Ten
THE ARM LAY unwrapped on the kitchen table. The three men stood there staring at it, looking slightly awestruck and puzzled. They obviously weren’t used to limbs and organs like Bob was. Bob didn’t care about the arm. He held a bag of frozen peas against the lump on his head and gingerly sipped a Coke.
“I feel nauseous. I think you gave me a concussion.”
The ponytail guy smiled at him.
“Sorry, cabrón. Had to knock you out. You might be a kung fu master or something. Couldn’t take no chances, man.”
Bob understood. It made him feel a little better. He even felt slightly flattered: a kung fu master? Right on. But now he found himself in a strange position. Was he kidnapped? Were they going to kill him? Should he try to escape? He really didn’t know the answer.
The older Mexican guy took a rubber spatula and nudged the arm.
“I never realized he had so many tattoos.”
The white guy spoke.
“The police will know that there are tattoos on the arm. We have to find out where he got them done.”
The ponytail guy disagreed.
“First we need an arm.”
Bob twitched with alarm as the older guy turned toward him.
“He’s got two.”
Bob shook his head.
“No way, man! No fucking way!”
The older Mexican gave Bob a menacing look. Bob shifted gears.
“C’mon man, my arm does not look anything like that arm.”
Bob winced as the Mexican grabbed his arm and roughly jerked him so that his arm was next to Amado’s severed arm. Side by side it was easy to see that Bob was right. The severed arm was dark, hairy, and muscular. A man’s arm. Bob’s arm looked pale, sickly even. An intellectual boy’s arm. No amount of tattooing was going to change that. The Mexican looked at Bob.
“You a faggot?”
Bob shook his head.
“No.”
“You got a faggot’s arm.”
Bob didn’t respond. He didn’t agree, of course. The gay men he knew were extremely buff, muscular, and handsome. His arm didn’t look gay at all.
The older Mexican turned to the ponytail guy.
“Find him.”
Bob was amazed. The guy with the ponytail just nodded and split. Bob realized that this older, scary Mexican guy was some kind of juiced-up Godfather or something. Why else would a Mexican in a toupee have some clean-cut white guy hanging around with him and be bossing some tough young hombre around like he was a five-year-old? Bob was in some kind of shit. That much was obvious.
Amado sat up in bed watching television. He’d gotten into one of the soap operas, enjoying the backstabbing, lying, and cheating of the characters. It was familiar turf, though he couldn’t understand why young Jax didn’t take a fucking shotgun to that evil bitch Helena after what she did to Francesca. Maybe Jax just was some kinda fucking huele-pedos quebrachón. Amado would’ve shoved both barrels up Helena’s ass and pulled the trigger. Let the jodida pendeja have it. ¡Qué te jodas!
He often found himself shouting at the TV. Attempting to warn someone not to sell their shares in the overseas corporation because it was a trap. A scam. Don’t do it! ¡Cuidado! He’d scream and shout, sometimes waving his arm around frantically, trying to warn them, and then realizing he didn’t have an arm anymore. Still it felt like it was there. Qué raro.
He was happy to see Norberto when he came into the cheap motel room. Norberto was carrying a greasy brown paper bag. He handed it to Amado.
“How you feeling?”
“How you think?”
Amado opened the bag and was hit by a rich pungent aroma. He broke into a grin.
“¿Carnitas?”
“Carnitas pibil.”
“Qué bueno.”
Norberto sat down on the end of the bed and watched as Amado pulled one of the foil-wrapped tacos out of the bag and struggled with one hand to unwrap it. Norberto made no move to help.
“Do you miss your arm, man?”
“I dream about my fucking arm.”
“We got it, you know.”
Amado stopped what he was doing.
“What?”
“We got your arm, man. You should see it.”
“What’re you doing with my fucking arm, pendejo?”
“Keeping it from las placas, maricón.”
Amado glared at Norberto. Smart-ass little fucker.
“Esteban has my arm?”
“Sí.”
“Qué bárbaro.”
Amado shook his head and went back to unwrapping the taco. He eventually got the taco out and jammed half of it into his mouth. He chomped down on it, grease and salsa spraying out of his lips. Norberto smiled at him.
“¿Quieres cerveza?”
Amado nodded, a big smile on his face. He was moved by his friend who cared enough to bring tacos and beer. A tiny tear formed in the corner of his left eye. Norberto reached into a grocery bag and pulled out a cold can of Modelo Especial. He popped the can and handed it to Amado.
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Amado took a long pull on the cold beer and then let out a blistering belch. The air was suddenly scented with pork, chilies, and beer. Norberto turned to Amado, serious.
“Esteban needs you, man.”
“Needs to kill me.”
“No. Stuff’s come up. It’s important.”
Amado looked at Norberto and realized that things had changed. Norberto had moved up in the world, taking direct orders from El Jefe, Esteban himself.
“I thought you were mi vato.”
“It’s not like that, man. Esteban needs you. He’s not gonna kill you.”
“That’s what he told you.”
“That’s what I know.”
Amado studied Norberto. He figured that the punk was probably packing a nine, or worse, that fucking.38 snubby he liked to carry because he saw it in a movie and thought it looked real cool and vintage.
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
Amado shrugged.
“Vale.”
Esteban was watching Chivas play Morelia on Channel 55 when Norberto and Amado walked into the safe house. Martin was talking to the delivery guy, Bob something, in the kitchen, trying to learn more about how to keep the arm preserved. The last thing Esteban wanted in his house was some fuchi arm stinking up the place. Esteban stood to greet Amado.
“Cabrón. ¿Qué onda?”
“You tell me.”
The two men stared at each other. Esteban suddenly felt unsure of what he was supposed to do. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to. What had Amado been up to at Carlos Vila’s? Was it bad enough that Amado expected him to kill him? Esteban realized that he would have to deal with Amado one way or the other after he was clear of this mess. Sloppy murderers and freelancers were a liability. But he wasn’t going to do anything about it right now. Right now his main concern was to keep out of jail. So he just stood there looking at Amado. Finally Norberto broke the tension.
“Amado? You want to see your arm?”
Amado turned to Norberto.
“Yeah.”
Bob couldn’t believe it when the one-armed dude came into the kitchen. Bob knew it was the arm’s owner because this guy was covered in similar tattoos. Women with huge erect tits, men taking them from behind. Voluptuous and busty women with wild tangled hair going down on muscular biker-looking guys, sucking their long hard cocks. And that was just what he could see on the guy’s one arm and poking out of his shirt around his neck and chest. It was like the Kama Sutra for Hell’s Angels scattered all over the guy’s body. Bob was fascinated. He wanted to say something to the guy, but he was mean-looking, not scary like the older one, just mean, and Bob really didn’t want to be punched in the stomach again, or hit on the head, or worse, so he didn’t say anything. He watched as the mean-looking one-armed dude opened the cooler and lifted out his arm.