Martin blinked. This was just so fucking typical. A few wispy clouds drifted along, violently white against the intense blue sky. He turned to Norberto.
“No guts, no glory.”
“What?”
“No guts, no glory.”
Norberto nodded like he understood.
“Yeah, but what if it backfires? Nos chingamos, man.”
“It won’t backfire. It’s airtight.”
“I don’t know, man. You’re counting on something that could easily fuck up.”
“What?”
“Las placas.”
“The police?”
“Yeah, man. You’re counting on the fucking jalapeños to come and arrest everybody. What if they don’t?”
“They will.”
Norberto shook his head.
“If they were so good, they’d have busted us by now.”
Martin turned on Norberto; he couldn’t hide his anger.
“They don’t have anything to bust us for. And you know why? Because of me. Because I make the plans. I launder the money. I take care of the legal shit. That’s why.”
“Or we’re just lucky.”
The roach burned Martin’s finger. The pain short-circuited his anger. He stood there for a beat as his synapses bounced around like Ping-Pong balls in that bouncy air-blower machine they use to pick the Lotto numbers. Finally, everything settled back into place. He stubbed the roach out on the ground and fixed his gaze on Norberto. Norberto’s sudden reluctance was killing his buzz.
“You’re just scared.”
“Maybe, man. Maybe.”
“I’ll watch your back.”
Norberto drained his beer.
“The people we’re up against, they don’t bother sneakin’ up behind you, man.”
Bob sat in the holding cell with a couple of other men. It was drab and smelly. His cellmates, one a ferocious-looking Vietnamese teenager, the other a burly Latino in his thirties, were stretched out on the hard benches. The Vietnamese boy looked slightly green, with a slick sheen of cold sweat covering his body, like he was going through some kind of jones for a sack of glue. The Latino just lay there like a boned chicken. They seemed resigned to whatever the Fates had in store.
Bob figured that the detective had him put in the cell to intimidate him, get him to crack, but the only threatening thing he could see was an exposed toilet that sat in the corner.
It was threatening because Bob had to piss. His bladder had swollen beyond the normal limits it might reach when stuck in traffic. It had grown from a dull reminder to a sharp, aching throb. His kidneys were even getting into the act, sending searing bolts of pain through his lower back. But Bob couldn’t bring himself to urinate. He was intimidated.
There was no sound in the cell. No talking, no radio. Bob’s pee would be the only source of news and entertainment in the room. Bob knew that if he got up and just trickled, he would be sodomized by noon. But if he got up and let loose a powerful and impressive stream, they’d back off. They wouldn’t fuck with him. It was performance anxiety of a whole new kind.
A single tear welled up in Bob’s eye and ran down his cheek. His bladder was screaming for release. He had no idea how much longer he might be held, it could be hours, but he did know that if he didn’t stand and deliver, he was going to wet himself. That wouldn’t be good.
Bob stood and quietly padded over to the steel toilet. He lifted the lid and slowly unzipped. He was glad he had his back to his cellmates as his penis turtled into his pants. It just wouldn’t stick its head out. Bob was reluctant to tug on his dick too much. He didn’t want them to think he was jacking off. He carefully pulled his penis out and held it with his right hand.
Nothing happened. He tried to relax. He thought about Felicia, walking though a park, a trip to the beach, anything to take him away from this stinky cell, these two guys, this shiny toilet, and this unbearable pain.
He took a deep breath and let out a sigh.
And then it began. It started softly. As if his fears were now about to become reality. But the sheer volume of urine in his body kept that from happening. It slowly gained power and momentum. Bob’s entire posture shifted. Another tear ran down his cheek. It was as if he had been holding his breath for a year and now he could take in some fresh air. His penis hung out bravely, looking and sounding much larger than it ever had before. Bob smiled.
He was pissing like a racehorse.
Don came back from the TraveLodge in Glendale and found the envelope on his desk. Flores sat at the next desk reading the sports page.
“When did this get here?”
“While you were out.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“And spoil the surprise?”
Don ripped open the envelope and looked at the report.
“Who the hell is Max Larga?”
Flores shrugged.
“You’re the detective.”
Bob was showing his tattoo to the Latino man in the holding cell when Don came down for him. Bob knew his story would hold up. He had made small talk with the clerk at the TraveLodge when he checked out. Now he listened as Don told him that he was being released but that the LAPD would reserve the right to press obstruction-of-justice charges at a later time if they found him uncooperative or lying or complicit. It was just so much blah, blah, blah. Bob nodded. Getting out of there was his primary concern. They were starting to serve a lunch of creamed corn and some kind of meat patty. The smell was nauseating, overpowering, like boiled dog food. Even though it brought up a slight gag reflex it was also, strangely, making his stomach growl.
As they were leaving the holding area, Don turned to him.
“Does the name Max Larga ring any bells?”
“Who?”
“Max Larga.”
Bob appeared thoughtful.
“No. Sorry.”
Don handed him his business card.
“If you do remember who he is, or think of anything, let me know. Okay?”
Bob took the card.
“Sure.”
Martin walked into the house. Amado lay snoring on the sofa, the TV still rattling away in Spanish. Norberto had gone back to his apartment. Martin walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Inside, wrapped in Saran Wrap, was Amado’s arm. In the harsh light of the fridge it looked like a leftover sandwich or something. Martin blinked at it through his sensimilla-tinted eyeballs. He saw a jar of pickles and had to have one. He stood, with the door open, and fished an icy pickle out of the jar. The cold crunch and briny taste snapped him back to his mission. No guts, no glory.
As he chewed on the pickle and looked at the severed arm, Martin heard voices in his head: his parents urging him to finish business school and get that MBA; his friends bragging about mergers and acquisitions; even his old swim team coach in high school. They all said the same thing. Make something of yourself. Be a winner.
Martin put the pickles back, grabbed the arm, secured the plastic around it, and scurried out of the house.
Sixteen
DON WATCHED AS Bob punched the button for the elevator. He watched as Bob looked around nonchalantly, like he visited a police station every day. He watched as Bob picked at his fingernails, looked at his feet, and practically jumped out of his skin when the elevator finally arrived.
The sensation, an unpleasant gnawing feeling, started in the pit of his stomach. Don felt it build and rise up into his chest. It was his instinct telling him that something was not kosher. He smelled a rat.
Bob had been too uninterested in Larga. Studiously casual. Just like when he was waiting for the elevator. Don saw how Bob was bouncing in his shoes. Did he think he’d gotten away with something?