Moist: A Novel

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Moist: A Novel Page 15

by Mark Haskell Smith


  Maura picked up the gun. It was surprisingly heavy.

  “I got it in a slightly smaller version called a Centurion. That’s what some of the female police officers are using.”

  Maura pushed down on a lever and the pistol sprang together with a vicious snap.

  “Yikes.”

  “Just keep your fingers clear. That sucker can pinch like the devil.”

  Maura didn’t like the gun, it had no personality.

  “I want a more old-fashioned-looking gun.”

  “Like a cowboy gun?”

  “Like the detectives carry in the movies.”

  “I gotcha.”

  He pulled out a Colt Detective Special. A snubby little pocket revolver with a two-inch barrel. It was not inspiring. Maura held it like it was a dead fish.

  “Do you have something a little . . . bigger?”

  “Surely.”

  He pulled out a Colt Anaconda and plopped it on a felt pad. Now, this was a gun. Shiny and silver with a long nine-inch barrel and a big wooden grip.

  “It’s heavy. You might have trouble getting a good shot off with this one.”

  “It’s really pretty.”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, it’s a good-looking pistol. Effective, too. Six-shot. Combat-style finger grooves. Full-length ejector-rod housing, ventilated barrel rib, because you got yourself a real long barrel there, wide-spur hammer, stainless steel.”

  The more he described the gun, the sexier it sounded. Maura could feel her pulse quicken, her palms getting sweaty, as she held the pistol in her hands.

  “How much?”

  “Six hundred bucks.”

  Maura was surprised. That wasn’t expensive for such an incredible machine.

  “I’ll take it.”

  The helpful employee looked at her.

  “Can I be honest?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re not going to be able to shoot this too good. It’s just too damn big for your pretty little hands.”

  Maura didn’t care about shooting the gun.

  “I just like the way it looks.”

  “There’s lots of guns that’d be good for you to shoot. They’re pretty too.”

  “I want this one.”

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  Maura smiled at him.

  “I’m happy.”

  . . .

  Bob couldn’t believe it. It was just like on TV. Two detectives had picked him up at the office and driven him down to Parker Center. They hadn’t said anything at all in the car. The ride was taken in complete silence. Then he was whisked up an elevator and brought here, to this small interrogation room.

  Bob sat at a cruddy institutional table on a metal folding chair. Fluorescent lights hummed down from the ceiling. There wasn’t a window, only some kind of see-through two-way mirror on one wall. Stale air drifted in through a vent.

  The detective sat on the other side of the table drinking a cup of coffee. Bob watched the detective as he wrote down information on a notepad. He was trying to put some kind of chronology together.

  “And after you confronted her at her office?”

  “It wasn’t a confrontation. We were just talking.”

  “Okay. What did you do after you talked?”

  “Drove around.”

  “Where?”

  “Hollywood. Up Laurel Canyon and down into Studio City.”

  “Did you stop anywhere?”

  “I think I stopped at Starbucks.”

  “Which Starbucks would that be?”

  “I don’t know. There’s, like, a million of them.”

  Although the questioning was thorough, even intense at times, Bob never felt too nervous. He didn’t sweat or tremble. He did sometimes hesitate, but he wasn’t cocky or cool. He had just the right level of nervousness. He wanted to appear a little nervous. After all, even a completely innocent individual gets anxious around the police.

  “Was this in the Valley?”

  Bob nodded.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  The detective made a note.

  “During this time were you under the influence of alcohol or drugs?”

  “I’m not a drunk driver, okay?”

  The detective looked at him.

  “I don’t care if you were, I just want to know.”

  Bob sighed.

  “I’d had a couple of drinks.”

  “What kind of drinks?”

  “Tequila.”

  “Where did you drink the tequila?”

  “In my car.”

  “You were driving around drinking tequila in your car.”

  “I was parked.”

  “Do you recall where you were parked?”

  “Some street somewhere.”

  “In Studio City?”

  “Burbank, I think.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I fell asleep.”

  “In your car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that you had things to deliver?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I was upset.”

  “You were upset.”

  “Yeah, and I didn’t want to work.”

  “You could’ve driven back to the lab and asked for the day off.”

  Bob nodded.

  “I wish I’d thought of that.”

  The detective made more notes in his notepad. Bob gave him a very sincere look.

  “I’m sorry if I messed up something. I didn’t mean to.”

  The detective kept his expression serious.

  “You’ve hampered a very important murder investigation.”

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You knew it was something to be delivered to the police, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why wouldn’t that be important?”

  Bob hung his head.

  “I see your point. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s a little late for ‘sorry,’ Bob.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bob wondered why the detective was working alone. Two guys had picked him up. If this was the bad cop, Bob wanted to see the good cop in action. The one who’d be sympathetic to Bob’s emotional distress. Of course, if this was the good cop and the other one was going to come in and break his arm . . . it was fine just having the one detective.

  “So you didn’t return to the office after five or go home. You kept the car. Did you spend the night in the car?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I stayed in a motel.”

  “Where? Do you remember?”

  How could he forget.

  “The TraveLodge in Glendale.”

  The detective wrote that down and then gave Bob a very hard look.

  “I’m going to check this out. Anything you want to change about your story?”

  Bob looked him right in the eyes.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The detective was pressing, trying to get in Bob’s face, rattle his cage. He succeeded. Bob lost his temper and began to rant.

  “Hey, man, I’m sorry I didn’t make the delivery on time. Okay? I’m really sorry. But I have a life too. I had problems and I had to deal with them. Okay? So before you go judging me, think about what you’d do if your girlfriend dumped you. All right?”

  . . .

  Don watched as a uniformed officer escorted Bob out of the interrogation room. There was something about Bob that bothered Don. He couldn’t be sure if it was because Bob was Maura’s ex-boyfriend. It was possible that Don’s feelings for Maura were contaminating his impression of Bob. But it seemed to him that Bob’s response was just a little too contrived. Don had seen it before. People who think they know how the police think they should respond. Not overly dramatic, not overly detached. It was a kind of response that people had whe
n they were guilty and had watched too many cop shows.

  Don told Bob that he was going to have to sit tight while he checked out his story. Bob had protested about being held without being under arrest; that is, until Don had started to oblige him with obstruction-of-justice charges.

  Don didn’t know why people got all pissed off about being held. If they were innocent, you’d think they’d want to be cooperative. But he knew from experience that the innocent ones always put up the biggest stink about hanging out in the precinct. And Bob had put up a big stink.

  Still, it wouldn’t be long, all it would take was a visit to the TraveLodge in Glendale and he’d know the truth. If Bob was lying, this gave Don the license and leverage to turn up the heat, tighten the screws, and really fuck with the guy.

  . . .

  Martin sat in the backyard smoking a jumbo. Like a mantra, the words No guts, no glory kept rolling through his head. You had to break some eggs to make an omelette. You had to roll a joint before you could smoke it. No guts, no glory. One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

  Norberto came out into the backyard. He was drinking a beer. Martin offered him the joint, but he shook his head and said, “I’m having second thoughts about the plan.”

  Martin blinked. This was just so fucking typical. A few wispy clouds drifted along, violently white against the intense blue sky. He turned to Norberto.

  “No guts, no glory.”

  “What?”

  “No guts, no glory.”

  Norberto nodded like he understood.

  “Yeah, but what if it backfires? Nos chingamos, man.”

  “It won’t backfire. It’s airtight.”

  “I don’t know, man. You’re counting on something that could easily fuck up.”

  “What?”

  “Las placas.”

  “The police?”

  “Yeah, man. You’re counting on the fucking jalapeños to come and arrest everybody. What if they don’t?”

  “They will.”

  Norberto shook his head.

  “If they were so good, they’d have busted us by now.”

  Martin turned on Norberto; he couldn’t hide his anger.

  “They don’t have anything to bust us for. And you know why? Because of me. Because I make the plans. I launder the money. I take care of the legal shit. That’s why.”

  “Or we’re just lucky.”

  The roach burned Martin’s finger. The pain short-circuited his anger. He stood there for a beat as his synapses bounced around like Ping-Pong balls in that bouncy air-blower machine they use to pick the Lotto numbers. Finally, everything settled back into place. He stubbed the roach out on the ground and fixed his gaze on Norberto. Norberto’s sudden reluctance was killing his buzz.

  “You’re just scared.”

  “Maybe, man. Maybe.”

  “I’ll watch your back.”

  Norberto drained his beer.

  “The people we’re up against, they don’t bother sneakin’ up behind you, man.”

  . . .

  Bob sat in the holding cell with a couple of other men. It was drab and smelly. His cellmates, one a ferocious-looking Vietnamese teenager, the other a burly Latino in his thirties, were stretched out on the hard benches. The Vietnamese boy looked slightly green, with a slick sheen of cold sweat covering his body, like he was going through some kind of jones for a sack of glue. The Latino just lay there like a boned chicken. They seemed resigned to whatever the Fates had in store.

  Bob figured that the detective had him put in the cell to intimidate him, get him to crack, but the only threatening thing he could see was an exposed toilet that sat in the corner.

  It was threatening because Bob had to piss. His bladder had swollen beyond the normal limits it might reach when stuck in traffic. It had grown from a dull reminder to a sharp, aching throb. His kidneys were even getting into the act, sending searing bolts of pain through his lower back. But Bob couldn’t bring himself to urinate. He was intimidated.

  There was no sound in the cell. No talking, no radio. Bob’s pee would be the only source of news and entertainment in the room. Bob knew that if he got up and just trickled, he would be sodomized by noon. But if he got up and let loose a powerful and impressive stream, they’d back off. They wouldn’t fuck with him. It was performance anxiety of a whole new kind.

  A single tear welled up in Bob’s eye and ran down his cheek. His bladder was screaming for release. He had no idea how much longer he might be held, it could be hours, but he did know that if he didn’t stand and deliver, he was going to wet himself. That wouldn’t be good.

  Bob stood and quietly padded over to the steel toilet. He lifted the lid and slowly unzipped. He was glad he had his back to his cellmates as his penis turtled into his pants. It just wouldn’t stick its head out. Bob was reluctant to tug on his dick too much. He didn’t want them to think he was jacking off. He carefully pulled his penis out and held it with his right hand.

  Nothing happened. He tried to relax. He thought about Felicia, walking though a park, a trip to the beach, anything to take him away from this stinky cell, these two guys, this shiny toilet, and this unbearable pain.

  He took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

  And then it began. It started softly. As if his fears were now about to become reality. But the sheer volume of urine in his body kept that from happening. It slowly gained power and momentum. Bob’s entire posture shifted. Another tear ran down his cheek. It was as if he had been holding his breath for a year and now he could take in some fresh air. His penis hung out bravely, looking and sounding much larger than it ever had before. Bob smiled.

  He was pissing like a racehorse.

  . . .

  Don came back from the TraveLodge in Glendale and found the envelope on his desk. Flores sat at the next desk reading the sports page.

  “When did this get here?”

  “While you were out.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “And spoil the surprise?”

  Don ripped open the envelope and looked at the report.

  “Who the hell is Max Larga?”

  Flores shrugged.

  “You’re the detective.”

  . . .

  Bob was showing his tattoo to the Latino man in the holding cell when Don came down for him. Bob knew his story would hold up. He had made small talk with the clerk at the TraveLodge when he checked out. Now he listened as Don told him that he was being released but that the LAPD would reserve the right to press obstruction-of-justice charges at a later time if they found him uncooperative or lying or complicit. It was just so much blah, blah, blah. Bob nodded. Getting out of there was his primary concern. They were starting to serve a lunch of creamed corn and some kind of meat patty. The smell was nauseating, overpowering, like boiled dog food. Even though it brought up a slight gag reflex it was also, strangely, making his stomach growl.

  As they were leaving the holding area, Don turned to him.

  “Does the name Max Larga ring any bells?”

  “Who?”

  “Max Larga.”

  Bob appeared thoughtful.

  “No. Sorry.”

  Don handed him his business card.

  “If you do remember who he is, or think of anything, let me know. Okay?”

  Bob took the card.

  “Sure.”

  . . .

  Martin walked into the house. Amado lay snoring on the sofa, the TV still rattling away in Spanish. Norberto had gone back to his apartment. Martin walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside, wrapped in Saran Wrap, was Amado’s arm. In the harsh light of the fridge it looked like a leftover sandwich or something. Martin blinked at it through his sensimilla-tinted eyeballs. He saw a jar of pickles and had to have one. He stood, with the door open, and fished an icy pickle out of the jar. The cold crunch and briny taste snapped him back to his mission. No guts, no glory.

  As he chewed on the pickle and looked at t
he severed arm, Martin heard voices in his head: his parents urging him to finish business school and get that MBA; his friends bragging about mergers and acquisitions; even his old swim team coach in high school. They all said the same thing. Make something of yourself. Be a winner.

  Martin put the pickles back, grabbed the arm, secured the plastic around it, and scurried out of the house.

  Sixteen

  DON WATCHED AS Bob punched the button for the elevator. He watched as Bob looked around nonchalantly, like he visited a police station every day. He watched as Bob picked at his fingernails, looked at his feet, and practically jumped out of his skin when the elevator finally arrived.

  The sensation, an unpleasant gnawing feeling, started in the pit of his stomach. Don felt it build and rise up into his chest. It was his instinct telling him that something was not kosher. He smelled a rat.

  Bob had been too uninterested in Larga. Studiously casual. Just like when he was waiting for the elevator. Don saw how Bob was bouncing in his shoes. Did he think he’d gotten away with something?

  Don checked himself. Could it be that he was jealous of Bob? After all, Bob had been Maura’s boyfriend. She had chosen to move in with him. They lived together. Something Don had not yet managed to accomplish. She must’ve loved Bob at some point. Don realized that he didn’t know her that well. She had shared her life with Bob, a man who couldn’t be more different from Don. If she’d done that, what did she see in Don? Maybe she had matured. Learned a lesson living with a slacker gadfly like Bob. Maybe now she wanted a grown-up man. Stable, honest, and hardworking. Yeah, that was it. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  But Don was annoyed. His feelings for Maura had put the whammy on his instincts. He reminded himself that he’d worked too hard to let this investigation get away from him. He needed to be fully focused. He needed to scrutinize every detail. Look for inconsistencies. Make connections between disparate incidents. Piece the puzzle together.

  Don’s fully focused, steel-trap policeman’s mind drifted for a moment. A flash of Maura’s breasts, golden in candlelight and heaving in unison, shook him. He needed another doughnut.

  . . .

  Bob walked out of Parker Center and into the deep orange glare of a Los Angeles sunset. He felt great. Energized. On top of the world. He’d survived a police interrogation and actually pulled it off. God, was it making him horny.

 

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