Moist

Twenty-one

DON HAD TO think of something. He couldn’t very well tell the sheriff that he had brought his girlfriend along for the ride. So he told him that Maura was an assistant district attorney. The sheriff bought that without blinking, perhaps because he was admiring Maura’s cleavage, and proceeded to tell Don and Maura about his day.

He took them down to the morgue to identify Tomás Ramirez’s body. Don didn’t want Maura to see something so gruesome, but there she was, standing right next to him as the sheriff pulled the sheet back and showed how he’d hit Ramirez in the torso nine times. Each bullet hole was neatly circled with a red marking pen, not that you’d miss them; they were black, nasty-looking wounds. The sheriff was proud of his work; his only regret was that he hadn’t dropped the second one, but that guy hightailed it out of there like a scared jackrabbit.

Don felt like asking about the twenty-four shell casings found on the hospital room floor. If nine bullets went into Ramirez, where’d the other fifteen end up? Ramirez’s gun had been fired once, a shot which had managed to hit the sheriff in the arm, and that shell had been found in the hallway.

Don watched as Maura asked the sheriff lots of questions about the kind of guns he used, how he liked them, and which gun had landed the most shots on target. For a vegetarian, she sure liked guns.

Don interrupted the impromptu gun seminar and asked the sheriff if he could see the suspect. He wanted to get his statement as soon as possible.

Esteban drove. Every now and then he’d look over and see Bob fidgeting, looking out the window. It reminded Esteban of himself when he was young. All the excitement, the nervous energy. The great people he’d met. Like everything in life there were some bad moments, some close calls. But, all in all, it had been a fun ride. They’d worked hard and played hard. Now, after twenty-some years of it, Esteban realized that he was tired. Tired of maintaining the tough-guy facade that used to come so naturally for him. Perhaps the money, the cars, the women, the lifestyle had softened him. Amado had warned him. Amado, despite all the money he’d socked away over the years, continued to live in a modest apartment in the barrio. He drove a dirty Ford Taurus. He ate at taco stands and drank in local bars. Amado had never gone far from his trabajadores roots. He was a tipo. A normal guy.

But then that enhanced Amado’s onda. He was misterioso. A samurai. It gave him an edge. People thought of Amado as dangerous. They thought of Esteban as dangerous, too. But in a different way. Esteban was a shogun, a warlord, a businessman. It was not about who he was on the inside.

When he thought about it too much, he had to laugh. Being a gangster is such a superficial thing.

Bob rolled down the window and sucked in a big gulp of air.

“You okay, Roberto?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a minute.

“Esteban? Can I ask you something?”

“Claro.”

“I wouldn’t normally bring this up, but how much are you paying me?”

“You want to know what you are worth to me?”

Bob nodded.

“Sí. Exacto.”

Esteban smiled.

“Muy bien, Roberto. Tu hablas español.”

“I’m learning.”

“Qué bueno.”

Esteban had to grin.

“How much do you think you should make?”

Esteban watched as Bob thought about it.

“I’ll be honest with you, Esteban, I don’t know what the going rate is for… you know, whatever it is I do.”

“You will make a lot of money, Roberto. But I will give you some advice. If you take the money and spend it, the tax people will find you, the police will find you, the federales will find you. You can’t go spend the money.”

“So what do you do with the money?”

“You put it away. In a box in a bank, or in a business somewhere.”

Bob nodded.

“That’s why you own all those businesses.”

Esteban nodded.

“Exacto.”

They rode in silence for a minute.

“So, like, how much will I make?”

Esteban suddenly pulled the car off the main road and turned down a dirt side road that went out straight into the middle of nowhere.

Martin rolled his head over to see what was going on. Man, did his head feel heavy; he might not be able to roll it back. He saw the fat sheriff lead a guy and some woman into the room. The guy was obviously some kind of detective. He had that air of importance, an earnestness that those fuckers always had. It went along with his fried-food-damaged tough-guy looks. In fact, the detective looked kind of like an actor from a TV show. The sports coat, the striped tie, the let’sget-down-to-business voice. He was saying something about how the woman was a district attorney or something. Wow. She had big tits for a lawyer.

Martin said something.

The woman with the big tits nodded. The detective put a small tape recorder on the bed and flicked it on.

Martin concentrated. I need to tell them something.

“Immunity. I want immunity from prosecution.”

That came out well.

The woman nodded, her boobs heaving as she spoke. They looked real, too. Man, you could just get lost in them.

The detective turned off the tape recorder, or maybe he turned it on. It was hard to tell. He then turned to Martin and started asking questions.

“What is your full and legal name?”

As if that were somehow important? It dawned on Martin that this was going to be a long and tedious process. He couldn’t just blab about how he knew this or that, there was a method to this, bureaucratic bullshit to adhere to. It was going to be dull, dull, dull. Impossibly dull.

Martin decided to make a game of it. Every time he answered a question, he got to tweak his Demerol drip and give himself a little reward. Like a laboratory rat.

Martin gave his full legal name.

It felt good.

Bob was sweating. He loosened the tie on the suit that Esteban had lent him. Bob couldn’t remember the last time he wore a suit, but man were they hot. He knew he shouldn’t have asked about money. Nobody likes a pushy employee. Now here they were, bouncing down a dirt road in the middle of the fucking desert at night. The last time this happened, Martin had tried to kill him. Bob considered opening the door and jumping out, kind of like they do in the movies. He’d roll in the dirt, jump to his feet, and then sprint off across the rocky terrain. The night would become his friend. He’d disappear into its dark embrace.

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?”

The sheriff smiled.

“You betcha. Did it myself.”

“Perhaps I should go in and consult with him in private. It’s his constitutional right.”

The sheriff nodded. He hated lawyers.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to upset the founding fathers, would we?”

The sheriff opened the door.

Bob followed Esteban into the room. He saw Martin lying on the bed looking pale and sweaty with a big bandage on his head where Bob had whacked him with the shovel. Bob jumped a little when he saw the detective from Parker Center there. What a coincidence.

But what really knocked the wind out of him was when he saw Maura sitting in the corner.

“Bob?”

“Maura?”

No one said anything for what seemed like a week. Martin mumbled something.

“Fuckin’ Roberto.”

That’s what it sounded like. But it was hard to tell.

Bob could feel his tie getting extremely tight, like he was choking. But Esteban didn’t miss a beat.

“I’ve been hired to represent that man there.”

He pointed to Martin.

“I would like to speak to him in private.”

Maura stood up.

“Bob? What are you doing here?”

“He is my paralegal assistant. He’s here to take notes.”

Bob nodded.

“I’m here to take notes.”

He looked at Maura.

“What are you doing here?”

Maura smiled at Bob.

“I’m the assistant district attorney.”

Bob blinked.

“You’re not a lawyer.”

“You’re not a paralegal.”

Esteban interrupted them.

“It’s my client’s constitutional right to have a conference with his attorney.”

Don smirked.

“I know who you are, and if you think I’m leaving you alone with a federal witness, you’re mistaken.”

Esteban persisted.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about. I have been retained to represent my client.”

Bob watched as the detective stood up and got in Esteban’s face. The detective wore a kind of victorious smirk on his face. Bob was waiting for Esteban to wipe it off.

“Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know who you are? Do you honestly think I believe any of this? You’re done, my friend. Your goose is cooked.”

The detective was convincing. Bob felt like caving. Admitting everything and throwing himself on the mercy of the court. He looked to Esteban. Esteban wasn’t about to yield to the detective’s tactics.

“I just want you to realize that, if you persist with this wild accusation, anything this man says will not be allowed in court. You are not affording him his rights.”

Maura interrupted.

“Bob? What’s going on?”

Bob shrugged.

“I needed a second job. It costs a lot to move out. Set up a new apartment.”

Esteban looked at Bob.

“She’s my ex-girlfriend.”

Esteban nodded.

“I have heard so much about you.”

Bob didn’t like that.

“Not that much. I don’t talk about you that much.”

The detective smiled at them.

“I just want you to know one thing.”

Esteban looked at him.

“What is that?”

Don leaned close to Esteban; you could tell from the way he delivered his line that he really got off on saying it.

“You’re under arrest.”

But before Esteban could reply, he was interrupted by two gunshots from the hallway. The detective pulled his pistol out and leveled it at the door. Esteban stepped back out of the way. He shot a quick glance over at Bob. The glance said, Relax. Wait.

Bob stepped away from the door, out of the detective’s line of fire. The door burst open and Chino Ramirez stepped in, his gun pointed right at the detective.

No one moved.

Chino looked over at Esteban and Bob, surprised to see them here. He looked back at the detective.

“Drop it.”

“You drop it.”

The detective was calm.

“I am a police officer and I’m asking you to drop your weapon.”

“No.”

Bob realized he was watching a real old-fashioned Mexican standoff. Chino wasn’t going to put down his gun, the detective sure as hell wasn’t, and there was nothing anyone could do.

Bob, whose arms and knees were actually trembling, looked across the room at Maura. She had a strange look in her eye.

Chino’s eyes stayed glued to the detective. One twitch and he was going to pull the trigger. The detective’s face was calm, too relaxed, like he did this every day.

And then.

The blast was painfully loud in the small room. Bob flinched. Chino was gone, blown out the door by the shot. Bob watched as the detective, a quizzical expression on his face, turned toward Maura. Bob saw Maura standing there with a smoking gun in her hands and an excited smile on her face.

“Did I get him?”

The detective turned toward Esteban.

“Don’t fucking move.”

Esteban put his hands up in the air. Bob followed his lead.

“Did I get him?”

The detective looked out in the hallway.

“Yeah. You got him.”

Maura squealed.

“Yes!”

Maura ran to the door to take a look. Bob heard Esteban whisper.

“Tranquilo, Roberto. Tranquilo.”

He felt Esteban’s hand reach around under his jacket and remove the handgun. Esteban then slipped the gun into the detective’s jacket that was hanging on the chair.

Bob turned his attention to Martin, who hadn’t said much of anything for a while. Martin’s face was white. His lips a bright blueberry blue. He wasn’t breathing. In fact, he was very very dead.

“Esteban.”

Esteban followed Bob’s look. He broke into a wry grin.

“You see, Roberto, sometimes God smiles on us.”

Chino got out of his car and walked in through the loading dock in the back of the hospital. He knew that the police might be watching the front doors, and that they’d definitely be watching the door to the guy’s room.

Chino felt bad that he’d failed Esteban. Esteban had provided for him and his brother. Had helped them come to LA. Set them up. Given them false green cards and lots of work. He’d given them something outside the scruffy dirtball life they’d had extorting and murdering in Mexico. Of course, they did the same things, you just got paid a lot better for it in the States.

He was halfway to Juárez, listening to some kind of motivational speaker on the car radio, when he realized that the voice coming out of the dashboard was right. What’s the point of running from obstacles? There’s no growth in that. If he wanted to be successful in business, and in life, he needed to face his difficulties and overcome them.

Besides, that fat fucker had killed his brother.

Chino decided he’d have to shoot his way in, hopefully killing that fat guy with all the guns, whack the rat, and then shoot his way out. He’d have to overcome the obstacles that kept him from realizing his full potential.

It was all pretty straightforward. He took the stairs, opened the door, and there was the fat guy reading a People magazine. Chino took out his gun, stepped out of the stairwell, and put two bullets into the fat guy’s heart before he even looked up.

The real surprise came when Chino threw open the door to the room. He’d expected a cop or two in there. But it was a fucking fiesta. Esteban, some guy who was with Esteban, a cop, and some chica con pechos grandes.

Chino quickly realized that he could turn this difficult situation into an opportunity. It wasn’t a single hit anymore. Now he’d have to kill the cop, the chick, and maybe the other guy. That’s four hits. He’d also do Esteban the favor of getting him out of a jam. Hombre, that motivational speaker guy was so right. Running from problems is never the answer.

Chino took aim at the detective. He figured if he could squeeze a shot off and hit the guy in the head, well, then he wouldn’t have the muscle control or coordination to shoot back. He’d be dead.

He had the detective’s forehead lined up when he heard the shot.

It wasn’t like the movies, where the guy who gets shot looks around and then realizes he’s been hit. That’s bullshit. There is no mistaking a burning hot piece of metal ripping through your body at high speed.

Chino felt himself roll backward, his legs not working anymore, and fall out of the room. He landed with a splat. He couldn’t tell if he’d landed in the fat guy’s blood or his own blood.

It didn’t matter. He was dead.