Moist

Three

IT WAS A hectic day at the shop. A Toyota RAV was being eviscerated. Sparks flew everywhere as three men, masked by heavy clothes and protective face shields, butchered the car with arc welders. Gleaming metal entrails fell away as the car quickly became skeletal. The guts were gathered by a teenage boy who picked them up and carted them off. The men worked together calmly and efficiently. They were experts.

The carcass of another car, possibly a Camaro, lay off to the side. Stripped bare, like the leftovers of a piranha attack. Other cars, covered with oil-stained tarps, were parked at the far end of the dilapidated garage waiting to be slaughtered.

The rhythm of the butchery was interrupted when a brand-new Mercedes sedan pulled into the garage and parked right in the middle. The work stopped. The torches clicking off as soon as the workers recognized the man in the Mercedes.

Like a bad hombre in an old western, he climbed out of the car and surveyed the shop like he owned the place. He did. He was Esteban Sola, El Jefe from the tough border town of Juárez, where he oversaw a major drug-smuggling and DEA-agent-murdering operation. Esteban was so successful and so ruthless that he eventually muscled his way into La Eme, the Mexican mafia, in Los Angeles. Now he was one of the top lieutenants. A man with his own crew. A man people feared. A man who commanded respect.

The workmen eagerly turned to give Esteban their undivided attention. That or he’d kick the living shit out of them.

“Hola, compañeros.”

Esteban spoke with a gravelly voice and an authority that caused most men to feel a vibration in their scrotum.

“Hola, Señor Sola.”

Although he was not a handsome man by any stretch — his brown skin was oily and pocked and he wore a bushy black mustache to hide his thin lips — women were strangely attracted to him. They didn’t seem to notice that his hair was matted down and slathered with some kind of product from Switzerland that made it appear thick and lustrous when it was actually thin and limp or that his eyes were soft and sensual, betraying a kind of artistic sensibility behind the hard-ass Ray-Bans that he wore day and night. To look at him, without the trappings of power, the fear of violence, and the allure of cash money, you might think he was a busboy. But, getting out of his immaculate Mercedes, accompanied by a slender young gringo named Martin, wearing what can only be described as vaquero Armani, he was an ice-cold blast of cool.

It was calculated. Esteban didn’t allow anyone in his crew to shave their heads Pelón style or wear the long socks and short pants so popular with the other Latino gangsters. It was a prison thing. Esteban figured that if you looked like you were from prison, that’s where you’d end up. It was much better to look like a movie producer.

“¿Que onda?”

One of the workers stepped forward and extended his hand. Esteban shook it, grabbing the man’s hand in a viselike grip. The workman couldn’t help but notice the sharp and glittery rings encircling Esteban’s fingers. The workman wasn’t merely admiring Esteban’s fine jewelry. All he could think was, Those must really hurt when they hit you.

“We got a couple of new cars we’re cuttin’ up.”

“You steal ’em?”

“No. Some cholos from Long Beach.”

Esteban laughed.

“I don’t trust those pendejos, they’d steal my car if they could.”

The men laughed. They had to.

Esteban continued, warming to his audience.

“If one of them ever tries to steal mi coche…” He paused for effect.

“Muerte.”

Martin, the dapper gringo, his hair heavy with some kind of gel, wearing an old leather jacket over a bright, big-collared shirt and tight pants that made him look like a wayward rock star, played the sidekick.

“You should give them a demonstration.”

The workmen nodded. Esteban, like a magician about to perform his greatest trick, spoke solemnly.

“El Ladrón esta como un culero.”

The mention of a culero, someone who smuggled drugs by shoving them up his rectum, confused the workmen. This element of mystery helped Esteban’s performance.

“Mira.”

Esteban led the workman around to the driver’s seat to demonstrate.

“If I push this button. It is safe to drive. But if I don’t… and you trigger these pressure plates…”

Esteban looked around and found a heavy plastic box on the floor. He placed the box on the driver’s seat of the car and pressed the remote on his key chain.

Bam.

A sharpened stainless steel fleschette burst from under the seat and tore through the plastic. A would-be car thief would get two feet of stainless steel right up his ass.

“¿Es la puta madre, no?”

Esteban laughed out loud and looked over at Martin.

“We should market these… much better than The Club.”

The workmen were shaken and impressed by this new level of car security. They began to discreetly back away from Esteban. He turned to the workmen and got right to the point.

“¿Tu viste Amado?”

The workmen shook their heads.

“He was here yesterday,” one of them ventured.

Esteban looked at the workmen, his voice weighted with its full menace. “Tell him to call me.”