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  Amado groaned and shifted in the tub. A bag of ice and several towels were strapped to his shoulder where his right arm used to be. His torso was uncovered, revealing tattoos of naked women and couples engaged in intercourse. Every possible sexual position explicitly and beautifully rendered. The Kama Sutra inked on his body.

  A slick smear of bright red rolled down the porcelain toward the drain, the blood appearing redder than usual in contrast to the brightness of the tub. His jeans were soaked through, the dark trail stretching to his cowboy boots. Amado reached down for the bottle of Herradura tequila that was wedged between his thighs. He pulled it to his lips and took a long gulp. Replacing the bottle he let out a shout.

  “¡Pendejo!”

  An extremely handsome young man, Norberto, his long hair gleamingly groomed and tied back in a ponytail, entered the room carrying a lime and a knife. The usually cool and stylish Norberto was nervous, sweaty, unsure what to say or do. He had been getting ready to go salsa dancing at Rudolpho’s and didn’t want to get any blood on his clothes. He had found this crazy purple sharkskin suit at a vintage store and just got it back from having it tailored to fit his slender frame. He could see himself spinning, swaying, and glimmering on the dance floor.

  But no, he had answered the door and now had to babysit an amputee. It wasn’t a choice. Amado was his friend, and more important, his boss. Norberto had to look after him. Still, he felt slightly conflicted. It was understandable given the circumstances.

  “You want some lime, man?”

  “I want a fuckin’ doctor.”

  “I called. He’s coming.”

  Norberto whipped the butterfly knife open in one deft move and sliced the lime into bite-sized wedges. He held one out. Amado took another long pull on the Herradura, then opened his mouth. Norberto brought the lime up to Amado’s lips. He was careful of his fingers as Amado bit down on the lime, sucking the juice out in anger, frustration, and pain.

  “Esteban’s been calling, man.”

  “Fuck him.”

  Norberto reached for the bottle of tequila. Amado swatted him away with his good arm.

  “I need this.”

  Norberto sat down on the toilet next to the bathtub.

  “What about me? I need something for my nerves, cabrón.”

  Amado sighed and handed the bottle over. Norberto took a long pull and then popped a piece of lime in his mouth.

  “Don’t drink it all, pendejo.”

  Norberto handed the bottle back. He looked at Amado.

  “Where’s your arm, man?”

  “I left it in Carlos Vila’s garage.”

  Norberto thought about that for a moment.

  “What were you doing in Carlos Vila’s garage?”

  “Killing him.”

  “¿Por qué, man?”

  “Carlos and me, we had a deal. Then that maricón decided to sell me out.”

  “So you killed him, man?”

  Amado nodded, took another pull on the bottle. He turned his head and glared at Norberto. Norberto understood immediately and held out another piece of lime for Amado to chomp down on.

  “If you killed him, what happened to your arm?”

  Amado sighed again.

  “I was hanging him in his garage. Make it look like it was suicidio, you know? I was up on this ladder fixin’ the rope and somehow, man, somehow I hit the fuckin’ switch for the automatic door while my arm was stuck in the rails. This fuckin’ chain wrapped around my arm and just . . . mira . . . look what it did. Just ripped my arm off.”

  Norberto stifled a laugh.

  “Qué bárbaro, man.”

  “It’s not funny, pendejo.”

  Norberto straightened up, more out of fear than respect.

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Pinche puta madre, cabrón.”

  Norberto cut another piece of lime as Amado slugged down more Herradura. Norberto popped the lime into Amado’s mouth, avoiding the gnashing teeth.

  “Las placas is gonna be looking for you, man. You left your fingerprints.”

  Amado shook his head.

  “I wore gloves.”

  “Yeah, patrón, but you left your fuckin’ arm there. They’ll get your fingerprints right off your fingers.”

  Amado’s expression changed, his face twisting in frustration.

  “¡Carajo!”

  “You’re fucked, man.”

  Amado turned to Norberto.

  “Go back and get my fuckin’ arm, pendejo.”

  “¿Ahora?”

  “Sí, ahora.”

  “What about the doctor?”

  “Leave the door open.”

  “Open? This barrio ain’t safe, man.”

  Amado turned and glared at Norberto, letting his eyes make the threat. Norberto handed Amado the lime and hurried out the door.

  Five

  BOB LAY STRETCHED out on a couch in the classic TV-viewing pose of the average American male, his oversized T-shirt pulled up to reveal a fuzzy belly button, his bare feet dangling over the edge, his head propped up on a couple of ratty-looking pillows. He was a good-looking young man. He wasn’t beautiful or striking, he was what Maura liked to call normal handsome. His eyes were strong and symmetrical, his nose discreet. He had a chin with a dimple, which he hid with his goatee, but he felt that loss was compensated for by the fact that his goatee showed off his lips. Even Bob had to admit that he had very sensual, attractive lips for a straight guy.

  Bob took a sip of beer and shifted slightly on the couch. He was getting comfortable.

  The couch was covered in what Bob liked to call hippie shit, a kind of rough Moroccan fabric that inspired conversations about hashish and Amsterdam. It was secondhand, like everything else in the apartment picked up at flea markets and thrift stores, but Bob liked it. It didn’t match any of the other furniture. The vinyl beauty parlor chairs covered in silver and pink. The carved wood coffee table with its Mexican tile top. The black velvet paintings of Chinese landscapes. Bob liked the eclectic quality of his surroundings. It made him feel like an artist.

  The TV was on, but Bob wasn’t watching, he was studying the Polaroid. There was something about this image. He didn’t know what exactly, couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t articulate what he found so compelling. It wasn’t the usual graphic pornography that he enjoyed, the explicit photographs of wide-eyed and enthusiastic young suckers and fuckers. Maybe it was the simplicity, the lack of four-color glossy detail. Bob didn’t know what it was, but there was an assuredness of line, and what Bob could only call aliveness of the woman, that turned Bob on. Like a motherfucking blowtorch.

  The sound of keys turning the lock on the front door knocked Bob out of his reverie. Maura came in, threw her keys on the table, and said, “I need to do some yoga.”

  Bob sat up. “You want a drink?”

  “Bob, I’m trying to purify my body, not pollute it.”

  Bob slammed down the rest of his beer and nodded. He understood. Antioxidizing, toxin flushing, wheat grass juicin’. He knew what she was doing and he was understanding. Understanding was what Bob was good at.

  “Hard day, huh?”

  “I should’ve been a doctor. Maybe then they’d listen to me instead of trying to get me to give them a hand job. You wouldn’t ask a doctor for a hand job, would you?”

  “Well . . . if she looked like you I might.”

  Maura didn’t respond. She walked into the kitchen and began sifting through the mail.

  Bob got up off the couch and went over to her. He put his arm around her and kissed the back of her neck.

  “That was a compliment.”

  “Not now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to yoga class.”

  Bob sulked into the kitchen and got another beer out of the fridge. He popped the top off and took a long gulp. He looked over at Maura. Her slim frame. Pretty face. Nice rack. Bob loved her. Or, to be truthful, he loved parts of her. Parts of her body. Parts o
f her personality. Bob felt that certain sections of Maura, well, you just weren’t going to find anything better. Her breasts, for example, or her sense of humor when she was in a good mood. Her tongue. Her chin. Her ears. Her perfectly formed feet. Bob could go on for hours, separating her into desirable and undesirable chunks. Getting smaller and more specific as he went. Deconstructing Maura. Good title for a movie.

  “I’m really horny.”

  “And I’m really not.”

  “Aw, c’mon.”

  “Go beat off.”

  Bob scoffed. He’d heard this before. As if masturbating was the answer to everything.

  “You know, some guys actually like to make love to a warm body.”

  “Yeah, well, this warm body’s going to yoga, so if you wanna squirt, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

  “Maybe I should make an appointment.”

  “You can’t afford it. Your health insurance doesn’t cover it.”

  Bob was surprised.

  “You take insurance?”

  “Of course. I’m a health care provider.”

  Bob nodded dimly.

  “What did you think? I was like some kind of massage parlor? Giving hand jobs for thirty bucks?”

  “I, uh, I didn’t know you took insurance. That’s all.”

  “That’s because you never ask about me. You have no interest in me.”

  Bob rose to his defense, his voice cracking into a high whine.

  “That’s not true! I just asked you to have sex.”

  Maura looked at him with an eyebrow raised. Bob stood there, shifting from foot to foot, ready for it. Ready for Maura’s volcanic temper to erupt. He’d seen it many times before. The change in her voice, the blood surging to her face, the gulping for air, the shouting, sometimes slamming furniture around. Bob stood as relaxed as possible, like a palm tree waiting for the hurricane to arrive. Maura struggled for self-control.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  With that, Maura walked into the bedroom and pulled off her blouse. Bob watched from the living room, beer gripped tightly, as Maura changed into her yoga clothes.

  Maura came back into the room clutching her sticky mat and Mexican blankets.

  “See you later, sweetie.”

  And she was gone.

  . . .

  Norberto didn’t waste any time with the back door. He just kicked it in. He clicked on his penlight and swept it around the garage. Crime-scene tape fluttered festively in the wind like streamers from a little kid’s birthday party. Otherwise the garage was unexceptional. Old cans of paint stacked on shelves. A shovel. A rake. Plastic containers of transmission fluid. Liquid Plumber. Junk. The penlight beam stopped on a sled. The faded words Radio Flyer painted in red. Norberto, born and raised in Juarez, wasn’t immediately sure what it was. He’d heard of sleds, but had never seen one before. He looked at the rails, the wood slats. A sled in LA. What the fuck did Carlos need with a sled? Raro, man.

  Norberto continued sweeping the room with the tiny beam. He saw a ratchet set from Sears. Norberto knew that those were supposed to be worth some money. He considered boosting it for a second, then changed his mind. The beam of light stopped on the chalk outline where Carlo’s body must’ve been. There was a dark splotch, blood or motor oil, Norberto couldn’t tell, next to the outline. A few feet away from that was another chalk outline. This one smaller. About the size and shape of Amado’s right arm.

  . . .

  Max Larga stood in his modern, gourmet-equipped kitchen picking his nose. This action was reflected and distorted over and over in the gleaming appliances and cookware that surrounded him. He pulled his pinky out of his nostril and admired the prize. Without thinking he stuck the gleaming mucus ball into his mouth, smacking his thick lips like it was a fresh tiny oyster, and went about preparing dinner.

  He took a starched white apron off a hook and strapped it around his corpulent waist. He pulled a roasting pan out of a drawer and plopped a large leg of lamb into it. Larga took fresh marjoram out of the Sub-Zero. Using a large knife he expertly diced the herbs and dumped them in a bowl with a small amount of olive oil. He added salt and pepper and then stuck his hands in the bowl and began mixing. Larga carried the bowl over to the leg of lamb and began rubbing the oil and spices on the meat. His shiny hands caressed the soft, pink meat as he worked the spices into the flesh. Larga found himself getting slightly aroused. He unconsciously pressed his crotch against the butcher-block counter with a gentle rocking motion. He caught himself, his face flushing in embarrassment, when he realized he was using his newly acquired masturbation strokes on the lamb.

  He quickly washed his hands, threw the lamb in the oven, and opened a bottle of merlot.

  . . .

  Esteban was frustrated. How many times was he going to sneak guys over the border, give them jobs, give them a chance, give them a fucking life? And what do these fucking maricóns do? They fuck it up. They were always fucking things up. They didn’t appreciate what crime could do for you. Crime could fucking pay, cabrón. Crime could add inches to your cock. Crime could set you up in a life like you never even dreamed. But some people just didn’t get it. Esteban knew that Amado didn’t get it. Didn’t appreciate the opportunity. The Caucasians knew about loyalty. It was the fucking caballeros who were trouble. Esteban knew he’d be better off hiring out-of-work linebackers from Texas A & M. At least the dumb white guys appreciated a chance to do something with a little action, a little adrenaline. They’d be loyal. But Esteban felt a certain loyalty himself, a connection with La Raza. Despite all the trouble they caused, he compulsively helped his countrymen.

  Esteban put down his beer and looked at Martin. The young man stubbed out his cigarette and stared back at Esteban without blinking. Perhaps because he felt smarter than Esteban or because he was stoned all the time, Martin wasn’t afraid to tell Esteban the truth . . . even if it pissed Esteban off. Esteban was wise enough to know not to surround himself with ass kissers. Still, there’s something to be said for being surrounded by ass kissers. Esteban sighed.

  “I call someone. I tell them to come to me. And what happens? They disappear. What’s that?”

  “We all need to communicate better.”

  Esteban scoffed.

  “It’s beyond that. It’s fuckin’ disrespectful.”

  Martin nodded.

  “But if we had digital cell phones—”

  Esteban cut him off.

  “I’m thinking we should make an example of him.”

  “What good would that do?”

  Esteban lit a cigarette.

  “Part of the job is keeping people afraid of you.”

  Martin nodded.

  “A branding strategy.”

  Esteban blew smoke out across the room. Christ, this kid was smart. He didn’t know what a “branding strategy” was . . . but this kid, with his brains . . . he could go places. If he would only listen to Esteban and learn from his experience.

  Esteban understood the difference between book smart and street smart. The high-tech, fast-track, polished-chrome-and-glass world of brokerage firms and high-rise office towers with young secretaries in tight little suits versus the low-tech, testosterone-fueled, down-and-dirty world of cheap motels, panel vans, and arbitration by firing squad.

  Martin was white bread. Groomed to be a corporate lawyer. He didn’t quite comprehend the subtle nuances of running an organized crime crew for La Eme. He didn’t understand that 90 percent of being El Jefe was showing you had huevos to spare. Fucking computers and cell phones wouldn’t do it. Esteban didn’t want his men to call him up, he wanted them to crawl naked through a cactus field if he asked. That’s respect. Respect for El Jefe and respect for his huevos.

  Esteban looked at Martin.

  “Exacto. We take the maricón and we brand his ass.”

  “We need to find him first.”

  Esteban stood up.

  “Then we find him. Vamos.”

  Six
/>   NORBERTO RETURNED TO his house to find the door wide open.

  “Fuck, man.”

  He walked in, closed the door, and bolted it shut. He turned and yelled toward the bathroom door.

  “I told you to shut the fucking door, man.”

  There was no answer from the bathroom. Norberto turned and walked toward it.

  “You dead?”

  He paused. There was no answer.

  “I hope you saved me some Herradura, man.”

  Norberto entered the bathroom. Amado was gone. The tequila was gone. Only a sick-looking streak of drying blood remained. Norberto turned on the water and started cleaning the tub. Blood is hard to clean. Especially if it’s dried.

  I need some scrubbing fucking bubbles, man. This is a tough stain.

  Norberto reached under the sink and pulled out a can of Comet and a scrubby sponge. He shook the Comet out all over the tub. A green dusting of caustic powder fell over the blood. He began to vigorously attack the stain.

  Norberto, engrossed in trying to clean the tub, didn’t hear Esteban and Martin as they entered the bathroom.

  “You having your period, maricón?”

  Norberto wheeled around. Upon seeing Esteban his first instinct was to run for his life. But he knew that was pointless, since Esteban would eventually find him, and there was only one way out of the bathroom anyhow. Thinking quickly, Norberto decided, despite the rapidly spreading stain in his underwear, to play it cool. He affected a casual tone.

  “Hey, Esteban. You want me to come clean your tub? No charge, man.”

  Esteban turned the water off.

  “I got a maid.”

  “Whatever, cabrón, you need me, I’m there.”

  Norberto realized that he was acting a little too easy to please. But by then it was too late. Esteban turned to Martin.

  “See this? This pendejo’s got no huevos. He’s wants to lick my asshole.”

  “No, man. Fuck, no. I don’t wanna do that.”

  Esteban continued, not looking at Norberto.

  “I think he’s got something to hide.”

  Norberto knew that pain was on its way.

  “What? I’m not hiding nothing, nada.”