Moist

Seven

DON DIDN’T LIKE beer. He liked wine. Good wine. He couldn’t stand the stuff that passed for chardonnay at The Roost. That’s where his partner and the other LAPD detectives liked to go to drink beer and watch sports on TV. Don wanted to go. He enjoyed spending time with his friends and colleagues. He even liked the dim little bar with gnawed booths and sawdust on the floor. But that cheap shit they called wine gave him a headache. One glass and a little pinprick of pain would materialize right behind his left eye. Two glasses and the pinprick would grow to a dull throb and he’d feel slightly nauseous. Three glasses would guarantee a hangover so toxic that Don would consider taking his gun and blowing his brains out. So Don went to the fancy wine bar nestled among the skyscrapers in the financial district downtown.

He liked the bartender, a fresh-faced kid just out of college with a degree in enology. The kid referred to the bar as an enoteca — a wine library. Maybe he was pretentious or just overeducated, but the kid knew his grape juice. Don liked that. It made getting lit seem like an intellectual pursuit. What he didn’t like was the clientele. The wine bar was crammed to the rafters after work. Young men and women, lawyers and businesspeople, all smartly dressed in their Brooks Brothers and Ann Taylor suits, schmoozing each other. Talking about cell phones and BMWs, personal trainers and the stock market.

Don didn’t fit in with this crowd, but he didn’t stand out either. His face had taken a few punches in its youth, but the misshapen nose added a blast of rogue beauty to his handsome, angular features. He was solidly built with a stocky, muscular body underneath his off-the-rack brown suits and his Fantastic Sam haircut. In fact, without the gun tucked into the back of his pants, Don could easily be mistaken for a salesman or a community college math teacher.

Don watched as the young and well-heeled passed out business cards and tried to make deals. He glanced over at the bartender.

“When I was their age I was trying to get laid. Now all they want is cash.”

The bartender nodded.

“Money is the new god.”

Don raised his glass.

“I prefer the old ones. Here’s to Bacchus.”

Don drank.

“You want to try the same wine, another year?”

“Is it a better year?”

The bartender smiled.

“You tell me.”

He poured a taste into a fresh glass. Don swirled the wine and gave it an expert sip, lightly sucking air across his tongue as the wine rolled around inside his mouth. Finally he swallowed.

“Currants. Currants and figs.”

The bartender smiled.

“I thought you’d like it.”

He filled Don’s glass, then went off to take more orders, leaving Don to contemplate his drink. Don was a compulsive people watcher, an eavesdropper more out of professional habit than anything else. On a normal night he would listen to the chatter, easily discerning the give-and-take of games commencing and ending, men and women dancing the mating dance, human nature falling into predictable patterns. But tonight he tuned them out. Tonight he was preoccupied. He’d had quite a day.

It started out normal. Shower, shave, shit. Head to Betty’s for two eggs, toast, and coffee. Read the sports page. The Dodgers were in spring training, they still needed left-handed hitting. Life as we know it. Then it went straight to the crapper. Detective Lee, the fat Chinese guy from Homicide, called him and told him to get his ass over to a crime scene.

It was a generic enough crime scene. How many times had he seen a body in a garage? Twenty? Thirty? If they weren’t in a Dumpster or the bushes they were almost certain to be in the garage. And this was a double homicide, or so it seemed. One identified body and one unidentified arm. Don was sure the rest of the body would turn up somewhere sooner or later. Look in the Dumpsters nearby, was what he told the unies standing around the scene. The Dumpsters and the bushes.

But that was all pretty mundane. The thing that preoccupied Don was that the one identifiable victim was Carlos Vila. Don had spent the better part of the last two years working in the LAPD’s Criminal Intelligence Division trying to build a case against the Mexican mafia. His investigations had begun to focus on Esteban Sola, leader of a violent faction of mobsters out of Juarez. Carlos had been Don’s informant. Now Carlos was toast and Don had to tie Esteban Sola to Carlos’s murder or he was fucked. Two years of work and no conviction, that wouldn’t look too good on his record. Don made a mental note to talk to one of the local feds about making a RICO case against Esteban.

The bartender came back.

“Do you want another? Or would you like to try the Saint-Estephe?”

“Take me to France.”

Don knew that at eighteen dollars a glass he was running up a bill he couldn’t afford, but what the hell. The bartender popped the cork and poured a small taste for Don. He swirled the wine, watching the light glint through the deep red. He inhaled. The wine smelled of earth and flint and melons. Don let the wine hit his tongue. It made him smile.

Bob lay in bed. Maura came in from the shower and looked at him.

“You’re still awake?”

“Can’t sleep.”

Maura threw the towel on a chair and stood in front of him, naked and defiant.

“If you think I’m going to fuck you now — ”

Bob tried to interrupt her. He knew where this was going.

“No. No. I — ”

She cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Try harder.”

She climbed into bed, her back to him.

“Don’t you love me anymore?”

Maura rolled over and looked at him.

“Honestly?”

This was maybe more than Bob had bargained for.

“Sure.”

“I love you, Bob. I really do.”

“Then what is it? We haven’t made love in over a month.”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure.”

Maura suddenly thought better of what she was about to say, but it was too late to stop it.

“I can’t stand the sight of your penis.”

“My penis?”

“Any penis.”

“Why?”

“They repulse me.”

Bob put his head back on his pillow and considered the implications. Maura kissed him on the cheek.

“Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe if I — ”

She didn’t want to hear it.

“I gave at the office. Okay?”

“But — ”

“I’m sorry.”

Bob was still game.

“You don’t have to look at it or touch it or anything. Just let me put it inside you.”

Maura looked at him.

“Don’t be gross.”

Norberto woke up with a splitting headache. Like the worst mescal hangover imaginable. No. Like a hangover from sniffing propellant. Refeo. He tried to move his arms and quickly realized that he was handcuffed to a pole or pipe of some kind. He tugged against it hard, testing. The effort caused blood to rush to his head which, in turn, made him puke on himself. Then he passed out.

Sometimes Martin hated his job. Sure, it had its perks. There was action, travel, a new challenge every day. He got cash, women, and best of all, a constant supply of high-grade marijuana. But the hours, Christ, the hours sucked. It beat doing a nine-to-five on your butt in front of a computer trading stocks or sitting in some stuffy law library reading legal gobbledygook, the kinds of jobs his grad school classmates had fallen into. That wasn’t for him, that kind of life was for losers. People without imagination. Still, even if he was on call twenty-four/seven, he’d found time for pleasure. Little things. Scouring vintage clothing stores with Norberto or getting a manicure from the weird Cambodian ladies. Small pleasures that added to his quality of life. Small pleasures and plenty of pot.

His parents didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand at all if they had any idea what he was really doing. Why couldn’t he take a position at a nice white-shoe law firm or, even better, score a cushy Wall Street job and become a millionaire like every other ambitious young American? They believed he was a “consultant” advising a wealthy Mexican investor. Which he was, in a sense. He told them that he liked the diversity: real estate, stocks, venture capital; he was really learning a lot. He neglected to tell them he was learning the money-laundering business, the strip-club business, the prostitution business, the narcotics-trafficking business, and the gun-running business. Martin didn’t know why he was attracted to crime, he just was.

It was cool.

Martin put it all out of his mind as he fired up a big fat joint. He inhaled deeply, held it, and then exhaled with a long satisfied sigh. He felt his brain climb into a warm water bed and just… float. Martin looked in the mirror behind the polished granite bar. Why did chrome hurt his eyes? Why did the faucet and sink have to be so shiny anyway? Why did people with money want everything to be so fucking shiny? What was up with that?

Martin reached for his sunglasses even though it was well past midnight. He took another long drag on the jumbo, put on his shades, and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling.

Esteban’s voice snapped him out of it.

“Where’s my fucking drink?”

“Comin’ right up.”

Martin hurriedly chucked ice into four tumblers and filled them halfway up with Don Julio silver. He went around behind the bar and searched for the Cointreau and limes.

“The girls are getting thirsty.”

“One minute.”

Martin was careful not to let an edge of annoyance creep into his voice. He had seen Esteban lose his temper and stick a man’s face in a deep-fat Fry-O-Lator. He’d seen him grind broken glass into someone’s rectum. It was best not to piss Esteban off, so Martin always tried to speak in a calm and well-modulated voice. It helped to be stoned.

Esteban sat in the Jacuzzi, letting the warm water bubble around him. He sank in lower, letting his eyes come to just above water level. That way he could get a good look at the two pairs of tits bobbing across the tub from him. He tried to decide. Which were better? One pair was obviously fake. Unnaturally big, unnaturally round, unnaturally perky. With hard plastic nubs on the ends like the doodads that made mannequins look like they had erect nipples. It was the best modern technology could offer, yet Esteban found them unattractive. He could tell they would be hard, not soft. They would not be comforting or sexy. They would be firm and bouncy, like fucking a couple of basketballs. Impressive, but without soul. The other ones, the ones on the Latina, they looked real. Voluptuous and uneven with large terra-cotta areolas. They were breasts. They had soul.

The girls giggled together and playfully splashed at him. Esteban was careful not to get his hair wet, so he stood up and yelled into the house.

“Where’s my fuckin’ drink?”

He heard some mumbly bullshit answer come from the house. That and a blast of mota smoke. Esteban turned to the girl with the fake tits. He pointed at them.

“Those real?”

“You like them?”

Esteban had heard that question before. He knew that if he said yes, he’d be stuck fucking her later. If he said no, well, that would be rude. Esteban strove for a middle ground.

“I’m curious.”

She giggled.

“I had them enhanced.”

Esteban nodded. What was there to say? He turned his back on her and yelled into the house.

“The girls are getting thirsty.”

Esteban sank back into the water. He let out a sigh, pretending to relax. But how could he fucking relax? He had that punk, Norberto, hog-tied in the downstairs bathroom. He had Amado running around somewhere without his arm. How could someone lose their arm? The arm thing was going to be a problem. Esteban could feel it. Feel it all the way down in the deepest part of his huevos. Esteban wondered if he could get Amado a fake arm like the woman’s fake tits. They looked real enough.

Martin finally arrived with the drinks. The women giggled and took theirs. One of them said something about a paper umbrella. Esteban slugged half his back in one gulp. It was strong. The sharpness of the lime, the blast of salt, the warmth of the liquor in his guts. He smiled as he felt the tequila spiders crawl up his spine and begin spinning their webs in his brain. The kid might be some kind of grad school pussy, but he made a good drink.

Martin dropped his robe and eased his body into the Jacuzzi. For a brief stoned moment he felt like shabu-shabu. Sliced meat dunked in boiling water. Esteban had his legs stretched out, he looked like a turkey drumstick. The women with their big round tits could be vegetables, maybe bok choy or mushrooms. The water bubbled.

Broth.

Martin considered his place in the shabu-shabu. He was white, but not tofu. Meat, maybe pork or chicken. Halibut? Or was he that fake crab? He didn’t feel out of place like he sometimes felt around Esteban. He felt just fine. Like fake crab.

He smiled at Esteban.

“We’re makin’ girl soup.”

Esteban was too tired for this bullshit.

“Yeah.”

The girl with the fake tits piped up.

“Who’s got the big spoon to eat me with?”

Esteban looked at Martin.

“Him. He’ll eat you.”

Martin knew it was an order. He tried some of his Spanish.

“Seguro, baby.”

Esteban winced.

“First we need to talk. You girls go on upstairs.”

The women carried their drinks out of the pool and quickly tiptoed into the house. Esteban turned to Martin.

“I’m worried about something.”

“What?”

“Amado’s arm.”

Martin knew this was something serious. He had been trying to figure out a way to tell Esteban but was afraid he’d go nuts.

“It’s a problem.”

Esteban took Martin’s drink from him and sucked half of it down.

“How?”

“It’s how they got John Gotti.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the feds to build a racketeering case against you, they need to tie you to a specific crime. An ‘incident,’ like a murder, then tie you to the murderer.”

“Amado.”

“Correct.”

“What happened to Gotti?”

“Sammy Gravano killed nineteen people, but Gotti got life in jail for ordering the hits.”

“But Gotti didn’t shoot anybody.”

“Right. But he was the head of a criminal conspiracy. Racketeering.”

Esteban finished Martin’s drink.

“Carajo.”

Martin could only nod. It was fucked up, no doubt about it.

“So we gotta get Amado’s arm.”

“Unless it’s already been processed.”

“What if it has?”

“My advice would be we go to Mexico.”

Esteban grunted.

“Fuck that, cabrón. I didn’t work my ass off to go running back to Juarez just because some culero got his arm chopped off. No. We’re stayin’.”

Esteban stood up, the water dripping off him.

“I got some friends. I’ll make the calls.”

Martin nodded blankly as Esteban climbed out of the Jacuzzi. It was going to be a long night.

Norberto blinked awake again. This time he made sure to take some deep breaths, get some oxygen going to his throbbing head. He smelled old vomit. It made him gag. He felt his hands. The handcuffs were still there. So was the pole. Norberto tested his voice. It worked. Norberto took a chance and yelled for help. It hurt his head, almost made him puke again, but he yelled.

Suddenly the door flew open and Esteban walked in. In the brief blinding flash of light Norberto saw that he was in a bathroom in a nice home. White tile gleamed, clean and inviting. A porcelain sink stood above him, reminding him of a hotel he went to once with a couple of hookers and an ounce of blow. Good memories. Norberto smiled up at Esteban, but only for a second as Esteban began to viciously kick Norberto in the ribs, face, and testicles.

Max Larga sat in front of his big-screen TV. His robe was open and he let a bowl of microwave popcorn warm his nuts. A Japanese cooking show was on. Larga was bored, but it was his job to keep up with current trends in cooking, and Japanese cuisine was hot right now. His editors kept bugging him to write about preparing sushi at home, something Larga knew would cause thousands of cases of food poisoning. He tried to argue against it, but the editors prevailed. So Larga watched. He knew that the quality of the ingredients was the single most important thing. Were there enough fresh fish markets in Peoria? Or would some well-meaning housewife be making maki with week-old catfish? It was all too much to worry about.

Larga shoveled fistfuls of popcorn into his mouth. The fake butter coated his fingers, his fat lips were swollen and shiny from the oil and salt. The warm bowl between his legs gave him a pleasant sensation, and soon he felt himself getting aroused. He thought about all the affairs he’d had in his life. Bored housewives who’d come to watch him give cooking demonstrations. Professional women he’d met on airplanes and in hotel bars. He’d always managed to get laid somehow. But the experience was never fully satisfying. Never as good as a ripe cheese or a well-prepared soup. Larga was concerned that there might be something wrong with him, that there was some aspect of sex that he just didn’t understand. That’s why he’d gone to the masturbation coach in the first place. Maybe, he figured, if he could pleasure himself, then he could find pleasure with others.

He flicked the TV over to the soft-porn channels and watched a couple of blondes smear chocolate syrup on each other’s breasts and slurp it off. Larga’s cock grew stiff as he began to stroke it, using the fake butter as a lubricant. He shifted on the sofa and did his homework.