Above the sofa was a series of photos. It was the cast of the telenovela. They looked fantastic, bigger than life. Amado hoped he’d get to meet a couple of them.
A young woman with extremely long legs came into the lobby and handed him a tiny plastic bottle of mineral water from France. Amado smiled at her; he couldn’t help admiring those legs — man, were they long.
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
Amado wedged the bottle of water between his knees and carefully twisted the top off. He was about to take a sip when an anglo in a dark suit entered the lobby.
“You must be Amado.”
Amado did a quick juggling act, trying to put the water on the table, stand up, and shake hands all at once. He couldn’t believe how nervous he suddenly was.
“Sí. Yes.”
“I’m Stan. Thanks for coming down.”
“No problem.”
“Did they take care of you?”
Amado picked up his water.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Follow me.”
Stan spun on his heel and started walking at a quick and important pace. He led Amado through a doorway and into a large open area. There were assistants in cubicles in the middle. Important offices on both sides. The atmosphere was hushed, serious, and very businesslike. Amado realized that he hadn’t really known what to expect. But he hadn’t expected something so corporate.
Stan was talking.
“I gotta tell you, normally we don’t accept submissions without an agent. But you, sir, you’ve got friends in high places.”
“I know some people.”
“Well, we’re glad you do, because that script blew our minds.”
Amado blinked. Stan continued.
“It’s like you’re psychic.”
Stan turned and they entered a conference room.
“Take a seat.”
Amado, from years of habit, sat facing the door. He gave Stan a curious look.
“Did you like my script?”
Stan laughed.
“If I didn’t like it, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Amado felt a rush of relief.
“Your script hit the nail on the head. It was inspirational.”
“I like the show very much.”
“That’s obvious. But, frankly, the show is in trouble. Ratings are declining. We’ve been having a series of discussions, did some focus groups, deep market research, and want to tweak the show in a slightly different direction.”
Stan flopped into a chair and loosened his tie.
“We didn’t know what that direction was until we read your script.”
Amado was still processing the earlier information.
“I don’t understand. People don’t like the show?”
“It needs some edge.”
“Edge?”
“You know, some street. Some barrio. Reality with a big R. The kind of stuff you write. Gritty. That’s what the show needs. That’s what we’re looking for, and that’s why I want to offer you a job.”
“A job?”
“Yeah. You want to write for the show, right?”
“Cierto.”
“Well, we want you to join our staff.”
Amado couldn’t believe his ears.
“When?”
Stan looked at him.
“Can you start today? We can close a deal right after lunch.”
“I don’t have an agent.”
Stan looked at him.
“A writer as good as you should have an agent.”
Amado shrugged.
“I’m just starting.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a friend in the Lit Department at ICM. She’ll take care of you. In fact, let’s conference her in now.”
Stan hit a button on a star-shaped telephone sitting in the middle of the conference table.
“Lois? Get Allie Williams on the phone. Tell her it’s important.”
Stan looked up at Amado and smiled.
“You, my friend, are going to be a big star in this business.”
Amado sipped his water as the assistant at ICM put Stan on hold. Stan looked at him.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to your arm?”
Don sat at his desk typing. There are clusterfucks and then there are clusterfucks. This, he realized, was the mother of all clusterfucks. The granddaddy of all fuckups. A Saddam Hussein supersized fuckup. And who was responsible for this royal fuckup?
He was.
Don checked his list. Two murders, the one that started this whole mess — Carlos Vila — and the sheriff in Palm Springs. The two police shootings, both ruled justifiable, of the Ramirez brothers. One death ruled an accidental drug overdose. One severed arm attributed to a missing, and presumed dead, cookbook author.
Make that three murders.
One severed arm belonging to an unknown individual.
Four.
No witnesses. No testimony. The only evidence seemingly useless. And, if the mumblings of a deranged drug addict were to be believed, it was all because of some new über-gangster named Roberto.
Don wouldn’t admit it to his captain, he wouldn’t tell Flores or any of the other detectives working in his division, but he was worried. For the first time in his entire police career Don was worried. Whoever this Roberto was, he must be something else. Some kind of criminal mastermind. He had fucked with the LAPD. Brazenly. And they didn’t know the first thing about him.
Don had done his best to find out. He’d kept Esteban and Bob in custody, trying to crack them. Trying to get something. He lied. He told Esteban that Bob had cracked and spilled everything. Did Esteban want to return the favor? He told Bob that Esteban had broken down and implicated him in a string of murders. Bob had laughed in the detective’s face.
There was no evidence to hold them. He couldn’t even get them on simple gun possession charges. A couple of guns had mysteriously appeared in his jacket pockets, machinery wiped clean of fingerprints, like a trick by Siegfried and Roy. He couldn’t prove that Esteban or Bob had put them there. He couldn’t prove that they had conspired to do anything. He couldn’t prove shit.
What was he going to charge them with? Impersonating an attorney? Pretending to be a paralegal? What was that? That was bullshit. And bullshit rarely holds up in court.
Esteban and Bob had played it right, kept their mouths shut, hired a fancy lawyer and got out. The American legal system firing on all cylinders, working in all its crook-lovin’ glory.
What a fucking mess.
Don hung his head. He’d already heard rumblings that he would be bounced out of the Criminal Intelligence unit and back over to Homicide. Ugh. There is nothing worse than that. I’d rather be a traffic cop. Anything’s better than looking at dead bodies all day. Especially in the summertime.
But Don wasn’t a quitter. He was down but not out. Even though it appeared that Esteban Sola had skipped the country, Don knew he’d be back and he vowed to bring him down. Esteban and this mystery man, Roberto. One of these days they’d slip up again and next time, he’d grab them by their balls and squeeze.
Which is more than he could say about his balls. Since he’d broken off the, well, he couldn’t really call it a relationship — it was more of an unhealthy fling, a sick fuck — he’d reverted back to his old routine. He’d leave work and saunter through the downtown streets. Watching the people drain out of the area like it was some kind of old bathtub, until it was empty, just some scum and a few drips left.
He might grab a taco or a little bag of fresh fruit with chili and lime from a cart on Broadway. He couldn’t afford to have appetizers or dinner at the wine bar so he always tried to eat something before he got there. Then he’d perch at the bar and let the vino tell him the truth. The version of the truth he wanted to hear.