Moist

Twenty

BOB PULLED UP the gated drive to Esteban’s house. He couldn’t believe how nice it was. Palm trees and flowers, a manicured lawn. The house itself was an ornate Spanish colonial structure painted hacienda red with stark white trim. It was a big house. Impressive. A gardener was clipping the hedge while another swept up grass cuttings. They didn’t use the gas-powered leaf blowers that swarmed around Los Angeles like a hive of angry wasps. People with money could afford to have their gardeners use a push broom.

It was peaceful. The sun glinted through the palm trees, a mosaic fountain gurgled by the front steps, birds chirped in the trees, and the soft and steady sound of a broom on asphalt took him to another time, another place.

Lupe opened the carved wooden doors to let Bob in. The interior was furnished in a kind of Mexican moderne style. Simple, light. The walls painted deep rich colors.

Bob was impressed.

Lupe turned to him.

“He’ll be down in a minute. Would you like a drink?”

“A beer would be great.”

“Claro. Just have a seat.”

Lupe went off.

Bob stood and looked out the large windows at the Jacuzzi and the pool beyond it. The garden in the backyard was even more extensive than what he’d seen in the front. There were several jacaranda trees, a rose bed, and wild-looking clumps of Mexican sage and rosemary growing down the side of a hill.

Esteban entered the room and cleared his throat. Bob turned toward him.

“Roberto.”

“Hi.”

Esteban came up and gave Bob a big hug.

“I am glad to see you are alive.”

“Me too.”

Esteban was wearing an elegant tan-colored suit, with a white shirt and a purple floral tie. Bob thought he was dressed like some kind of Latin American factory owner. The clothes looked good on him. Bob felt a little awkward in his jeans and T-shirt, with a funky bowling shirt on the outside. Esteban looked at Bob with a serious expression.

“Roberto, the next time someone tries to kill you like that, you cannot let them live. ¿Entiendes?”

Bob nodded.

Lupe entered, carrying a couple of beers on a tray. Esteban kissed her tenderly on the cheek.

“Gracias, corazón.”

Lupe smiled at Bob and left.

“I think I’m going to marry that woman.”

Bob grinned.

“I’ve been thinking that about Felicia.”

Esteban handed Bob a beer and smiled.

“Qué bueno. ¡A su boda!”

They clinked the bottles together.

Bob took a swig of the icy cerveza.

“What are we going to do about Martin?”

“It’s taken care of.”

Esteban sat down on the sofa; Bob followed his lead and took a seat opposite him.

“Why did he want to kill me?”

“Perhaps because you are loyal.”

Bob thought about that. Martin didn’t seem the type, but then what did Bob know about corporate politics? He’d always stayed under the radar, able to steal paper clips or goof around with impunity.

“He’s trying to take over.”

Bob was surprised.

“Really?”

“He gave Amado’s arm to the police. He killed Norberto. He tried to kill you.”

Bob was stunned.

“Norberto’s dead?”

Esteban nodded.

“Listen, Roberto, there are many people who would like to see me dead as well. People who would like to take over my business. I think Martin was working with some of them. I am going to need your help.”

“What can I do?”

Bob was afraid that Esteban would ask him to go kill a bunch of people. Bob knew that he could’ve killed Martin, that he should’ve killed Martin, but that was different. Self-defense. Bob was not so sure that he could go around whacking Esteban’s enemies. It was too cold-blooded. Too calculated. It wasn’t what Bob wanted to do. He could never be like Amado.

“I’m not a hit man.”

Esteban laughed.

“I know, Roberto. I don’t need a hit man, sabes? I need someone I can trust.”

Esteban looked him in the eye.

“Can I trust you?”

Bob nodded.

“Absolutely.”

Esteban slapped his knees and stood.

“Vale. We’ve got work to do, and we don’t have much time.”

Martin lay in the hospital bed. He was feeling good. Very good now that he’d found the little plastic dial thing that controlled the Demerol dripping into his veins. He loved how the Demerol rolled into his brain like waves. Whoosh. It hit with a mild rush and then kind of receded until… whoosh. One after the other, taking him deeper and deeper into a dreamy kind of trance.

He wondered if he could overdose on it.

The fat sheriff sat on the bed eating a double cheese-burger and supersized fries from some fast-food joint. Martin had watched, curious and horrified, as the sheriff had dumped the fries into the bag, then sprinkled in two packets of salt before rolling the bag closed and vigorously shaking it like a giant oily maraca. The sound was not soothing. Martin hit the dial.

Big grease spots pocked the sides of the brightly colored bag, as the sheriff dipped his hands in and pulled out clumps of glistening fries. The sheriff was saying something, Martin wasn’t sure what, but the sheriff’s voice was irritating. Not the sound of it, but that kind of condescending cadence that authority figures liked to use when they were talking to you. The more he blabbed, the more Martin flicked the dial on the drip.

He wished he’d had this IV drip all the time. Someone annoys you, flick the dial. Traffic’s backed up and there’s only commercials on the fucking radio, dial this in. Yeah. A Demerol drip could greatly improve your quality of life.

Amado sat in bed, the covers tangled around him, and watched as Cindy read his script. He had to admit he was nervous. Giddy because he’d finished his first draft, and proud because he felt that he’d actually accomplished something. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d had an idea, sat down, and just done it. From start to finish. Sure, he’d been given orders and carried them out. Start by finding someone, finish by burying them in some field. But that was different. It didn’t take a lot of brains to do something like that. It wasn’t personal. He’d never gotten emotionally invested in the day-to-day business of organized crime. He’d been going along with it because it was easy and the money was good.

But it was an empty experience.

Amado found that having characters live and breathe through his imagination, putting raw emotions on blank paper, inventing a story that was compelling, a story that just had to be told, these things were fulfilling. He felt good about himself. It wasn’t easy, but he loved writing.

He was also strangely nervous and giddy about Cindy. She was different from the women he was used to. For one, she was petite, small and slender, not the usual voluptuous Latina with a great heaving rack. He could easily cup Cindy’s small breasts in the palm of his hand. She had just the faintest wisp of pubic hair. Her hips and ass were slightly flat, almost like a boy’s. But Amado was crazy about her.

It dawned on him that maybe what he found so compelling and sexy about Cindy was not her body but her brain, her personality. She was smart and funny and unlike anyone he’d ever met before. She was interested in things: people, places, ideas, words. She was curious. And she wasn’t afraid.

He watched as she paged through his script, her interest and delight in everything. She was so beautiful, her pink pigtails in post-sex disarray, her surprisingly strong body lying brazen and naked on top of the covers.

“Amado, I don’t read Spanish.”

Amado smiled.

“You want me to read it to you? To translate it?”

“Yeah.”

She squirmed under the covers, like a little kid about to be tucked in.

Amado began to read.

Maura sat in an extremely uncomfortable chair next to Don’s desk. She amused herself by leafing through a catalogue of law-enforcement equipment. Holsters, handcuffs, Tasers, pepper spray, Kevlar vests, all kinds of cool stuff. Even the different styles of shoes appealed to her. She was going to ask Don if you had to be a police officer to order from this catalogue, or if you could just be a normal citizen. It would be fun to dress up like a policewoman and handcuff Don to the bed. Maybe with these cool plastic cuffs; strong, light, and affordable. Perfect for civil unrest. And if Don felt uncomfortable about using firearms in bed, maybe this nightstick would be the ticket.

Don hung up the phone and turned to her.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“How well do you know your ex-boyfriend?”

Maura thought about it for a second. She knew Bob as well as you could know someone. They’d been intimate. They’d shared their hopes and dreams. But then they’d never been as intimate as she and Don had. It was a difficult question.

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve got two severed arms. One is unidentified. The prints on it don’t match any in our existing database. Although I’m sure if the body of a one-armed gangbanger showed up I’d find a match.

“The other belonged to Max Larga. Your ex, Bob, delivered Larga’s arm. Larga was a client of yours. Larga was supposed to see you, but Bob came in and saw you instead. Yet Larga’s car was parked by your office.”

Maura stared at him, blankly.

“I don’t follow.”

“Let’s assume that Larga wasn’t involved in a crime, that he didn’t have anything to do with the Mexican mafia.”

“So what did Bob have to do with it?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

Maura shrugged.

“I honestly don’t know. But I don’t think Bob was mixed up with any mafia types. I mean, I can’t imagine it.”

Don fixed his serious, I’ve-got-bad-news expression on his face.

“You may not like this, but I’m starting to think that Bob had something to do with Larga’s disappearance.”

Maura burst out laughing.

“Cool.”

“Cool?”

Maura tried to contain herself.

“It’s just, well, it’s just that if you knew Bob… it’s unbelievable. If he really did, well, wouldn’t that be cool?”

Don started to say something, then caught himself and heaved a sigh.

“Let’s go try and find him.”

Maura jumped up.

“Cool.”

Bob and Esteban had just finished signing the last of the signature cards. The bank manager, a reedy-looking dude in a fancy suit, smiled at them.

“Thank you very much.”

Esteban nodded.

“The money will be wired into this account by the end of business today.”

“Excellent. And with a sum that large, might I suggest some investments that will not only protect it but allow it to compound and grow at a rate well above what you normally get with a savings program?”

Bob looked at Esteban.

“What do you think?”

Esteban smiled at Bob.

“Why don’t you decide, Roberto. Take the man’s card and talk to him about it tomorrow.”

Bob had the manager’s card in his hands before he could blink.

“Thanks.”

“Call me anytime, Roberto. My home number is on the back.”

Esteban stood. Bob followed his lead.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The men all shook hands. Bob followed Esteban to the door. He spoke quietly to Esteban.

“I didn’t know banks were so nice.”

“You never opened an account with twenty million dollars.”

The gunshot jolted Martin awake. It was followed by a couple of other gunshots, crashing sounds, some screaming. Martin tried to move his head, he wanted to see what was going on. But he was just too stoned. He knew, deep in his brain somewhere, that he should probably be scared. But his face held a dreamy Demerol grin, as if what he was watching was amusing.

A big blurry figure, it must be the sheriff, crossed the edge of the bed firing a pistol. Man, was that thing loud. Martin could feel his arms and legs twitching involuntarily with each report. There were a lot of shots now, and Martin felt like he was doing some kind of cool new dance. Like something the kids on MTV might be doing. Strapped down an’ twitchin’.

Martin felt his face get splattered with something wet. For a second he thought it was his own blood, that he’d been shot. But the liquid was clear and kept raining down in a constant stream. Martin turned his head toward the flow of fluids, and saw that his IV drip had taken a hit.

Bummer.

They met Amado at a Japanese noodle place downtown. Esteban watched as Bob used his chopsticks to scoop fat noodles out of a gigantic bowl of soup and noisily slurp them down. Amado sat across the table with some kind of punk-rock girl. Cindy Kim. Esteban thought that was un poco raro. Doesn’t she have a last name? Even Selena had a last name.

Esteban liked udon, but realized that it was necessary to tuck a napkin in under his chin to keep the soup from splashing all over his suit. He wished they were eating something a little less wet.

Amado slid a manila envelope across the table to Esteban.

“I need a favor.”

Esteban grinned. They always do. They always come back and beg you for something. That’s the best part of being powerful. They always come back.

“I asked a favor from you.”

Amado looked down at his soup.

“I’m sorry, Esteban. I’m just trying to make a change.”

Esteban carefully ate some of the pork floating in the soup. Couldn’t they have gotten media noches somewhere?

“I will need a favor in return.”

“I can’t do what I used to do.”

Amado held out his one arm to demonstrate.

“I need two arms.”

“I haven’t asked you to do anything yet.”

Esteban could see that it pained Amado to even have to ask this favor. Although part of him wanted to make sure that Amado understood he was still the boss, another part of him genuinely cared about Amado.

“Amado, you know I will help you.”

Bob chimed in.

“We’re family.”

Esteban looked at Bob. He must’ve seen that in a movie or something, but the mention of family touched both of the men at the table. Amado turned to Cindy.

“We’ve been through a lot together.”

Cindy just smiled. Esteban liked her. There was something about her. She was different from the other women Amado had been with. It signaled to him that Amado had made a change.

“I know you’ve got friends at Telemundo.”

It was true. Esteban knew everyone.

“Cierto.”

“I’ve written a script for a telenovela.”

This took Esteban by surprise.

“¿Qué?”

“I wrote a script.”

Cindy interjected.

“It’s really good, too.”

Bob looked at Amado.

“That’s cool.”

Esteban was still trying to process the information.

“You wrote a script?”

“Sí. And I want to know if you could get someone at the Telemundo to read it.”

“¿Tu eres un escritor?”

Amado shrugged.

“Un guionista. Sí.”

Cindy looked at Amado.

“¿Guionista? What’s that?”

“Scriptwriter.”

Esteban and Amado locked eyes.

“Of course I will help. Seguro.”

“Gracias, Esteban. Muchas gracias.”

“De nada, amigo.”

Esteban looked over at Bob; Amado followed his look.

“I have a few things to clear up and then I’m going back to Mexico for a while. Roberto is going to look after things.”

Amado shot Esteban a look.

“Roberto?”

Esteban nodded.

“The favor I ask is that you watch out for him while I’m gone.”

Bob nodded.

“I might need, you know, a mentor or something.”

Amado smiled.

“I will always help Roberto. We are family.”

Thick smoke swirled around the ventilator as the air conditioning blew into the room. The smell of cordite hung in the air and assaulted Martin’s nose. It was stronger than any smelling salt and smacked him right out of his stupor. There were now lots of people in the room. Doctors, a few nurses, many policemen. One of the nurses was fixing the IV bag. That was a relief.

She said something to him about the dosage controller being damaged, but such technical terms didn’t matter as long as the narcotics kept flowing. The sheriff, his arm being bandaged by one of the doctors, turned to Martin.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Martin didn’t see anybody.

“Who?”

“The dead guy on the floor.”

Martin craned his neck. It was a horrible fucking mess. Broken glass, splintered wood, crap everywhere, and there, sprawled in a pool of blood, was Tomás Ramirez, as dead as a doornail.

Martin nodded.

“Yeah.”

Martin laid his head back down on the pillow.

The sheriff jumped up and screamed at Martin.

“Who the fuck is it? Huh? Gimme a name, asshole!”

The sheriff was, apparently, a little testy from the recent gun battle. He could use a nice, relaxing Demerol drip. But then, who couldn’t?

Martin found the little dial and cranked it. I don’t need this aggravation.

“Don’t yell, man.”

Martin watched as the sheriff’s face went through a few color changes.

“I’m sorry I yelled.”

Martin suddenly felt good. The warm waves of Demerol were back stronger and better than ever. But the situation had changed. He had credibility. A little juice.

“You didn’t believe me. You thought I was just some loser drug dealer in the desert.”

Several other policemen looked at the sheriff.

“I’m sorry. Okay?”

Martin didn’t think it was okay.

“You didn’t take me seriously. Why should I talk to you?”

“I’ll take you seriously now.”

“Too late.”

The sheriff moved to smack Martin, but his wound or whatever it was suddenly caused him great pain. He moaned and collapsed in a chair.

“Who do you want me to call?”

Martin thought about that. Call the president. Or better, call that rock star guy who’s always doing things to help political prisoners. I’m a political prisoner.

“I want to make a deal. I want immunity.”

“Then you’d better tell me who you want to talk to.”

Martin liked that. The sheriff wasn’t important enough to talk to. Now everyone knew it. Martin was important. He was a big-deal criminal. A political prisoner. Soon there would be concerts at Dodger Stadium to raise money for his defense fund, to raise awareness of his plight.

“The dead guy’s name is Tomás Ramirez. Call the LAPD. They’ll know who to send.”

Martin cranked the Demerol dial. He saw Dodger Stadium, filled with thousands of people, all of them wearing T-shirts with his picture on it. Freedom for Martin! Freedom! A band hit the stage amid flashing lasers and lots of smoke. The lead singer, his hair perfect, his sunglasses still on, pumped his fist in the air and started the chant. “Free Martin! Free Martin!”

Maybe they’d let him sing on their next CD.

Chino Ramirez tied his blue bandanna around his wrist as tight as he could, using his teeth and his good arm to pull it. He had lost some blood, but not too much. He got out of his car and hustled over to the pay phone as quickly as he could. He knew he had about twenty minutes to either ditch the car or get the hell out of town, before the genius policemen would look at the hospital parking-lot security camera’s videotape and see him walk out and drive off.

He dialed a number, waited for the beep, then punched in the number of the pay phone where he was. He hung up the phone and looked at his watch.

Chino kept his eyes scanning the road for any signs of police activity. As he did, he fumbled around in his pockets until he pulled out a folded square of paper. He’d need something to cut the pain once the initial shock wore off. He wished he had nailed that fucking cop. Who knew that Martin would be guarded by some kind of psycho jarhead? They’d come in, stolen some threads to look like orderlies or whatever they were. Walked down the hall with a bucket and a mop. Nobody’s ever going to bother a Latino with a bucket and a mop. You look like you belong.

They get to the room, pull their guns, and move in real quick. Next thing they know some guy’s got like twelve guns out and he’s just emptying the clips at them. Chino didn’t even get off a shot before he was back out the door and moving his ass as fast as he could down the hallway. He turned and saw Tomás take eight or nine hits before he went down. That’s when he caught a ricochet in the wrist. Even though he was in a hospital and could’ve used a doctor, Chino salió. No point in hanging around for more pain.

The phone rang. Chino explained what had happened to Esteban.

Bob had watched Esteban as he talked on the phone with the producer from Telemundo. It seemed that Esteban had, once upon a time, arranged for some competitor of this guy to lose his green card and then just disappear. Now Esteban was calling in a favor.

So that was how it worked. People did favors for people and expected those favors to be returned someday. Everyone helps each other up the food chain.

Bob realized that he’d need a lot of favors from people, a lot of help. The banking end of it, moving money around, talking to investment bankers, that had all seemed pretty straightforward, pretty easy. The other part of it, laundering the money, moving it from the trunk of a car, letting it filter through a dummy corporation, a telemarketing business, the phony payroll of a nonexistent construction company, a chain of fish taco restaurants, and a boxing gym; that part seemed too complicated. Wouldn’t it be easier to just declare it as money earned doing something in Mexico? Then you could pay the taxes, and call it a day. Esteban had already built up a phony reputation as a papaya farmer. Why not say the money was from papayas? Why not actually buy a papaya plantation?

Esteban made another call, this time to a friend who would manufacture a fake identity for Bob. He’d get a U.S. passport, driver’s license, social security card, everything. Esteban turned to Bob and asked him what he wanted to be called. Bob liked the name Roberto, but didn’t really know what to use for a last name. Esteban suggested “Durán,” that way Roberto could say his name was “Roberto Durán,” like the boxer. Everyone would remember that.

Bob liked that. Maybe he’d go to the boxing gym and take some lessons.

Get in shape.

The third call Esteban made was not a good one. He was returning a page. Bob heard Esteban’s voice fall, then become short, curt, explosive bursts of questions.

Esteban hung up and turned to Bob. They had work to do.

Don watched as the kid behind the counter cut some clumps of bright green grass and shoved them through a juicer. A liquid that looked more like an industrial cleaner than a health panacea leaked out into a funnel. How could she drink that stuff? Don had ordered something a little more, well, tasty. He’d gotten one of those giant fruit smoothies. The kind that give you repeated brain freezes and taste like Styrofoam by the time you get to the bottom of the massive cup. He watched as Maura knocked back the shot of wheatgrass juice in one gulp. He shuddered.

But then Maura did lots of things that made Don shudder. Like having sex while holding a loaded gun. What was up with that? She had told him it gave her power, it was her axis mundi, a talisman, a fetish object. Don just thought it was a loaded fucking gun that could accidentally go off. It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t sexy. It was scary. Like wheatgrass juice.

His cell phone rang, and much to Don’s surprise he found Detective Flores on the other end. Flores told him about some guy who had turned up staggering around in the desert and was now in a hospital in Palm Springs. Don figured Flores was just too lazy to get in his car and drive out there, so he was dumping it on him. But when Flores mentioned that one of the Ramirez brothers had been killed trying to get to the guy, well, Don couldn’t wait to go. Whatever was going on in Sola’s crime crew, it was big. If Esteban had to send the Ramirez brothers all the way to Palm Springs to whack some guy, well, maybe this guy had something to say about it.

Don wanted to get to Palm Springs fast, before Esteban sent someone else to finish what the Ramirez brothers had started. In fact, he didn’t even stop to drop Maura back at her office. She was just going to have to park that sweet wheatgrass-drinkin’ ass in the car and ride out with him. Which, as it turned out, was fine with her.

Bob entered the house and found Felicia standing on a ladder painting flowers along the top of the wall. She turned and looked at him. It was the kind of look that everyone hopes for when they come home. Her face lit up, her eyes twinkled, a laugh escaped from her body, and her smile was the best thing Bob had ever seen in his life.

“Hola, corazón.”

“Hi, sweetie.”

Bob came up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He gently lifted her off the ladder and set her down so he could look into her eyes and kiss her sweetly on the lips.

“I’m making pozole.”

Bob didn’t know what to say. For a brief second he wondered why, when it was like ninety degrees out, he was going to be having hot soup twice in one day, but that thought quickly passed.

“I have to go to Palm Springs.”

“For how long?”

“Just for the night. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Felicia’s smiled turned into a pout.

“I don’t like it, Roberto. No me gusta.”

Bob was afraid that she’d react this way. It’s so hard to balance a career and a relationship these days.

“But Felicia, honey, it’s my job.”

“You should get another job. I don’t want to make love to a killer.”

Bob laughed.

“I’m not a killer.”

Felicia wasn’t convinced.

“Isn’t that what you do for Esteban?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I haven’t killed anyone. I mean, I hit a guy on the head with a shovel, but I kinda had to and it didn’t kill him.”

“Really? You’re telling me the truth?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Do I look like a killer?”

Felicia laughed.

“Honestly, no. But that’s what I thought made you a good killer, because you didn’t look like one.”

“I’m not a killer.”

Bob could see the smile return to Felicia’s face. But just as her grin was starting to light up the room, it shorted out.

“Then what do you do for Esteban?”

“Well. I don’t know. I’m kinda new. Right now he just wants me to look after his money, keep the business running. I guess I’m an executive or something.”

“An executive?”

“I guess that’s what you’d call it.”

Felicia bit her lip.

“Do you know how to manage?”

Bob grinned.

“I’m learning.”

Amado sat in bed, just wearing an old cotton robe. He had his laptop on his lap, and he balanced a cold beer on a fat Spanish dictionary that lay in the middle of the bed. Cindy’s beer was next to his. She sat on the other side of the bed wearing a tattered Fugazi T-shirt. She had her laptop open too.

Amado looked up from his work. He looked at Cindy and realized that for the first time in his life he felt content. He wasn’t working in the fields, he wasn’t stealing a car or hijacking a truck. He wasn’t carting narcotics from a van to a storage unit somewhere. He didn’t have to go hunt someone down and kill them. He didn’t have to clean up any bone chips and guts. And best of all, nobody was going to try to kill him for sitting in bed wearing his robe and writing. He was safe. He was content.

Cindy didn’t look up from her work. She was concentrating. Amado smiled to himself and got back to work.

The only sound was the clicker-clacking of laptop keys and the occasional soft belch.

They both had a lot to write about.