Moist (14 page)

“Nice.”

“It's one of my favorites.”

The detective inhaled deeply.

“It's a little young still. If you like this you should really try the wines from the Loire Valley.”

“I love French wines.”

“Then I know just the place. Care to have dinner tonight?”

This took Maura by surprise. She'd planned to go to her yoga class and try and get centered, work her anger out. But the wine was warming her up, making her feel soft and happy. Why not go out with the detective? Fall off the horse and get right back in the saddle. Besides, he hadn't cringed or mocked her or laughed nervously when she told him what she did. He was different.

“I'd love to, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I forgot your name.”

“Don.”

Maura sipped her wine and smiled at him.

“Don.”

. . .

Martin's jaw hurt. His face burned with embarrassment. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something. But he couldn't. He knew enough from being around Esteban that a man just sucks it up. You get punched, it's not supposed to
bother you. You just shrug, say “
No chingues,
” and move on. These stupid fucking cowboys. They were never going to move into the legit business world if they hung on to those macho attitudes. Martin wondered why Esteban didn't stick up for him. He could've killed Bob right then and there.

And Bob? What was he thinking? Martin had been instrumental in saving his life and as his reward he got sucker punched. That's not right.

The more Martin thought about it, the angrier he got. Here he was working to keep his boss out of jail and some fucking delivery boy alive, and what do they do? They laugh at him. They abuse him.

The car pulled into the driveway of the safe house. Norberto turned and saw that Martin was conscious.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Bob looked over at Martin.

“Sorry, man. I just lost it for a second.”

Martin shot Bob his toughest glare.

“Don't let it happen again.”

Bob nodded.

“Cool.”

Martin saw Esteban and Amado chuckling as they climbed out of the car. Bob and Norberto dragged the fat tattooed guy in the tracksuit out of the back and carried him into the house. Martin noticed one of the neighbors, a churchgoing middle school principal who was always friendly, walking his golden retriever. Esteban saw the neighbor too.

“How are you?”

“Good.”

“Beautiful day, isn't it?”

“It's a fine day.”

The neighbor watched as Norberto and Bob dragged the fat guy through the front door.

“Is your friend all right?”

Esteban looked at Martin before turning back to the neighbor with a shrug.

“Tequila.”

The neighbor nodded. He had heard about the powerful effects of distilled agave.

“You've got to be careful with that stuff.”

Esteban couldn't have agreed more.

“To be sure.”

Martin stepped forward.

“Did you like the papayas we sent?”

“Oh, yes, thank you very much. They were very good. In fact I was telling my wife that I wish we could grow papayas in our backyard.”

Esteban laughed.

“Then you would put me out of business, amigo.”

The neighbor chuckled.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Suddenly, the golden retriever got a scent of something and started growling and tugging at his leash. The neighbor bent down and scratched the dog's ears.

“What is it, boy? What have you got?”

The dog was pulling for all he was worth. The neighbor yanked back on the leash.

“Whoa, there, Frankie.”

The dog began dragging the neighbor toward the car. Esteban looked over and noticed that the top had come off the cooler in the trunk, exposing Amado's arm.

The dog barked.

“Martin. Keep the lid on the meat.”

Martin slammed the lid on the cooler and quickly hustled it inside the house. The neighbor tried to calm his dog. He looked up at Esteban apologetically.

“I just fed him, but I guess he's still hungry.”

“Steaks. We're barbecuing later.”

. . .

Maura sat across the table and listened while Don told her how he became a detective. It was a simple, straightforward story, but she was captivated. He looked rugged and handsome in the flickering candlelight. Not a movie star, but a well-respected character actor. That's why she found him attractive, he had character. A cop who knew more about wine and food than anyone she'd ever met. A cop who seemed to understand her, who didn't judge her. She couldn't help it, she found herself attracted to him.

The waiter filled her glass with wine that seemed to glow like a big fat ruby.

“What do you think?”

“This is yummy.”

“The French. I don't know how they do it.”

“Have you ever been to France?”

Don shook his head.

“No. But someday I want to live there.”

“Me, too.”

Don leaned forward conspiratorially.

“To be honest, I'm afraid to go. I don't speak a word of French.”

Maura smiled at him.

“I do.”

. . .

Esteban sat on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. He was tired. Beat. He needed a nap.
Chingao
. These fucking people.

Martin came in and deposited a fresh margarita in front of him.

“
Gracias,
Martin.”

Martin sat down on the chair across from him.

“I'm having second thoughts about this Bob guy.”

“Roberto?”

“Yes. Roberto, Bob, whatever the fuck you want to call him.”

Esteban sipped his drink. It was good. Sharp, sweet, and warm as it flowed through his body.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know if we can trust him.”

This sudden change of heart sent off alarm bells inside of Esteban. He knew that Martin was mad because he'd gotten coldcocked, but to stab Roberto in the back so soon made Esteban think that Martin was some kind of
rata. If he turns on Roberto, how long before he turns on me?

“Why do you say that?”

Martin shrugged.

“Just a feeling I get.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

Martin reacted.

“Why would you say that? I'm not afraid of him. Why would I be afraid of him?”

Esteban sipped his drink.

“Just asking.”

Esteban liked putting Martin on the spot. He liked watching the smart-ass gringo squirm.

“What do you suggest?”

“Kill him.”

Esteban looked flatly at Martin.

“You want me to kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you kill him.”

“Can I?”

“I don't know, hombre, can you?”

“Do I have your permission?”

“After he delivers the arm to the police.”

Martin stood up.

“Thanks.”

Esteban held up a hand to stop him.

“You have to do it. I don't want to find out you sent Norberto or anybody else. You got the
cojones
, it's okay with me. But you got to be the one to do it.
¿Entiendes
?”

Martin nodded.

“I understand.”

Martin walked out of the room. Esteban smiled to himself. That fucking kid was no matador, he had trouble squashing a bug. There was no way he could bring himself to kill Roberto. Although Esteban had a feeling Roberto might be capable of killing Martin.

. . .

The hardware store was unusually busy. Or maybe that's the way it is in the Valley. Suburban people like to fix up their homes. So there they were, out in force, buying faucets and hammers, electrical doodads and lengths of plastic tubing, brushes and rollers. A couple gallons of paint were hooked up to a machine that was shaking them violently. Norberto stopped and watched.
I'd like to see what would happen if you stuck a cat in there,
he thought.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Norberto looked up and saw an eager young man wearing a bright red vest. The name Franco was embroidered on the vest. There was no way this guy was really named Franco.

“Is that your name?”

The eager young man pushed his woodshop-style glasses up on his nose and looked down at his vest.

“Oh, sorry, man. I, like, grabbed it off the hook when I came in. My name's Teddy.”

“Well, Teddy, I'm looking for some kind of tool to cut up some branches.”

“Tree branches? Like you're going to trim a tree?”

“Exactly.”

“How thick are the branches?”

Norberto thought for a second.

“Like my arm.”

Teddy reached for Norberto's arm. Norberto took an instinctive step back. Teddy stopped and pulled out a tape measure.

“I need to measure.”

Norberto held out his arm. He couldn't help but flex his muscle, trying to make the arm thick like the fat guy's.

Teddy took the measurement and calculated.

“You're going to need a chain saw, man. There's, like, no other way.” Teddy pointed Norberto over to where several chain saws were displayed.

. . .

Norberto studied them, trying to figure out which one would be powerful enough to do the job quickly. From the descriptions on the boxes these things could sever the leg off an elephant in a matter of seconds.

Norberto looked around for Teddy. He saw Bob bouncing on his toes, as nervous as a little kid on the first day of school. Bob kept picking up stuff—a weed whacker, a lawn sprinkler, a leaf blower—and putting them back on the shelf.

“Roberto.
Tranquilo
.”

Bob came over.

“Sorry. I'm just excited about tonight.”

Norberto nodded sagely.

“Felicia.”

“Yeah. I can't wait.”

“Well, first we got some work to do,
vato
.”

Bob looked at the chain saws. His face fell.

“Us? You and me?”

Norberto nodded.

“Nosotros.”

Norberto studied Bob's face. Now was the time when most people turned and ran. But Bob didn't.

“Yeah, but we're not going to kill him, right? We're going to take him to the hospital after we get his arm, right?”

Norberto looked at Bob.

“We won't kill him, okay? Promise?”

Norberto held up his hand like a Boy Scout.

“I'm not going to kill him, I promise.”

Bob smiled, relieved. Then he had a thought.

“It's going to get messy. We should get some plastic ponchos and a couple of tarps.”

Norberto smiled.

“Seguro,
Roberto,
seguro.”

. . .

Larga was still dreaming, but his dream began to take on an unpleasant and painful buzz. It was his arm. His arm was being stung by bees, hundreds of them. Poking away with their little stingers, pumping bee venom until his arm began to swell up to Elephant Man proportions. It was horrible. Swelling until it seemed like it would explode.

Larga bolted awake. He looked at his arm and was shocked to see raw and slightly scabby tattoos. He looked around the room. He realized that he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.

He looked at his arm again. He made a fist and saw the word
Hola
appear as his fingers came together. Larga was confused. Why would he write a Spanish greeting on his knuckles? He twisted his arm in the light. Aside from some minor crosses and dots, stuff that looked like gang markings, the main feature on his arm was a stunning naked woman with a man performing cunnilingus on her. How did that get there? He didn't remember going to a tattoo parlor. In fact, he didn't remember much at all.

Larga had never wanted a tattoo. He'd never even been remotely interested in tattoos. But he had to admit, aesthetically
speaking, whoever had done this was a fine artist. The expressiveness of line, the play of ink in skin, it was beautiful. It changed him.
Hola
.

He stood up, wobbly at first, and walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled up his sleeve and flexed his muscle. It hurt, the skin still tender, but it gave him an aura of toughness. A raw animal quality. He knew it was ridiculous, a tattooed cookbook author, but maybe this was a side of him that no one would know about. A hidden wild side. A leather jacket, big boots, mirrored sunglasses version of him. He could get a Harley and go out on Sundays, smoke cigars in roadhouses, show everyone his nasty tattoo.

But before he could do that, he had to figure out where he was and what was going on.

. . .

Martin sat in front of the television and lit a joint. Events, he realized, had gotten out of hand. Normally the criminal enterprise ran like a well-oiled machine. Goods and services were provided. The cash flowed. Simple. Easy. Nothing more complex than the business models he'd created as a project in his first year of graduate school.

As he held in a toke, Martin mused about how he had come up with all these labyrinthine money-laundering schemes, with layer upon layer of legitimate businesses funneling excess cash to dummy corporations in the Bahamas. He had spent weeks figuring it out, building it up until it was solid. Rock fucking solid. Of course, Esteban didn't get it. Esteban understood business at the most basic level. The Paleolithic model. The sophisticated structures that Martin
concocted, with their rococo flourishes of multiple retirement accounts in four countries, were simply over Esteban's head.

Old-school criminal enterprise only worked as long as it was under the radar. Once the feds caught on to what you were doing, they'd dedicate themselves to raining shit on you. But Esteban didn't care. He would rather keep the money in a vault in the basement. Never mind that the IRS could drag him into court for tax evasion. Take away the vault of cash, the safe house, the other house, the car, the satellite phone, everything. Clean him out like a fucking rainbow trout. Leave him on the street with twelve dollars and an old pair of shoes.