Moist

Six

NORBERTO RETURNED TO his house to find the door wide open.

“Fuck, man.”

He walked in, closed the door, and bolted it shut. He turned and yelled toward the bathroom door.

“I told you to shut the fucking door, man.”

There was no answer from the bathroom. Norberto turned and walked toward it.

“You dead?”

He paused. There was no answer.

“I hope you saved me some Herradura, man.”

Norberto entered the bathroom. Amado was gone. The tequila was gone. Only a sick-looking streak of drying blood remained. Norberto turned on the water and started cleaning the tub. Blood is hard to clean. Especially if it’s dried.

I need some scrubbing fucking bubbles, man. This is a tough stain.

Norberto reached under the sink and pulled out a can of Comet and a scrubby sponge. He shook the Comet out all over the tub. A green dusting of caustic powder fell over the blood. He began to vigorously attack the stain.

Norberto, engrossed in trying to clean the tub, didn’t hear Esteban and Martin as they entered the bathroom.

“You having your period, maricón?”

Norberto wheeled around. Upon seeing Esteban his first instinct was to run for his life. But he knew that was pointless, since Esteban would eventually find him, and there was only one way out of the bathroom anyhow. Thinking quickly, Norberto decided, despite the rapidly spreading stain in his underwear, to play it cool. He affected a casual tone.

“Hey, Esteban. You want me to come clean your tub? No charge, man.”

Esteban turned the water off.

“I got a maid.”

“Whatever, cabrón, you need me, I’m there.”

Norberto realized that he was acting a little too easy to please. But by then it was too late. Esteban turned to Martin.

“See this? This pendejo’s got no huevos. He’s wants to lick my asshole.”

“No, man. Fuck, no. I don’t wanna do that.”

Esteban continued, not looking at Norberto.

“I think he’s got something to hide.”

Norberto knew that pain was on its way.

“What? I’m not hiding nothing, nada.”

Martin closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. He opened a small black leather pouch he was carrying in his jacket pocket. It looked like a cigar holder.

“We’ll see about that.”

Martin took a syringe and a vial of clear liquid out of the pouch. Norberto looked at Esteban.

“What the fuck is that, man?”

Esteban just grinned.

“Don’t you wanna ask me something? I got nothing to hide, man. You don’t have to do this, man.”

Norberto was beginning to freak. Martin held the vial upside down and, just like he’d seen on television, filled the syringe with the clear fluid. He put the vial back in the bag and tapped the air bubble to the top of the syringe.

“What is that shit, man?”

Esteban looked at Norberto. He liked this. This was fun. Watching Norberto shit his pants, beg for his life. This was gonna be good.

“Where’s Amado?”

Norberto told the truth.

“He was here, man. I went out to get something and when I came back he was gone.”

“What’s with the tub?”

Norberto looked at the bloodstain, the Comet, and the scrubby sponge he still clutched tightly in his fist.

“Blood, man. It’s just blood.”

“Whose blood is it?”

“Amado’s.”

“Did you kill Amado?”

“No, man.”

Esteban laughed.

“He cut himself shaving?”

Norberto looked at Esteban. Then he looked over at Martin. Martin gave the syringe a little squirt. That shit looked evil.

“Look, Esteban, I didn’t have nothing to do with this, man.”

“Dígame.”

“Amado hurt his arm.”

“He go to the hospital?”

“No, man, it’s more fucked up than that.”

Esteban hated to lose his temper. All his heroes, the bad guys in the movies, Marlon Brando as the Godfather or anything with Christopher Walken in it, those guys never lost their temper until they were pushed too far. Esteban admired that. He wanted to be cool like that. But Brando didn’t have to put up with wetback fuckups like he did. Esteban slapped Norberto across the face. Slapped him hard. Norberto reeled, hitting his head against the side of the tub, breaking open a nasty gash. Norberto’s blood oozed down into the Comet.

“What happened? What happened to Amado’s arm?”

Not wanting to get hit again, Norberto blurted it out.

“It got cut off, man.”

The look that crossed Esteban’s face was unusual. A mixture of mirth, disgust, and genuine shock.

“Bullshit.”

“Es a verdad.”

Esteban smacked Norberto again.

“Amado killed Carlos Vila, but somehow he got his arm cut off.”

Esteban was surprised by this.

“He killed Carlos? ¿Por qué?”

“I don’t know nothing about it, man. But they had some kind of deal and Carlos was cheating Amado. So, you know Amado, he whacked him.”

Martin and Esteban exchanged a look. Martin spoke first.

“They can reattach that arm.”

Norberto shook his head.

“No, they can’t, man.”

“With advancements in microsurgery all kinds of things are possible. He may not have full range of motion again, but — ”

Norberto interrupted Martin.

“He left his fucking arm there, man. He don’t got it.”

Esteban leaned in close to Norberto. Norberto squirmed, squinted, and waited for the violence.

“What?”

“He left his arm with Carlos, man.”

Esteban stared at Norberto.

“Give him the shot.”

Amado woke up. His arm, or more precisely the spot where his arm used to be, was throbbing. His eyes focused on the ceiling. Cottage cheese with specks of glittering gold. A lamp on the bedside table cast a muted yellow glow around the room. Amado twisted his neck and saw that the chest of drawers had been draped with a sheet and was lined with stainless steel doctor tools. Amado noticed that an IV drip had been attached to his arm. He heard something in the next room and croaked a sound out of his mouth.

The door swung open and a young black man entered.

“You’re up? How ya feeling?”

Amado tried to say something. He croaked again.

“Hang on. I know what you need.”

The young man brought a cup with a flexi-straw up to Amado’s mouth.

“The anesthetic can really dry you out. Go ahead. Drink it.”

Amado sucked on the straw. He was disappointed when cool water entered his mouth and trickled down his dried-out throat. The young man looked hopeful.

“Now how are you feeling?”

Amado nodded. He tried to speak.

“Malo.”

The young man nodded.

“I’ll give you something for the pain. But you’re going to have to rest for a few days. You move around too much that arm’s gonna open up. Trust me, that won’t be good.”

Amado nodded as the young man loaded something into some kind of needle and shot it into the IV drip.

“¿Dónde?”

The young man smiled at him.

“My Spanish is really bad. You’ll feel better soon.”

And before he could respond, Amado was out.