The fucking guy in the trunk just wouldn’t stop. Martin looked around. Esteban didn’t even seem to notice. Norberto was talking to Bob about rock en español. But it was really getting under Martin’s skin.
“Can we make him stop?”
Esteban turned to Martin, that fucking superior smile on his face.
“Is it bothering you?”
“I’m worried that someone might hear it.”
“And?”
“And know that we’ve got a guy locked in the trunk.”
Esteban nodded to Norberto and then turned back to Martin.
“Don’t worry so much.”
“That’s my job. I have to worry. Someone has to watch your back, Esteban.”
Esteban smirked again with that fucking superior smile, like he had to constantly prove that Latinos were better than whites.
“I have many people watching my back.”
The car pulled over and Norberto took a baseball bat from under the front seat and got out.
Then it was quiet.
Twelve
MAURA LOOKED AT her watch. Her client was half an hour late. He’d have to pay full price for the session. Maura didn’t appreciate noshows, her policy was that you had to give at least twenty-four hours’ notice to cancel. There was a knock at the door.
“You’re late.”
The words were out of her mouth before she realized that it wasn’t Larga but someone else. The man identified himself as a detective from the LAPD. Maura saw him quickly scan the room with his eyes.
“I’m not a whore. This is a legitimate business.”
“I’m not with Vice, so even if you are a whore, I don’t care. I want to ask you a few questions about your boyfriend.”
“Bob?”
The detective nodded.
“Can I sit?”
“Sure.”
Maura took the clean sheet off the chair and the detective settled in.
“Have you seen Bob today?”
“What has he done?”
“Nothing. We’re just looking for him.”
“If he hasn’t done anything, why are you looking for him?”
Maura watched the detective heave a sigh.
“Why is everybody so suspicious nowadays?”
Maura thought about that. She didn’t think Bob would do anything crazy, but then again he was acting really weird.
“We broke up.”
“Was it his idea?”
“It was mine.”
“Was he upset?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea where he might go? Who he might see when he’s upset?”
“Did you try the apartment?”
The detective sighed again.
“Of course.”
Maura thought. If Bob was in trouble, where would he go? It was funny, she realized, you could think you know someone really well, on a really intimate level, but when it came down to it, you didn’t know them at all. She turned to the detective and shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Does he have any hobbies? Anything he likes to do?”
“He likes his computer.”
“Does he frequent an Internet café, something like that?”
“Not that I know of.”
“When did you break up with him?”
“I told him last night that I couldn’t stand the sight of his penis.”
The detective gave her a funny look. Maura defended herself.
“I’m just sick of it. That’s not a crime.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“He told me he never wanted to see me again.”
Maura suddenly broke down and started sobbing. The detective reached over and handed her a box of tissues.
“I’ll never see him again.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Maura blew her nose. She didn’t know what she wanted. What she wanted changed every day. Who the fuck actually knows what they want? Does anybody? A show of hands?
“I guess.”
The detective was growing impatient, and shifted in the chair.
“What do you do here?”
“I’m a masturbation coach.”
She looked at the detective, expecting the reaction she always got, the disbelieving and dismayed bug-eyed jaw drop. Instead, he seemed genuinely intrigued.
“Yeah? Is that like some kind of therapy?”
Maura nodded.
“There are many ways to enhance the orgasmic experience. There are breathing and relaxation techniques, different kinds of grips and strokes. A couple of sessions can really improve the quality of your masturbation.”
The detective stood and extended his hand.
“Do you have a card?”
Esteban stood in the kitchen of the safe house. Greasy wrappers from a take-out meal were strewn on the counter. Esteban belched. Greasy food never went down easily for him. He preferred good Mexican food. Not the kind you found in crappy Mexican restaurants up here but the kind you found in Mexico. Fresh, with flavor. There were a few spots around Los Angeles that he liked. La Serenata de Garibaldi in East LA. Another place way the hell out in the Valley. But even the gringos knew about those places. Esteban belched again and popped a Tums. Maybe he should open his own restaurant, get that molé recipe from his madre. Restaurants were excellent businesses for laundering money.
The sudden stench of marijuana got his attention. He walked into the living room to find Bob, Martin, Norberto, and Amado all stoned and watching a tape-delayed soccer game from Guadalajara. Esteban was suddenly hit with a strong desire to go back to his own house and crawl into his Jacuzzi with Lupe and her natural breasts. There are times, he realized, when being an organized crime boss was a real fucking drag.
Esteban walked in and faced the men. Norberto held up a burning joint.
“¿Quieres tostar el churro, Esteban?”
“No.”
Esteban picked up the remote, and flicked off the TV. Amado groaned.
“Qué bárbaro.”
Esteban turned to Norberto.
“Did you call the tattoo man?”
Norberto carefully stubbed the joint out with his fingers.
“Sí.”
“¿Y? ¿Dónde?”
“I don’t know, man. No se.”
Amado looked up.
“He likes the caballo. We should go to his shop.”
Esteban sighed. Great. A fucking junkie tattoo artist. Esteban didn’t approve of drugs. Even if he made millions of dollars off their importation. People who took drugs couldn’t be trusted. They were weak. Easily turned by the federales.
The four men continued to stare at the TV even though it was off. That must be some hierba buena. Esteban growled.
“Vamos.”
Norberto was getting tired of being bossed around. Tired of driving Esteban around like he was some kind of fucking chauffeur. Here he was enjoying himself, minding his own business, watching TV with Amado and the gringos and… and El Patrón comes and kills the buzz.
Norberto lifted the lid of the trunk and checked on El Gordo. Dried blood was crusted in the guy’s hair where he had blasted him with the bat. This dude is fucking out, thought Norberto. But he was still breathing, that was a good thing. Norberto was relieved. He’d thought he killed the guy. All the excitement of the day, the tension of the situation, and then the fucking guy goes and starts banging the inside of the trunk. It really irritated Norberto. He didn’t mean to hit the guy so hard.
The delivery guy, Roberto, sat up front between Norberto and Amado. Norberto had grown to like the guy. He thought Roberto was cool, and smart too, smart like Martin. Maybe when Norberto was head of his own crew, he’d have a smart gringo giving him advice like Esteban did. Maybe he and Roberto could start a crew together after this was all over. That’d be sweet. It’s cool to have a gringo sidekick to boss around.