Larga checked the mascarpone. It was room temperature, perfect to mix with the egg whites. He worried about whether this ingredient was too exotic. Would this recipe get cut out with a simple “You can’t get that in Kansas City”? He shrugged, knowing he’d burn that bridge when he got to it. Right now he just wanted to see if his simplified version would be edible. That and he had to get ready to see his masturbation coach that afternoon.
Norberto hated the safe house. He avoided staying there for any stretch of time and only came out when he had to. Not that it was uncomfortable. On the contrary, it was a model suburban home furnished with an entire suite of Ethan Allen furniture, everything bought and delivered at once, a kind of instant house. But Norberto didn’t like sitting on the chairs or sleeping in the beds. He was never relaxed in the house because it all seemed so unreal, like a dream house. Every Mexican’s dream of life in El Norte, only fake.
It was in a section of the Valley considered to be nice and safe. But Norberto didn’t feel safe in Encino. He felt that he stuck out too much around all of the upper-middle-class white people in their SUVs, with their two kids and their big dogs. Like he and Amado were a couple of flies on a big dish of vanilla ice cream. But even if he felt uncomfortable, the neighbors were friendly. They stopped by to say hello, always asking what Norberto had been doing, where they’d gone, etc. Was it nosy or normal? Norberto didn’t know. He was always circumspect, sticking to the story Esteban had given him. He and Amado were cousins, they owned a papaya ranch near Guadalajara, they traveled all over the United States trying to convince people that Mexican papayas were superior to Hawaiian.
The last thing Norberto ever wanted to be was some kind of fucking fruit salesman. But that was the cover story and so that’s what he was when he was at the house. Mr. Mexican Papaya. Carajo. He hated it. But Esteban insisted that it was the best place to stash the large amounts of drugs, and then later, the huge amounts of cash that kept them living the life. Sometimes they’d let someone, an affiliate from out of town, stay there, but they’d never kidnapped someone and brought him here. What would the neighbors say if they heard screaming?
Bob felt the car stop, the engine turn off. He heard the door open and close. He braced himself. What the fuck was going on? Then he heard a garage door being closed. Then… nothing. They were just leaving him in the trunk. And man, did he have to pee.
Esteban entered the safe house. He smiled broadly. Clean, ordered, plush. This house was why thousands of hardworking and honest people risked their lives crossing the border to come to America. This was the goal. This was the Alhambra. Esteban had moved on from this slice of suburban heaven, but he still appreciated its power. The American Dream as potent as ever.
He turned to Martin.
“Get me a fucking Tylenol and then tell me again why I shouldn’t kill the driver.”
Martin walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water while Esteban gingerly, a sharp pain racing up and down his spine, stretched himself out on the couch. Martin handed the pills and glass to Esteban.
“Because we need him.”
“For what?”
“If the police suspect that the evidence has been tampered with they’ll mount a full-scale fuck-fest on us.”
“But, cabrón, that’s what they’re trying to do now.”
Esteban didn’t understand why the kid didn’t get it. He wasn’t asking the kid to kill the driver, Norberto would be happy to do it, so what was the problem? Why the sudden lack of cojones?
Esteban took the Tylenol and lay back on the couch. It occurred to Esteban that perhaps Martin was right. His plan was weird. Raro. But maybe that’s what they needed. If they could swap arms, make everything seem normal, then the heat would be off. But where would they find another arm? Esteban’s back began to throb.
“Go get the arm, let’s look at it.”
Bob was sweating. It was stuffy and hot in the trunk. Rivulets of perspiration were running off his head, filling his ears, dripping off his neck, soaking his shirt, causing his pants to stick to his legs. Even his fucking toes were wet with perspiration. Bob was sweating the death sweat. Cold fear delivering a weird fever to his body. Adrenal glands pumping overtime, heart pounding, a full-blown pedal-to-the-metal panic attack. Bob was sure that they’d thought he was dead. Killed by the knock to the head. They were going to leave him here to rot until the smell and sheer volume of flies alerted some good Samaritan or the mailman. Then the cops would break into the garage, pop the trunk, and find his withered and rotting carcass.
They might even think it was some bizarre suicide. Distraught over his breakup with Maura he drove to a secluded garage and locked himself in the trunk.
So he was surprised and relieved and scared shitless when he heard the garage door open. Then he heard a voice say, “Dude, we’re going to open the trunk. We have guns. Stay perfectly still or we’ll fucking toast you.”
Bob nodded. Then realized he needed to talk. His voice croaked.
“Okay.”
The trunk popped open quickly. Bob blinked. There they were. The two Mexican-looking guys who’d rear-ended him. Behind them a white guy about his age.
“Get out. Slow.”
Bob decided to reason with them as he climbed gingerly out of the trunk.
“Listen. Guys. It’s not my car. I don’t care about the dent.”
The young Mexican with the ponytail stuck a gun in Bob’s face.
“Don’t talk.”
The older one looked in the trunk at the two coolers. He turned to Bob. Bob couldn’t look in the man’s eyes. They were scary.
“Is the arm in the cooler?”
This caught Bob completely off guard.
“Arm? What arm?”
The older, scary Mexican punched Bob hard in the stomach. Bob doubled over, unable to breathe, feeling like his balls had just been shot out of a cannon.
“The arm you’re delivering to Parker Center.”
Oh.
Bob nodded at one of the coolers. The white guy looked at Bob sympathetically.
“Try to stand up, you’ll get your wind back faster.”
Bob nodded and tried. He was starting to see spots and floaters in his vision. He thought he might black out. But then short, painful spurts of breathing began. First in the top of his lungs, then slowly working their way down until he was almost breathing normally. Bob noticed that the lump on his head was throbbing again.
“Can I get an aspirin?”
The white guy nodded.
“There’s some Tylenol inside.”
The Mexican with the ponytail grabbed Bob’s arm and began to lead him into what looked like his parents’ house.
Maura entered her office and went right to the message machine. She played the messages and was disappointed that Bob hadn’t called. Maybe he was just playing a game with her, messing with her head a little. She knew that sometimes he just said stuff to get a reaction. But he’d seemed different this morning. Resolute. If Bob, the most liquid and malleable of personalities, could ever be called resolute. She smiled a little. Maybe her doing this was forcing Bob to grow up. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. She realized that she was ambivalent about leaving him. She didn’t really find his cock disgusting. She was just tired of him waving it in her face. She wanted him to be more sensitive. To listen to her. Was that asking too much?