There was a loud knock on the door, and Norberto got up to answer it. It was Amado.
“Hola, ese. ¿Qué onda?”
Amado walked in and looked around.
“Vale pendejo, where’s mi brazo?”
Norberto looked stunned.
“What?”
“My arm. Where’s my fucking arm? ¿Dónde?”
Norberto quickly grasped the seriousness of what was happening.
“¡Hijo de puta! I can’t believe it, man.”
“What?”
Norberto walked over and clicked the TV off. He looked at Amado.
“Martin talked to me about taking your arm and giving it to las placas. But I said no fucking way, man. It’s loco. I didn’t do it, man.”
Norberto looked at Amado. He was waiting for Amado to say something, to react. But Amado didn’t say anything. He pulled a gun from behind his back and shot Norberto twice in the heart.
When Bob told Felicia that he didn’t have a place to live, she immediately insisted that he move in with her. Bob was flattered and more than a little surprised by her offer. Sure, they were experiencing a kind of strange and intense passion together, but still, didn’t it go against the rules somehow? He reminded himself that there was a kind of destiny to everything that was happening. It was preordained that he would be with her. It was just happening so fast. Destiny had its foot on the gas.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the hundreds of Fridas staring at him, but then, it wasn’t like he was Diego Rivera. He wasn’t a cad or a playboy. Sure, maybe he liked to look at porn on the Internet, but… Maura looked at naked guys all day. So he figured they were kind of even.
For a brief moment he wondered if Felicia modeled herself after Frida Kahlo. That wouldn’t be good. Women who go in for that kind of self-torture really need to see a shrink. He watched her as she painted her toenails a bright orange. She was beautiful, wearing just a T-shirt, her feet propped up on a tile-topped coffee table. He realized that his fears, his hesitation, were just what they were. Not real. They were feelings that he could easily overcome.
Bob took the Polaroid of Amado’s tattoo out of his pocket and looked at it. He thought for a moment and then stuck the photograph on the wall, right next to a picture of Frida.
Felicia laughed.
“You like that tattoo?”
“Yes.”
“It’s funny.”
“What?”
“You. In love with a tattoo.”
Bob shrugged.
“It’s like all these Fridas.”
Felicia looked at the Polaroid.
“Amado told you that was me?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope I’m prettier than that.”
Bob looked at the Polaroid and then at Felicia. It was the first time he’d compared the two.
“I’m surprised he didn’t get your hair right.”
Felicia laughed.
“I’m surprised you think it’s me.”
Bob couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
“So you and Amado never… did… this?”
She smiled.
“Maybe in his dreams.”
Bob was perplexed. Felicia noticed this and kissed him.
“If you want it to be me, it can be me. I don’t mind.”
“You’re way better than any tattoo.”
“I should hope so. Can a tattoo do this?”
She started kissing him passionately. Bob began to melt under the onslaught of tongue and saliva when suddenly he remembered that he still had to call Esteban. He broke from the embrace.
“Shit. I need to make a phone call.”
She looked off toward the kitchen.
“The phone is by the stove.”
“I need to use a pay phone.”
Felicia’s demeanor changed.
“Business. With Esteban, no?”
Bob nodded.
“I have to call him. Tell him what happened.”
She was disappointed in him.
“I thought you were a normal guy.”
“I am a normal guy.”
“Roberto, if you’re calling Esteban you are not a normal guy.”
“I know it’s not a normal thing, but I’m a normal guy doing things that normal guys don’t normally do. Honestly, I don’t know what else to do right now, but I won’t do this forever. Not if it bothers you.”
Felicia looked at him and smiled.
“Just be careful, okay? And get some limes at la tienda.”
Amado looked at Norberto. Man, was that pendejo dead. A huge and seemingly endless pool of blood spread like a big evil pancake across the floor.
He wanted to drag Norberto’s body out of the living room and stuff it in a closet or something, but he’d come to the sudden and exasperating realization that while it might just take one little trigger finger to whack someone, it took two hands to dispose of a body.
Amado went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He half hoped that his arm would be in there, that Norberto had been lying. But there was nothing but some moldy take-out, some bottled salsa picante, and a half-dozen beers. He took out a cold Pacifica and went back into the living room. He knew Norberto and Martin had been up to something, he just didn’t think it was anything so stupid as going to the police.
Amado heaved a sigh. Young people, they just act impulsively, they never think things through. Never look at all the angles. It’s a mistake to be so impetuous. It’s estúpido. He knew he’d have to call Esteban and warn him, but first he needed to think. Drink a cold beer and contemplate his next move.
Amado popped the tab on the can and flicked on the TV. He was careful not to step in any of Norberto’s blood.
Bob stood on Third Street near the Guatamalteca Bakery. People, dozens of them, were lined up for pupusas, conchas, and whatever else they had in there. A middle-aged Mexican woman, wearing a bright blue sweater, was selling roast corn on the cob from a pot she pulled in a small red wagon. A couple of little kids trailed behind her, laughing and slapping at each other. Next to Bob, a man sold peeled mangoes on a stick. Bob realized he was hungry.
In the ensuing communication breakdown, Bob saw his succulent and sweet mango dredged in a mixture of salt and chili powder. Oh, well, when in Rome.
Bob bit into the mango and was surprised at how good it tasted with the bite of the salt and the heat of the chili. He reminded himself that he needed to be more open-minded. Los Angeles, city of the future and hope of the world, demanded it.
The pay phone rang and Bob jumped to pick it up.
“Roberto.”
He told Esteban what had happened, how he’d dropped the arm off, how the police had picked him up and tried to scare him, how he’d stood up to them, outsmarted them, and gotten away with it. Esteban told Roberto that he was proud of him. He’d have the ten thousand in cash brought over to him in a few days. Right now, all Roberto had to do was keep going to work, keep playing up the upset over his breakup, be normal. Esteban would call him in a few weeks and talk about other opportunities.
Bob hung up and finished eating his mango. He decided he’d better learn to speak Spanish. Rápido.
Martin drove up Beachwood Canyon looking for a parking spot. The duplex he wanted to go to was a block behind him. There was never any parking on this fucking street. What had originally been a quiet neighborhood was now dense with hipsters, the wannabe writers, actors, and directors who piled into Hollywood to earn their fortunes. Five people might be able to live together in one house, but that meant their five cars were scattered all over the street. So Martin drove on, hoping that he had good parking karma.