Martin chuckled to himself. He had done all right so far. He lived his life so that he didn’t have to do what he didn’t want to do. He didn’t want to wear a suit. He didn’t want to work in some corporate tower. He didn’t want to help anyone get rich except himself. It was pretty cushy, he had to admit.
Martin’s brain traipsed through the wonderland of his life, until it returned to the current mess. Events had gotten out of hand. Things were out of control. Amado had freelanced and created a problem. The arm was a problem. The police were a problem. Bob was a problem. The fat guy they’d kidnapped and tattooed was a problem. There were lots of fucking problems. Problems that threatened to take down Martin’s cushy life. Things had to be taken care of. Decisions had to be made.
Maybe Esteban was right. The quickest way from point A to point B is a straight line. Martin liked the logic of that. The simplest way to deal with all these problems would be to line everyone up against a wall and shoot them. Then burn the house to the ground.
Sometimes messy problems require messy solutions.
Larga tiptoed to the door of his room and slowly turned the knob. He expected it to be locked and was a little frightened when it turned all the way and opened. His heart began to beat quicker. He stood frozen, the door cracked, listening. He heard the murmur of a television and the distinct sound of a man snoring. He opened the door just enough for him to fit though, about halfway. Even with wall-to-wall carpeting, the floorboards of the house creaked and squealed as he tried to sneak down the hall. It was excruciating. As if he were accompanied by the UCLA marching band.
In the living room he saw a young white man watching television. Larga couldn’t be sure if the man was awake or asleep, but the stench of marijuana was so strong Larga was certain that he was stoned. Larga decided to try the back door. He crept around toward the kitchen. The sound of snoring resonated from one of the other bedrooms in the house. Larga peeked into the bedroom and saw a large dark figure laid out on the bed.
Holding his breath, his heart ready to seize up, his bowels urging him to shit, his bladder throbbing, Larga crept into the kitchen. He blew a silent sigh of relief when he found the kitchen empty. He looked around for a phone. His plan was to make a quick call to 911 and then run out the back door and down the street as fast as he could.
Then he heard the car pull into the driveway. Cold sweat erupted from his forehead. He wanted to grab the phone, but there wasn’t time. He saw a small broom closet against the far wall and quickly climbed inside.
He’d barely gotten the door closed when two men carrying a chain saw entered the kitchen. He heard the Mexican man speak to the Anglo.
“I’m going to need a beer before we do this.”
“I’m going to need a couple.”
He heard the fridge open and the distinct phisst of two twist-offs being popped.
When the two men left the kitchen, Larga made his move. He opened the broom-closet door and stepped out. He looked around and, suddenly, felt very lucky. In the middle of the kitchen table, on top of a brand-new chain-saw box, was a set of car keys.
Larga grabbed the keys and slipped out the back door.
Night had fallen and the darkness wrapped around him and comforted him as he fumbled with the keys. He saw a Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway. The distinctive key was easy to find on the chain.
He opened the door and slid in, making sure to lock it behind him. No more surprises. Now he was in control. He figured he’d go straight to the nearest police precinct and tell them what had happened. He realized he needed the address, but that would be easy enough once he got going.
He knew that once he started the car, he’d have to move quickly. They, whoever they were, were not going to be happy. They might chase him. They might shoot at him. But they wouldn’t catch him. He was determined. He was escaping. They didn’t know who they were dealing with. You can’t kidnap Max Larga.
Larga realized that he was experiencing a feeling he’d never felt before. He felt exhilarated. Alive. Like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. Only Larga would be pulling away in style. He’d always wanted a Mercedes. He wondered if they’d let him keep the car as a trophy. A fuck-you to the bad guys who’d kidnapped him. He looked down at his tattoo and smiled. Today was turning out all right.
He slid the key into the ignition and realized that he’d never even driven a Mercedes. This was going to be a treat.
You just don’t fuck with Max Larga. He’d always thought that, proving it in little ways, winning the picayune disputes with his editors. He’d always managed to get even somehow. They didn’t think the American public was ready for portabello mushrooms. What the fuck did they know? He’d write an article detailing the texture, the taste, the sensual delights of portabellos, and the next thing you know every supermarket in the country had to have them. It was the same with crème fraîche. You think it’s just sour cream from France? No. It’s crème fucking fraîche, buddy. It’s different. It’s a whole other thing.
He’d fought these battles and won. He’d proved them wrong. He’d proved them wrong again and again. Now he was proving these guys wrong.
You just don’t fuck with Max Larga.
His heart pounded in his chest, his palms were clammy, and yet he couldn’t suppress a genuine smirk as he put his foot to the gas and turned the key. For a brief moment he thought the car had a dead battery. Why wasn’t it turning over?
Then he felt the pain.
He tried to speak, but only heard a small gurgle. Something cold had entered his body and he could feel his warmth draining out of him.
Then he was dead.
Fourteen
MAURA DIDN’T KNOW why she was kissing the detective. Was it revenge? Proving to herself that Bob didn’t matter? Maybe he never had. Or was it the two bottles of expensive wine they’d consumed with dinner? Maybe it was the dinner itself, perfect and soul-satisfying, with thick garlic-laden sauces that warmed her body like she was wrapped in a warm blanket. Maybe it was the detective. He was handsome enough. And she’d never been with a man who was, well, so straight. A man’s man. A cop. Maybe it was all of the above.
They were sitting in his car in front of her apartment complex. It wasn’t comfortable or uncomfortable. She liked feeling his hot wine-spiked tongue in her mouth. She felt his hand caress her lower back, slide up her rib cage, and gently brush her breasts. She reached around to pull him closer and felt a large, hard lump under his jacket.
“What’s that?”
“That’s my gun.”
“You have a gun?”
Don nodded.
“I’m required to carry it at all times. It’s part of the job.”
Maura felt a strange vibration in her stomach.
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
Don reached behind him and pulled out a snub-nosed.38 in a clip-on holster. Maura blinked. Even in the darkness of the car, the metal gleamed at her, cold and blue.
“Can I hold it?”
“Just be careful.”
Don handed her the gun. She was surprised at how heavy it was. It had gravity.
“Have you ever used it?”
“You mean shot it?”