“What about me?”
“You should go home and wait for me to call.”
That wasn’t what Bob wanted to hear.
“He’ll try to kill me again.”
“Roberto. I will protect you. ¿Entiendes?”
Bob wasn’t so sure, but what could he say?
“Okay.”
“Now tell me where he is.”
Amado sat at his kitchen table. His new laptop computer was beeping at him. Although he’d never used a computer before, Amado was surprised at how simple it was. He had loaded the screenwriting software in a couple of minutes.
The phone rang.
Amado looked at it. He didn’t really want to be bothered right now, but it wasn’t like he had dozens of amigos who’d just call up. And he had given his number to Cindy, in case she felt the desire for more life experience. So he answered it.
It was Esteban telling him Roberto’s story.
Normally, Amado would’ve just said Sí, está bien, and he’d have been out the door. But now, what could he do? He could drive out in the desert, find Martin, and blast him. He’d be happy to. But he couldn’t dig a hole or move a carcass. You can’t rely on the vultures to dispose of it. They’d leave Martin’s teeth, and he’d be identified through his dental records.
Besides, Amado was just sitting down to start writing his episode of the telenovela. He had it all planned in his mind. He had his new computer with the cool software. He had some cold cerveza in the fridge. And he’d had a buena cogida with Cindy earlier that afternoon.
The last thing he wanted to do was drive over the fucking hills and kill someone.
Amado suggested Esteban call the Ramirez brothers. They had been doing odd jobs, errands, small stuff for the crew. It was time to bring them up. Give them a mission. Sure, they were drug addicts with a touch of caballero about them, but they would jump at the chance to make their bones with Esteban.
Besides, Amado had work of his own.
Don drove over to Maura’s office. He didn’t know what to think. So Larga had Maura’s card in a drawer. Was he a client? Were they friends? Was Maura involved in his disappearance somehow?
On one hand, he was glad that he had something to go on. Otherwise it was looking random. No motive. No leads. Just some poor fucker with bad luck. Those sorts of cases were unsolvable.
As Don pulled into the parking lot by Maura’s office he spotted Larga’s car. He picked up his radio and called it in.
Don parked and walked over to Larga’s car. He hated this part. If he’d had to bet, he would’ve wagered a thousand dollars on Larga’s body being in the trunk. Don leaned close to the trunk and took an exploratory sniff.
The stench of rotting flesh did not assault Don’s senses as he’d feared it would. He bent close to the trunk and sniffed again. It just smelled like a car. Don was relieved. It takes days to get the smell of a corpse out of your nose and mouth. You need to gargle with gin and eat raw onions and lemons. And still your brain remembers. The sensation of the smell lingers for weeks, sometimes longer. It’s nasty.
Esteban hung up the phone. He was disappointed in Amado, but he understood. Amado couldn’t do the things he once could. Esteban could no longer rely on Amado to take care of the necessary but unfortunate side of the business that required murder, mayhem, and an unflinching ability to inflict pain, suffering, and even more pain. Amado was now disabled. A gimp. He could use those special parking spots.
Esteban reluctantly dialed the Ramirez brothers.
It’s not that they were incompetent. If you needed a bar smashed up, a car stolen, or some money collected from a deadbeat dealer, you couldn’t ask for two more competent employees. The thing that gave Esteban pause was that the Ramirez brothers actually enjoyed their job. They were sociopaths and sadists.
He and Amado had, over the years, dished out death, torture, and punishment. But they’d never enjoyed it. It had never felt good. It had always been a real drag. Bárbaro. They’d felt bad about it, no matter how justified they were. Los hermanos Ramirez thought it was fun.
It gave Esteban the creeps.
But, he figured, if anyone deserved an afternoon with the Ramirez brothers, it was Martin.
Martin felt the sun slowly baking him. His body basting in its own sweat. He rolled over and felt his head. A crunchy crust of clotted blood had formed and stopped the bleeding. Still, judging from the number of flies buzzing around his wound, it wasn’t good.
Martin slowly sat up. He was dizzy. His head throbbing like a motherfucker. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.
He sat there and took stock of his situation. There were, he realized, a number of variables. If Roberto had called Esteban and ratted him out, then Amado was on his way to kill him. If Roberto had thought Esteban was behind this, well, he’d just run for cover and they’d never see him again. Martin preferred the latter. But either way, he had to get back to civilization, and an emergency room, soon.
He got to his feet and saw that the Glock was on the ground a few feet away. He bent down to pick it up, feeling a little dizzy as he did. He noticed the shovel on the ground. A divot of his scalp, the wispy hairs sticking up, was still stuck to the shovel’s blade.
Martin didn’t want to think about it. Time to move.
Maura was surprised and happy to see Don.
“Hey, what’re you doing here?”
She gave him a nice wet kiss, wrapping her arms around him as she did. Actually, the kiss could’ve led somewhere. It was one of those I’ve-got-the-time-and-the-interest kind of kisses. Don pulled back.
“Hey, I hate to do this. But I’ve got to ask you some questions.”
Maura was concerned.
“You didn’t get an infection or anything?”
“No. These are police questions.”
Maura swallowed. Don was looking at her in a different way. A new way. He was studying her reactions. Even though she hadn’t ever broken any laws or done anything bad, except for a little recreational drug use, Maura suddenly began to sweat.
“What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine. I’m hoping you can help.”
“Of course I’ll help.”
Don looked at her and then pulled out a cookbook.
“Do you recognize this man?”
He showed her the picture of Larga on the cover.
“Yes. That’s Max Larga. Although you know that, because his name’s right there on the cover of the book.”
Maura caught herself. Why do I feel so nervous?
“Do you know him?”
“Sure. He’s a client.”
Don nodded.
“This is important. When was the last time you saw him?”
Maura thought for a second.
“I can tell you exactly.”
She went to her desk and pulled out her schedule book. Looking through it, she realized that she might need to take out an ad in one of the holistic newspapers. Business had been slack.
“He was supposed to come the other day, but he didn’t show up.”
Don wrote down the exact date and time.
“You sure he didn’t show up?”
“Yeah. I was annoyed. He didn’t even call.”
“We found his car in the parking lot.”
Maura blinked.
“That’s weird.”
Don nodded.
“Yes. Yes it is.”
Bob turned on the car’s radio. He hit the scan button, and station after station came into the car, blared a commercial, and then drifted off into a static void. Didn’t anyone play music on the radio anymore? It was all talk. Somebody selling something. Even the news was selling something. Bob believed that people watched the news on TV or listened to the news on the radio so they could feel superior. They didn’t want to be informed, they weren’t interested in politics, half the time they didn’t even vote. People watched the news so they could say, I’m better than the poor fuckers fighting floodwaters in Iowa; I’m smarter than the guy driving wildly down the freeway to avoid arrest. My life is better, not because of the luck of being born in the First World, but because I am inherently superior to the hungry masses rioting in Botswana, robbing banks in Van Nuys, and selling their bodies on the streets of Bangkok.