Moist: A Novel

by Mark Haskell Smith

  . . .

  Don pulled up in front of United Pathology. A big building full of dead stuff. Even though he’d seen hundreds of dead bodies, something about this building gave him the creeps. Maybe it was because when Don found the bodies they were still people. Even a corpse has personality. Personal effects. A life lived and lost. Here, in the pathology lab, it was reduced to tissue, fluids, samples. No life. No character. The last thing Don wanted was some Poindexter poking around his body when he was dead. Hopefully you really are dead when you’re dead. Don entered the building.

  . . .

  Morris sat in front of the computer waiting for a Web site to open. It took a fucking ice age to load, and when it was done it was the same old thing. Morris had been to several sites offering “free” photos, and all of them had demanded a credit card number as “proof” that the viewer was over twenty-one. As if a teenager couldn’t get a credit card. As if someone under twenty-one shouldn’t be allowed to look at pornography. Shit, Morris thought, I’ve been banging the beaver since I was fifteen. It was a very annoying way to spend the afternoon.

  Morris looked up as some dude in a sports coat came in. The guy smiled and flashed a badge. He didn’t do it fast like they do in the movies. He held it out a really long time, as if Morris was too stupid to read.

  “Hey.”

  The police dude cleared his throat.

  “Hi. I’m looking for a piece of evidence. It was supposed to be delivered to Parker Center today.”

  “You mean the arm?”

  “Yes.”

  “It should be there already.”

  “It’s not.”

  Morris looked at the guy, then he looked at his screen. Spunk.com had loaded and, shit, it was gay porn. Morris tried to click the page off, but it was still loading and just hung there, literally. Morris started to sweat. He impulsively punched the button and just turned the monitor off.

  “Well, it should be any minute.”

  “It’s not there.”

  “It should be.”

  “I know it should be, but it isn’t. That’s why I’m here.”

  “It’ll get there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Is it important?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’ll get there.”

  Don cleared his throat.

  “It’s not there.”

  Morris wondered why this guy was so dense.

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to tell me where it is.”

  Morris shrugged.

  “Dude, I don’t know.”

  The police guy leaned in, acting all heavy and pissed off. He reached around and turned the monitor back on.

  “What’re you doin’, man?”

  “Where’s the arm?”

  “En route.”

  “En route to where?”

  “Parker Center.”

  “But it’s not at Parker Center.”

  “Right. It’s en route.”

  The monitor came back on with several graphic and revealing images of male-on-male intercourse. Morris began to squirm.

  “Oh, man, that’s not what I wanted.”

  The cop guy smiled like he had something on Morris.

  “Who has the arm?”

  “Bob.”

  Morris clicked the image away. This time it disappeared.

  “Where’s Bob?”

  “Fuck if I know, man. He should be at Parker Center.”

  . . .

  Bob sat in the front seat as Norberto drove. Esteban and Martin were in back. Amado had decided to remain at the safe house; his favorite telenovela was about to come on and he didn’t want to miss it.

  “Turn right here.”

  Bob was directing them to Maura’s office. It was in a nondescript box of a building.

  Bob was sweating. He was starting to have some doubts about the whole deal. Second thoughts. Third thoughts. Fourth and fifth thoughts. On the one hand he was excited to be on this adventure. You don’t really know how boring your life is, he thought, until adventure comes conking you in the head and stuffing you in a trunk.

  But on the other hand Bob knew that he was not a bad guy. He wasn’t a thief or a murderer and he didn’t really want to become one.

  By the sixth thought, he had rationalized it. He was going to be all right. He wasn’t going to kill anyone. He was only playing his part in an unfolding drama. How could he judge it? It was just beginning.

  The seventh thought, however, was just like the second. If I don’t do what they say, they’ll kill me. They might kill me anyway. That was eight.

  “You can park in the lot behind the building. She validates.”

  “Not if you really break up with her.”

  Bob considered that.

  “Right.”

  Bob got out of the car and entered the building. Bob thought about what he’d say to Maura. He wished he was angry. Really fucking pissed off. Wished that he could scream and call her a bitch, throw something, break a plate or knock over a table . . . you know, make a good show of it. But Bob wasn’t in the mood. In fact, the more he thought about breaking up with her, the happier he became. He’d been stuck in this boring bohemian lifestyle for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to be excited by other possibilities. It was a great big world, and here he’d been sitting on the couch watching TV, drinking beer, and sending e-mails to his friends. What had he been thinking? Now he was a new man with a new career, a dangerous and exciting one, and perhaps, a new woman in his life. A fiery, voluptuous Latina who could teach him Spanish and make him her sex slave all at the same time. He was practically giddy.

  Bob bounded up the stairs to Maura’s office.

  . . .

  Esteban was worried. How much time did they have to pull this off? Would it even work? He knew that as long as the cops didn’t have Amado’s arm or Amado—figuring that a man missing an arm would be as much circumstantial evidence as an arm missing a man—they couldn’t build a case. Without either there was no way they could tie Carlo’s murder to him, it would be over. Terminara. But when he thought about it, that seemed so flojo. Better to take it one step further. Give them some kind of clue that would have them chasing their tails for months if not years. A real “¡Qué te jodas!” right in the fucking face of the federales. Let the jalapeños know who’s boss. That, he thought, would be mejor. Better than mejor, it would be la puta madre.

  Suddenly Norberto turned from the front and nudged Esteban.

  “Mira.”

  Esteban followed Norberto’s gaze and watched as a plump gringo in a track suit climbed out of a Saab.

  “El es un poco gordo como Amado.”

  “Cierto.”

  Norberto reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy sap. Martin started squirming.

  “I don’t know, guys, maybe this is a bad idea.”

  Esteban glared at Martin. He watched as the jodiendo gringo withered right in front of him.

  “Creo que el niño se ha meado en los pantalones.”

  Norberto laughed.

  “Qué lástima.”

  Martin sat up and pointed at Norberto.

  “Don’t think I can’t understand what you guys are saying, because I do. Mostly.”

  Esteban growled.

  “Understand this. We need an arm. El Gordo has an arm. ¿Entiendes?”

  Martin nodded.

  Norberto and Esteban climbed out of the car.

  . . .

  Max Larga woke up to the gentle rocking of a car in traffic. It was dark and his head was throbbing. He didn’t remember much. He was on his way to his appointment and then he woke up in the trunk of a car. What the hell was going on? Why was he in a trunk? You don’t just dump someone in a trunk. This was not how civilized people behaved, he was sure of that. Not that he was uncomfortable, it was a spacious trunk.

  Larga decided he needed to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He began to kick the trunk lid as
hard as he could. It didn’t take long before he got tired of that—it didn’t seem to be making much difference. So he felt around in the trunk for something hard. He came up with a tire iron and began to pound that against the frame, the hood, whatever made the loudest noise.

  Larga felt a sense of triumph when the car finally slowed to a stop. He heard the driver’s side door open. He couldn’t wait, he was going to give them hell. You can’t just put Max Larga in the trunk of your car and not answer for it.

  The trunk lid was thrown open. Larga was temporarily blinded by the light, but he could distinctly see a Mexican man with a ponytail swinging a baseball bat right at his head.

  . . .

  Don was annoyed. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He’d called Flores at Parker Center. There was no sign of Bob, the delivery guy, or the arm. He’d called UCLA, where Bob was scheduled to drop some tissue samples for the medical students. Nothing. Don knew something was wrong . . . but what?

  “Tell me, does Bob take drugs?”

  Morris squirmed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you know.”

  “You can’t expect me to be a narc, man.”

  “So he does do drugs. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Morris clammed up.

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “I got nothing to say until my lawyer gets here.”

  “But you’re not under arrest.”

  That made Morris think.

  “Did you do something that might lead to your arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Then just answer the question.”

  Don watched as the kid worked it out in his brain, replaying in his mind some lawyer show that he’d seen on television, trying to remember how it ended. Don had seen this countless times in interview rooms and crime scenes. Once a crumb even asked him if he remembered a Columbo episode. As if Don was patterning his line of questions after a TV show. Don still hadn’t decided whether all these cop shows and lawyer shows had made his job easier or more difficult. People seemed to think that what he did was more glamorous, which definitely helped when he went out on a date.

  “Does Bob have a drug problem?”

  “Dude, I don’t think it’s a problem.”

  “But he does puff the occasional joint.”

  “Maybe. He likes beer. I know that.”

  “So do you think he’s at a bar?”

  Morris scratched his head.

  “Maybe. He was pretty crabby when he came in this morning.”

  “Why was that?”

  “His girlfriend dumped him. Harsh.”

  Don smiled. Now things were starting to make sense. They always did. Once you had enough information, everything made sense.

  “That is harsh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So . . . where do you think he might be?”

  . . .

  Martin sat in the back and felt a feeling of dread wash over his body. He watched as Bob, the idiot delivery guy, sat in front and pounded out a drumbeat on the dashboard.

  “Hey, guys, can I ask you something?”

  Esteban turned to Bob.

  “Sure.”

  “Can I change my name?”

  “Legally?”

  “No, what I mean is, would you guys call me Roberto instead of Bob?”

  Esteban laughed.

  “Cierto, Roberto, cierto.”

  Norberto playfully whacked Bob on the head.

  “Roberto!”

  Bob nodded.

  “Me llamo Roberto.”

  Esteban laughed again.

  “Already you’re speaking Spanish, Roberto. Muy bien.”

  Bob broke into a huge grin, smiling like he’d just dropped a double hit of ecstasy. Martin remembered the feeling of excitement, of belonging, that he got when he first joined up with Esteban. Now he just felt sleazy, his conscience working against him, stealing his appetite, taking away his erection when he was supposed to be banging some hot chick with fake tits. Martin felt a migraine coming on. Maybe it was the fucking kidnap victim in the trunk who was battering the shit out of the lid. Like he could dig his way through reinforced German steel.

  The fat guy’s clanging and thumping was a reminder to Martin. What, exactly, were they going to do with him? Tattoo him and then chop his arm off? Obviously. That was the point of the whole harebrained scheme. But then what? Dump his body in the desert? And who was going to do the chopping? Martin tried to remember if he’d been high when this stupid idea came to him. Probably.

  He wished he could fire up a jumbo right now and just forget the whole thing was happening.

  The fucking guy in the trunk just wouldn’t stop. Martin looked around. Esteban didn’t even seem to notice. Norberto was talking to Bob about rock en español. But it was really getting under Martin’s skin.

  “Can we make him stop?”

  Esteban turned to Martin, that fucking superior smile on his face.

  “Is it bothering you?”

  “I’m worried that someone might hear it.”

  “And?”

  “And know that we’ve got a guy locked in the trunk.”

  Esteban nodded to Norberto and then turned back to Martin.

  “Don’t worry so much.”

  “That’s my job. I have to worry. Someone has to watch your back, Esteban.”

  Esteban smirked again with that fucking superior smile, like he had to constantly prove that Latinos were better than whites.

  “I have many people watching my back.”

  The car pulled over and Norberto took a baseball bat from under the front seat and got out.

  Then it was quiet.

  Twelve

  MAURA LOOKED AT her watch. Her client was half an hour late. He’d have to pay full price for the session. Maura didn’t appreciate noshows, her policy was that you had to give at least twenty-four hours’ notice to cancel. There was a knock at the door.

  “You’re late.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she realized that it wasn’t Larga but someone else. The man identified himself as a detective from the LAPD. Maura saw him quickly scan the room with his eyes.

  “I’m not a whore. This is a legitimate business.”

  “I’m not with Vice, so even if you are a whore, I don’t care. I want to ask you a few questions about your boyfriend.”

  “Bob?”

  The detective nodded.

  “Can I sit?”

  “Sure.”

  Maura took the clean sheet off the chair and the detective settled in.

  “Have you seen Bob today?”

  “What has he done?”

  “Nothing. We’re just looking for him.”

  “If he hasn’t done anything, why are you looking for him?”

  Maura watched the detective heave a sigh.

  “Why is everybody so suspicious nowadays?”

  Maura thought about that. She didn’t think Bob would do anything crazy, but then again he was acting really weird.

  “We broke up.”

  “Was it his idea?”

  “It was mine.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might go? Who he might see when he’s upset?”

  “Did you try the apartment?”

  The detective sighed again.

  “Of course.”

  Maura thought. If Bob was in trouble, where would he go? It was funny, she realized, you could think you know someone really well, on a really intimate level, but when it came down to it, you didn’t know them at all. She turned to the detective and shrugged.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he have any hobbies? Anything he likes to do?”

  “He likes his computer.”

  “Does he frequent an Internet café, something like that?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “When did you break up with him?”

  “I told him last nig
ht that I couldn’t stand the sight of his penis.”

  The detective gave her a funny look. Maura defended herself.

  “I’m just sick of it. That’s not a crime.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “He told me he never wanted to see me again.”

  Maura suddenly broke down and started sobbing. The detective reached over and handed her a box of tissues.

  “I’ll never see him again.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Maura blew her nose. She didn’t know what she wanted. What she wanted changed every day. Who the fuck actually knows what they want? Does anybody? A show of hands?

  “I guess.”

  The detective was growing impatient, and shifted in the chair.

  “What do you do here?”

  “I’m a masturbation coach.”

  She looked at the detective, expecting the reaction she always got, the disbelieving and dismayed bug-eyed jaw drop. Instead, he seemed genuinely intrigued.

  “Yeah? Is that like some kind of therapy?”

  Maura nodded.

  “There are many ways to enhance the orgasmic experience. There are breathing and relaxation techniques, different kinds of grips and strokes. A couple of sessions can really improve the quality of your masturbation.”

  The detective stood and extended his hand.

  “Do you have a card?”

  . . .

  Esteban stood in the kitchen of the safe house. Greasy wrappers from a take-out meal were strewn on the counter. Esteban belched. Greasy food never went down easily for him. He preferred good Mexican food. Not the kind you found in crappy Mexican restaurants up here but the kind you found in Mexico. Fresh, with flavor. There were a few spots around Los Angeles that he liked. La Serenata de Garibaldi in East LA. Another place way the hell out in the Valley. But even the gringos knew about those places. Esteban belched again and popped a Tums. Maybe he should open his own restaurant, get that molé recipe from his madre. Restaurants were excellent businesses for laundering money.

  The sudden stench of marijuana got his attention. He walked into the living room to find Bob, Martin, Norberto, and Amado all stoned and watching a tape-delayed soccer game from Guadalajara. Esteban was suddenly hit with a strong desire to go back to his own house and crawl into his Jacuzzi with Lupe and her natural breasts. There are times, he realized, when being an organized crime boss was a real fucking drag.