“Sorry. Sorry, Esteban.”
Esteban took the keys from Norberto.
“Vamos.”
Norberto wiped the tears from his eyes and went around to the passenger side. His face flushed with embarrassment, just like when he went to school and the teachers made fun of him for doing something stupid. Norberto hated that feeling. He got in the car and buckled his seat belt.
Bob was sitting in back with Martin. The fat guy was crushed between the two gringos, his head flopped over onto Bob’s shoulder, a thin line of spittle running the length of his torso. Bob pushed the fat guy over toward Martin. Martin pushed him back.
“What the fuck’re you doin’, man?”
“My tattoo’s getting jammed against the door.”
“Well, you should’ve thought of that.”
“I thought we were going to put him back in the trunk.”
Norberto loved to hear the gringos bicker. That whiny nasal edge coming into their voices. There was never any threat of violence. No one would throw a punch or pull a knife. Gringos were too polite. They’d just argue like old women for the rest of the ride home.
Norberto wiggled his butt against the seat, trying to feel if he had actually shit himself. He didn’t detect anything sticky or slimy so… no problema, man. He could sit back, relax, let Esteban drive, and see if he could locate the buzz he’d had before.
Then Esteban turned to him, and said, “We need a chain saw.”
And that killed what was left of his buzz.
Maura watched as her last client of the day, a thin wisp of a man with a giant penis, slowly reached orgasm. What a strange day she’d had.
Even though her thoughts were elsewhere she spoke soothingly to the man in the chair as he stroked his cock furiously.
“Relax. Breathe into the sensation. Let it ascend slowly up your spine until it reaches your cerebral cortex.”
A surprisingly small drop of spunk leaped out of him and landed on his arm. Maura handed him a box of tissues.
“Let the energy of the orgasm flow through your entire body, refreshing, replenishing, and reenergizing you.”
It suddenly flashed in her mind that maybe that’s what Bob’s problem was. He’d repressed his wild side for so long that now he was on some kind of rampage. Bob was in trouble. He would probably lose his job. The police were looking for him. He was moving out. He’d probably end up homeless. Maura hoped that didn’t happen. Bob on a rampage was still Bob.
Bob sat in the back of the car pinned under the unconscious fat guy. His tattoo was being rubbed raw against the door. Bob pushed the fat guy over toward Martin, but Martin must’ve had some kind of leverage because Bob pushed as hard as he could and the only thing that changed was the fat guy’s breathing.
When the car made a turn to the left, Bob’s arm stung under the weight of the fat guy combined with the centrifugal force of the car. Bob was worried that his tattoo might smear or become damaged. He put his foot on the door, deciding to wait until the car made a hard right and then use his leg to muscle the fat guy over on Martin.
While this reverse tug-of-war was going on, Martin sat there reading him the riot act. Telling him that he didn’t know the first fucking thing about La Eme. As if Martin were Don Corleone and Bob some chump who’d just fallen off the turnip truck. The more Martin talked, the more annoyed Bob became. He realized that there is nothing worse than a know-it-all stoner telling you what your problem is.
In the front seat Bob saw that Amado and Norberto were chuckling. Laughing at the two white boys in the back. Talking about them softly in Spanish. Bob felt a pressure beginning to build in his chest. He tried to control it, but Martin was still going on and on.
Bob snapped. He shifted in his seat for a better angle and then drove his right fist into the side of Martin’s head.
“Shut up.”
Sucker punched, Martin’s head snapped hard to one side and banged against the window frame. Then he slumped against the door. Lights out.
Bob shoved the fat guy over on top of Martin.
Then he had a thought. Dread washed over Bob. He wondered if he’d crossed the line and now they were going to kill him. But that didn’t happen. Esteban turned to Bob and looked him right in the eye.
“Gracias, Roberto.”
Bob nodded that knowing head bob that means “It’s cool” or “No problem.”
Amado and Norberto giggled in the front seat like schoolgirls.
“Qué bárbaro.”
Amado turned to Esteban, and said, “Maybe we should change his name from Roberto to Lucho because he likes to fight.”
Bob smiled. Maybe smacking Martin upside the head was a good thing. It improved his standing with the guys and, surprisingly, relaxed him. He flexed his hand, the knuckles red from impact. Bob felt good. He rolled down his window and took a breath of fresh air. He checked his tattoo to see if it was all right. It was still as beautiful as ever.
Don sat in his car across the street from Maura’s apartment building just off Sunset Boulevard in the Silver Lake neighborhood of LA. Don had told the captain that he needed to put in some overtime to try to track down some missing evidence, but that was only part of it. Don couldn’t help himself. There was something about Maura that he found so interesting and so compelling that here he was, sitting in his car, waiting for her to come home.
He saw her drive past in an old Galaxy 500. The car looked to be in pretty good shape; she must’ve had it restored. A cool car for a cool woman. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. Don watched her get out of her car and enter the building. He admired the way she walked. She had a purpose, a sense of herself. And those tits. The way they heaved slightly as she moved. Don tried not to think about women in the overtly sexual way he heard in the precinct locker room. In his mind, he was looking for someone with more than a nice rack. Still, when a man’s confronted with a pair of breasts, well, he can’t help but think in those terms. He watched her ass as she walked into her building. Nice rack, tight ass. She was a great-looking package.
Don knew from experience to give her a few minutes to use the bathroom, check her messages, and relax a little. Otherwise she’d be unsettled and try to get rid of him. Give her some time and she might even welcome him in, pour him a glass of wine. Don smiled at the thought of that. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes.
The more Maura thought about it, the angrier she got. Who the fuck did Bob think he was? She had been the one who was changing her life, putting the wheels in motion, building up a head of steam. She was the one who was going to venture forth into the big and exciting world. But no. Bob had beaten her to the punch. He’d stolen her thunder. Cut her off from her momentum. Let the air out of her tires. Now she was stuck looking at all their crappy furniture in this funky old apartment. Her life with Bob hung from her neck like a giant inflatable mascot in a used-car lot. A forty-foot plastic albatross. God, it pissed her off.
She saw his laptop sitting on the desk and impulsively slid it into the trash can with a satisfying thunk. She looked at if for a moment, realized the immaturity of her act, and then reached in and put it back on the desk. It pissed her off that she was so pissed off. Who was Bob that he could push her buttons like that? He was just a fucking guy. A young dude. Oh, he had some special qualities, she had to admit, but nothing earth-shattering. No, Bob was not one in a million, he was one of a million. Maura realized she was grinding her teeth.
The knock on the door came as a relief.
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Maura recognized the detective.