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.
“Get me a drink.”
The guy with the ponytail looked at the scary guy, who nodded. Then he went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of tequila. The one-armed dude sat down and knocked back a shot.
Bob pointed to the tattoo of the beautiful woman getting eaten.
“She’s beautiful.”
The mean dude nodded.
“Felicia.”
Bob lit up. It all came out in an excited blurt.
“You mean she’s real? This is a real woman? Do you know where she lives? Can I meet her? Do you have her number?”
The white guy, the scary guy, the ponytail guy, and the mean dude all turned and looked at Bob like he’d lost his mind. But Bob didn’t care, this might be his only chance, so he kept talking.
“I mean look at her. Just look. Have you ever seen a more beautiful woman in your life? She’s . . . she’s . . . she’s just the bomb, man.”
The mean dude burst out laughing. It was a loud, deep, joyous laugh. He laughed until tears sprang from his eyes and he almost choked. Bob watched and, as the laughter continued on and on, he started to get nervous. Maybe he’d put his foot in it this time. Finally the mean dude got control of himself.
“The gringo’s in love with Felicia.”
The mean dude took his glass and poured some tequila into it. He slid the glass over to Bob.
“Drink.”
Bob knocked back the tequila. It burned, in a soothing kind of a way. Bob looked at the mean dude.
“So you know her?”
The mean dude gave Bob a serious once-over, laughed again, then extended his hand.
“Amado.”
This was how Bob became introduced to everyone. Amado, Norberto, Esteban, and Martin. Bob felt better knowing their names, but he wasn’t sure if they’d given him their real names or some kind of fake names so that if he went to the police he would pass on misinformation. But then, on reflection, Bob felt worse because if those were their real names, that meant they were probably going to kill him so he couldn’t give their names to the police.
. . .
Morris was desperately spinning shapes into place, clicking the keyboard in a trance. He didn’t even look up when a delivery arrived from the Cedar-Sinai Medical Center. The delivery man, a teenage Latino in elaborately baggy jeans and a Che Guevara T-shirt, looked at the screen and snorted derisively.
“Tetris?”
Morris didn’t even look up.
“I know, I know, it’s old school. But it’s a rad game, man.”
The teenager wasn’t buying it.
“My dad likes it.”
“Dude, Tetris challenges your brain. It’s like a spatial-relationship road-race disaster movie.”
“Yeah, right. Sign this. Then you can go play Pong.”
Morris didn’t look up from the screen.
“I can’t.”
“I got places to go.”
“One more minute.”
“Nope.”
“Dude, cut me some.”
“Nope.”
The delivery man waved his clipboard in front of Morris, almost obscuring the computer screen. Morris grabbed a pen off the desk and tried to sign the clipboard with his left hand without looking.
“This it?”
“Down two inches.”
“Here?”
“Close enough.”
Morris scribbled his name.
“Thanks, man.”
“No sweat.”
The delivery man left. Morris continued to play. He didn’t notice that what he’d just signed for was a well-developed human fetus in a jar. The fetus floated in solution. Morris concentrated on his game.
. . .
Bob was now pretty toasted. He and Amado had killed the bottle of tequila and were sipping beers. Amado had his shirt off and was giving Bob vivid descriptions of each and every tattoo on his body. There must’ve been a hundred of them. When Bob expressed his admiration, Amado told him that he hadn’t even started commemorating women in ink until he’d notched his first hundred on a leather belt. Bob looked at Amado as if he were some kind of rare athlete, someone who had accomplished what few could ever achieve.
Bob thought about his own slight string of conquests. A paltry six or seven. Never torrid one-night stands, always those first tentative meetings, the courtship, and then the relationship. Sure, there had been passion, but nothing worthy of a permanent place on his body, nothing worth the pain of needles and ink, nothing he could call art. Bob longed for something like that. He wanted to abandon himself to animal passions. He wanted to thrust wildly with a voluptuous woman who felt the same way he felt. Bob didn’t want to worry about orgasms or foreplay or any of that. He wanted to be inspired to fuck wildly and to inspire someone else to do the same.
Bob watched as Amado drunkenly tried to reattach his arm. The arm dropped to the kitchen floor with a sickening thud. Juice, Bob didn’t know what else to call it, oozed out and smeared Amado’s shirt. Amado picked up his arm from the floor and looked at it.
“I miss my arm, Bob.”
“I bet you do.”
“Never lose your arm, Bob, nunca.”
Bob nodded.
“I know you didn’t lose yours on purpose, and I bet your arm knows it too.”
Amado considered that.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
Amado’s voice caught; it looked like he might cry.
“I never thought about how my arm might feel. I never thought I’d see it again.”
Amado was now letting the severed limb sit nonchalantly in his lap. He looked down at it.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Amado picked up his arm and cradled it like a newborn. Bob was quiet. He didn’t know what to say so he just let Amado make his peace with his arm. Bob could see the Godfather, Esteban, sitting on the couch in the living room talking with Martin, the white guy. Norberto, or Norbert as Bob had called him, had drunk a few shots with them and then retired to a back bedroom to catch up on his sleep.
Bob stood up and patted Amado on the shoulder.
“I’m going to the bathroom. When I come back, let’s remember the good things you did with your arm. Let’s celebrate that.”
Amado looked up at Bob with big wet eyes.
“You’re a good man, Bob.”
Bob went to pee.
. . .
Esteban watched Amado and the gringo drinking and laughing like it was Cinco de Mayo. Let them laugh. They’d both be dead soon enough. Martin was still arguing with him, wanting him to spare the gringo. ¿Por qué? Was it because they were both white? Martin never said anything when Esteban had some fucking cholo whacked. Now he’s got some white guy to deal with and Martin is begging, putting everything at risk.
Esteban realized that Martin had a point. A dead white guy, carjacked while on the job, would be on the news. Once something made the news the police had to pay attention. Having the cops nosing around, asking questions, was never good.
Esteban knew all this, but his guts told him to kill the guy. Loose ends were a bad thing. You let a guy live and you empower him to testify against you in court. That would suck. The last thing Esteban wanted to see was this fucking scrawny slacker gringo standing up in federal court testifying about how Esteban kidnapped him. White people always thought they were better. Esteban didn’t know what gave them that idea, it was such bullshit.
Esteban was smart. As smart as any white person, he was sure of that, but he di
dn’t want to let his emotions get in the way of clear thinking. He knew that Martin had a point. So he agreed to let Martin have a talk with the guy, gringo-agringo, and see if he’d cooperate.
When Bob returned from the bathroom Amado was passed out on the table. He was snoring loudly, a line of drool running from the corner of his mouth to the floor. Bob sat down and watched him sleep. He didn’t seem so mean in his sleep. He just seemed like a guy who’d lost his way in a new country. Lost his way and then lost his arm. Bob felt for him.
Martin came over and sat with Bob. Martin needed to talk to him about something important. He wanted to tell Bob a story so he’d know why they had carjacked him and what they were planning to do with him. While Esteban watched fútbol on the television in the living room, Martin recounted the events of the last forty-eight hours that led up to Bob’s abduction. Then Martin made Bob an offer.
Bob couldn’t believe his ears. Not that he’d ever wanted to be a criminal or involved in a criminal enterprise. Frankly, the idea of jail had always been too frightening for him to even consider breaking the law. But here was a smart guy, a guy with a law degree, a guy who did his undergrad work at Yale, a guy just like him only more handsome, successful, and with better clothes, asking if Bob would work with them on one job. They would pay him ten thousand dollars and all he had to do was deliver the arm—technically a different arm—to Parker Center.
“A ten-thousand-dollar bonus for doing what you’d normally do.”
Bob thought about it. He had a moment of indecision. But there was something about Esteban—the same thing that made him scary—that gave Bob confidence. The more he thought about it the more excited he became. Martin waited for an answer. Finally . . .
“I’ll do it. But . . .”
Martin was taken aback.
“Bob, you’re not really in a position to negotiate.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
Martin nodded.
“Okay. What do you want?”
“I want to meet Felicia.”
“Who’s Felicia?”
Bob lifted Amado’s arm off the table and pointed to the tattoo.
“That’s Felicia.”
. . .
Esteban was surprised that Bob came around so easily. He could see that Bob, like Martin, was attracted to the glamorous aspect of the criminal life. Caucasians can be so naive. They think being a gangster is all fast cars, beautiful women, and cash. They watch too many movies. Esteban knew firsthand how much work was involved in maintaining a successful life of crime. The long hours, the late nights, the constant anxiety. Most of the older members of la familia had developed angina from the stress. An unlucky few were rotting away in jail somewhere. Others had just dropped dead from massive coronaries while pumping some whore. Viagra deaths, he called them. The drug turns your explorador into Superman and leaves the rest of you a saggy old abuelo trying desperately to keep up. Wheezing and huffing, hardly enjoying it at all. It was tragic, grown men acting like teenagers, but still Esteban figured that it was better to go out having fun with a woman than being shot in the head while sitting in your car.
The scrawny gringo came into the room holding a can of beer. Esteban gave him the glare and was satisfied to see the gringo look away. Esteban cleared his throat.
“You understand what this means?”
Bob looked first at Martin, then back to Esteban.
“I think so.”
“You’ll become an accessory to murder, and that is some heavy shit, my friend.”
Bob hesitated.
“I’m not going to kill anyone.”
Esteban could barely conceal his irritation. The nerve some people have. Thinking it’s easy to just go kill someone. Like anyone could do it. Even Amado, who had years of experience, bungled a simple hit.
“No. You’re not going to kill anyone.”
Martin interrupted.
“But you will be an accessory. I want you to understand that.”
Bob nodded.
“I understand.”
“You could go to jail.”
Esteban gave him the look.
“If you go to the police, we will kill you.”
Bob was almost annoyed.
“I get it.”
Esteban watched as Bob stood and pondered the possibilities. You could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. It wouldn’t have surprised Esteban if Bob had asked for a piece of paper and pencil so he could draw a line down the middle and write the pros on one side and the cons on the other. Americanos have no huevos.
But Bob surprised him.
“If I get to meet Felicia, it’ll be worth it.”
Esteban laughed out loud.
“You believe a woman is worth the risk?”
Bob nodded. He had never been so sure of anything in his life.
“She’s not just any woman.”
Esteban shook his head in amazement.
“Just so you understand.”
Bob sat down on the couch next to Martin. Martin slipped into business mode, closing the deal.
“The deal is we’re going to give Bob here ten thousand dollars and a night with Felicia.”
“And what does Bob give us?”
“He will deliver the arm, the new arm, and tell everyone that he’s been distraught over breaking up with his girlfriend and that’s why he’s late.”
“Did you break up with your girlfriend?”
“Kind of.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had a fight.”
Esteban sat back and sighed.
“I hope it was a good fight.”
Bob nodded.
“Pretty good.”
Martin chimed in.
“We could drive by and you could finish it off. I mean, really break up with her. That way the story would stick.”
Bob was enthusiastic.
“I’d like to do that before I see Felicia. You know, make it official and all. That way it wouldn’t be like I was cheating on her.”
Esteban just looked at the two gringos. Carajo. What a fucking mess.
“We still need an arm.”
Eleven
IT WAS ONE of those great days in Los Angeles. The kind you see when you watch the Rose Parade on TV. The golden sun slicing across the city, bringing health, wealth, and warmth to the world. The blue sky spreading cheerfully overhead. The kind of day that makes you think that people in LA live in some fantastic world of promise, like vitamin C land or something.
Only city buses drove by instead of floral floats as Don sat on the steps of Parker Center and ate a big greasy hamburger with Detective Flores and a couple of uniformed officers.
Other LAPD personnel stood in line at the roach coach waiting for their food. Don felt great. It was great to be a police officer. Great to be out there making the world a better place. Great to be eating this big gloppy burger in the sun with his comrades. Don knew that tonight he’d have to have a green salad and maybe a little sashimi to counteract the effects of this gutbomb, but that was a small price to pay for the absolutely glorious way he felt right here, right now.
Don dipped his fries into a little paper cup of ketchup and mused. He imagined Esteban Sola stripped of his toupee and wearing a bright orange LA County Jail jumpsuit. Don relished the image of Esteban standing, bent and cuffed, ready to be deported to a Mexican jail. For too long Don had watched as Esteban had strutted and preened and lorded it over people. It was raw arrogance and nothing pissed Don off more than that. That’s why he’d targeted Esteban, made it his personal mission to bring that motherfucking Juarez wetback down.
Don slurped his diet root beer. He turned to Flores.
“That evidence delivered yet?”
Flores looked up, his mouth packed with carne asada burrito, and shook his head. No.
“Well, I can’t wait all day. I’m gonna make some calls and find out where this thing is.”
Don crumpled his gutbomb wrapper and arced it
into the trash. He wiped his hands on his pants like a man and headed back into the building.
. . .
Don drove the dirty brown Caprice out of Parker Center. He didn’t understand why the UC cars always had to be dirty brown Chevrolets. Parked in a line in the LAPD parking lot they looked like giant piles of dog crap. What kind of message did that send? Why not have the detectives zipping around LA in BMWs or a Lincoln Town Car or something? The shit brown was just as recognizable to the crumbs as a black-and-white, it didn’t fool anyone, so why not mix it up? Driving one of these cars gave Don an understanding of why some detectives were on the take. It was not esteem-building. Sitting behind the wheel of a big stinking turd, who wouldn’t consider collecting a little extra cash now and then?
Don didn’t understand where this delivery guy could’ve gone. He’d called United Pathology and gotten a list of all of the scheduled stops. The guy hadn’t gone to a single one. So, like the good detective he was, Don was going to hit the streets and investigate. Anything was better than sitting around the office writing for Flores’ gas to begin.
. . .
Larga never knew what to wear to these sessions. He felt uncomfortable wearing jeans because she made him take them all the way off. Something about constricting the blood flow to the prostate. The prostate needing oxygen to make more of that slimy stuff it made. Shorts? Shorts just seemed so gay. Larga stood naked in front of the mirror. He turned sideways and saw his big gut sagging outward in profile. Perhaps sweatpants. Larga dug through his closet and pulled out a matching nylon jogging suit, the kind that fat guys in New Jersey wear when they’re driving their Camaros around in the afternoon. He’d bought it when he’d decided to take up jogging. He’d worn it once.
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