Moist

Fifteen

AMADO DROVE. BOB sat next to him with a moony grin on his face. Amado recognized the look as his own after he’d spent a night with a woman. Feeling hollowed out and reborn, spent and revitalized, all at the same time. You get kind of sex-goofy.

“You had a good night, Roberto?”

Bob grinned and nodded.

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

Amado laughed.

“You want to get a tattoo?”

“No, man. I want to get a ring. I want to marry her.”

Amado shook his head. Gringos were locos. Why were they always getting married?

“Carajo, Roberto. What did she do to you?”

Bob started to answer, but then just grinned and shook his head. Amado laughed again.

“You’re not going to tell me? It’s some big secret?”

“No, Amado. No secret. I want to keep it to myself.”

Amado nodded. He respected that. He himself didn’t like to recount his exploits to his friends. He would show them a tattoo. But he liked to savor the memories of his sexual encounters in privacy. Just like Bob. Amado couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the realization that he and Bob were similar in some way. Not that they looked alike — they could not be more different — or that they came from the same background. There, too, they couldn’t be further apart. But there was something about Bob, a surprising soulfulness, that Amado connected to and admired.

Amado decided to change the subject.

“Are you ready for today, Roberto?”

Bob looked over at him.

“You did your part. I’ll do mine.”

“All you gotta do is tell the truth.”

Bob nodded and ran through the alibi.

“I broke up with my girlfriend. I was very upset. I drove around for hours. I went to a bar. I met someone. We spent the night at the TraveLodge in Glendale.”

“Exacto.”

“And do you know what the good thing is about that?”

“What?”

“It’s all true.”

“Exacto, Roberto. You should never lie.”

“I could pass a polygraph test.”

“Exactamente.”

Bob looked out the window at the passing strip malls and car dealerships, the landscape of the Valley.

“Can we stop at a Starbucks? I could really use a latte.”

Felicia sat on the bed in the motel room drinking coffee and watching TV. She was wrapped in several clean white towels, her body slathered with free moisturizer. Her hair perfumed and soft from the free shampoo and conditioner. She stretched and lounged and felt very, very good. She didn’t have to check out until noon so she lay back and enjoyed the comfort and tranquility of the king-size bed, the cool hum of the air conditioner, the safety of a sanitized toilet. Now, this was living.

She thought about Roberto. She hadn’t noticed his tattoo, the one with her name on it, until they’d been in the shower that morning. Felicia felt so honored that she’d given him a blow job right then and there. Her knees on the wet tile with the nonslip strips, hot water streaming over them. His face obscured by clouds of steam. His moans echoing off the walls. She liked that. She was doing something dirty, but she felt really clean.

As she watched the noticias on Channel 34, she began to feel different. Her instinct was to resist this feeling. It was a wonderful feeling, but at the same time it was threatening. She valued her independence. It was her vida, and if she gave this feeling a chance it would take over. So she tried to push this feeling as far away as possible. She filed her nails, then applied a new layer of color.

This worked for a little while, and then an image of Roberto, kissing her tenderly on the ankle, would pop into her mind. She found herself thinking about him. Remembering what his skin felt like, how his mouth tasted. He was a good kisser and had a nice big cock. But what stuck with her was the way he had looked at her. His eyes shone with a passion, a force, like one of those pictures of Jesus. His eyes filled with devotion. But his love and devotion wasn’t for all the sinners of the world, Roberto’s love was for her.

She had never felt love like that before. Not once. Sure, many men had said that they loved her, but once they’d fucked her they didn’t seem to love her as much as they claimed. She was used to it. She had steeled her heart against it. When they said they loved her, she didn’t believe them, and, even better, she didn’t care. But he hadn’t said anything. He didn’t have to.

The more she thought about Roberto, the stronger the feeling became. It finally became so powerful and insistent that she couldn’t push it away any longer. She succumbed. She let the feeling wash over her in a delicious rush. It made her nervous. It scared her. Because this feeling had a life, an energy, and a power. It could hurt her. It could cut deep into her heart. It could change her for the better or it could fuck her over. But she couldn’t resist. It felt too good. She was enamorada.

Don sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tracing the funky yellow Formica boomerangs as he sipped a cup of coffee. Maura was wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and spreading butter on some toast. She waved a piece of toast at him.

“Sure you’re not hungry?”

Don shook his head.

“I’ve got to get going.”

Maura took her toast and sat at the table. There was an awkward pause, a beat of indecision and dread.

“Am I going to see you again?”

Don sighed. He had been afraid to ask this question in case he got the answer he didn’t want to hear. But she just flat-out asked. She wasn’t afraid. This, Don realized, was one of the things that made her so attractive. She didn’t play games. If she wanted something, she asked for it. It was refreshing.

“I hope so.”

Maura smiled. Now it was Don’s turn.

“I’d like to see you tonight. If you’re not too busy.”

“Can I cook for you?”

Don reached out across the table and gently took her hand.

“Whatever you want to do.”

Maura smiled.

“Then I’ll cook.”

Don finished his coffee and stood up to go.

“I hate to bring up work, but if you hear from your ex-boyfriend would you call me?”

“Can I call you just to talk?”

Don smiled.

“Absolutely.”

Don patted himself, feeling for his gun, his badge, the tools of his trade. Reassured that they were all in place, he walked over and gave her a kiss. Maura held on to him, stroking his back, giving his ass a playful squeeze, her hand stopping and holding on his gun for a moment, and then she broke from the embrace.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

Norberto and Martin sat in a booth at Denny’s. Norberto was famished, exhausted, agotado, having just spent the night working like a fucking campesino. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, especially not in English. When he was tired, or really drunk, or sick, his ability to habla Inglés left him. It just vanished. He knew Martin was one of those gringos who thought they spoke Spanish. They would speak loudly and confidently with all the vocabulary and syntax of a first-grader. Norberto hadn’t gone to college, he couldn’t claim to be an expert or anything, but listening to gringos fracture grammar and mix tenses was just annoying.

So Norberto didn’t say anything. He dipped his paper napkin in his water glass and tried to wipe some of the grit off his face. He looked across the table at Martin, who was staring out the window with a stony grin plastered on his face. All Norberto could think of was what a maricón Martin was. At one point he had wanted to shoot Martin and dump him in the hole with the dead guy. But, typical, the hole was barely big enough for the dead guy by himself, and there was no fucking way he was going to dig it bigger.

Norberto realized that Martin might be smart but he was also lazy. Flojo. Lazy was dangerous. Lazy made mistakes. He would have to keep his eye on Martin. Make sure he didn’t get sloppy and leave loose ends. Loose ends were always followed, if not by las placas then by Esteban. He didn’t know how they did it, but somehow loose ends always unraveled whatever scam you were pulling. That’s why Carlos Vila was dead.

Norberto drank his coffee, then his water. He was dehydrated, grumpy, and really hungry.

Martin was hungry too. His appetite fueled more by the effects of copious quantities of marijuana than by physical effort. Still, he’d helped chuck the corpse into the hole. He’d helped cover it up. He wasn’t a laborer. He wasn’t a — Martin had to catch himself when he thought of this one — Mexican. He had a graduate degree. He worked with his mind, not with his back. Sorry, but that’s just the way it was.

Despite what Norberto thought, and Martin could tell he was annoyed, Martin was thinking. Planning. Being strategic. Maybe he didn’t help dig the hole, but he put his mind to work, doing his best to keep it from looking like a fresh grave in the middle of the desert. He’d had the great idea of building a campfire on top of the grave to make it look like it was some kind of campsite.

Norberto hadn’t appreciated the genius of that. He’d had to argue with Norberto about that for an hour while the sun slowly crept over the horizon. Martin hadn’t realized how stupid Norberto was until now. Maybe it’d been a mistake to bring him in on the plan. There were advantages, of course, to having Norberto be so dumb. It would keep him from plotting against him. Norberto would need Martin, not just to pull this off but to help run the business after Esteban and Amado were put away. Norberto’s stupidity gave Martin a kind of job security.

Martin sipped his chocolate malt, washing the dirt out of his throat with its cold icy granules, and watched as Norberto demolished a Grand Slam breakfast. A grand slam. Clear the bases. Bring it all home. That’s what Martin was going to do, and when he was done, then Norberto would appreciate his genius. It was like a game of chess. Anyone could move the pieces, that was just logistics, lifting, grunt work. It was strategy that won the game.

Don drove home to quickly shave and change his clothes. Today was going to be a good one. Whatever forces that propelled the universe — be they energies of coincidence or karma — had conspired to bless him. Not only did he have a break in his case but his search for Bob had led him to this incredible woman. Don had gotten lucky.

Esteban carried his copy of La Opinion into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and took out a small glass. He took a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice out of the refrigerator, pausing for just a beat when he saw the two severed arms together on a cookie sheet on the bottom shelf. Esteban would be glad to get rid of those things. He never liked to have anything remotely resembling evidence around for long. He’d never store a shipment of drugs at his own home, always using warehouses, storage units, or, in an emergency, this safe house.

He sat at the kitchen table, sipped his orange juice, and read the paper. This new presidente in Mexico could be trouble. He was not part of the old guard that had kept Mexico in a kind of feudal society for centuries, with rich landowners, industrialists, and gangsters as kings and shoguns. He wasn’t a socialist, thank God, but he was a reformer. A reformer who made a lot of speeches about improving the lives of the Mexican working class. Part of that would be eliminating the drug trade and cracking down on corruption. Esteban chuckled. As if that would improve their lives.

Esteban relied on a time-honored tradition of bribes and corruption, giving officials their “little bites,” to move product through the country and over the border. How else could your average civil servant afford a satellite dish, a DVD player, or a Jeep Cherokee? But if this new guy was going to start cracking down, it could cause problems. Not that it would ever stop the flow of product into the States, there was just too much money to be made, but it could cause headaches, disruptions. Carajo, this new presidente was going to be a fucking pain in the ass.

Esteban looked up as he heard Bob and Amado pull into the driveway. He watched as the two men climbed out of the car, laughing and joking like they were old friends. As much as he liked Bob, Esteban was still a little unsure. It was a risk he wouldn’t normally take, but then this was not a normal situation. Still, there was something about him that seemed trustworthy. He was sincere. Not jaded like Martin and other anglos that Esteban knew. Anglos always seemed to think that they were entitled to everything. As if working was somehow beneath them. It was a kind of culturally inbred arrogance. It was not an attractive quality to someone who’d worked his way up from the strawberry fields.

Bob and Amado strolled into the kitchen. Bob was carrying a couple of cups from Starbucks. He handed one to Esteban.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I got you a cappuccino.”

Esteban took the coffee from Bob, touched by the gesture.

“Gracias, Roberto. I like cappuccino.”

Esteban and Bob locked eyes for a moment. Esteban was surprised and, he had to admit, pleased when Bob didn’t look away. Bob wasn’t threatened by him.

“Roberto, did Felicia help you find your huevos?”

“What?”

“Your balls.”

Bob blushed, a sly grin on his face. Amado smacked him on the back.

“He’s ready.”

Esteban sipped his cappuccino.

“You ready, Roberto?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Esteban got serious.

“I’ll tell you something about the police. Las placas can tell when you’re lying. They got some kind of sense about it. So the secret is simple. Do not lie. Tell them the truth. Maybe not the whole truth. But you tell them enough of the truth and they’ll believe you.”

“Because I’m telling the truth.”

“Exacto. And remember, you’re not excited. You’re upset. This thing with your girlfriend was very upsetting.”

“I should be depressed?”

Amado joined in.

“Yes, a little sad, I think.”

“But I’d be lying. I’m not sad.”

Amado and Esteban exchanged looks.

“So you were celebrating after your breakup?”

Bob smiled at the men.

“I was celebrating.”

“Bueno. Whatever is the most honest.”

Bob finished his coffee and put it down on the table.

“Where’s the arm?”

Esteban pointed.

“In the fridge.”

It felt strange to be back behind the wheel of the delivery car. Bob clicked on the radio, which was still tuned to the same station he’d been listening to before his life had changed so radically. Bob knew that he’d have to work at the lab for a week or two, then give notice. He had to be smart about it, he couldn’t just walk in and quit. That might give away the fact that he’d been up to something. Unless he got fired. That would work.

As he drove toward Parker Center he thought about Felicia. He compared her to Maura. He couldn’t help himself. He started to chastise himself for all the time he’d wasted being with her when he could’ve been with Felicia. But then he realized that he’d been happy with Maura. They’d had fun together. They’d loved each other. Maybe it wasn’t the intense love he felt for Felicia, but it wasn’t a waste. Maybe if he hadn’t been with Maura he wouldn’t have been ready for a woman like Felicia. Bob began to wonder if the world really was random like he’d always thought. Maybe there was a kind of plan to everything after all. It sure seemed like it.

Bob was beginning to believe in something. The higher power that the drunks and dope fiends talk about. The force, like in Star Wars. The laws of karma. The will of Allah. Jah love. It was real. He could feel it.

Don was pissed. He had left specific instructions with the evidence room clerk that the minute, no, the second that the arm was delivered they were to call him and detain the delivery guy. But they hadn’t. In fact, they hadn’t even called him and told him the arm had been delivered. He’d had to call down to ask.

Don didn’t wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, running down two at a time. He’d had a hunch that Bob was a normal, honest guy. That he’d been distraught over being dumped. And who wouldn’t with a woman like Maura? Still, after he got the arm sent over for fingerprints and DNA testing, he’d track Bob down and have a little chat with him. Help him get his priorities straight.

Don went into the evidence room. He tried to hide his annoyance, not that the clerk would’ve noticed. The clerk, a pudgy guy with extremely thick blond eyebrows, showed him the cooler. Don popped the lid and looked in. There it was. The arm last seen on the floor of Carlos Vila’s garage. Now Don would find out who it belonged to. Because he still couldn’t figure out why they’d leave Carlos’s body but take the body of the second victim. It just didn’t make sense.

This was the part of his job that he enjoyed. Taking a collection of seemingly unrelated evidence and information and slowly piecing together a picture of what had happened. It was like archeology.

The clerk looked over his shoulder.

“That’s what you were waiting for?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I need to keep it cold?”

“Just keep it in the cooler.”

“You want me to send it to the lab?”

Don looked at the clerk.

“Yes.”

The clerk was oblivious to Don’s sarcastic tone.

“Okay.”

“Can you put a rush on it?”

“You have to call the lab for that.”

“All right. You get it over there right away and I’ll call the lab.”

The clerk nodded.

“I can do that.”

Maura was beginning to lose her patience. It wasn’t like her, but this new client just wasn’t getting it. Not that he was nervous or inhibited. In fact, he couldn’t wait to take off his clothes and wave his hard-on at her. But his motion, his stroke, it was spastic. Herky-jerky. She spoke to him softly, trying to get him to slow down, smooth out, enjoy the sensations. But he couldn’t do it. Like he had Tourette’s syndrome in his right arm.

It was the opposite of her night with Don. A night filled with smooth, gliding sensations. Their bodies linking up in the same rhythm.

Watching this guy was like chewing aluminum foil or hearing someone run their fingernails across a blackboard. It was horrible.

Maura couldn’t take it anymore. She impulsively did something she’d sworn she’d never do. She stopped him and took his cock in her hand.

“Here, let me show you.”

She jacked him off in a jiffy.

Amado sat on the couch watching his telenovela. It was a slow day on the hacienda. Fernando was up to something and Gloria was busy seducing the local padre. Amado was hoping that the priest wouldn’t fall for her cheap come-on. You decide to dedicate your life to the Church, then that’s what you do. It’s your calling.

Amado had a calling. He had devoted his life to thieving, fucking, and drinking. He embraced the sins of the flesh. He celebrated them by turning his body into an icon of carnal acts. He’d have to be loco to go into a church and declare himself a man worthy of God’s everlasting love. Just like the padre would have to be loco to suddenly fall into Gloria’s arms.

He could see that the padre was tempted; who wouldn’t be, looking down into Gloria’s cleavage, which was as deep and mysterious as the Marianas Trench, but Amado hoped that the padre would come to his senses, have a little integrity. The padre needed to remember why he’d chosen the path of God and resist the fleeting joys that Gloria offered. Otherwise he could never hold mass again.

Norberto and Martin entered the house. Norberto was filthy. He took his shoes off at the front door so as not to track dirt through the house.

“Hola.”

Amado looked up from the TV.

“Hola, pendejo. ¿Cómo fue?”

“Bien. Todo bien.”

Martin chimed in.

“Everything’s cool.”

“Curado, vato.”

Amado could tell from their body language that everything was not cool. But he played it off. Martin shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Is Esteban here?”

“He went home.”

Martin nodded.

“Maybe I’ll give him a call. Just to, you know, check in.”

“You do that.”

“Is your arm still here?”

“It’s in the fridge.”

Martin nodded.

“We should get rid of it.”

“Why?”

Norberto piped up.

“It’s evidence, man.”

“It’s my arm.”

“If the cops find it…”

“Las placas won’t find it. ¿Entiendes?”

Amado shot them a withering glance. But Martin wouldn’t let it go.

“Esteban said that we should get rid of it.”

“It’s not El Jefe’s arm.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Amado didn’t know the answer to that one.

“Keep it around.”

“Until the police find it.”

“It’s my arm, pendejo.”

He watched as Martin and Norberto exchanged glances.

“I need a shower, man.”

Amado didn’t say anything. Gloria was stroking the padre’s thigh.

“Yo necesito descansar, también.”

Amado looked up at Norberto.

“Vale, cabrón.”

Norberto and Martin stood there for a beat and then shuffled off. Amado rolled his eyes. They were hiding something. Either they’d botched the burial or they were planning something. Or they were stoned. With Martin you could never tell, he always seemed a little squirrelly. A baboso who thought he knew everything but really had a lot to learn about the way things work. Amado knew that, whatever they were trying to pull, the learning curve was going to be steep and hairy for Martin and Norberto.

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.

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.