Moist by Mark Haskell Smith Page B

handsome, successful, and with better clothes, asking if Bob would work with them on one job. They would pay him ten thousand dollars and all he had to do was deliver the arm—technically a different arm—to Parker Center.
    â€œA ten-thousand-dollar bonus for doing what you’d normally do.”
    Bob thought about it. He had a moment of indecision. But there was something about Esteban—the same thing that made him scary—that gave Bob confidence. The more he thought about it the more excited he became. Martin waited for an answer. Finally . . .
    â€œI’ll do it. But . . .”
    Martin was taken aback.
    â€œBob, you’re not really in a position to negotiate.”
    â€œYou don’t know what I want.”
    Martin nodded.
    â€œOkay. What do you want?”
    â€œI want to meet Felicia.”
    â€œWho’s Felicia?”
    Bob lifted Amado’s arm off the table and pointed to the tattoo.
    â€œThat’s Felicia.”
    . . .
    Esteban was surprised that Bob came around so easily. He could see that Bob, like Martin, was attracted to the glamorous aspect of the criminal life. Caucasians can be so naive. They think being a gangster is all fast cars, beautiful women, and cash. They watch too many movies. Esteban knew firsthand how much work was involved in maintaining a successful life of crime. The long hours, the late nights, the constant anxiety. Most of the older members of
la familia
had developed angina from the stress. An unlucky few were rotting away in jail somewhere. Others had just dropped dead from massive coronaries while pumping some whore. Viagra deaths, he called them. The drug turns your
explorador
into Superman and leaves the rest of you a saggy old
abuelo
trying desperately to keep up. Wheezing and huffing, hardly enjoying it at all. It was tragic, grown men acting like teenagers, but still Esteban figured that it was better to go out having fun with a woman than being shot in the head while sitting in your car.
    The scrawny gringo came into the room holding a can of beer. Esteban gave him the glare and was satisfied to see the gringo look away. Esteban cleared his throat.
    â€œYou understand what this means?”
    Bob looked first at Martin, then back to Esteban.
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œYou’ll become an accessory to murder, and that is some heavy shit, my friend.”
    Bob hesitated.
    â€œI’m not going to kill anyone.”
    Esteban could barely conceal his irritation. The nerve some people have. Thinking it’s easy to just go kill someone. Like anyone could do it. Even Amado, who had years of experience, bungled a simple hit.
    â€œNo. You’re not going to kill anyone.”
    Martin interrupted.
    â€œBut you will be an accessory. I want you to understand that.”
    Bob nodded.
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œYou could go to jail.”
    Esteban gave him the look.
    â€œIf you go to the police, we will kill you.”
    Bob was almost annoyed.
    â€œI get it.”
    Esteban watched as Bob stood and pondered the possibilities. You could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. It wouldn’t have surprised Esteban if Bob had asked for a piece of paper and pencil so he could draw a line down the middle and write the pros on one side and the cons on the other.
Americanos
have no
huevos
.
    But Bob surprised him.
    â€œIf I get to meet Felicia, it’ll be worth it.”
    Esteban laughed out loud.
    â€œYou believe a woman is worth the risk?”
    Bob nodded. He had never been so sure of anything in his life.
    â€œShe’s not just any woman.”
    Esteban shook his head in amazement.
    â€œJust so you understand.”
    Bob sat down on the couch next to Martin. Martin slipped into business mode, closing the deal.
    â€œThe deal is we’re going to give Bob here ten thousand dollars and a night with Felicia.”
    â€œAnd what does Bob give us?”
    â€œHe will deliver the arm, the new arm, and tell