Eventually he found three-fourths of a spot and pulled in, letting the back of his car stick out into a red zone. Normally, he wouldn’t risk it. The tickets, the possibility of getting towed or, worse, booted, where some kind of medieval torture device is attached to the wheel of your car, kept him out of red zones. But he was out of pot, and tonight, of all nights, he needed some.
He turned the car off, set the handbrake, and unconsciously picked some loose french fries off the passenger seat and popped them in his mouth. They were cold and had a slightly metallic taste. He shuddered, wondering if they’d been the fries that were on Amado’s arm. The taste began to expand and take on a life of its own in his mouth. Growing from a dull greasy taste into a harsh accusation of cannibalism. A flavor that said, You have crossed the line, you are going to hell.
He reached for the tin of Altoids, the curiously strong peppermints, that he kept in the side-door pocket of his car, popped two in his mouth, and chewed them up. The mints effectively vaporized any residual french fry taste in his mouth.
He got out of his car and began the long walk down the hill to his dealer’s duplex. The mints coupled with the crisp night air made him feel awake, alert, and very alive.
Esteban drove quickly, not fast enough to draw the attention of the police. He couldn’t remember how many successful criminals had been undone by stupid traffic stops, but it was a lot. And it was, above all else, embarrassing. Let the FBI, the DEA, or some special task force bring him down. That was acceptable. He could go into la carcel knowing that the United States government had spent millions of dollars and invested thousands of man-hours putting together a case. But some lone maricón pulling him over for speeding?
Still, he pressed his luck. Amado had called and told him it was muy importante. Get over to Norberto’s ahora. Amado was not the kind of man who asked for help, so it must be muy importante.
It was annoying. He’d just talked to Roberto, and everything seemed to have gone smoothly. Roberto had done his part and had done it beautifully. He was strangely proud of Roberto. Like a father might be. And he had plans for him. Big plans. Roberto wasn’t just smart, he had a vibe, an onda, about him that Esteban thought could help. Bob was a people person. Just what Esteban needed.
Maura wanted to smoke. She craved one of those stinky-ass clove cigarettes that French people were always puffing in discos. Yeah. She pushed her plate of vegetable curry and brown rice aside and looked across the table at Don, who was plowing through his dinner like a refugee.
“This is really good.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah.”
Don reached over and refilled her glass of wine before refilling his. A gentleman.
“Do you think this is a safe neighborhood?”
Don put his chopsticks down and considered her question.
“No more or less than any other. At the end of the day it’s a big city.”
She nodded.
“I don’t feel safe living by myself. That’s why I bought the gun.”
Don smiled at her.
“You’re amazing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I guess when I think of someone who’s a vegetarian I don’t think of a gun owner.”
“I just don’t want to be a victim.”
Don looked at her, curious.
“Did something happen to you?”
“Women get victimized. Society is set up that way.”
“I don’t think a gun will solve society’s problems.”
“It’s not just a gun. It’s, I don’t know, it’s empowerment.”
“Empowerment? Just because you can shoot someone?”
Maura nodded.
“But it’s more than just shooting someone. It’s something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but it’s very sexy.”
Maura began to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to show Don how empowered she felt. Then maybe he’d understand. She took her shirt off, exposing her chest to him.
“Give me your gun.”
Don hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t stop. Don slowly reached around and took his gun out of its holster. He checked to make sure the safety was on.
“Be careful.”
Maura took the gun.
“It’s not about being careful.”
She pointed the gun at him.
“It’s about being intimate.”
Esteban parked in front of Norberto’s apartment. He checked his gun, making sure it was fully loaded and ready to go. He also checked his spare clip. No use jamming a new clip in only to find out that it was empty as well. He’d learned that the hard way when a couple of Mexican police had tried to jump him in a cantina in Juárez. Fortunately, the bartender had been a friend of his and had a twelve-gauge shotgun behind the bar.
Esteban knocked on the door and Amado let him in.
Esteban looked around the room. He wasn’t shocked to see Norberto lying dead in a pool of blood. He figured it was something like that.
“Who killed him?”
“Yo.”
That was surprising.
“¿Por qué?”
“He and Martin stole my arm.”
It didn’t take long for Esteban to piece together what might be occurring. He was used to power plays. He’d seen people plot against him and his crew for years.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Amado pointed to Norberto.
“He said that Martin was going to give it to las placas.”
So that was the plan. Let the police do Martin’s dirty work. Still, Esteban was surprised. He didn’t think Norberto would do something like this. The guy just wasn’t a rat. Esteban walked over, carefully so as not to step in the blood, and looked at Norberto.
“I can’t bury him with one arm.”
Esteban looked at Amado and chuckled.
“I think your days as a matador are over, my friend.”
“Lástima.”
“What will become of you? You need two hands to drive a cab or bus dirty dishes off of tables.”
“I’ve been thinking about a new job.”
Esteban looked at him and discreetly began to reach for his gun. Amado raised his arm in the air to reassure him.
“No, amigo. I don’t want your job. I want to be a writer of telenovelas.”
Eighteen
BOB WOKE UP. The sun glinted in through a gap in the bright orange curtains and splashed across his face. He felt good. Warm, snuggled, and safe. The only thing slightly alarming was the fact that his cock was as hard as a lead pipe. He looked over and saw Felicia snoring peacefully next to him. Miss Scarlet, in the bedroom, with the lead pipe.
He shifted carefully, he didn’t want Felicia to see it, because she’d make him fuck her again and, frankly, he was exhausted. He’d had sex so many times since he met her, fifteen, sixteen, maybe more, that he felt deeply tired, drained. His left eye had picked up a strange twitch.
The first thing he noticed as he climbed out of bed were the scabs on his knees. They were large, red, and painful. As he slid out of bed and stood up, his back squeaked in pain. Christ, I feel sixty. Bob hobbled off to the bathroom. He had to go to work.