Moist by Mark Haskell Smith Page A

the kitchen floor with a sickening thud. Juice, Bob didn’t know what else to call it, oozed out and smeared Amado’s shirt. Amado picked up his arm from the floor and looked at it.
    â€œI miss my arm, Bob.”
    â€œI bet you do.”
    â€œNever lose your arm, Bob,
nunca
.”
    Bob nodded.
    â€œI know you didn’t lose yours on purpose, and I bet your arm knows it too.”
    Amado considered that.
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    Amado’s voice caught; it looked like he might cry.
    â€œI never thought about how my arm might feel. I never thought I’d see it again.”
    Amado was now letting the severed limb sit nonchalantly in his lap. He looked down at it.
    â€œI didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    Amado picked up his arm and cradled it like a newborn. Bob was quiet. He didn’t know what to say so he just let Amado make his peace with his arm. Bob could see the Godfather, Esteban, sitting on the couch in the living room talking with Martin, the white guy. Norberto, or Norbert as Bob had called him, had drunk a few shots with them and then retired to a back bedroom to catch up on his sleep.
    Bob stood up and patted Amado on the shoulder.
    â€œI’m going to the bathroom. When I come back, let’s remember the good things you did with your arm. Let’s celebrate that.”
    Amado looked up at Bob with big wet eyes.
    â€œYou’re a good man, Bob.”
    Bob went to pee.
    . . .
    Esteban watched Amado and the gringo drinking and laughing like it was Cinco de Mayo. Let them laugh. They’d both be dead soon enough. Martin was still arguing with him, wanting him to spare the gringo.
¿Por qué?
Was it because they were both white? Martin never said anything when Esteban had some fucking
cholo
whacked. Now he’s got some white guy to deal with and Martin is begging, putting everything at risk.
    Esteban realized that Martin had a point. A dead white guy, carjacked while on the job, would be on the news. Once something made the news the police had to pay attention. Having the cops nosing around, asking questions, was never good.
    Esteban knew all this, but his guts told him to kill the guy. Loose ends were a bad thing. You let a guy live and you empower him to testify against you in court. That would suck. The last thing Esteban wanted to see was this fucking scrawny slacker gringo standing up in federal court testifying about how Esteban kidnapped him. White people always thought they were better. Esteban didn’t know what gave them that idea, it was such bullshit.
    Esteban was smart. As smart as any white person, he was sure of that, but he didn’t want to let his emotions get in the way of clear thinking. He knew that Martin had a point. So he agreed to let Martin have a talk with the guy,
gringo-agringo,
and see if he’d cooperate.
    When Bob returned from the bathroom Amado was passed out on the table. He was snoring loudly, a line of drool running from the corner of his mouth to the floor. Bob sat down and watched him sleep. He didn’t seem so mean in his sleep. He just seemed like a guy who’d lost his way in a new country. Lost his way and then lost his arm. Bob felt for him.
    Martin came over and sat with Bob. Martin needed to talk to him about something important. He wanted to tell Bob a story so he’d know why they had carjacked him and what they were planning to do with him. While Esteban watched
fútbol
on the television in the living room, Martin recounted the events of the last forty-eight hours that led up to Bob’s abduction. Then Martin made Bob an offer.
    Bob couldn’t believe his ears. Not that he’d ever wanted to be a criminal or involved in a criminal enterprise. Frankly, the idea of jail had always been too frightening for him to even consider breaking the law. But here was a smart guy, a guy with a law degree, a guy who did his undergrad work at Yale, a guy just like him only more