The sound of keys turning the lock on the front door knocked Bob out of his reverie. Maura came in, threw her keys on the table, and said, “I need to do some yoga.”
Bob sat up. “You want a drink?”
“Bob, I’m trying to purify my body, not pollute it.”
Bob slammed down the rest of his beer and nodded. He understood. Antioxidizing, toxin flushing, wheat grass juicin’. He knew what she was doing and he was understanding. Understanding was what Bob was good at.
“Hard day, huh?”
“I should’ve been a doctor. Maybe then they’d listen to me instead of trying to get me to give them a hand job. You wouldn’t ask a doctor for a hand job, would you?”
“Well… if she looked like you I might.”
Maura didn’t respond. She walked into the kitchen and began sifting through the mail.
Bob got up off the couch and went over to her. He put his arm around her and kissed the back of her neck.
“That was a compliment.”
“Not now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to yoga class.”
Bob sulked into the kitchen and got another beer out of the fridge. He popped the top off and took a long gulp. He looked over at Maura. Her slim frame. Pretty face. Nice rack. Bob loved her. Or, to be truthful, he loved parts of her. Parts of her body. Parts of her personality. Bob felt that certain sections of Maura, well, you just weren’t going to find anything better. Her breasts, for example, or her sense of humor when she was in a good mood. Her tongue. Her chin. Her ears. Her perfectly formed feet. Bob could go on for hours, separating her into desirable and undesirable chunks. Getting smaller and more specific as he went. Deconstructing Maura. Good title for a movie.
“I’m really horny.”
“And I’m really not.”
“Aw, c’mon.”
“Go beat off.”
Bob scoffed. He’d heard this before. As if masturbating was the answer to everything.
“You know, some guys actually like to make love to a warm body.”
“Yeah, well, this warm body’s going to yoga, so if you wanna squirt, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
“Maybe I should make an appointment.”
“You can’t afford it. Your health insurance doesn’t cover it.”
Bob was surprised.
“You take insurance?”
“Of course. I’m a health care provider.”
Bob nodded dimly.
“What did you think? I was like some kind of massage parlor? Giving hand jobs for thirty bucks?”
“I, uh, I didn’t know you took insurance. That’s all.”
“That’s because you never ask about me. You have no interest in me.”
Bob rose to his defense, his voice cracking into a high whine.
“That’s not true! I just asked you to have sex.”
Maura looked at him with an eyebrow raised. Bob stood there, shifting from foot to foot, ready for it. Ready for Maura’s volcanic temper to erupt. He’d seen it many times before. The change in her voice, the blood surging to her face, the gulping for air, the shouting, sometimes slamming furniture around. Bob stood as relaxed as possible, like a palm tree waiting for the hurricane to arrive. Maura struggled for self-control.
“I don’t have time for this.”
With that, Maura walked into the bedroom and pulled off her blouse. Bob watched from the living room, beer gripped tightly, as Maura changed into her yoga clothes.
Maura came back into the room clutching her sticky mat and Mexican blankets.
“See you later, sweetie.”
And she was gone.
Norberto didn’t waste any time with the back door. He just kicked it in. He clicked on his penlight and swept it around the garage. Crime-scene tape fluttered festively in the wind like streamers from a little kid’s birthday party. Otherwise the garage was unexceptional. Old cans of paint stacked on shelves. A shovel. A rake. Plastic containers of transmission fluid. Liquid Plumber. Junk. The penlight beam stopped on a sled. The faded words Radio Flyer painted in red. Norberto, born and raised in Juarez, wasn’t immediately sure what it was. He’d heard of sleds, but had never seen one before. He looked at the rails, the wood slats. A sled in LA. What the fuck did Carlos need with a sled? Raro, man.
Norberto continued sweeping the room with the tiny beam. He saw a ratchet set from Sears. Norberto knew that those were supposed to be worth some money. He considered boosting it for a second, then changed his mind. The beam of light stopped on the chalk outline where Carlo’s body must’ve been. There was a dark splotch, blood or motor oil, Norberto couldn’t tell, next to the outline. A few feet away from that was another chalk outline. This one smaller. About the size and shape of Amado’s right arm.
Max Larga stood in his modern, gourmet-equipped kitchen picking his nose. This action was reflected and distorted over and over in the gleaming appliances and cookware that surrounded him. He pulled his pinky out of his nostril and admired the prize. Without thinking he stuck the gleaming mucus ball into his mouth, smacking his thick lips like it was a fresh tiny oyster, and went about preparing dinner.
He took a starched white apron off a hook and strapped it around his corpulent waist. He pulled a roasting pan out of a drawer and plopped a large leg of lamb into it. Larga took fresh marjoram out of the Sub-Zero. Using a large knife he expertly diced the herbs and dumped them in a bowl with a small amount of olive oil. He added salt and pepper and then stuck his hands in the bowl and began mixing. Larga carried the bowl over to the leg of lamb and began rubbing the oil and spices on the meat. His shiny hands caressed the soft, pink meat as he worked the spices into the flesh. Larga found himself getting slightly aroused. He unconsciously pressed his crotch against the butcher-block counter with a gentle rocking motion. He caught himself, his face flushing in embarrassment, when he realized he was using his newly acquired masturbation strokes on the lamb.
He quickly washed his hands, threw the lamb in the oven, and opened a bottle of merlot.
Esteban was frustrated. How many times was he going to sneak guys over the border, give them jobs, give them a chance, give them a fucking life? And what do these fucking maricóns do? They fuck it up. They were always fucking things up. They didn’t appreciate what crime could do for you. Crime could fucking pay, cabrón. Crime could add inches to your cock. Crime could set you up in a life like you never even dreamed. But some people just didn’t get it. Esteban knew that Amado didn’t get it. Didn’t appreciate the opportunity. The Caucasians knew about loyalty. It was the fucking caballeros who were trouble. Esteban knew he’d be better off hiring out-of-work linebackers from Texas A & M. At least the dumb white guys appreciated a chance to do something with a little action, a little adrenaline. They’d be loyal. But Esteban felt a certain loyalty himself, a connection with La Raza. Despite all the trouble they caused, he compulsively helped his countrymen.
Esteban put down his beer and looked at Martin. The young man stubbed out his cigarette and stared back at Esteban without blinking. Perhaps because he felt smarter than Esteban or because he was stoned all the time, Martin wasn’t afraid to tell Esteban the truth… even if it pissed Esteban off. Esteban was wise enough to know not to surround himself with ass kissers. Still, there’s something to be said for being surrounded by ass kissers. Esteban sighed.