No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (16 page)

And if they asked her, "Wasn't there anything
you could have done for us then?" What would she say to them?
That it wasn't her business? That she'd been too caught up in her own
problems?

Speaking of which . . .

She pulled out the picture in her pocket and showed
it to the girls. Charlotte took the photo and studied it for only a
moment before she asked, "Who's this?" Munch saw she was
pointing at the man in the suit.

"I don't know. How about the other guy?"
Munch asked, pointing to the long-hair. "Do you know him?"

"Sure, that's Daddy James."

Jill popped up, reaching for the picture. " want
to see. I want to see."

Munch obliged her.

"Uh-huh," Jill agreed. "Daddy James."

Munch felt a coldness fill her heart. Lisa said she
didn't recognize the description of the guy in the truck with Sleaze.
How deeply was she involved? Munch's reverie was cut short by the
sounds of Lisa wheeling her bike in through the doorway

"You two stay in here. I need to talk to your
mommy for a second"

Munch walked out to the front room and held up the
photograph to Lisa. "Anything you want to tell me?"

Lisa grabbed for the picture, but Munch pulled it
back.

"Where'd you get that?" Lisa asked.

"You know this guy?" Munch asked.

Lisa's gaze strayed to the bedroom where the kids
played. Munch saw the calculations going on behind her eyes. 'Yeah, I
know him." She put the pizza down.

"This is the guy I saw with Sleaze, the one I
was asking about with the lightning bolt tattoo."

Lisa lit a cigarette, taking a long time to take a
drag, watching Munch through the smoke with her little pig eyes. "So
what about it?" she finally asked.

"You know where he is now?"

"What's it to you?"

"He might know something about who shot Sleaze."

She turned weary eyes to Munch and said, "Listen,
I know your heart's in the right place. But believe me, you don't
want to get involved. These people don't give a shit who gets hurt,
understand?"

Munch remembered the bodies in Venice.

"The best thing you can do," Lisa said, "is
to freeze. Pretend you don't know anything."

Well, that was almost
true
, Munch thought. The girls came running into the kitchen.
Lisa cleared the table and Munch pulled up four chairs. Asia woke up
crying. Munch lifted the baby out of her crib and gave her a bottle.
The little girls chattered as they picked toppings off the pizza,
making up a game with the rings of pepperoni. With Asia sitting on
her lap, Munch ate a slice of pizza. She never felt the food hit her
stomach. She couldn't stop thinking about what Deb had said about Tux
taking Boogie on the road with him. It didn't take much to put that
whole scenario together. The guy was just using Boogie as a cover, a
diversion. The idea sickened her. The first time a man had treated
the boy decently and it was in the commission of a felony Wvhen she
said her good nights, Munch gave all the children an extra-long
squeeze. She could barely bring herself to look Lisa in the face.

* * *

Lisa watched Munch's car drive away and then flicked
her porch light three times. An eighteen-wheeler parked down the road
fired up its diesel engine. Lisa waited as it pulled away from the
curb and stopped in the street outside her gate.

She glanced nervously up and down the street,
wondering what other eyes were on them. Her palms beaded with sweat
when the door to the semi swung open and the large, leather-clad
driver stepped down.

"Did she bring it?" Tux asked.

"Yeah, but the shit was gone already"

"Fuck. You saying that bitch ripped me off?"

"No, she's all AA'd back. She don't use or drink
or anything." Lisa scratched at a piece of dried food on her
shirt. "Maybe the dope was gone from before."

Without warning, Tux's hand shot out, delivering a
backhanded slap to Lisa's face and knocking her off her feet. She
didn't try to get back up, just held an open palm out as if to ward
him off.

"Don't fuck with me, you stupid cunt," he
said. "There wasn't time. Give me her address. I think it's time
I pay this bitch a little visit."

"I don't know where she lives," Lisa said.

Tux took a step forward, grabbing her wrist and
pulling his fist back.

"Wait," Lisa said, trying to protect her
face with her free hand. "She only gave me her phone number, but
I know where she works."

"Yeah," Tux said. "So do I. What does
she keep coming over here for if shes so holy roller?"

"She wants the baby Sleaze's little girl."

"For what?"

"She wants to like adopt her."

"If she keeps fucking
with our business, she can kiss those plans goodbye. You tell her
that. Better yet, let me see that kid. I'll deliver the message
myself."

* * *

Munch pushed the speed limit all the way home. Before
she took the next step, she needed to take care of a few loose ends.

She parked in the alley behind her apartment and
grabbed the pocket knife from her glove compartment. Looking both
ways to make sure no one was watching, she slipped the knife open and
crouched down to the sewer grate. She groped for and found the twine.
It severed easily She let go of the string and was rewarded with the
sound of the dope splashing as it hit waste water. Shit to shit. It
felt good, but she didn't spend any time congratulating herself. Not
for something she should have done in the first place.

She went back to her car and retrieved the packet of
documents from under her spare tire. Inside, after locking her
deadbolts, she fanned the contents of the packet across her bed.

It wasn't until she got to the bottom of the pile
that she found the things that disturbed her the most. It was an
interoffice memo on FBI stationery recommending that the raid on the
Canyonville compound be "delayed until the end of October when
the marijuana crop will be gathered and baled."

It was almost ten when she called the Snakepit.

The bartender summoned Deb to the phone.

"Hey" Munch said, "it's me."

"You coming up?"

"How about if I pay for you all to come see me?"

"I can't leave just now. It's a harvest moon, if
you know what I'm saying. "

"I really need to see you guys," Munch
said. Did the feds have the Snakepit's phone tapped?

"Well, get your ass up here, woman."

"No, that won't work. I'm kinda in the middle of
a few things myself right now. I'll catch you later."

She hung up the phone, went back out to her car, and
stuffed the packet of paperwork back under her spare tire. When she
came back inside, she emptied the contents of her pockets on the
dresser. She fingered the business cards for a moment, reading the
names. She thought about the two cops she had seen on TV and at the
coroner's office. Detective Alex Perez had to be the friendly-looking
one.
 

14

BLACKSTONE CHECKED HIS messages upon leaving work
Tuesday morning and learned that Bernie had called. When he dialed
the Vice extension, Bernie answered on the first ring.

"What's up?" Blackstone asked.

"You were interested in military weaponry
right?"

"You got something?"

"You're going to owe me a drink."

"All right, all right. What did you hear?"

"Why don't you meet me in Santa Monica and you
can hear for yourself."

"When?"

"Eleven good for you?"

"Where?"

"Chez Jays."

"That little joint across from the pier?"

"I'll see you there."

* * *

Chez Jays would have been easy to miss. The low
wooden building dissolved easily into the surrounding backdrop of
hotels and office buildings, just as the unremarkable blue letters on
the faded sign over the saloon-style doors did nothing to call
attention to the place. But that, Bernie said, was part of its charm.
Blackstone knew that the proximity of motel rooms with their special
hourly rates also added to the restaurants allure.

The tiny bar and grill did a phenomenal amount of
business. The owner was a character actor with many ties to the
Hollywood crowd. He'd managed to hit a vein with his small
establishment—finding just the right measures of exclusiveness,
location, and visibility The drinks were strong and the scampi fresh.
But if you didn't know someone connected to the film industry you
would be hard-pressed to get a reservation for dinner.

The lunch crowd, Bernie assured Blackstone, was
different.

Blackstone waved off the valet. The lot held only
maybe twenty cars, and it was less than a quarter full. He chose a
spot on the end away from the other vehicles. Even if someone parked
next to him, they would have to pull in on his left, which meant that
their driver's door wouldn't be opening into him. He would have
preferred a spot sheltered on either side from inconsiderate drivers
who thought nothing of nicking paint jobs, but was forced to make do.
Hopefully Bernie's information would be worth his while.

He stepped into the darkened restaurant and took a
second to get his bearings, resting a hand on the chest-high ship's
wheel anchored to the floor. The smell of beer and whiskey assaulted
his nostrils, and he blinked several times to make the transition
from bright daylight to the smoky twilight atmosphere.
Red-and-white-checked tablecloths covered the vacant tables in the
center of the room. The majority of the midday clientele sat at the
J—shaped bar, waiting, no doubt, for the sun to go down. They were
served by a burly bartender who called each of them by their first
name.

"Be right with you," he said when he
noticed Blackstone standing there. He had to raise his voice to be
heard above the TV that was mounted high in one corner and tuned to a
game that no one was watching.

"That's all right," Blackstone told him.
"I'm meeting someone."

The bartender had already turned away busy loading
his cash register with soggy one-dollar bills. Blackstone spotted
Bernie at one of the red Naugahyde-covered booths near the back. He
wasn't alone. The gaunt Caucasian woman with him had a used look
about her. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore one
of those T-shirts they sold on the boardwalk with lace around the
collar and the sleeves.

Bernie's hand rested on the back of the booth, almost
touching her neck. He saw Blackstone out of the corner of his eye and
held up his fingers, motioning Blackstone to hang back.

Blackstone pawed at the sawdust on the floor and
studied the signed movie posters taped to the walls. The phone rang
and the bartender answered it, listened a moment, and then said,
"He's still not here." The patrons laughed. Bernie motioned
for Blackstone to join them.

As Blackstone slid in the booth opposite the pair, he
overheard the woman saying: " kept telling him not the fashe,
you know?"

Her voice was garbled. Bernie murmured something,
patted her hand, and then acknowledged Blackstone.

"Jigsaw, this is Angie."

She turned sad eyes to greet him. The blood vessels
were broken in the left eye; her upper lip was split and swollen.
"How do you do?" she said between clenched teeth. Her lips
curled back far enough when she spoke so that he could see the wires
that held her jaws together.

He guessed she was in her twenties and then quickly
calculated the rest of her pedigree: doper, hooker, petty thief.
"What happened to you?" he asked.

"Shun of a bitch went off on me," she said.

"Angie got ahold of a real freak," Bernie
cut in.

"Put me out of bishness," she lisped as
saliva leaked down her chin. She mopped the drool with a cocktail
napkin.

"Tell him what you told me, Angie."

"Champion shaid to make shure you promish,"
she said. For Blackstone's benefit she added, "Champion ish my
man."

"You tell him if the information is good,"
Bernie said, "I'll lose some paperwork. You check it out on the
street, my word is good"

"I know it is," she said. They exchanged
private looks and she continued. "Thish guy was amped to the
max."

"What guy?" Blackstone asked.

"I should of jusht shined him, you know?"

Jigsaw looked over at Bernie. Bernie nodded for him
to be patient.

"He shaid either I blow him or he'd blow me up."

"Blow you up?" Blackstone asked.

"He shtuek a grenade between my legs and told me
to make a wish."

"A grenade, like a hand grenade?"
Blackstone asked.

"Yeah, like what elshe would I mean?"

"What did this guy look like? Did you get a
name?"