Bob was curious about the fat guy. He reached over and pulled a wallet out of the tracksuit. Esteban growled.
“What are you doing?”
“I just want to see who this guy is.”
With one hand Bob flipped the wallet open and saw the driver’s license.
“Max Larga.”
Bob flipped through the wallet.
“He’s an organ donor.”
Esteban ripped the wallet out of Bob’s hand.
“Look, pendejo, you don’t want to know too much about people. ¿Entiendes?”
“Why not?”
“Just trust me on this. It’s better not to know.”
Bob looked at Amado. Amado nodded. “Es mejor, Roberto, es mejor.”
Bob nodded.
“Okay.”
Bob looked at his arm and watched as the tattoo artist inked and dabbed, inked and dabbed. A beautiful coffee cup and saucer were appearing.
“Can you put some color in?”
“No problem.”
Amado stood up and looked at the clock. He turned to the tattoo artist.
“You got a TV?”
“In the back.”
“My telenovela’s starting.”
“Make yourself at home.”
Amado walked into the back, past Esteban, who was rolling his eyes. He found the TV and a ratty old couch. Amado clicked on the tube, walked over to the wheezing refrigerator, and opened it. He pulled out a long-neck Budweiser and settled in on the couch to watch his show. The thick sweet smell of mota came drifting in from the alley where Norberto and Martin were getting stoned.
As the theme music for the telenovela began, Norberto came scurrying in.
“¡Ay, qué padre!”
Amado made a shushing sound as Norberto flopped on the couch next to him.
The lead actress — Amado had a huge crush on her — walked into a doctor’s office on the small screen. Amado turned to Norberto.
“Ella es cojonuda.”
“Como tú.”
Amado smiled at the compliment. He was proud of his reputation — he had cojones, and everyone knew it. No matter what anyone said, cojones counted.
Thirteen
DON RETURNED TO Parker Center. He was beat. He had a headache. The drive back from Hollywood hadn’t helped. He felt frayed, like everything he’d been working for was starting to unravel because some loser broke up with his girlfriend. He realized he should’ve stopped at a Starbucks and gotten a latte or something.
Flores was at his desk reading the paper when Don sat down next to him.
“Didn’t you already read that?”
Flores looked up.
“Yeah.”
“So why’re you reading it again?”
“I’m bored.”
Don rifled through his messages.
“The evidence ever show up anywhere?”
“The arm?”
“Yeah, the arm.”
“Nope.”
Don slammed some paper into his trash can in frustration.
“Where the fuck is it?”
“Wait a day, you’ll be able to smell it.”
Don wrinkled his nose. He did not like the smell of dead things. That was one of the reasons he’d moved from Homicide to Criminal Intelligence. Much better to sit in a van pulling surveillance for twenty-four mind-numbing hours than to pop the trunk on a Ford Taurus at LAX that’s got a month-old corpse. Even though the delay was driving him crazy, Don was glad that they’d sent the arm to the lab for treatment.
“They treated it. It won’t smell.”
Flores put down his paper.
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, it’s not supposed to smell as bad.”
“Dead things smell.”
Flores went back to reading his paper. Don headed for the coffeemaker. He needed some caffeine. It might help him focus. He knew that when he got frustrated his brain had a tendency to become fragmented, to drift off down meaningless tributaries, winding around until it finally came to a complete and utter dead end. Don needed to get back to basics. Back to the who, what, why, when, where, and how of criminal investigation.
He poured a cup of the thick institutional brew, stirred in a packet of chemical sweetener and a blop of Irish crème-flavored nondairy additive, and headed back to his desk. Don had always considered himself a good judge of character. His instincts were sharp. First things first. Find Bob. Don sipped his coffee and thought about it. If he were Bob and he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, what would he do? Don knew instantly what he’d do. He’d go crawling back to Maura. He turned to Flores.
“I’m going to be putting in some overtime tonight.”
Flores didn’t even bother to look up from the paper. He was asleep.
Esteban was amazed. Despite the fact that one of the arms was gray and getting a little shriveled, they were almost identical.
“You, my friend, are a true artist.”
The biker smiled.
“Give it some time to set and it’ll look even better.”
Esteban grunted.
“It’s good enough right now.”
The biker stood up and wiped the ink off his fingers.
“I know I shouldn’t ask, but I have to admit I’m curious what you’re going to do with these two arms.”
Esteban smiled. This was the part he liked, the gossip that would circulate around the criminal underworld of Los Angeles for the next few weeks. No one would know exactly what he was up to, they would just know that he was carrying around a severed arm. This would enhance his reputation. Make people wonder. Instill a little fear. It was good for business.
“It’s a practical joke.”
“A joke?”
“On the police.”
The biker grinned.
“Those are the best kind.”
Norberto was shaken. He’d been so stoned that he’d forgotten to turn off Esteban’s psycho antitheft device. He was just lowering himself into the driver’s seat when Esteban shouted at him. Another second and he’d have gotten fifteen inches of cold metal fleshette rammed up his ass. But Esteban shouted, causing him to launch himself out of the car in the nick of time. He sprawled on the street, his heart pounding so fast he thought it might come popping right out of his chest.
It had been a milagro. Some saint was looking down on him and decided to spare him. Maybe this was a lesson. Maybe an omen. Norberto didn’t know for sure, but he knew it was something. Someone was trying to send him a message.
Even as his mind filled with the Holy Spirit and his adrenal glands pulsated furiously, Norberto felt so relaxed, and so high, that all he could do was lie on the street laughing uncontrollably. He was sure he’d shit himself. And that only made him laugh harder.
Amado extended his hand.
“Come on, pendejo, get up.”
Norberto couldn’t. He was paralyzed with laughter. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I shit myself, cabrón.”
“You still have to get up, vato.”
Norberto saw Esteban out of the corner of his eye. Esteban’s face was screwed up and cold. Killer cold. It scared Norberto straight enough to take Amado’s hand and stand up.