Moist (17 page)

He didn't, however, like the idea of killing Roberto. He enjoyed having him around. But he wasn't the kind of man who'd let a thing like affection stand in the way of millions of dollars. He'd gutted people for a lot less.

The only thing that gave him pause was the simple fact that he'd never trusted Martin. Never liked him. Martin had that superior anglo attitude. The same attitude that the ESL teacher had when Norberto beat the living shit out of him. But maybe all anglos had this problem. Maybe they all needed to be taught a lesson. Would the other factions of La Eme let a gringo run the crew?
No way, José.
What would they think of Norberto taking orders from a gringo? Norberto realized the only way to make this work was to follow Martin's plan to the
letter and then kill him. Besides, if Martin made him kill Roberto, it would make him feel better to return the favor.

. . .

Maura woke up. Her body was relaxed. Loose and filled with heat like she'd just spent the last two hours going through an intense set of asanas in her yoga class. The detective's body was tangled up with hers. She could feel his warmth, the moisture trapped between them where they touched. She could smell the wine on his breath. She stretched and slipped her body out of the knot they'd made.

She thought about what they'd done. She'd never had sex like that. But she realized that it wasn't like Don had done anything to her. It wasn't his skill or expertise. It was her mood, her energy. She had fully committed to the act. She climbed out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. She saw his pants puddled on the floor where she'd thrown them. She reached down and felt around for the heavy metal.

Maura shot a furtive glance over at the detective. He was sound asleep. A big man-lump on the bed. She gently pulled the gun out of its holster and held it in her hands. She'd always been afraid of guns. She believed that they should be banned. They were dangerous. They killed people. From a politically correct point of view she shouldn't even be with a man who had a gun. And she definitely shouldn't be standing naked in the middle of her bedroom holding his gun.

But she couldn't help herself. She felt something inside her. A compulsion. An urgency. She held the gun in one hand and touched herself with the other. Breathless, excited, and
honestly a little worried about herself, she came in less than a minute.

. . .

No matter how deep you dug, the fucking holes were never big enough. That's the way it seemed to Norberto. He'd buried all shapes and sizes of people out here in the desert and it was never easy. Norberto couldn't help but chuckle to himself. It always seemed to him that he was digging in the exact same spot where he buried the last guy, yet he never unearthed an old grave while digging a new one. Freaky.

Norberto wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked around for Martin. Their work was lit by one pathetic beam from a flashlight wedged between a couple of rocks. Luckily the stars were out, so they could see what they were doing without attracting attention. Like there was anyone around to see them.

Norberto heard the crunch of shoes on dirt and turned to see Martin coming back from the car with a couple bottles of water.

“You gonna help me, man, or what?”

“I was thirsty.”

Martin handed Norberto a bottle. Norberto drained it in a few greedy gulps while Martin picked up the flashlight and examined the hole.

“It looks big enough.”

“No way, man.”

“Let's dump him in and see.”

Norberto looked at Martin. Martin shone the light in his face.

“Get that outta my face,
maricón
.”

“Sorry.”

Norberto couldn't hide his annoyance.

“Once we dump him in, it's, like, impossible to get him out, man. So we got to make sure it's big.”

“It looks big.”

“What if it isn't?”

“I told you we should've dumped him in the forest.”

“I told you, they find 'em in the forest.”

“They can't find all of them.”

“I don't care about all of them. I care about this one and we don't want them finding this one.”

Norberto was getting pissed. There's a right way to do things and a wrong way to do things. Why be half-assed about hiding evidence? This was a time to do things the right way.

He watched as Martin fired up a joint.

“What are you doing, man?”

“You want some?”

“I want some help diggin' this fucking hole.”

“I'm just taking a break.”

Norberto glared at Martin. Then he realized that Martin couldn't see his glare in the dark. Couldn't see shit. Norberto watched as Martin's silhouette blew a thick plume of smoke into the air. He knew Martin would be worthless now.

“Fuck it.”

Norberto went back to digging.

. . .

Felicia woke up and crawled out of bed. She went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. She sat on the toilet and
thought about Roberto. Never in her life had she felt such devotion. Where did it come from? Roberto had fallen in love with a tattoo that looked like her. Actually it looked like lots of women she knew, but for some reason Roberto thought it was her. Was he crazy? No. She didn't think he was crazy. Not in a clinical way. If he was crazy what did that say about her? She had felt a connection with him from the moment he entered the motel room.

Something was happening. She looked in the mirror and was surprised to see that she was smiling. She couldn't help herself.

A
MADO DROVE
. B
OB
sat next to him with a moony grin on his face. Amado recognized the look as his own after he'd spent a night with a woman. Feeling hollowed out and reborn, spent and revitalized, all at the same time. You get kind of sex-goofy.

“You had a good night, Roberto?”

Bob grinned and nodded.

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

Amado laughed.

“You want to get a tattoo?”

“No, man. I want to get a ring. I want to marry her.”

Amado shook his head. Gringos were locos. Why were they always getting married?

“
Carajo,
Roberto. What did she do to you?”

Bob started to answer, but then just grinned and shook his head. Amado laughed again.

“You're not going to tell me? It's some big secret?”

“No, Amado. No secret. I want to keep it to myself.”

Amado nodded. He respected that. He himself didn't like to recount his exploits to his friends. He would show them a tattoo. But he liked to savor the memories of his sexual
encounters in privacy. Just like Bob. Amado couldn't quite wrap his mind around the realization that he and Bob were similar in some way. Not that they looked alike—they could not be more different—or that they came from the same background. There, too, they couldn't be further apart. But there was something about Bob, a surprising soulfulness, that Amado connected to and admired.

Amado decided to change the subject.

“Are you ready for today, Roberto?”

Bob looked over at him.

“You did your part. I'll do mine.”

“All you gotta do is tell the truth.”

Bob nodded and ran through the alibi.

“I broke up with my girlfriend. I was very upset. I drove around for hours. I went to a bar. I met someone. We spent the night at the TraveLodge in Glendale.”

“Exacto.”

“And do you know what the good thing is about that?”

“What?”

“It's all true.”

“
Exacto,
Roberto. You should never lie.”

“I could pass a polygraph test.”

“Exactamente.”

Bob looked out the window at the passing strip malls and car dealerships, the landscape of the Valley.

“Can we stop at a Starbucks? I could really use a latte.”

. . .

Felicia sat on the bed in the motel room drinking coffee and watching TV. She was wrapped in several clean white towels,
her body slathered with free moisturizer. Her hair perfumed and soft from the free shampoo and conditioner. She stretched and lounged and felt very, very good. She didn't have to check out until noon so she lay back and enjoyed the comfort and tranquility of the king-size bed, the cool hum of the air conditioner, the safety of a sanitized toilet. Now, this was living.

She thought about Roberto. She hadn't noticed his tattoo, the one with her name on it, until they'd been in the shower that morning. Felicia felt so honored that she'd given him a blow job right then and there. Her knees on the wet tile with the nonslip strips, hot water streaming over them. His face obscured by clouds of steam. His moans echoing off the walls. She liked that. She was doing something dirty, but she felt really clean.

As she watched the
noticias
on Channel 34, she began to feel different. Her instinct was to resist this feeling. It was a wonderful feeling, but at the same time it was threatening. She valued her independence. It was her
vida,
and if she gave this feeling a chance it would take over. So she tried to push this feeling as far away as possible. She filed her nails, then applied a new layer of color.

This worked for a little while, and then an image of Roberto, kissing her tenderly on the ankle, would pop into her mind. She found herself thinking about him. Remembering what his skin felt like, how his mouth tasted. He was a good kisser and had a nice big cock. But what stuck with her was the way he had looked at her. His eyes shone with a passion, a force, like one of those pictures of Jesus. His eyes filled with devotion. But his love and devotion wasn't for all the sinners of the world, Roberto's love was for her.

She had never felt love like that before. Not once. Sure, many men had said that they loved her, but once they'd fucked her they didn't seem to love her as much as they claimed. She was used to it. She had steeled her heart against it. When they said they loved her, she didn't believe them, and, even better, she didn't care. But he hadn't said anything. He didn't have to.

The more she thought about Roberto, the stronger the feeling became. It finally became so powerful and insistent that she couldn't push it away any longer. She succumbed. She let the feeling wash over her in a delicious rush. It made her nervous. It scared her. Because this feeling had a life, an energy, and a power. It could hurt her. It could cut deep into her heart. It could change her for the better or it could fuck her over. But she couldn't resist. It felt too good. She was
enamorada.

. . .

Don sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tracing the funky yellow Formica boomerangs as he sipped a cup of coffee. Maura was wearing a fuzzy bathrobe and spreading butter on some toast. She waved a piece of toast at him.

“Sure you're not hungry?”

Don shook his head.

“I've got to get going.”

Maura took her toast and sat at the table. There was an awkward pause, a beat of indecision and dread.

“Am I going to see you again?”

Don sighed. He had been afraid to ask this question in case he got the answer he didn't want to hear. But she just flat-out
asked. She wasn't afraid. This, Don realized, was one of the things that made her so attractive. She didn't play games. If she wanted something, she asked for it. It was refreshing.

“I hope so.”

Maura smiled. Now it was Don's turn.

“I'd like to see you tonight. If you're not too busy.”

“Can I cook for you?”

Don reached out across the table and gently took her hand.

“Whatever you want to do.”

Maura smiled.

“Then I'll cook.”

Don finished his coffee and stood up to go.

“I hate to bring up work, but if you hear from your ex-boyfriend would you call me?”

“Can I call you just to talk?”

Don smiled.

“Absolutely.”

Don patted himself, feeling for his gun, his badge, the tools of his trade. Reassured that they were all in place, he walked over and gave her a kiss. Maura held on to him, stroking his back, giving his ass a playful squeeze, her hand stopping and holding on his gun for a moment, and then she broke from the embrace.

“I'll see you tonight.”

. . .

Norberto and Martin sat in a booth at Denny's. Norberto was famished, exhausted,
agotado,
having just spent the night working like a fucking
campesino
. He wasn't in the mood to
talk, especially not in English. When he was tired, or really drunk, or sick, his ability to
habla Inglés
left him. It just vanished. He knew Martin was one of those gringos who thought they spoke Spanish. They would speak loudly and confidently with all the vocabulary and syntax of a first-grader. Norberto hadn't gone to college, he couldn't claim to be an expert or anything, but listening to gringos fracture grammar and mix tenses was just annoying.

So Norberto didn't say anything. He dipped his paper napkin in his water glass and tried to wipe some of the grit off his face. He looked across the table at Martin, who was staring out the window with a stony grin plastered on his face. All Norberto could think of was what a
maricón
Martin was. At one point he had wanted to shoot Martin and dump him in the hole with the dead guy. But, typical, the hole was barely big enough for the dead guy by himself, and there was no fucking way he was going to dig it bigger.

Norberto realized that Martin might be smart but he was also lazy.
Flojo.
Lazy was dangerous. Lazy made mistakes. He would have to keep his eye on Martin. Make sure he didn't get sloppy and leave loose ends. Loose ends were always followed, if not by
las placas
then by Esteban. He didn't know how they did it, but somehow loose ends always unraveled whatever scam you were pulling. That's why Carlos Vila was dead.