal saint?”

“She gives me power, Roberto.”

With that, Felicia came up to Bob and wrapped her arms around him before planting a big wet kiss on his lips.

“Do you feel it?”

“Maybe, just a little.” Felicia kissed him again.

“Oh, yeah.”

. . .

It was like some kind of Mayan vision. Lupe stood naked in front of him, her dark brown skin and soft breasts glowing, moist and luminous in the dim light of the Jacuzzi. She looked like a goddess. Esteban floated in the hot water, felt the tequila flowing through his veins, and gazed up at her. Mother Mexico.

She stood above him holding a terra-cotta bowl filled with fresh guacamole. An offering from a Mayan goddess. That's when it hit him. That's when he realized that he was in love.

“I made more.”

Esteban dipped his finger into the bowl and tasted it.

“You make the best guacamole I have ever had.”

“¿Verdao?”

“Cierto.”

Esteban couldn't help himself. He put his hand in the guacamole and smeared it on her belly. She didn't resist, recoil, or react. She was nonjudgmental.

He took another handful and coated her breasts. He dug his fingers into the bowl and fed her, feeling her hot tongue sucking the avocado off his fingers. She moaned.

“I love guacamole.”

Lupe lay down on the warm cement as Esteban began licking the thick green goo off her belly, working his way slowly up to her breasts, until he was on top of her. He felt her underneath him, soft and strong. He felt the residual guacamole, sticky between their bodies, causing them to stick and slide as they moved. He felt the heat that was emanating from his skin. It was like the midday sun over the
zócalo
.

. . .

Martin hit the brakes. Fuck, that light changed fast. Were the yellows getting shorter? It fucking seemed like it. He looked at the floor and saw that Amado's arm had slid out from under the seat. The plastic had come unwrapped and a couple of the fingers were exposed.
No way I'm touching that
.

He looked around and saw a Burger King. The jolly orange-and-red sign sent a message to his brain. His synapses fired rapidly, if chaotically, as his brain relayed an urgent message to his stomach. His stomach received the message and, anticipating a meal, began to expand and growl.

The light changed but Martin didn't go. He had a sudden attack of the munchies. His stomach was demanding some kind of nourishment.

Some prick in an SUV honked Martin out of his catatonia. Martin stomped on the gas and jerked his car into the Burger King's drive-thru lane. He pulled up in front of the menu board and contemplated the selections. He'd recently
seen yet another special on mad cow disease and had decided to swear off beef and other red meat. But variety was offered here. Little fried things, other fried things stuffed with stuff. Kids' meals, cookies, onion rings. A metallic voice demanded that he decide, but Martin kept his cool.

“Gimme a minute.”

“Would you like a Value Meal?”

“I don't know. Let me look.”

Where was the fucking fire? Martin studied the board. There was chicken, several different chicken things, and fish. A fish sandwich. Maybe just some fries. The voice came back.

“Sir, you're holding up the line.”

Martin looked in his rearview and saw a couple of cars idling behind him. He ordered quickly, opting for some kind of ranch-chicken sandwich, fries, and a root beer. Why don't they sell alcohol? He could use a stiff one right now.

He pulled forward, got his meal, and drove off. They were fast. How did they cook it so fast? Even a microwave wasn't as fast as that.

Martin drove with one hand and reached into the hot bag with his other. As he pulled the sandwich out of the bag, the french fries spilled out all over the seat, the floor, and the arm. Oh, fuck, what next.

He devoured the sandwich.

. . .

A pot of vegetarian curry simmered on the stove. Don and Maura sat on the couch kissing. Maura broke from their embrace.

“I bought a gun today.”

It took a moment for Don to switch gears and actually register what she'd said.

“What?”

“I bought a gun. A Colt.”

“You don't need a gun.”

“I want a gun.”

Don couldn't argue with that. He'd spent years seeing the kind of damage, intentional and unintentional, that guns could produce, yet he still believed that people should have the right to keep and bear arms.

“Have you ever fired a handgun?”

Maura bit her lower lip and leaned toward him.

“I was hoping you'd show me.”

Don smiled. He'd seen other detectives with their wives and girlfriends at the range. He'd start the tongues wagging in the precinct when they got a load of Maura.

“Whenever you want.”

“I have to wait ten days.”

“That's not too long.”

“Seems like a long time to me. What do they have to check?”

“They can check your record in a few minutes. The tenday thing is called a cooling-off period.”

Maura gave him a quizzical look. Don tried to explain the law.

“For example, if you get fired and you're upset about it, they don't want you to be able to just go out, buy a gun, and come back and kill your boss. That's why it's called cooling off.”

“But people do that all the time.”

“Right. But those people already had guns. They didn't just go buy them that day.”

“But I'm not upset. I just want my gun.”

Don shrugged.

“You'll get your gun. You just have to wait a few days.”

Maura sighed.

“It just doesn't seem fair.”

Don wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

“Life's not always fair.”

Nestled up against him, she reached around and stroked his back, her hand finding its way to his belt and the handgun clipped to it. Maura felt a surge in her already-surging loins as she touched the gun. With her other hand she unzipped his trousers and reached in. Don's cock bolted out of his pants like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate.

Maura shifted, keeping one hand on his pistol and the other on his cock. She dropped to her knees and began sucking him.

It was Don's lucky day.

. . .

Bob opened his eyes. Frida Kahlo stared back at him. What was bothering her? Bob realized that he had his shoes on and his pants were crumpled around his ankles. He could hear Felicia in the kitchen cracking ice trays and dropping cubes into tumblers. He pulled up his pants and smiled. He couldn't believe how far he'd come in such a short time. It seemed like only yesterday he was bickering with Maura,
working at a stupid job, spending all his time playing games on the computer. He had been a nerd. Even proud to be a nerd. Listening to nerd music, wearing nerd clothes, surfing the Internet, reading comic books from Japan.

He had been under the impression that he was cool. But when he thought about it . . . what had he been thinking?

If anyone had told him he'd find himself mixed up with dangerous gangsters, being interrogated by the cops, and making love to a smokin' hot Latina, well . . . honestly, who'd believe that?

But Bob now believed that there was a rhyme and a reason to the universe. He had been transformed. He was a new man. There was a purpose to life. He just didn't know what it was. Yet.

Felicia came in carrying a couple of cocktails.

“¿Y ahora?”

“What?”

Felicia nodded toward the icon of Frida Kahlo.

“What do you think of my patron saint now?”

Bob sipped his cocktail and thought about it.

“She's only got one eyebrow.”

Felicia looked at the picture.

“So?”

Bob put his cocktail down and leaned forward. He kissed Felicia tenderly on the cheek.

“She may be a saint, but you're a goddess.”

. . .

The TV was still yammering when Amado woke up from his dreams. He couldn't tell if it was an American western dubbed
into Spanish or an Italian western dubbed into Spanish. For all he knew it could be a Spanish western dubbed into Mexican. He was just glad it wasn't the
telenovela.
It was getting weird. The
telenovela
was beginning to haunt his dreams. But then the
telenovela
itself was like a dream. It had a fractured reality. People didn't really scheme and betray and seduce like that. Or did they?

Chingao.
It was getting confusing. He pulled himself upright and clicked off the TV. He was thirsty. Dehydrated. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He reached for the refrigerator and experienced a strange, floating pain. It didn't hurt. It was more of a pang, really. The ache of reaching with something that wasn't there anymore. Reaching and not reaching. Phantom sensations of touch. It was like his dreams. He had dreamed that he was the padre in the
telenovela
and that he'd fucked Gloria on the altar of the church. He could still smell her, still feel her warm body as it bucked and spasmed and knocked over the chalice, spilling wine and communion wafers all over the floor. It had seemed so real.

He opened the fridge and reached in for a
chela.
It took him a second before he realized that his arm was gone. The arm wrapped in plastic on a cookie sheet. The cookie sheet was still there. But the arm . . .
se fue
. He knew right away the who, what, where of the situation.

That
pendejo
Martin had taken his arm.

. . .

Martin sat in his car. He was parked on Santa Monica Boulevard, across the street from the West Hollywood police station, right smack in the middle of boys' town. He watched as muscular
gay men in tight T-shirts walked their dogs, chatted, held hands, or went in and out of bars. Martin fired up the last bit of his joint and sucked in the smoke. It was just another layer. There was a gay community, a gay economy, a network of gays who all supported each other in their gayness. The gay layer. He saw a couple holding hands as they walked into a bookstore. Dressed in leather, with big motorcycle boots, and heavy chains hanging off their pants, they represented a layer within the layer. The gay S&M layer. Martin realized that there were hundreds of millions of layers to the city. He smiled to himself. How come no one else ever noticed this?

Martin finished the last speck of the joint and flicked what remained out the window. He looked across the street at the police station.

And then it hit him.

He couldn't just walk into the police station with the severed arm of a murderer. They'd arrest him.