Moist (8 page)

. . .

Bob felt the car stop, the engine turn off. He heard the door open and close. He braced himself. What the fuck was going on? Then he heard a garage door being closed. Then . . . nothing. They were just leaving him in the trunk. And man, did he have to pee.

. . .

Esteban entered the safe house. He smiled broadly. Clean, ordered, plush. This house was why thousands of hardworking and honest people risked their lives crossing the border to come to America. This was the goal. This was the Alhambra. Esteban had moved on from this slice of suburban heaven, but he still appreciated its power. The American Dream as potent as ever.

He turned to Martin.

“Get me a fucking Tylenol and then tell me again why I shouldn't kill the driver.”

Martin walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water while Esteban gingerly, a sharp pain racing up and down his spine, stretched himself out on the couch. Martin handed the pills and glass to Esteban.

“Because we need him.”

“For what?”

“If the police suspect that the evidence has been tampered with they'll mount a full-scale fuck-fest on us.”

“But,
cabrón,
that's what they're trying to do now.”

Esteban didn't understand why the kid didn't get it. He wasn't asking the kid to kill the driver, Norberto would be happy to do it, so what was the problem? Why the sudden lack of
cojones
?

Esteban took the Tylenol and lay back on the couch. It occurred to Esteban that perhaps Martin was right. His plan was weird.
Raro.
But maybe that's what they needed. If they could swap arms, make everything seem normal, then the heat would be off. But where would they find another arm? Esteban's back began to throb.

“Go get the arm, let's look at it.”

. . .

Bob was sweating. It was stuffy and hot in the trunk. Rivulets of perspiration were running off his head, filling his ears, dripping off his neck, soaking his shirt, causing his pants to stick to his legs. Even his fucking toes were wet with perspiration. Bob was sweating the death sweat. Cold fear delivering a weird fever to his body. Adrenal glands pumping overtime, heart pounding, a full-blown pedal-to-the-metal panic attack. Bob was sure that they'd thought he was dead. Killed by the knock to the head. They were going to leave him here to rot until the smell and sheer volume of flies alerted some good Samaritan or the mailman. Then the cops would break into the garage, pop the trunk, and find his withered and rotting carcass.

They might even think it was some bizarre suicide. Distraught over his breakup with Maura he drove to a secluded garage and locked himself in the trunk.

So he was surprised and relieved and scared shitless when he heard the garage door open. Then he heard a voice say, “Dude, we're going to open the trunk. We have guns. Stay perfectly still or we'll fucking toast you.”

Bob nodded. Then realized he needed to talk. His voice croaked.

“Okay.”

The trunk popped open quickly. Bob blinked. There they were. The two Mexican-looking guys who'd rear-ended him. Behind them a white guy about his age.

“Get out. Slow.”

Bob decided to reason with them as he climbed gingerly out of the trunk.

“Listen. Guys. It's not my car. I don't care about the dent.”

The young Mexican with the ponytail stuck a gun in Bob's face.

“Don't talk.”

The older one looked in the trunk at the two coolers. He turned to Bob. Bob couldn't look in the man's eyes. They were scary.

“Is the arm in the cooler?”

This caught Bob completely off guard.

“Arm? What arm?”

The older, scary Mexican punched Bob hard in the stomach. Bob doubled over, unable to breathe, feeling like his balls had just been shot out of a cannon.

“The arm you're delivering to Parker Center.”

Oh.

Bob nodded at one of the coolers. The white guy looked at Bob sympathetically.

“Try to stand up, you'll get your wind back faster.”

Bob nodded and tried. He was starting to see spots and floaters in his vision. He thought he might black out. But then
short, painful spurts of breathing began. First in the top of his lungs, then slowly working their way down until he was almost breathing normally. Bob noticed that the lump on his head was throbbing again.

“Can I get an aspirin?”

The white guy nodded.

“There's some Tylenol inside.”

The Mexican with the ponytail grabbed Bob's arm and began to lead him into what looked like his parents' house.

. . .

Maura entered her office and went right to the message machine. She played the messages and was disappointed that Bob hadn't called. Maybe he was just playing a game with her, messing with her head a little. She knew that sometimes he just said stuff to get a reaction. But he'd seemed different this morning. Resolute. If Bob, the most liquid and malleable of personalities, could ever be called resolute. She smiled a little. Maybe her doing this was forcing Bob to grow up. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. She realized that she was ambivalent about leaving him. She didn't really find his cock disgusting. She was just tired of him waving it in her face. She wanted him to be more sensitive. To listen to her. Was that asking too much?

T
HE ARM LAY
unwrapped on the kitchen table. The three men stood there staring at it, looking slightly awestruck and puzzled. They obviously weren't used to limbs and organs like Bob was. Bob didn't care about the arm. He held a bag of frozen peas against the lump on his head and gingerly sipped a Coke.

“I feel nauseous. I think you gave me a concussion.”

The ponytail guy smiled at him.

“Sorry,
cabrón
. Had to knock you out. You might be a kung fu master or something. Couldn't take no chances, man.”

Bob understood. It made him feel a little better. He even felt slightly flattered: a kung fu master? Right on. But now he found himself in a strange position. Was he kidnapped? Were they going to kill him? Should he try to escape? He really didn't know the answer.

The older Mexican guy took a rubber spatula and nudged the arm.

“I never realized he had so many tattoos.”

The white guy spoke.

“The police will know that there are tattoos on the arm. We have to find out where he got them done.”

The ponytail guy disagreed.

“First we need an arm.”

Bob twitched with alarm as the older guy turned toward him.

“He's got two.”

Bob shook his head.

“No way, man! No fucking way!”

The older Mexican gave Bob a menacing look. Bob shifted gears.

“C'mon man, my arm does not look anything like that arm.”

Bob winced as the Mexican grabbed his arm and roughly jerked him so that his arm was next to Amado's severed arm. Side by side it was easy to see that Bob was right. The severed arm was dark, hairy, and muscular. A man's arm. Bob's arm looked pale, sickly even. An intellectual boy's arm. No amount of tattooing was going to change that. The Mexican looked at Bob.

“You a faggot?”

Bob shook his head.

“No.”

“You got a faggot's arm.”

Bob didn't respond. He didn't agree, of course. The gay men he knew were extremely buff, muscular, and handsome. His arm didn't look gay at all.

The older Mexican turned to the ponytail guy.

“Find him.”

Bob was amazed. The guy with the ponytail just nodded and split. Bob realized that this older, scary Mexican guy
was some kind of juiced-up Godfather or something. Why else would a Mexican in a toupee have some clean-cut white guy hanging around with him and be bossing some tough young hombre around like he was a five-year-old? Bob was in some kind of shit. That much was obvious.

. . .

Amado sat up in bed watching television. He'd gotten into one of the soap operas, enjoying the backstabbing, lying, and cheating of the characters. It was familiar turf, though he couldn't understand why young Jax didn't take a fucking shotgun to that evil bitch Helena after what she did to Francesca. Maybe Jax just was some kinda fucking
huele-pedos quebrachón
. Amado would've shoved both barrels up Helena's ass and pulled the trigger. Let the
jodida pendeja
have it.
¡Qué te jodas!

He often found himself shouting at the TV. Attempting to warn someone not to sell their shares in the overseas corporation because it was a trap. A scam. Don't do it!
¡Cuidado!
He'd scream and shout, sometimes waving his arm around frantically, trying to warn them, and then realizing he didn't have an arm anymore. Still it felt like it was there.
Qué raro.

He was happy to see Norberto when he came into the cheap motel room. Norberto was carrying a greasy brown paper bag. He handed it to Amado.

“How you feeling?”

“How you think?”

Amado opened the bag and was hit by a rich pungent aroma. He broke into a grin.

“¿Carnitas?”

“Carnitas pibil.”

“Qué bueno.”

Norberto sat down on the end of the bed and watched as Amado pulled one of the foil-wrapped tacos out of the bag and struggled with one hand to unwrap it. Norberto made no move to help.

“Do you miss your arm, man?”

“I dream about my fucking arm.”

“We got it, you know.”

Amado stopped what he was doing.

“What?”

“We got your arm, man. You should see it.”

“What're you doing with my fucking arm,
pendejo
?”

“Keeping it from
las placas, maricón
.”

Amado glared at Norberto. Smart-ass little fucker.

“Esteban has my arm?”

“Sí.”

“Qué bárbaro.”

Amado shook his head and went back to unwrapping the taco. He eventually got the taco out and jammed half of it into his mouth. He chomped down on it, grease and salsa spraying out of his lips. Norberto smiled at him.

“¿Quieres cerveza?”

Amado nodded, a big smile on his face. He was moved by his friend who cared enough to bring tacos and beer. A tiny tear formed in the corner of his left eye. Norberto reached into a grocery bag and pulled out a cold can of Modelo Especial. He popped the can and handed it to Amado.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Amado took a long pull on the cold beer and then let out a blistering belch. The air was suddenly scented with pork, chilies, and beer. Norberto turned to Amado, serious.

“Esteban needs you, man.”

“Needs to kill me.”

“No. Stuff's come up. It's important.”

Amado looked at Norberto and realized that things had changed. Norberto had moved up in the world, taking direct orders from El Jefe, Esteban himself.

“I thought you were
mi vato
.”

“It's not like that, man. Esteban needs you. He's not gonna kill you.”

“That's what he told you.”

“That's what I know.”

Amado studied Norberto. He figured that the punk was probably packing a nine, or worse, that fucking .38 snubby he liked to carry because he saw it in a movie and thought it looked real cool and vintage.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Amado shrugged.

“Vale.”

. . .

Esteban was watching Chivas play Morelia on Channel 55 when Norberto and Amado walked into the safe house. Martin was talking to the delivery guy, Bob something, in the kitchen, trying to learn more about how to keep the arm preserved. The last thing Esteban wanted in his house was some
fuchi
arm stinking up the place. Esteban stood to greet Amado.

“Cabrón. ¿Qué onda?”

“You tell me.”

The two men stared at each other. Esteban suddenly felt unsure of what he was supposed to do. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to. What had Amado been up to at Carlos Vila's? Was it bad enough that Amado expected him to kill him? Esteban realized that he would have to deal with Amado one way or the other after he was clear of this mess. Sloppy murderers and freelancers were a liability. But he wasn't going to do anything about it right now. Right now his main concern was to keep out of jail. So he just stood there looking at Amado. Finally Norberto broke the tension.

“Amado? You want to see your arm?”

Amado turned to Norberto.

“Yeah.”

. . .

Bob couldn't believe it when the one-armed dude came into the kitchen. Bob knew it was the arm's owner because this guy was covered in similar tattoos. Women with huge erect tits, men taking them from behind. Voluptuous and busty women with wild tangled hair going down on muscular biker-looking guys, sucking their long hard cocks. And that was just what he could see on the guy's one arm and poking out of his shirt around his neck and chest. It was like the Kama Sutra for Hell's Angels scattered all over the guy's body. Bob was fascinated. He wanted to say something to the guy, but he was mean-looking, not scary like the older one, just mean, and Bob really didn't want to be punched in the stomach again, or hit on the head, or worse, so he didn't say anything.
He watched as the mean-looking one-armed dude opened the cooler and lifted out his arm.

It was a moment. Sad. Touching. Here was this guy staring at his arm like it was a long-lost child. Bob studied the mean guy's face and saw his eyes well up with tears. Then the older scary guy finally said something.

“
Joder,
that must've hurt.”

The mean dude looked at the scary guy, but didn't say anything. He just reached down and touched his arm. He first felt his fingers; then, turning the arm over, he stroked the forearm. Softly, like he could still feel it.