Moist: A Novel

by Mark Haskell Smith

  “How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a fine day.”

  The neighbor watched as Norberto and Bob dragged the fat guy through the front door.

  “Is your friend all right?”

  Esteban looked at Martin before turning back to the neighbor with a shrug.

  “Tequila.”

  The neighbor nodded. He had heard about the powerful effects of distilled agave.

  “You’ve got to be careful with that stuff.”

  Esteban couldn’t have agreed more.

  “To be sure.”

  Martin stepped forward.

  “Did you like the papayas we sent?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you very much. They were very good. In fact I was telling my wife that I wish we could grow papayas in our backyard.”

  Esteban laughed.

  “Then you would put me out of business, amigo.”

  The neighbor chuckled.

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  Suddenly, the golden retriever got a scent of something and started growling and tugging at his leash. The neighbor bent down and scratched the dog’s ears.

  “What is it, boy? What have you got?”

  The dog was pulling for all he was worth. The neighbor yanked back on the leash.

  “Whoa, there, Frankie.”

  The dog began dragging the neighbor toward the car. Esteban looked over and noticed that the top had come off the cooler in the trunk, exposing Amado’s arm.

  The dog barked.

  “Martin. Keep the lid on the meat.”

  Martin slammed the lid on the cooler and quickly hustled it inside the house. The neighbor tried to calm his dog. He looked up at Esteban apologetically.

  “I just fed him, but I guess he’s still hungry.”

  “Steaks. We’re barbecuing later.”

  . . .

  Maura sat across the table and listened while Don told her how he became a detective. It was a simple, straightforward story, but she was captivated. He looked rugged and handsome in the flickering candlelight. Not a movie star, but a well-respected character actor. That’s why she found him attractive, he had character. A cop who knew more about wine and food than anyone she’d ever met. A cop who seemed to understand her, who didn’t judge her. She couldn’t help it, she found herself attracted to him.

  The waiter filled her glass with wine that seemed to glow like a big fat ruby.

  “What do you think?”

  “This is yummy.”

  “The French. I don’t know how they do it.”

  “Have you ever been to France?”

  Don shook his head.

  “No. But someday I want to live there.”

  “Me, too.”

  Don leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “To be honest, I’m afraid to go. I don’t speak a word of French.”

  Maura smiled at him.

  “I do.”

  . . .

  Esteban sat on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. He was tired. Beat. He needed a nap. Chingao. These fucking people.

  Martin came in and deposited a fresh margarita in front of him.

  “Gracias, Martin.”

  Martin sat down on the chair across from him.

  “I’m having second thoughts about this Bob guy.”

  “Roberto?”

  “Yes. Roberto, Bob, whatever the fuck you want to call him.”

  Esteban sipped his drink. It was good. Sharp, sweet, and warm as it flowed through his body.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know if we can trust him.”

  This sudden change of heart sent off alarm bells inside of Esteban. He knew that Martin was mad because he’d gotten coldcocked, but to stab Roberto in the back so soon made Esteban think that Martin was some kind of rata. If he turns on Roberto, how long before he turns on me?

  “Why do you say that?”

  Martin shrugged.

  “Just a feeling I get.”

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  Martin reacted.

  “Why would you say that? I’m not afraid of him. Why would I be afraid of him?”

  Esteban sipped his drink.

  “Just asking.”

  Esteban liked putting Martin on the spot. He liked watching the smart-ass gringo squirm.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Kill him.”

  Esteban looked flatly at Martin.

  “You want me to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you kill him.”

  “Can I?”

  “I don’t know, hombre, can you?”

  “Do I have your permission?”

  “After he delivers the arm to the police.”

  Martin stood up.

  “Thanks.”

  Esteban held up a hand to stop him.

  “You have to do it. I don’t want to find out you sent Norberto or anybody else. You got the cojones, it’s okay with me. But you got to be the one to do it. ¿Entiendes?”

  Martin nodded.

  “I understand.”

  Martin walked out of the room. Esteban smiled to himself. That fucking kid was no matador, he had trouble squashing a bug. There was no way he could bring himself to kill Roberto. Although Esteban had a feeling Roberto might be capable of killing Martin.

  . . .

  The hardware store was unusually busy. Or maybe that’s the way it is in the Valley. Suburban people like to fix up their homes. So there they were, out in force, buying faucets and hammers, electrical doodads and lengths of plastic tubing, brushes and rollers. A couple gallons of paint were hooked up to a machine that was shaking them violently. Norberto stopped and watched. I’d like to see what would happen if you stuck a cat in there, he thought.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Norberto looked up and saw an eager young man wearing a bright red vest. The name Franco was embroidered on the vest. There was no way this guy was really named Franco.

  “Is that your name?”

  The eager young man pushed his woodshop-style glasses up on his nose and looked down at his vest.

  “Oh, sorry, man. I, like, grabbed it off the hook when I came in. My name’s Teddy.”

  “Well, Teddy, I’m looking for some kind of tool to cut up some branches.”

  “Tree branches? Like you’re going to trim a tree?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How thick are the branches?”

  Norberto thought for a second.

  “Like my arm.”

  Teddy reached for Norberto’s arm. Norberto took an instinctive step back. Teddy stopped and pulled out a tape measure.

  “I need to measure.”

  Norberto held out his arm. He couldn’t help but flex his muscle, trying to make the arm thick like the fat guy’s.

  Teddy took the measurement and calculated.

  “You’re going to need a chain saw, man. There’s, like, no other way.” Teddy pointed Norberto over to where several chain saws were displayed.

  . . .

  Norberto studied them, trying to figure out which one would be powerful enough to do the job quickly. From the descriptions on the boxes these things could sever the leg off an elephant in a matter of seconds.

  Norberto looked around for Teddy. He saw Bob bouncing on his toes, as nervous as a little kid on the first day of school. Bob kept picking up stuff—a weed whacker, a lawn sprinkler, a leaf blower—and putting them back on the shelf.

  “Roberto. Tranquilo.”

  Bob came over.

  “Sorry. I’m just excited about tonight.”

  Norberto nodded sagely.

  “Felicia.”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait.”

  “Well, first we got some work to do, vato.”

  Bob looked at the chain saws. His face fell.

  “Us? You and me?”

  Norberto nodded.

  “Nosotros.”


  Norberto studied Bob’s face. Now was the time when most people turned and ran. But Bob didn’t.

  “Yeah, but we’re not going to kill him, right? We’re going to take him to the hospital after we get his arm, right?”

  Norberto looked at Bob.

  “We won’t kill him, okay? Promise?”

  Norberto held up his hand like a Boy Scout.

  “I’m not going to kill him, I promise.”

  Bob smiled, relieved. Then he had a thought.

  “It’s going to get messy. We should get some plastic ponchos and a couple of tarps.”

  Norberto smiled.

  “Seguro, Roberto, seguro.”

  . . .

  Larga was still dreaming, but his dream began to take on an unpleasant and painful buzz. It was his arm. His arm was being stung by bees, hundreds of them. Poking away with their little stingers, pumping bee venom until his arm began to swell up to Elephant Man proportions. It was horrible. Swelling until it seemed like it would explode.

  Larga bolted awake. He looked at his arm and was shocked to see raw and slightly scabby tattoos. He looked around the room. He realized that he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.

  He looked at his arm again. He made a fist and saw the word Hola appear as his fingers came together. Larga was confused. Why would he write a Spanish greeting on his knuckles? He twisted his arm in the light. Aside from some minor crosses and dots, stuff that looked like gang markings, the main feature on his arm was a stunning naked woman with a man performing cunnilingus on her. How did that get there? He didn’t remember going to a tattoo parlor. In fact, he didn’t remember much at all.

  Larga had never wanted a tattoo. He’d never even been remotely interested in tattoos. But he had to admit, aesthetically speaking, whoever had done this was a fine artist. The expressiveness of line, the play of ink in skin, it was beautiful. It changed him. Hola.

  He stood up, wobbly at first, and walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled up his sleeve and flexed his muscle. It hurt, the skin still tender, but it gave him an aura of toughness. A raw animal quality. He knew it was ridiculous, a tattooed cookbook author, but maybe this was a side of him that no one would know about. A hidden wild side. A leather jacket, big boots, mirrored sunglasses version of him. He could get a Harley and go out on Sundays, smoke cigars in roadhouses, show everyone his nasty tattoo.

  But before he could do that, he had to figure out where he was and what was going on.

  . . .

  Martin sat in front of the television and lit a joint. Events, he realized, had gotten out of hand. Normally the criminal enterprise ran like a well-oiled machine. Goods and services were provided. The cash flowed. Simple. Easy. Nothing more complex than the business models he’d created as a project in his first year of graduate school.

  As he held in a toke, Martin mused about how he had come up with all these labyrinthine money-laundering schemes, with layer upon layer of legitimate businesses funneling excess cash to dummy corporations in the Bahamas. He had spent weeks figuring it out, building it up until it was solid. Rock fucking solid. Of course, Esteban didn’t get it. Esteban understood business at the most basic level. The Paleolithic model. The sophisticated structures that Martin concocted, with their rococo flourishes of multiple retirement accounts in four countries, were simply over Esteban’s head.

  Old-school criminal enterprise only worked as long as it was under the radar. Once the feds caught on to what you were doing, they’d dedicate themselves to raining shit on you. But Esteban didn’t care. He would rather keep the money in a vault in the basement. Never mind that the IRS could drag him into court for tax evasion. Take away the vault of cash, the safe house, the other house, the car, the satellite phone, everything. Clean him out like a fucking rainbow trout. Leave him on the street with twelve dollars and an old pair of shoes.

  Then Esteban would wish he’d listened. Then he’d want those legit businesses for the tax shelters they provided. Keep his ass out of jail. Even if he went to jail he’d still have beaucoup bucks waiting for him when he got out. He wouldn’t end up some haggard old busboy clearing tables at El Chavo.

  Martin stubbed the roach out on the side of the coffee table and kicked back. He thought about his parents. They never listened to him. They had a plan for him. They pulled the strings. He’d never realized before just how fucking controlling they’d been. They told him what schools to go to, what friends to have. If they didn’t like his girlfriend, he’d get a new one. They wanted him to get an MBA, he got one. But did they ever once listen to what he wanted? Did Esteban? Did anyone listen to him?

  Martin chuckled to himself. He had done all right so far. He lived his life so that he didn’t have to do what he didn’t want to do. He didn’t want to wear a suit. He didn’t want to work in some corporate tower. He didn’t want to help anyone get rich except himself. It was pretty cushy, he had to admit.

  Martin’s brain traipsed through the wonderland of his life, until it returned to the current mess. Events had gotten out of hand. Things were out of control. Amado had freelanced and created a problem. The arm was a problem. The police were a problem. Bob was a problem. The fat guy they’d kidnapped and tattooed was a problem. There were lots of fucking problems. Problems that threatened to take down Martin’s cushy life. Things had to be taken care of. Decisions had to be made.

  Maybe Esteban was right. The quickest way from point A to point B is a straight line. Martin liked the logic of that. The simplest way to deal with all these problems would be to line everyone up against a wall and shoot them. Then burn the house to the ground.

  Sometimes messy problems require messy solutions.

  . . .

  Larga tiptoed to the door of his room and slowly turned the knob. He expected it to be locked and was a little frightened when it turned all the way and opened. His heart began to beat quicker. He stood frozen, the door cracked, listening. He heard the murmur of a television and the distinct sound of a man snoring. He opened the door just enough for him to fit though, about halfway. Even with wall-to-wall carpeting, the floorboards of the house creaked and squealed as he tried to sneak down the hall. It was excruciating. As if he were accompanied by the UCLA marching band.

  In the living room he saw a young white man watching television. Larga couldn’t be sure if the man was awake or asleep, but the stench of marijuana was so strong Larga was certain that he was stoned. Larga decided to try the back door. He crept around toward the kitchen. The sound of snoring resonated from one of the other bedrooms in the house. Larga peeked into the bedroom and saw a large dark figure laid out on the bed.

  Holding his breath, his heart ready to seize up, his bowels urging him to shit, his bladder throbbing, Larga crept into the kitchen. He blew a silent sigh of relief when he found the kitchen empty. He looked around for a phone. His plan was to make a quick call to 911 and then run out the back door and down the street as fast as he could.

  Then he heard the car pull into the driveway. Cold sweat erupted from his forehead. He wanted to grab the phone, but there wasn’t time. He saw a small broom closet against the far wall and quickly climbed inside.

  He’d barely gotten the door closed when two men carrying a chain saw entered the kitchen. He heard the Mexican man speak to the Anglo.

  “I’m going to need a beer before we do this.”

  “I’m going to need a couple.”

  He heard the fridge open and the distinct phisst of two twist-offs being popped.

  When the two men left the kitchen, Larga made his move. He opened the broom-closet door and stepped out. He looked around and, suddenly, felt very lucky. In the middle of the kitchen table, on top of a brand-new chain-saw box, was a set of car keys.

  Larga grabbed the keys and slipped out the back door.

  Night had fallen and the darkness wrapped around him and comforted him as he fumbled with the keys. He saw a Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway. The distinctive key was easy to find on
the chain.

  He opened the door and slid in, making sure to lock it behind him. No more surprises. Now he was in control. He figured he’d go straight to the nearest police precinct and tell them what had happened. He realized he needed the address, but that would be easy enough once he got going.

  He knew that once he started the car, he’d have to move quickly. They, whoever they were, were not going to be happy. They might chase him. They might shoot at him. But they wouldn’t catch him. He was determined. He was escaping. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. You can’t kidnap Max Larga.

  Larga realized that he was experiencing a feeling he’d never felt before. He felt exhilarated. Alive. Like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Only Larga would be pulling away in style. He’d always wanted a Mercedes. He wondered if they’d let him keep the car as a trophy. A fuck-you to the bad guys who’d kidnapped him. He looked down at his tattoo and smiled. Today was turning out all right.

  He slid the key into the ignition and realized that he’d never even driven a Mercedes. This was going to be a treat.

  You just don’t fuck with Max Larga. He’d always thought that, proving it in little ways, winning the picayune disputes with his editors. He’d always managed to get even somehow. They didn’t think the American public was ready for portabello mushrooms. What the fuck did they know? He’d write an article detailing the texture, the taste, the sensual delights of portabellos, and the next thing you know every supermarket in the country had to have them. It was the same with crème fraîche. You think it’s just sour cream from France? No. It’s crème fucking fraîche, buddy. It’s different. It’s a whole other thing.

  He’d fought these battles and won. He’d proved them wrong. He’d proved them wrong again and again. Now he was proving these guys wrong.

  You just don’t fuck with Max Larga.

  His heart pounded in his chest, his palms were clammy, and yet he couldn’t suppress a genuine smirk as he put his foot to the gas and turned the key. For a brief moment he thought the car had a dead battery. Why wasn’t it turning over?

  Then he felt the pain.

  He tried to speak, but only heard a small gurgle. Something cold had entered his body and he could feel his warmth draining out of him.