Moist: A Novel

by Mark Haskell Smith

“You’re not a paralegal.”

  Esteban interrupted them.

  “It’s my client’s constitutional right to have a conference with his attorney.”

  Don smirked.

  “I know who you are, and if you think I’m leaving you alone with a federal witness, you’re mistaken.”

  Esteban persisted.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about. I have been retained to represent my client.”

  Bob watched as the detective stood up and got in Esteban’s face. The detective wore a kind of victorious smirk on his face. Bob was waiting for Esteban to wipe it off.

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know who you are? Do you honestly think I believe any of this? You’re done, my friend. Your goose is cooked.”

  The detective was convincing. Bob felt like caving. Admitting everything and throwing himself on the mercy of the court. He looked to Esteban. Esteban wasn’t about to yield to the detective’s tactics.

  “I just want you to realize that, if you persist with this wild accusation, anything this man says will not be allowed in court. You are not affording him his rights.”

  Maura interrupted.

  “Bob? What’s going on?”

  Bob shrugged.

  “I needed a second job. It costs a lot to move out. Set up a new apartment.”

  Esteban looked at Bob.

  “She’s my ex-girlfriend.”

  Esteban nodded.

  “I have heard so much about you.”

  Bob didn’t like that.

  “Not that much. I don’t talk about you that much.”

  The detective smiled at them.

  “I just want you to know one thing.”

  Esteban looked at him.

  “What is that?”

  Don leaned close to Esteban; you could tell from the way he delivered his line that he really got off on saying it.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  But before Esteban could reply, he was interrupted by two gunshots from the hallway. The detective pulled his pistol out and leveled it at the door. Esteban stepped back out of the way. He shot a quick glance over at Bob. The glance said, Relax. Wait.

  Bob stepped away from the door, out of the detective’s line of fire. The door burst open and Chino Ramirez stepped in, his gun pointed right at the detective.

  No one moved.

  Chino looked over at Esteban and Bob, surprised to see them here. He looked back at the detective.

  “Drop it.”

  “You drop it.”

  The detective was calm.

  “I am a police officer and I’m asking you to drop your weapon.”

  “No.”

  Bob realized he was watching a real old-fashioned Mexican standoff. Chino wasn’t going to put down his gun, the detective sure as hell wasn’t, and there was nothing anyone could do.

  Bob, whose arms and knees were actually trembling, looked across the room at Maura. She had a strange look in her eye.

  Chino’s eyes stayed glued to the detective. One twitch and he was going to pull the trigger. The detective’s face was calm, too relaxed, like he did this every day.

  And then.

  The blast was painfully loud in the small room. Bob flinched. Chino was gone, blown out the door by the shot. Bob watched as the detective, a quizzical expression on his face, turned toward Maura. Bob saw Maura standing there with a smoking gun in her hands and an excited smile on her face.

  “Did I get him?”

  The detective turned toward Esteban.

  “Don’t fucking move.”

  Esteban put his hands up in the air. Bob followed his lead.

  “Did I get him?”

  The detective looked out in the hallway.

  “Yeah. You got him.”

  Maura squealed.

  “Yes!”

  Maura ran to the door to take a look. Bob heard Esteban whisper.

  “Tranquilo, Roberto. Tranquilo.”

  He felt Esteban’s hand reach around under his jacket and remove the handgun. Esteban then slipped the gun into the detective’s jacket that was hanging on the chair.

  Bob turned his attention to Martin, who hadn’t said much of anything for a while. Martin’s face was white. His lips a bright blueberry blue. He wasn’t breathing. In fact, he was very very dead.

  “Esteban.”

  Esteban followed Bob’s look. He broke into a wry grin.

  “You see, Roberto, sometimes God smiles on us.”

  . . .

  Chino got out of his car and walked in through the loading dock in the back of the hospital. He knew that the police might be watching the front doors, and that they’d definitely be watching the door to the guy’s room.

  Chino felt bad that he’d failed Esteban. Esteban had provided for him and his brother. Had helped them come to LA. Set them up. Given them false green cards and lots of work. He’d given them something outside the scruffy dirtball life they’d had extorting and murdering in Mexico. Of course, they did the same things, you just got paid a lot better for it in the States.

  He was halfway to Juárez, listening to some kind of motivational speaker on the car radio, when he realized that the voice coming out of the dashboard was right. What’s the point of running from obstacles? There’s no growth in that. If he wanted to be successful in business, and in life, he needed to face his difficulties and overcome them.

  Besides, that fat fucker had killed his brother.

  Chino decided he’d have to shoot his way in, hopefully killing that fat guy with all the guns, whack the rat, and then shoot his way out. He’d have to overcome the obstacles that kept him from realizing his full potential.

  It was all pretty straightforward. He took the stairs, opened the door, and there was the fat guy reading a People magazine. Chino took out his gun, stepped out of the stairwell, and put two bullets into the fat guy’s heart before he even looked up.

  The real surprise came when Chino threw open the door to the room. He’d expected a cop or two in there. But it was a fucking fiesta. Esteban, some guy who was with Esteban, a cop, and some chica con pechos grandes.

  Chino quickly realized that he could turn this difficult situation into an opportunity. It wasn’t a single hit anymore. Now he’d have to kill the cop, the chick, and maybe the other guy. That’s four hits. He’d also do Esteban the favor of getting him out of a jam. Hombre, that motivational speaker guy was so right. Running from problems is never the answer.

  Chino took aim at the detective. He figured if he could squeeze a shot off and hit the guy in the head, well, then he wouldn’t have the muscle control or coordination to shoot back. He’d be dead.

  He had the detective’s forehead lined up when he heard the shot.

  It wasn’t like the movies, where the guy who gets shot looks around and then realizes he’s been hit. That’s bullshit. There is no mistaking a burning hot piece of metal ripping through your body at high speed.

  Chino felt himself roll backward, his legs not working anymore, and fall out of the room. He landed with a splat. He couldn’t tell if he’d landed in the fat guy’s blood or his own blood.

  It didn’t matter. He was dead.

  Twenty-two

  AMADO DIDN’T KNOW how long they’d kept him waiting. He’d always worn a watch on his other arm and it just felt weird to wear one now. He didn’t mind waiting. The lobby was nice. Very nice. Lots of magazines, lamps, and fancy telephones you could use for free. There were cushy sofas and funny-looking chairs with shiny metal legs and seats that looked like coffee-shop booths. A large potted ficus tree swayed as the air conditioner blasted cold, clean air into the room.

  Above the sofa was a series of photos. It was the cast of the telenovela. They looked fantastic, bigger than life. Amado hoped he’d get to meet a couple of them.

  A young woman with extremely long legs came into the lobby and handed him a tiny plastic bottle of mineral water from France. Amado smiled at her; he couldn’t help
admiring those legs—man, were they long.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada.”

  Amado wedged the bottle of water between his knees and carefully twisted the top off. He was about to take a sip when an anglo in a dark suit entered the lobby.

  “You must be Amado.”

  Amado did a quick juggling act, trying to put the water on the table, stand up, and shake hands all at once. He couldn’t believe how nervous he suddenly was.

  “Sí. Yes.”

  “I’m Stan. Thanks for coming down.”

  “No problem.”

  “Did they take care of you?”

  Amado picked up his water.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Follow me.”

  Stan spun on his heel and started walking at a quick and important pace. He led Amado through a doorway and into a large open area. There were assistants in cubicles in the middle. Important offices on both sides. The atmosphere was hushed, serious, and very businesslike. Amado realized that he hadn’t really known what to expect. But he hadn’t expected something so corporate.

  Stan was talking.

  “I gotta tell you, normally we don’t accept submissions without an agent. But you, sir, you’ve got friends in high places.”

  “I know some people.”

  “Well, we’re glad you do, because that script blew our minds.”

  Amado blinked. Stan continued.

  “It’s like you’re psychic.”

  Stan turned and they entered a conference room.

  “Take a seat.”

  Amado, from years of habit, sat facing the door. He gave Stan a curious look.

  “Did you like my script?”

  Stan laughed.

  “If I didn’t like it, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Amado felt a rush of relief.

  “Your script hit the nail on the head. It was inspirational.”

  “I like the show very much.”

  “That’s obvious. But, frankly, the show is in trouble. Ratings are declining. We’ve been having a series of discussions, did some focus groups, deep market research, and want to tweak the show in a slightly different direction.”

  Stan flopped into a chair and loosened his tie.

  “We didn’t know what that direction was until we read your script.”

  Amado was still processing the earlier information.

  “I don’t understand. People don’t like the show?”

  “It needs some edge.”

  “Edge?”

  “You know, some street. Some barrio. Reality with a big R. The kind of stuff you write. Gritty. That’s what the show needs. That’s what we’re looking for, and that’s why I want to offer you a job.”

  “A job?”

  “Yeah. You want to write for the show, right?”

  “Cierto.”

  “Well, we want you to join our staff.”

  Amado couldn’t believe his ears.

  “When?”

  Stan looked at him.

  “Can you start today? We can close a deal right after lunch.”

  “I don’t have an agent.”

  Stan looked at him.

  “A writer as good as you should have an agent.”

  Amado shrugged.

  “I’m just starting.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a friend in the Lit Department at ICM. She’ll take care of you. In fact, let’s conference her in now.”

  Stan hit a button on a star-shaped telephone sitting in the middle of the conference table.

  “Lois? Get Allie Williams on the phone. Tell her it’s important.”

  Stan looked up at Amado and smiled.

  “You, my friend, are going to be a big star in this business.”

  Amado sipped his water as the assistant at ICM put Stan on hold. Stan looked at him.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What happened to your arm?”

  . . .

  Don sat at his desk typing. There are clusterfucks and then there are clusterfucks. This, he realized, was the mother of all clusterfucks. The granddaddy of all fuckups. A Saddam Hussein supersized fuckup. And who was responsible for this royal fuckup?

  He was.

  Don checked his list. Two murders, the one that started this whole mess—Carlos Vila—and the sheriff in Palm Springs. The two police shootings, both ruled justifiable, of the Ramirez brothers. One death ruled an accidental drug overdose. One severed arm attributed to a missing, and presumed dead, cookbook author.

  Make that three murders.

  One severed arm belonging to an unknown individual.

  Four.

  No witnesses. No testimony. The only evidence seemingly useless. And, if the mumblings of a deranged drug addict were to be believed, it was all because of some new über-gangster named Roberto.

  Don wouldn’t admit it to his captain, he wouldn’t tell Flores or any of the other detectives working in his division, but he was worried. For the first time in his entire police career Don was worried. Whoever this Roberto was, he must be something else. Some kind of criminal mastermind. He had fucked with the LAPD. Brazenly. And they didn’t know the first thing about him.

  Don had done his best to find out. He’d kept Esteban and Bob in custody, trying to crack them. Trying to get something. He lied. He told Esteban that Bob had cracked and spilled everything. Did Esteban want to return the favor? He told Bob that Esteban had broken down and implicated him in a string of murders. Bob had laughed in the detective’s face.

  There was no evidence to hold them. He couldn’t even get them on simple gun possession charges. A couple of guns had mysteriously appeared in his jacket pockets, machinery wiped clean of fingerprints, like a trick by Siegfried and Roy. He couldn’t prove that Esteban or Bob had put them there. He couldn’t prove that they had conspired to do anything. He couldn’t prove shit.

  What was he going to charge them with? Impersonating an attorney? Pretending to be a paralegal? What was that? That was bullshit. And bullshit rarely holds up in court.

  Esteban and Bob had played it right, kept their mouths shut, hired a fancy lawyer and got out. The American legal system firing on all cylinders, working in all its crook-lovin’ glory.

  What a fucking mess.

  Don hung his head. He’d already heard rumblings that he would be bounced out of the Criminal Intelligence unit and back over to Homicide. Ugh. There is nothing worse than that. I’d rather be a traffic cop. Anything’s better than looking at dead bodies all day. Especially in the summertime.

  But Don wasn’t a quitter. He was down but not out. Even though it appeared that Esteban Sola had skipped the country, Don knew he’d be back and he vowed to bring him down. Esteban and this mystery man, Roberto. One of these days they’d slip up again and next time, he’d grab them by their balls and squeeze.

  Which is more than he could say about his balls. Since he’d broken off the, well, he couldn’t really call it a relationship—it was more of an unhealthy fling, a sick fuck—he’d reverted back to his old routine. He’d leave work and saunter through the downtown streets. Watching the people drain out of the area like it was some kind of old bathtub, until it was empty, just some scum and a few drips left.

  He might grab a taco or a little bag of fresh fruit with chili and lime from a cart on Broadway. He couldn’t afford to have appetizers or dinner at the wine bar so he always tried to eat something before he got there. Then he’d perch at the bar and let the vino tell him the truth. The version of the truth he wanted to hear.

  . . .

  Maura didn’t mind the gray sweatsuit. She didn’t mind the shouting of the instructor. She didn’t mind the slow jog up and down the hills of Elysian Park. In fact, she was smiling. She couldn’t help herself. Here she was, a cadet in the police academy. A year of training and she’d be out on the street. Working a beat.

  It was a good change for her. She hadn’t realized how burned out she�
�d gotten helping guys learn to jack off. Honestly, if they can’t come by the skills naturally, they ought to just forget about it. No one’s making you masturbate.

  She jogged in formation with the other cadets, a mix of men and women, Asians, Latinos, blacks, and anglos of various ages. The youngest was an eighteen-year-old Chinese girl, the oldest was a forty-two-year-old washed-up screenwriter. All of them were committing themselves to change. It was inspirational.

  Maura thought about her life. She hadn’t expected too much out of it. An interesting job, if she was lucky. A boyfriend. A couple of good vacations. Maybe get married and have a kid.

  She hadn’t expected to be opened up and turned inside out by life. She hadn’t expected new passions, obsessions even, to erupt out of her consciousness and explode fully formed into her world. She never even knew such things existed.

  Now that she’d had a taste of them, there was no turning back.

  . . .

  Esteban felt his weight cause the hammock to swing gently side to side. A breeze came off the ocean, smell-ing like very fresh salt. Even though it was chilly in the shade of the palmthatched umbrella thing—was it called a palapita?—the sand around him reflected the warmth of the sun.

  He could hear the clear blue waves crashing against the shore, gaviotas honking overhead, and the unmistakable sound of ice clinking in salt-rimmed glasses.

  Esteban shifted, the hammock bouncing, and turned toward the sound. He squinted against the glare and saw Lupe, looking guapísima in a fluorescent orange bikini, walking toward him carrying a couple of drinks. Esteban saw a glint of rainbow, the flash of a large diamond, flicker on her left hand. He smiled. He was enjoying being married.

  He took the drinks from her and tried to hold them steady as she eased her way into the hammock with him. He could feel the little grains of sand that had stuck to her body as she pressed herself close to him.

  They sipped their drinks in silence.

  There was nothing to say.

  . . .

  Felicia rolled over and looked Bob in the eyes. Bob shifted, turning so he could meet her gaze.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m just looking at you.”

  Bob smiled.

  “What do you see?”

  “I see a good man. A man who is trying to do the right thing even when he doesn’t always know what the right thing to do is.”