“You want me to kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you kill him.”
“Can I?”
“I don’t know, hombre, can you?”
“Do I have your permission?”
“After he delivers the arm to the police.”
Martin stood up.
“Thanks.”
Esteban held up a hand to stop him.
“You have to do it. I don’t want to find out you sent Norberto or anybody else. You got the cojones, it’s okay with me. But you got to be the one to do it. ¿Entiendes?”
Martin nodded.
“I understand.”
Martin walked out of the room. Esteban smiled to himself. That fucking kid was no matador, he had trouble squashing a bug. There was no way he could bring himself to kill Roberto. Although Esteban had a feeling Roberto might be capable of killing Martin.
The hardware store was unusually busy. Or maybe that’s the way it is in the Valley. Suburban people like to fix up their homes. So there they were, out in force, buying faucets and hammers, electrical doodads and lengths of plastic tubing, brushes and rollers. A couple gallons of paint were hooked up to a machine that was shaking them violently. Norberto stopped and watched. I’d like to see what would happen if you stuck a cat in there, he thought.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Norberto looked up and saw an eager young man wearing a bright red vest. The name Franco was embroidered on the vest. There was no way this guy was really named Franco.
“Is that your name?”
The eager young man pushed his woodshop-style glasses up on his nose and looked down at his vest.
“Oh, sorry, man. I, like, grabbed it off the hook when I came in. My name’s Teddy.”
“Well, Teddy, I’m looking for some kind of tool to cut up some branches.”
“Tree branches? Like you’re going to trim a tree?”
“Exactly.”
“How thick are the branches?”
Norberto thought for a second.
“Like my arm.”
Teddy reached for Norberto’s arm. Norberto took an instinctive step back. Teddy stopped and pulled out a tape measure.
“I need to measure.”
Norberto held out his arm. He couldn’t help but flex his muscle, trying to make the arm thick like the fat guy’s.
Teddy took the measurement and calculated.
“You’re going to need a chain saw, man. There’s, like, no other way.” Teddy pointed Norberto over to where several chain saws were displayed.
Norberto studied them, trying to figure out which one would be powerful enough to do the job quickly. From the descriptions on the boxes these things could sever the leg off an elephant in a matter of seconds.
Norberto looked around for Teddy. He saw Bob bouncing on his toes, as nervous as a little kid on the first day of school. Bob kept picking up stuff — a weed whacker, a lawn sprinkler, a leaf blower — and putting them back on the shelf.
“Roberto. Tranquilo.”
Bob came over.
“Sorry. I’m just excited about tonight.”
Norberto nodded sagely.
“Felicia.”
“Yeah. I can’t wait.”
“Well, first we got some work to do, vato.”
Bob looked at the chain saws. His face fell.
“Us? You and me?”
Norberto nodded.
“Nosotros.”
Norberto studied Bob’s face. Now was the time when most people turned and ran. But Bob didn’t.
“Yeah, but we’re not going to kill him, right? We’re going to take him to the hospital after we get his arm, right?”
Norberto looked at Bob.
“We won’t kill him, okay? Promise?”
Norberto held up his hand like a Boy Scout.
“I’m not going to kill him, I promise.”
Bob smiled, relieved. Then he had a thought.
“It’s going to get messy. We should get some plastic ponchos and a couple of tarps.”
Norberto smiled.
“Seguro, Roberto, seguro.”
Larga was still dreaming, but his dream began to take on an unpleasant and painful buzz. It was his arm. His arm was being stung by bees, hundreds of them. Poking away with their little stingers, pumping bee venom until his arm began to swell up to Elephant Man proportions. It was horrible. Swelling until it seemed like it would explode.
Larga bolted awake. He looked at his arm and was shocked to see raw and slightly scabby tattoos. He looked around the room. He realized that he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.
He looked at his arm again. He made a fist and saw the word Hola appear as his fingers came together. Larga was confused. Why would he write a Spanish greeting on his knuckles? He twisted his arm in the light. Aside from some minor crosses and dots, stuff that looked like gang markings, the main feature on his arm was a stunning naked woman with a man performing cunnilingus on her. How did that get there? He didn’t remember going to a tattoo parlor. In fact, he didn’t remember much at all.
Larga had never wanted a tattoo. He’d never even been remotely interested in tattoos. But he had to admit, aesthetically speaking, whoever had done this was a fine artist. The expressiveness of line, the play of ink in skin, it was beautiful. It changed him. Hola.
He stood up, wobbly at first, and walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled up his sleeve and flexed his muscle. It hurt, the skin still tender, but it gave him an aura of toughness. A raw animal quality. He knew it was ridiculous, a tattooed cookbook author, but maybe this was a side of him that no one would know about. A hidden wild side. A leather jacket, big boots, mirrored sunglasses version of him. He could get a Harley and go out on Sundays, smoke cigars in roadhouses, show everyone his nasty tattoo.
But before he could do that, he had to figure out where he was and what was going on.
Martin sat in front of the television and lit a joint. Events, he realized, had gotten out of hand. Normally the criminal enterprise ran like a well-oiled machine. Goods and services were provided. The cash flowed. Simple. Easy. Nothing more complex than the business models he’d created as a project in his first year of graduate school.
As he held in a toke, Martin mused about how he had come up with all these labyrinthine money-laundering schemes, with layer upon layer of legitimate businesses funneling excess cash to dummy corporations in the Bahamas. He had spent weeks figuring it out, building it up until it was solid. Rock fucking solid. Of course, Esteban didn’t get it. Esteban understood business at the most basic level. The Paleolithic model. The sophisticated structures that Martin concocted, with their rococo flourishes of multiple retirement accounts in four countries, were simply over Esteban’s head.
Old-school criminal enterprise only worked as long as it was under the radar. Once the feds caught on to what you were doing, they’d dedicate themselves to raining shit on you. But Esteban didn’t care. He would rather keep the money in a vault in the basement. Never mind that the IRS could drag him into court for tax evasion. Take away the vault of cash, the safe house, the other house, the car, the satellite phone, everything. Clean him out like a fucking rainbow trout. Leave him on the street with twelve dollars and an old pair of shoes.
Then Esteban would wish he’d listened. Then he’d want those legit businesses for the tax shelters they provided. Keep his ass out of jail. Even if he went to jail he’d still have beaucoup bucks waiting for him when he got out. He wouldn’t end up some haggard old busboy clearing tables at El Chavo.
Martin stubbed the roach out on the side of the coffee table and kicked back. He thought about his parents. They never listened to him. They had a plan for him. They pulled the strings. He’d never realized before just how fucking controlling they’d been. They told him what schools to go to, what friends to have. If they didn’t like his girlfriend, he’d get a new one. They wanted him to get an MBA, he got one. But did they ever once listen to what he wanted? Did Esteban? Did anyone listen to him?