An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (14 page)

They had come a long way together, and the journey
wasn't over yet. Since the incident with the gardener, she had shown
him more respect. At least she hadn't been so quick to snap. God,
that it always had to come to some demonstration. This was annoying,
but perhaps only human nature. He had skimmed through the books she
casually left on his bed stand. Books with titles like
Communication
Is Mariage's Strongest Tool
and
Resolving
Marital Conflicts: A Pychodynamic Perspective
.
Books definitely written by gringos who went to fancy gringo colleges
in the North. He would send his sons to those universities when they
came of age. Maybe even his daughters as well. Why not?

He paused a moment longer, enjoying the sun on his
face, the quiet of his wife's sanctuary. It was almost as if she had
managed in this turbulent world of theirs to create an extension of
her womb. In many ways besides the obvious, he preferred women. Even
those he used in his business were cooler with their emotions and
quicker on their feet than many of his men. His men, his women, hah.
So many were looking to move up, hoping to be the next big  man.
Who was truly loyal anymore? At least one was not. That's all that
was certain. Someone had tipped the police about the planned
jailbreak. He felt his face harden with sudden fury. When he found
out who the traitor was, he would show no mercy.

"
Hijo de la puta.
"

Victoria looked up at the sound of his cursing. She
must have been unaware that he was there. Her elbow tipped over her
water glass and spilled over the landscape she'd been working on.

"Oh, Abel. Now it is ruined."

He threw his hands up in
the air and left the room. Some days a man couldn't win.

* * *

"
Where to now, slugger?" Ellen asked as
they left the wake.

"
Rico's," Munch said, feeling suddenly
exhausted, even queasy.

"
The rosary is tomorrow night. I told Fernando I
would drop off clothes at the funeral home." She hadn't told him
about the photograph for facial reconstruction.

Ellen pulled an illegal U-turn. "You gonna tell
the cops you're going over there?"

Munch had considered it. Briefly. "Fuck 'em.
What courtesy do I owe any of those motherfuckers?"

"
That's the spirit," Ellen said.

Munch felt a little warning chill. First the coke,
now this. She knew she needed always to check herself when she gained
Ellen's approval.

"
I'm just saying I have legitimate reasons."

Ellen made an adjustment to her wig. "Damn
straight you do."

Ellen's tone was righteous and self —assured, as if
she were all about legitimacy and would brook no substitutes.

Munch turned on the radio and let the rock 'n' roll
remind her of happier, carefree times. The Grateful Dead started
singing about riding that train. She knew all the words. "Casey
Jones, you better watch your speed."

They drove along Ocean Boulevard. Past the pier, the
four-lane roadway paralleled the strip of park that ran along the top
of the cliffs. Benches faced the ocean. A bike trail snaked between
wind-gnarled trees and beds of perennials. joggers and bicyclers
avoided the legs of sleeping drunks. Signs warned pet owners that
dogs were not allowed.

Santa Monica had a reputation for accommodating the
homeless. Cops were instructed to overlook cardboard campsites.
Earnest locals passed out hot soup and sandwiches. Clothing and
blankets were collected and distributed. Munch was not without
compassion, but she believed in carrying the message, not the addict.

Yep, Munch thought, as they turned down into the
canyon. The world was seriously mixed up. What other town's library
had a sign in the bathroom asking patrons kindly to leave the
deodorant dispensers in the toilet bowls?

No dogs, but please bring us your bums.

Ellen parked in Rico's driveway and followed Munch
into the house.

Munch went directly to the closet and reached for the
uniform in the dry-cleaning bag. The tag on the hanger indicated that
the suit had been picked up three weeks ago.

Munch fingered the thin plastic and wondered how it
would feel to die with it tied around her face. She shook that image
and showed the receipt to Ellen. "It was almost as if he knew
that he'd be needing a clean dress uniform."

"
My mama had just put up a case of her jam when
she was killed. Weird, huh?"

"
Yeah, I guess there's always something like
that."

Munch got a bag from the kitchen and packed it with a
clean set of underwear, shoes, and hat to go with the uniform. She
then moved some luggage and lifted the carpet from the floor of the
closet to reveal his floor safe.

"
You know the combination?" Ellen asked.

"
As a matter of fact"—Munch twisted the
dial the appropriate turns left and right, then pulled the door
open—"I do." She carefully removed Rico's badge and gun,
but left the deed to the house and his car. Ellen tossed her a hand
towel from the bathroom without having to be asked. Munch resealed
the safe and wiped it clean of prints before replacing the carpet and
suitcases.

"
Where did he keep his wrapping paper?"
Ellen asked.

"
In the hall closet. There's tape and scissors
by the phone in the kitchen."

Ellen held out her hand and Munch handed over the
badge and gun. They had hit on this strategy for moving contraband
years ago. It took a pretty hard-hearted cop to unwrap a gift he
found in the trunk on a routine search. Especially now, when they
dressed relatively straight and weren't under the influences of
chemicals.

While Ellen got busy in the kitchen, Munch went into
Rico's office. She soon discovered that the desk had been completely
cleaned out. Even the blotter was gone, along with the love notes and
airplane tickets.

Ellen appeared at the doorway carrying a
phone-book-sized box wrapped in green shiny paper and tied with a
yellow ribbon.

"
Problem?"

"
Somebody took all his papers."

"
Those cops?"

"
I guess. It doesn't matter. I've got what I
need."

Ellen gestured toward the door. "Let's get out
of here. This place is starting to give me the creeps."

"
It's just a house."
Munch reset the alarm before they left. "Brick and mortar.
Sticks and stones."

* * *

Humberto chuckled as he left the wake. He liked women
with fire. Rico must have been some cocksman to invoke such passion.
To leave a string of broken hearts in two countries was a legacy to
be proud of. Humberto didn't have to wonder who would cry for him
when his day came. There was no one. Yet, anyway. He had never
attempted to make a woman love him. Now he wondered, How difficult
could it be?

Ellen had given him her phone number before the fight
broke out. His business in Los Angeles might take as long as a week
to conclude, and her company would be much appreciated. And, who
knew? Perhaps a little business to mix with pleasure. Part of his
agenda of this trip was to put his own distribution agents in place.

He had rented a Chevrolet Monte Carlo. His pickup
truck with the Brahma bull horns attached to the hood was a bit too
conspicuous, even for Los Angeles. The Chevy was this year's model
and vastly disappointing. The vehicle was blue and had a top speed of
eighty-five miles per hour, according to the speedometer. Having
tested the car engine's horsepower on several of the city's freeways,
he was inclined to think eighty-five was an optimistic number. He
suspected that the only way the gutless wonder achieved maximum
velocity was when it was heading downhill or off a cliff. He might
yet put one of those theories to the test. If only to make a
statement. A low profile was one thing, but this was ridiculous.

He was on his way to see his cousin. Felix was the
son of his mother's brother. The only son and born out of wedlock,
therefore somewhat under the radar. Felix worked in the garment
district of downtown Los Angeles, selling slightly flawed seconds to
the bargain shoppers.

The building where Felix worked was on Hope and
Eighth. Humberto parked in one of the all-day lots, happy to leave
behind the disappointing American car. Felix's Store was on the sixth
floor. The large sign over the door read SPORTS APPAREL. Humberto
thumbed through the zippered pants and logo-emblazoned sweatshirts
looking for any that would accommodate his girth. Felix had yet to
notice him. He was busy helping a sharp-faced white woman collect
flimsy-looking nylon suits of pants and jackets in a range of sizes.

Felix was small and dark-skinned, but his English was
very good, a remarkable accomplishment considering that he had
crossed to the North only two years ago. Humberto was proud of him,
and sorry that the news he had come to deliver would cause so much
grief.

Felix took the woman's money, counted out change, and
thanked her for her business. When he had slammed his cash register
shut, he noticed Humberto lurking near the doorway.

"
Hey,
bueno
,"
he said, his face lighting with recognition. "
¡Qué
tal?
"

Humberto pulled his cousin to him in a warm embrace.
"You're looking good, little brother," he said in Spanish.
"The world is treating you well."

"
I can't complain," Felix said modestly.
"What brings you here?"

"A little of this, a little of that."

"
I understand." Felix licked his lips. "How
long will you be in town?"

Humberto hesitated before answering, "I'm not
sure yet."

"
Where are you staying,
carnal
?"

"
A motel. It's convenient and near the freeway."

"
Nonsense. Stay with me. I have plenty of space,
if you don't mind the couch."

"
I'm good," Humberto said. "When do
you get through here?"

"
Five."

"
I'll check out some of the other stores and be
back before you close. We'll have dinner." His news could wait
until then. A few hours would make no difference.

"
Is everything all right?" Felix asked.

Humberto rested a big hand on his cousin's thin
shoulder. "As well as can be expected. We'll talk more later
when we have our privacy."

Felix watched his cousin
leave, more than a little concerned. He wondered if they still
referred to Humberto back home as the Angel of Death.

* * *

Ellen dropped Munch off at her car. "You want to
come in?"

Munch seemed to need a moment to think about it. This
was uncharacteristic. She was usually so decisive, so clear on her
objectives. She never shopped, she bought. "No, I need to go,
take care of all this."

"
How about later?"

"
I guess I'll be home." Munch put the
gift-wrapped "present" in her trunk.

Ellen noted the stoop of her friend's back and how
her feet seemed to drag. "You want some company?"

"
Thanks, but no. I'll be fine. I just need to
crash for a while. I haven't been sleeping so good lately."

Ellen gave her a hug, wishing she could magically
transfer some life force. "Drive carefully. I'm here if you need
me."

Munch nodded her head in seemingly weary acceptance
of this fact. "Thanks."

Ellen watched Munch drive off, then let herself into
the courtyard of her condo complex, Who would have thought that
someday she would be living in a ritzy place like the Oakwood Garden
Apartments?

The phone started to ring as Ellen turned her key in
the door. It was that big fella, Humberto.

"
Miss me already?" she asked.

"
I wanted to make sure you made it home all
right. How is your friend? The little one?"

"
As well as can be expected, I suppose. I've
known her for just about ever and I've never seen her so out of her
head."

"
WiIl she hurt herself ?"

"
Now what would make you ask a question like
that?"

"I've seen the look before," Humberto said.

"
That little gal is pretty tough. You'd be
surprised." Ellen thought about the wild light she had seen in
Munch's eyes. The girl was crazy with grief. Humberto wasn't wrong
about that. Munch and Ellen had pulled some shit together in the
past, but since Munch had sobered up, hers had been the voice of
reason. Now, Ellen supposed, it was her turn to take the rudder. "If"
she could just understand what happened. You know, the wondering is
the worst part."

"
In my country, we have a different saying,"
Humberto said. "
No se pase de listo
.
Maybe I could come over later and explain it."

"
That would be right nice." She gave him
her address and then checked her party supplies. She liked to think
she was ready for anything. Big guys like Humberto tended to let
their guards down around the ladies. She'd spent enough of her lite
in southern California to have a passable comprehension of the
Spanish language, with particular emphasis on the dope-related slang.
No se pase de listo
translated to "Don't be too clever." In other words, don't
ask too many questions about dangerous subjects,