Moist (15 page)

Then Esteban would wish he'd listened. Then he'd want those legit businesses for the tax shelters they provided. Keep his ass out of jail. Even if he went to jail he'd still have beaucoup bucks waiting for him when he got out. He wouldn't end up some haggard old busboy clearing tables at El Chavo.

Martin stubbed the roach out on the side of the coffee table and kicked back. He thought about his parents. They never listened to him. They had a plan for him. They pulled the strings. He'd never realized before just how fucking controlling they'd been. They told him what schools to go to, what friends to have. If they didn't like his girlfriend, he'd get a new one. They wanted him to get an MBA, he got one. But did they ever once listen to what
he
wanted? Did Esteban? Did anyone listen to him?

Martin chuckled to himself. He had done all right so far. He lived his life so that he didn't have to do what he didn't want to do. He didn't want to wear a suit. He didn't want to work in some corporate tower. He didn't want to help anyone get rich except himself. It was pretty cushy, he had to admit.

Martin's brain traipsed through the wonderland of his life, until it returned to the current mess. Events had gotten out of hand. Things were out of control. Amado had freelanced and created a problem. The arm was a problem. The police were a problem. Bob was a problem. The fat guy they'd kidnapped and tattooed was a problem. There were lots of fucking problems. Problems that threatened to take down Martin's cushy life. Things had to be taken care of. Decisions had to be made.

Maybe Esteban was right. The quickest way from point A to point B is a straight line. Martin liked the logic of that. The simplest way to deal with all these problems would be to line everyone up against a wall and shoot them. Then burn the house to the ground.

Sometimes messy problems require messy solutions.

. . .

Larga tiptoed to the door of his room and slowly turned the knob. He expected it to be locked and was a little frightened when it turned all the way and opened. His heart began to beat quicker. He stood frozen, the door cracked, listening. He heard the murmur of a television and the distinct sound of a man snoring. He opened the door just enough for him to fit though, about halfway. Even with wall-to-wall carpeting, the floorboards of the house creaked and squealed as he tried to sneak down the hall. It was excruciating. As if he were accompanied by the UCLA marching band.

In the living room he saw a young white man watching television. Larga couldn't be sure if the man was awake or asleep, but the stench of marijuana was so strong Larga was
certain that he was stoned. Larga decided to try the back door. He crept around toward the kitchen. The sound of snoring resonated from one of the other bedrooms in the house. Larga peeked into the bedroom and saw a large dark figure laid out on the bed.

Holding his breath, his heart ready to seize up, his bowels urging him to shit, his bladder throbbing, Larga crept into the kitchen. He blew a silent sigh of relief when he found the kitchen empty. He looked around for a phone. His plan was to make a quick call to 911 and then run out the back door and down the street as fast as he could.

Then he heard the car pull into the driveway. Cold sweat erupted from his forehead. He wanted to grab the phone, but there wasn't time. He saw a small broom closet against the far wall and quickly climbed inside.

He'd barely gotten the door closed when two men carrying a chain saw entered the kitchen. He heard the Mexican man speak to the Anglo.

“I'm going to need a beer before we do this.”

“I'm going to need a couple.”

He heard the fridge open and the distinct
phisst
of two twist-offs being popped.

When the two men left the kitchen, Larga made his move. He opened the broom-closet door and stepped out. He looked around and, suddenly, felt very lucky. In the middle of the kitchen table, on top of a brand-new chain-saw box, was a set of car keys.

Larga grabbed the keys and slipped out the back door.

Night had fallen and the darkness wrapped around him and comforted him as he fumbled with the keys. He saw a
Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway. The distinctive key was easy to find on the chain.

He opened the door and slid in, making sure to lock it behind him. No more surprises. Now he was in control. He figured he'd go straight to the nearest police precinct and tell them what had happened. He realized he needed the address, but that would be easy enough once he got going.

He knew that once he started the car, he'd have to move quickly. They, whoever they were, were not going to be happy. They might chase him. They might shoot at him. But they wouldn't catch him. He was determined. He was escaping. They didn't know who they were dealing with. You can't kidnap Max Larga.

Larga realized that he was experiencing a feeling he'd never felt before. He felt exhilarated. Alive. Like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape.
Only Larga would be pulling away in style. He'd always wanted a Mercedes. He wondered if they'd let him keep the car as a trophy. A fuck-you to the bad guys who'd kidnapped him. He looked down at his tattoo and smiled. Today was turning out all right.

He slid the key into the ignition and realized that he'd never even driven a Mercedes. This was going to be a treat.

You just don't fuck with Max Larga. He'd always thought that, proving it in little ways, winning the picayune disputes with his editors. He'd always managed to get even somehow. They didn't think the American public was ready for portabello mushrooms. What the fuck did they know? He'd write an article detailing the texture, the taste, the sensual delights of portabellos, and the next thing you know every supermarket in the country had to have them. It was the same
with crème fraîche. You think it's just sour cream from France? No. It's crème fucking fraîche, buddy. It's different. It's a whole other thing.

He'd fought these battles and won. He'd proved them wrong. He'd proved them wrong again and again. Now he was proving these guys wrong.

You just don't fuck with Max Larga.

His heart pounded in his chest, his palms were clammy, and yet he couldn't suppress a genuine smirk as he put his foot to the gas and turned the key. For a brief moment he thought the car had a dead battery. Why wasn't it turning over?

Then he felt the pain.

He tried to speak, but only heard a small gurgle. Something cold had entered his body and he could feel his warmth draining out of him.

Then he was dead.

M
AURA DIDN'T KNOW
why she was kissing the detective. Was it revenge? Proving to herself that Bob didn't matter? Maybe he never had. Or was it the two bottles of expensive wine they'd consumed with dinner? Maybe it was the dinner itself, perfect and soul-satisfying, with thick garlic-laden sauces that warmed her body like she was wrapped in a warm blanket. Maybe it was the detective. He was handsome enough. And she'd never been with a man who was, well, so straight. A man's man. A cop. Maybe it was all of the above.

They were sitting in his car in front of her apartment complex. It wasn't comfortable or uncomfortable. She liked feeling his hot wine-spiked tongue in her mouth. She felt his hand caress her lower back, slide up her rib cage, and gently brush her breasts. She reached around to pull him closer and felt a large, hard lump under his jacket.

“What's that?”

“That's my gun.”

“You have a gun?”

Don nodded.

“I'm required to carry it at all times. It's part of the job.”

Maura felt a strange vibration in her stomach.

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.”

Don reached behind him and pulled out a snub-nosed .38 in a clip-on holster. Maura blinked. Even in the darkness of the car, the metal gleamed at her, cold and blue.

“Can I hold it?”

“Just be careful.”

Don handed her the gun. She was surprised at how heavy it was. It had gravity.

“Have you ever used it?”

“You mean shot it?”

“Have you ever shot someone?”

Don nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Did you kill him?”

Don nodded again.

“Reluctantly.”

She felt a spasm in her thighs.

“Did he die?”

“Yeah.”

“You must be a good shot.”

“They train us not to miss.”

She handed the gun back to him. She felt a sensation between her legs that she hadn't felt in a long time. She was wet. Soaking.

“Let's go inside.”

. . .

Esteban was annoyed. His margarita buzz was gone, and all that was left was a dull pain in his head and a metallic taste in
his mouth. He stood in the driveway looking at his car. It was ruined. Blood all over the driver's seat and floor. Maybe such a violent antitheft device was not such a good idea after all. Still, it was better than the fucking guy running to the cops. That was for sure.

Amado pulled up in his car and saw what had happened.

“He tried to get away?”

“Sí.”

“Chingao.”

Esteban could only nod. Of course it was fucked.

“Everything's set with Felicia. She's in a motel in Glendale.”

Esteban growled.

“One mess at a time.”

Esteban turned when he heard the sound of the chain saw. He looked up the driveway and saw Bob and Norberto in plastic ponchos get to work on the fat guy. Bob held the arm out, Norberto gunned the chain saw, and seconds later the arm was swinging in Bob's hands.

Amado nodded at Esteban.

“That's a good saw.”

. . .

Norberto was impressed. He fired up the chain saw and it went through the fat guy's shoulder like a knife through butter.
Muy rápido
. Even the bone, the shoulder joint, didn't slow the saw down. Only the sound changed a little. It went up an octave.

A pink hamburger spray of meat and bone rose up and drifted in the air. Specks and blops of God-knows-what
cartwheeled off the blade. Good thing Roberto had thought to get these ponchos, this shit would ruin his clothes.

Roberto was there to catch the arm. Since it was logical that his fingerprints would be on it.

The neighbor came out, not surprising, what with the sound of the chain saw running at night. Esteban was there to head him off.

“Sorry about the noise. We had a problem with a tree and our cable reception.”

“Oh, that's all right. I was wondering if I could borrow it for a minute.”

“Now?”

“It'd just take a sec.”

Esteban looked up the driveway at Norberto.

“He wants to borrow the saw.”

Norberto looked down at the saw. Illuminated by the garage light, the chain saw's blade looked like a fucking horror show.

“Un momento.”

Norberto went over to the garden hose and washed off the chains as best he could. This, he realized, is why he hated the suburbs. You could hack some fucker to bits in the middle of Hollywood and no one would notice. They might turn their music up a little louder, but they wouldn't come over to say howdy.

. . .

Bob stood in the middle of the backyard letting the arm drain into the grass. Blood came out in a syrupy drip. Bob had dealt
with dead body parts before. It had been his job at United Pathology. But most of those were cold and disinfected, processed and wrapped in plastic like American cheese. They weren't alive. This arm was different. It was still warm. It even pulsed and twitched a little when the saw went through it.

Bob was trembling. He was surprised that he hadn't freaked out. He'd wanted to. A part of his brain had urged him to run off screaming down the street. But then, that wouldn't be very smart. They'd come after him and kill him. Bob didn't want that. So here he was, trembling in the backyard, wearing a plastic poncho under a clear night sky, helping chop some dead guy's arm off.

He felt sorry for the guy. No one really wanted to kill him. But the guy had tried to escape and, well, he shouldn't have. It was really too bad.

Bob had developed an affection for him. He didn't know why. They hadn't even spoken a word to each other, Larga being beaten, drugged, or just unconscious the whole time, but Bob had been his caretaker, his guardian, and he felt some disappointment.

Bob watched as Norberto took the chain saw over to the neighbor's house. His arm was getting tired of holding the arm out. You wouldn't think that someone's arm would weigh so much.

As the chain saw roared from next door, Esteban came over and looked at the arm.

“You okay?”

Bob nodded. Esteban patted him on the shoulder and gave him a smile.

“The first time I did something like this it made me puke.”

“I'm okay.”

Esteban mussed Bob's hair. It was an affectionate, paternal gesture.

“Bueno, Roberto. Qué bueno.”

. . .

Martin was making a pot of coffee. He knew that they'd have a long night ahead of them. What with having to dispose of a body and a car. Of course, the car was easy. The chop shop was already sending a tow truck to pick it up. It'd be in pieces and on the way to Costa Rica by sunrise. But the body was now a big messy blob dripping forensic evidence everywhere they dragged it.

Martin considered making it a two-fer. Killing Bob and dumping his scrawny ass in with the blob. Just dig one big hole in the desert and call it a day. But he realized they needed Bob. Bob had to deliver the arm. Then he could die.

Martin carefully poured the coffee into a thermos. He turned and saw Bob and Esteban looking at the two arms side by side on the table. The arms were laid out on newspaper like two freshly caught walleyed pike. The whole scene reminded Martin of fishing trips he'd taken with his father and grandfather. Men standing around admiring their catch, the smell of fresh blood and fresh coffee hanging in the air, maybe they'd play a couple hands of pinochle before bed.