Moist (30 page)

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.

Of course, as Bob saw it, Esteban didn't have much of a plan. They were going to walk in and act like criminal defense lawyers. Tell the guard on duty—there would surely be a guard after the Ramirez brothers fiasco—that they needed to speak to their client alone and then Esteban would hold a pillow over Martin's head until he stopped breathing. Esteban even pulled out an official-looking briefcase to add authenticity. Attention to detail. It was admirable.

. . .

Martin was feeling no pain. He'd answered a shitload of questions and now had an equal amount of Demerol coursing
through his bloodstream. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Besides, it was annoying when they were open. The lights were too bright. What were they thinking? Were they shining them at him on purpose? When he did open his eyes the left one would drift off one way and the right one would drift another. It caused him to feel seasick. Or was that the drug?

If he tried really hard he could focus. Sometimes he'd focus on the question being asked. For example: How much cocaine was carried across the border each week? Martin didn't like that question. He tried to tell the detective about the coyotes. It was difficult at first. The lawyer with the massive knockers kept talking about Griffith Park. Martin had to be rude. He had to tell her to shut up and take off her top. She didn't like that. But Martin didn't care, he wanted to see her breasts. She gave him a snarly look instead and sat down on the other side of the room.

Martin grimaced, swallowed, and explained that people called coyotes, because coyotes are allegedly fast and wily, carried the stuff over the border. So the question, if it really was a question, should be rephrased. What the detective should ask is: How much coke can a coyote tote if a coyote could tote coke?

Say that fast five times.

He made the detective say it. As the detective was struggling with the tongue-twister, things got kind of weird. Martin had just given himself a generous blast of the drip, the big dripper he'd nicknamed it, when Esteban and that fucking Bob, sorry . . . Roberto, entered the room. Martin saw the detective and Maura both look like they'd just shit their pants. But no one was yelling, and it didn't seem like any guns were drawn. Martin couldn't understand how they got in. Wasn't that fat fuck standing guard?

Martin saw Esteban looking at him. He heard the detective rattling on about something. It was getting tense in the room. Maura was saying something to that fucker, Roberto. Everybody was trying to say something. They were all a bunch of fucking tough guys.

It was killing his buzz.

Martin rolled his hand over and wedged the Demerol drip dial between the strap on his arm and the raised metal thingy on the bed. He jammed it in there good, so it would stay open. He immediately felt warm and fuzzy all over. The waves began crashing in on his brain more frequently. Like there was a hurricane somewhere near Hawaii and the waves in California were picking up the beat. The slow and steady drip of the Demerol turned into a drizzle, then a shower, then a torrential thunderstorm. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain. His buzz was back with a stinger.

Martin reminded himself to breathe.

He heard a loud crack. Maybe someone shot someone. Then another. Oh, yeah. Someone shot someone. Martin thought about opening his eyes, but it just didn't seem worth the effort.

And then he experienced something he'd never experienced before. He'd been close. He'd walked the razor's edge. But he'd never gone over until now.

He was too high.

. . .

Don was happy. He'd just loaded in a third microcassette. The guy was delirious, half of what he said was just bizarre, unusable, the other half was great stuff. Details about shipments,
bank accounts, and the infrastructure of the crew's operations. If even a tenth of this information panned out, Esteban would be spending a long time behind bars and Don might get to run a task force or something. There's lots of overtime in task force operations. Overtime pay plus a raise.

Don looked over at Maura. She had been pouting ever since the guy had asked her to take off her shirt. Don couldn't blame her, it was rude of the guy, but Don didn't have time to comfort her. He wanted to get as much out of the guy as he could, and if that meant humoring him, repeating tongue-twisters or taking off your shirt . . . well? What's the harm in that? The end justifies the means.

Don heard the door open, he assumed it would be the sheriff, but when he looked up he was shocked to see Esteban Sola in the flesh. Esteban muttered something about being a lawyer and handed Don a business card as he asked for a consult with his client. Don had to admit it was convincing and if the sheriff were sitting in this room instead of him, he'd probably have left the guy alone with Esteban. Of course when he came back, the guy would be dead. But he wasn't the sheriff. He wasn't some flunky sent out to write a report. He was the lead detective on this particular case. A member of the LAPD's Criminal Intelligence Division. He had looked at surveillance photos of Esteban for two years, had listened to hours of wiretaps, and had debriefed dozens of informants. He knew that Esteban was not a lawyer.

But then Don noticed that Maura's ex-boyfriend, Bob, was with Esteban. He'd remembered feeling that there was something hinky about Bob when he had him down at Parker Center. Now he knew why. There was a connection. Larga, Maura, Bob, Esteban, this guy here in the hospital
. . . it was all starting to make sense. Not make sense in the way of actually understanding what had happened or how these people were all connected. That would come later. But the fact that they were connected, that was a victory for Don.

He felt good.

Then he heard the gunshots.

. . .

Bob watched as Esteban, smooth and suave, asked the nurse for directions to Martin's room. She pointed toward the elevators and Esteban thanked her. Esteban didn't say a word to Bob. He was in character and Bob didn't want to break his concentration. He just wanted to watch the master at work.

They got off the elevator and walked down the corridor toward Martin's room. It was the last one. It was easy to see which room it was; a fat sheriff sat on a folding metal chair next to the door. The sheriff was reading
People
magazine. He looked up when he saw Esteban and Bob coming toward him.

“Can I help you folks?”

Esteban handed him a business card.

“I've been retained by the parents.”

The sheriff looked him up and down.

“This is my associate.”

Bob stuck his hand out and shook the sheriff's.

“Hi.”

The sheriff seemed reassured by Bob's presence.

“They're interviewing him now.”

“Who?”

“The LAPD.”

Esteban put on a sad, resigned expression.

“He was read his rights?”