Moist (2 page)

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.”

A
MADO LAY IN
the bathtub. He was a big man, muscular and dark, his face permanently sunburned, worn and cragged by wind, cigarettes, and tequila. Still, he was undeniably handsome with a sensual quality that women found irresistible. There was something about his eyes; even with some serious blood loss, they were intense, focused. Men found it difficult to look Amado in the eye. Even Esteban, a man you wouldn't want to fuck with for any reason, was uncomfortable holding Amado's gaze for too long. It was an animal stare, like he was sizing you up for dinner. For some reason women found this arousing, and would melt into his stare, surrendering to him.

Amado groaned and shifted in the tub. A bag of ice and several towels were strapped to his shoulder where his right arm used to be. His torso was uncovered, revealing tattoos of naked women and couples engaged in intercourse. Every possible sexual position explicitly and beautifully rendered. The Kama Sutra inked on his body.

A slick smear of bright red rolled down the porcelain toward the drain, the blood appearing redder than usual in contrast to the brightness of the tub. His jeans were soaked
through, the dark trail stretching to his cowboy boots. Amado reached down for the bottle of Herradura tequila that was wedged between his thighs. He pulled it to his lips and took a long gulp. Replacing the bottle he let out a shout.

“¡Pendejo!”

An extremely handsome young man, Norberto, his long hair gleamingly groomed and tied back in a ponytail, entered the room carrying a lime and a knife. The usually cool and stylish Norberto was nervous, sweaty, unsure what to say or do. He had been getting ready to go salsa dancing at Rudolpho's and didn't want to get any blood on his clothes. He had found this crazy purple sharkskin suit at a vintage store and just got it back from having it tailored to fit his slender frame. He could see himself spinning, swaying, and glimmering on the dance floor.

But no, he had answered the door and now had to babysit an amputee. It wasn't a choice. Amado was his friend, and more important, his boss. Norberto had to look after him. Still, he felt slightly conflicted. It was understandable given the circumstances.

“You want some lime, man?”

“I want a fuckin' doctor.”

“I called. He's coming.”

Norberto whipped the butterfly knife open in one deft move and sliced the lime into bite-sized wedges. He held one out. Amado took another long pull on the Herradura, then opened his mouth. Norberto brought the lime up to Amado's lips. He was careful of his fingers as Amado bit down on the lime, sucking the juice out in anger, frustration, and pain.

“Esteban's been calling, man.”

“Fuck him.”

Norberto reached for the bottle of tequila. Amado swatted him away with his good arm.

“I need this.”

Norberto sat down on the toilet next to the bathtub.

“What about me? I need something for my nerves,
cabrón
.”

Amado sighed and handed the bottle over. Norberto took a long pull and then popped a piece of lime in his mouth.

“Don't drink it all,
pendejo
.”

Norberto handed the bottle back. He looked at Amado.

“Where's your arm, man?”

“I left it in Carlos Vila's garage.”

Norberto thought about that for a moment.

“What were you doing in Carlos Vila's garage?”

“Killing him.”

“¿Por qué,
man?”

“Carlos and me, we had a deal. Then that
maricón
decided to sell me out.”

“So you killed him, man?”

Amado nodded, took another pull on the bottle. He turned his head and glared at Norberto. Norberto understood immediately and held out another piece of lime for Amado to chomp down on.

“If you killed him, what happened to your arm?”

Amado sighed again.

“I was hanging him in his garage. Make it look like it was
suicidio,
you know? I was up on this ladder fixin' the rope and somehow, man, somehow I hit the fuckin' switch for the automatic door while my arm was stuck in the rails. This fuckin' chain wrapped around my arm and just . . .
mira
. . . look what it did. Just ripped my arm off.”

Norberto stifled a laugh.

“
Qué bárbaro
, man.”

“It's not funny,
pendejo.
”

Norberto straightened up, more out of fear than respect.

“Sorry, man.”

“Pinche puta madre, cabrón.”

Norberto cut another piece of lime as Amado slugged down more Herradura. Norberto popped the lime into Amado's mouth, avoiding the gnashing teeth.

“
Las placas
is gonna be looking for you, man. You left your fingerprints.”

Amado shook his head.

“I wore gloves.”

“Yeah,
patrón
, but you left your fuckin' arm there. They'll get your fingerprints right off your fingers.”

Amado's expression changed, his face twisting in frustration.

“¡Carajo!”

“You're fucked, man.”

Amado turned to Norberto.

“Go back and get my fuckin' arm,
pendejo
.”

“¿Ahora?”

“Sí, ahora.”

“What about the doctor?”

“Leave the door open.”

“Open? This barrio ain't safe, man.”

Amado turned and glared at Norberto, letting his eyes make the threat. Norberto handed Amado the lime and hurried out the door.

B
OB LAY STRETCHED
out on a couch in the classic TV-viewing pose of the average American male, his oversized T-shirt pulled up to reveal a fuzzy belly button, his bare feet dangling over the edge, his head propped up on a couple of ratty-looking pillows. He was a good-looking young man. He wasn't beautiful or striking, he was what Maura liked to call normal handsome. His eyes were strong and symmetrical, his nose discreet. He had a chin with a dimple, which he hid with his goatee, but he felt that loss was compensated for by the fact that his goatee showed off his lips. Even Bob had to admit that he had very sensual, attractive lips for a straight guy.

Bob took a sip of beer and shifted slightly on the couch. He was getting comfortable.

The couch was covered in what Bob liked to call hippie shit, a kind of rough Moroccan fabric that inspired conversations about hashish and Amsterdam. It was secondhand, like everything else in the apartment picked up at flea markets and thrift stores, but Bob liked it. It didn't match any of the other furniture. The vinyl beauty parlor chairs covered in silver and pink. The carved wood coffee table with its Mexican tile top.
The black velvet paintings of Chinese landscapes. Bob liked the eclectic quality of his surroundings. It made him feel like an artist.

The TV was on, but Bob wasn't watching, he was studying the Polaroid. There was something about this image. He didn't know what exactly, couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't articulate what he found so compelling. It wasn't the usual graphic pornography that he enjoyed, the explicit photographs of wide-eyed and enthusiastic young suckers and fuckers. Maybe it was the simplicity, the lack of four-color glossy detail. Bob didn't know what it was, but there was an assuredness of line, and what Bob could only call aliveness of the woman, that turned Bob on. Like a motherfucking blowtorch.

The sound of keys turning the lock on the front door knocked Bob out of his reverie. Maura came in, threw her keys on the table, and said, “I need to do some yoga.”

Bob sat up. “You want a drink?”

“Bob, I'm trying to purify my body, not pollute it.”

Bob slammed down the rest of his beer and nodded. He understood. Antioxidizing, toxin flushing, wheat grass juicin'. He knew what she was doing and he was understanding. Understanding was what Bob was good at.

“Hard day, huh?”

“I should've been a doctor. Maybe then they'd listen to me instead of trying to get me to give them a hand job. You wouldn't ask a doctor for a hand job, would you?”

“Well . . . if she looked like you I might.”

Maura didn't respond. She walked into the kitchen and began sifting through the mail.

Bob got up off the couch and went over to her. He put his arm around her and kissed the back of her neck.

“That was a compliment.”

“Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm going to yoga class.”

Bob sulked into the kitchen and got another beer out of the fridge. He popped the top off and took a long gulp. He looked over at Maura. Her slim frame. Pretty face. Nice rack. Bob loved her. Or, to be truthful, he loved parts of her. Parts of her body. Parts of her personality. Bob felt that certain sections of Maura, well, you just weren't going to find anything better. Her breasts, for example, or her sense of humor when she was in a good mood. Her tongue. Her chin. Her ears. Her perfectly formed feet. Bob could go on for hours, separating her into desirable and undesirable chunks. Getting smaller and more specific as he went. Deconstructing Maura. Good title for a movie.