“You really want to know?”
“Sure.”
Maura suddenly thought better of what she was about to say, but it was too late to stop it.
“I can’t stand the sight of your penis.”
“My penis?”
“Any penis.”
“Why?”
“They repulse me.”
Bob put his head back on his pillow and considered the implications. Maura kissed him on the cheek.
“Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe if I — ”
She didn’t want to hear it.
“I gave at the office. Okay?”
“But — ”
“I’m sorry.”
Bob was still game.
“You don’t have to look at it or touch it or anything. Just let me put it inside you.”
Maura looked at him.
“Don’t be gross.”
Norberto woke up with a splitting headache. Like the worst mescal hangover imaginable. No. Like a hangover from sniffing propellant. Refeo. He tried to move his arms and quickly realized that he was handcuffed to a pole or pipe of some kind. He tugged against it hard, testing. The effort caused blood to rush to his head which, in turn, made him puke on himself. Then he passed out.
Sometimes Martin hated his job. Sure, it had its perks. There was action, travel, a new challenge every day. He got cash, women, and best of all, a constant supply of high-grade marijuana. But the hours, Christ, the hours sucked. It beat doing a nine-to-five on your butt in front of a computer trading stocks or sitting in some stuffy law library reading legal gobbledygook, the kinds of jobs his grad school classmates had fallen into. That wasn’t for him, that kind of life was for losers. People without imagination. Still, even if he was on call twenty-four/seven, he’d found time for pleasure. Little things. Scouring vintage clothing stores with Norberto or getting a manicure from the weird Cambodian ladies. Small pleasures that added to his quality of life. Small pleasures and plenty of pot.
His parents didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand at all if they had any idea what he was really doing. Why couldn’t he take a position at a nice white-shoe law firm or, even better, score a cushy Wall Street job and become a millionaire like every other ambitious young American? They believed he was a “consultant” advising a wealthy Mexican investor. Which he was, in a sense. He told them that he liked the diversity: real estate, stocks, venture capital; he was really learning a lot. He neglected to tell them he was learning the money-laundering business, the strip-club business, the prostitution business, the narcotics-trafficking business, and the gun-running business. Martin didn’t know why he was attracted to crime, he just was.
It was cool.
Martin put it all out of his mind as he fired up a big fat joint. He inhaled deeply, held it, and then exhaled with a long satisfied sigh. He felt his brain climb into a warm water bed and just… float. Martin looked in the mirror behind the polished granite bar. Why did chrome hurt his eyes? Why did the faucet and sink have to be so shiny anyway? Why did people with money want everything to be so fucking shiny? What was up with that?
Martin reached for his sunglasses even though it was well past midnight. He took another long drag on the jumbo, put on his shades, and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling.
Esteban’s voice snapped him out of it.
“Where’s my fucking drink?”
“Comin’ right up.”
Martin hurriedly chucked ice into four tumblers and filled them halfway up with Don Julio silver. He went around behind the bar and searched for the Cointreau and limes.
“The girls are getting thirsty.”
“One minute.”
Martin was careful not to let an edge of annoyance creep into his voice. He had seen Esteban lose his temper and stick a man’s face in a deep-fat Fry-O-Lator. He’d seen him grind broken glass into someone’s rectum. It was best not to piss Esteban off, so Martin always tried to speak in a calm and well-modulated voice. It helped to be stoned.
Esteban sat in the Jacuzzi, letting the warm water bubble around him. He sank in lower, letting his eyes come to just above water level. That way he could get a good look at the two pairs of tits bobbing across the tub from him. He tried to decide. Which were better? One pair was obviously fake. Unnaturally big, unnaturally round, unnaturally perky. With hard plastic nubs on the ends like the doodads that made mannequins look like they had erect nipples. It was the best modern technology could offer, yet Esteban found them unattractive. He could tell they would be hard, not soft. They would not be comforting or sexy. They would be firm and bouncy, like fucking a couple of basketballs. Impressive, but without soul. The other ones, the ones on the Latina, they looked real. Voluptuous and uneven with large terra-cotta areolas. They were breasts. They had soul.
The girls giggled together and playfully splashed at him. Esteban was careful not to get his hair wet, so he stood up and yelled into the house.
“Where’s my fuckin’ drink?”
He heard some mumbly bullshit answer come from the house. That and a blast of mota smoke. Esteban turned to the girl with the fake tits. He pointed at them.
“Those real?”
“You like them?”
Esteban had heard that question before. He knew that if he said yes, he’d be stuck fucking her later. If he said no, well, that would be rude. Esteban strove for a middle ground.
“I’m curious.”
She giggled.
“I had them enhanced.”
Esteban nodded. What was there to say? He turned his back on her and yelled into the house.
“The girls are getting thirsty.”
Esteban sank back into the water. He let out a sigh, pretending to relax. But how could he fucking relax? He had that punk, Norberto, hog-tied in the downstairs bathroom. He had Amado running around somewhere without his arm. How could someone lose their arm? The arm thing was going to be a problem. Esteban could feel it. Feel it all the way down in the deepest part of his huevos. Esteban wondered if he could get Amado a fake arm like the woman’s fake tits. They looked real enough.
Martin finally arrived with the drinks. The women giggled and took theirs. One of them said something about a paper umbrella. Esteban slugged half his back in one gulp. It was strong. The sharpness of the lime, the blast of salt, the warmth of the liquor in his guts. He smiled as he felt the tequila spiders crawl up his spine and begin spinning their webs in his brain. The kid might be some kind of grad school pussy, but he made a good drink.
Martin dropped his robe and eased his body into the Jacuzzi. For a brief stoned moment he felt like shabu-shabu. Sliced meat dunked in boiling water. Esteban had his legs stretched out, he looked like a turkey drumstick. The women with their big round tits could be vegetables, maybe bok choy or mushrooms. The water bubbled.
Broth.
Martin considered his place in the shabu-shabu. He was white, but not tofu. Meat, maybe pork or chicken. Halibut? Or was he that fake crab? He didn’t feel out of place like he sometimes felt around Esteban. He felt just fine. Like fake crab.
He smiled at Esteban.
“We’re makin’ girl soup.”
Esteban was too tired for this bullshit.
“Yeah.”
The girl with the fake tits piped up.
“Who’s got the big spoon to eat me with?”
Esteban looked at Martin.
“Him. He’ll eat you.”
Martin knew it was an order. He tried some of his Spanish.
“Seguro, baby.”
Esteban winced.
“First we need to talk. You girls go on upstairs.”
The women carried their drinks out of the pool and quickly tiptoed into the house. Esteban turned to Martin.