“It’s my arm.”
“If the cops find it…”
“Las placas won’t find it. ¿Entiendes?”
Amado shot them a withering glance. But Martin wouldn’t let it go.
“Esteban said that we should get rid of it.”
“It’s not El Jefe’s arm.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Amado didn’t know the answer to that one.
“Keep it around.”
“Until the police find it.”
“It’s my arm, pendejo.”
He watched as Martin and Norberto exchanged glances.
“I need a shower, man.”
Amado didn’t say anything. Gloria was stroking the padre’s thigh.
“Yo necesito descansar, también.”
Amado looked up at Norberto.
“Vale, cabrón.”
Norberto and Martin stood there for a beat and then shuffled off. Amado rolled his eyes. They were hiding something. Either they’d botched the burial or they were planning something. Or they were stoned. With Martin you could never tell, he always seemed a little squirrelly. A baboso who thought he knew everything but really had a lot to learn about the way things work. Amado knew that, whatever they were trying to pull, the learning curve was going to be steep and hairy for Martin and Norberto.
He turned back to the TV just in time to see the padre fall into Gloria’s arms, burying his head between her huge soft breasts and praying for God’s forgiveness for what he was about to do.
Amado hated hypocrites.
Morris was still playing Tetris when Bob walked in.
“How high are you?”
Morris stopped playing.
“How high are you, man? Where the fuck have you been?”
“Out.”
“Duh.”
“Anybody notice I was gone?”
“Just the boss, the police, everyone at UCLA.”
“The boss mad?”
Morris shook his head.
“He’s worried, dude. We were all worried.”
“About me?”
“Yeah.”
Bob smiled.
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“I’m not gay. I didn’t care, like, that much.”
Bob laughed.
“I better go tell the boss.”
“You better call the cops, too.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
Bob turned to go.
“You must’ve really loved her, man.”
Bob stopped.
“Who?”
“Your girlfriend.”
Bob reminded himself to tell the truth.
“Yeah, I did.”
Esteban lowered himself into his bubbling Jacuzzi. He felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours begin to melt away. Amado had made a gazpacho out of everything, but at the end of the day he was still one of the few men that Esteban could count on. Count on and trust. He’d have a word with Amado about whatever freelancing he was doing with Carlos Vila, but he didn’t want Amado dead. He was too valuable.
Lupe came out with a bowl of guacamole and some chips. She was wearing a dark blue one-piece swimsuit, and Esteban couldn’t help but admire her body as she climbed into the Jacuzzi and put the dip down in front of him.
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
She smiled at him. She had a beautiful smile.
Esteban wondered if it wasn’t time for him to settle down. Maybe get married. He’d always figured he’d end up married to an American, that’d make it easy to get a green card. But American women were so thin, skinny and preoccupied with shopping and their appearance. Esteban found them repulsive. They chatted endlessly about how they looked, how other women looked, and how they or their friends would look after surgical enhancements were completed. They lacked soul.
Esteban took a chip and dipped it into the guacamole. The cool thick avocado coated his tongue. It was somehow spicy, biting, and soothing all at the same time. It tasted of earth and sun, cilantro and jalapeño, onion and lime. It reminded him of Mexico. The good parts he’d left behind. Guacamole, he realized, was very soulful.
Lupe smiled at him as he ate another mouthful.
“Te gusta?”
“Sí. Muy rico.”
He watched as she slowly submerged herself in the water. He admired her. She didn’t need a bikini or fake tits. She was who she was and she was beautiful that way. She was honest and earthy and soulful. Like guacamole.
Maura walked around to the front of the building. A sign told her that the entrance was in the rear. It seemed strange to her, there was a perfectly functional front door, but it had a metal gate across it. It was probably a security precaution, although if someone were going to rob the store they could just as easily use the back door.
She walked up and around, down the alley, to the back of the building. She pulled open the glass doors, passed a serious-looking metal detector, and took a look around. It was a little overwhelming. She’d never been in a gun store before, and the variety and sheer number of guns took her by surprise. The air was a heady mix of oil and gunpowder, metal and wood. Intoxicating.
Maura strolled slowly through the room, entranced. What was it about these things? What caused her insides to quiver when she held one? Maura didn’t understand what was happening to her. All she knew was that when she held a gun in her hand it triggered something deep inside. It was a connection to a primal, sexual power. Life and death, creation and destruction. Explosion and silence. It was nothing she’d ever felt before.
She laughed at herself
A friendly employee came up to her and spoke directly to her breasts.
“Lookin’ for home protection? Or somethin’ to carry in your purse?”
“I don’t know.”
In fact, she had no idea what she was doing there.
“Lookin’ for somethin’ versatile?”
“Let’s start with that.”
The employee, a round and red-faced American with an LA Dodgers cap, sized her up.
“This your first time?”
Maura nodded.
“Don’t be scared. You use these right, they’ll never hurt you.”
“Okay.”
He walked around behind a glass display case filled with all makes and models of handguns. There were scary black Glocks, lethal-looking Walthers, efficient Smith & Wessons, a truckload of semiautomatic handguns, revolvers, and all manner of death-delivering devices. He pulled out a Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. It was big, black, menacing. It meant business. The kind of gun that bad guys used in the movies.
He pulled back the top part to reveal the chamber.
“A Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic. Italian-made. Excellent quality. Double action. Fifteen-shot magazine. Guaranteed to drop an intruder before he can get his pants down.”
Maura picked up the gun. It was surprisingly heavy.
“I got it in a slightly smaller version called a Centurion. That’s what some of the female police officers are using.”
Maura pushed down on a lever and the pistol sprang together with a vicious snap.
“Yikes.”
“Just keep your fingers clear. That sucker can pinch like the devil.”
Maura didn’t like the gun, it had no personality.
“I want a more old-fashioned-looking gun.”
“Like a cowboy gun?”
“Like the detectives carry in the movies.”
“I gotcha.”
He pulled out a Colt Detective Special. A snubby little pocket revolver with a two-inch barrel. It was not inspiring. Maura held it like it was a dead fish.
“Do you have something a little… bigger?”
“Surely.”
He pulled out a Colt Anaconda and plopped it on a felt pad. Now, this was a gun. Shiny and silver with a long nine-inch barrel and a big wooden grip.