Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella

Unfinished Business

Barbara Seranella
2001

For Ron, of course

—

Stockholm syndrome n. The tendency of a
hostage,
under certain circumstances, to try
to cooperate and
occasionally even to aid his
captors. [Referring to the
cooperative
behavior of hostages held in a bank
robbery
in Stockholm (1973).J
—
Reader's Digest
Illustrated Encyclopedic Dictionary

Chapter 1

FRIDAY

M
unch scooted down in the
front seat of the big, silver limousine and fought back a yawn. She
was tempted to climb in the back and see if there was anything good
on TV. Three things stopped her: one was the obvious oxymoron—good
TV; the second was that she didn't want to run the car's battery
down; and last, knowing her luck, as soon as she got settled in the
passenger cabin, someone would come out of the big house in need of
her services. It wouldn't look very professional if she were
stretched out on the blue velour-covered bench seat watching Tom
Selleck cruise the mean streets of Hawaii in his borrowed Ferrari.

The limo was parked near the four-car garage on one
end of a large circular driveway in Pacific Palisades. Rolls-Royces,
Mercedes, Lincolns, and Cadillacs lined the curbs. There was also an
assortment of economically correct smaller vehicles. Ever since the
last so-called gas crisis a few years back in '81, the market had
been flooded with four-cylinder vehicles—many of them coming out of
Detroit, though the Japanese still had it all over America's big
three when it came to making a smooth-running smaller engine. The
four-bangers made in America—the Vegas, the Pintos, even Lee
Iacocca's K-cars—all had rocky idles and usually stalled when their
owners put on their air-conditioning. All Munch's cars had V-8's
under the hood. She'd take power above fuel efficiency any day of the
week.

She sat up and stretched, then pulled down the visor
and flipped open the center panel. In the reflection of the soft
amber vanity mirror light, her hair looked more brown than blond. She
brushed it back, wiped away a smudge of mascara with her gloved hand,
and yawned until her eyes watered.

Tonight's gig was an expression of gratitude from
Diane Bergman and the board of the Bergman Cancer Center. Munch had
donated three hours of limo time to the nonprofit organization, to be
auctioned off at next month's fund-raiser; but for tonight's
black-tie gala, she was being paid full wage. She got there early
enough to watch the caterers carry the food up the walkway of the
split-level home, past the discreet blue-and-white placards
proclaiming: REAGAN.

Diane had taken her for a quick tour, explaining that
the house belonged to a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who had been
kind enough to loan it out for the evening. The house, she was told,
was a Norman Foster design. Munch acted suitably impressed, not
recognizing the name, but picking up the reverence in the hostess's
tone. Munch had spent the greater part of the seventies, her teenage
years, riding with outlaw motorcycle gangs. Knowledge of contemporary
architects had not been a prerequisite for sitting on the back of a
Harley and looking cool. The house was awesome though, the way it
seemed to spring out of the rocky bluffs. Wide balconies skirted the
home's ocean-facing side. Forty-foot floor-to-ceiling windows showed
off an uninterrupted view of Catalina Island, the deep blue Pacific
Ocean, and when weather and smog permitted, spectacular sunsets.

For tonight's two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-plate
dinner, the fund-raising committee had also hired security in the
form of three big-gutted guys in cheap black suits who stood out like
crows in a float of swans. Munch had pegged them for off-duty cops.

Now, the sounds of the band filtered through the
limo's closed windows as Munch's boss for the evening, Diane Bergman,
emerged from the house.

A man behind Diane, his face obscured by shadows, put
a hand on her elbow, but she wrenched away with more force than
necessary almost losing her balance. A folded section of newspaper
fluttered to the ground. Was Diane drunk or just angry? Munch
couldn't tell, but something alerted her to pay close attention. The
man towered over Diane, who backed away from him, a hand half-raised
to her face in defense.

Munch opened the car door and yelled out, "Everything
all right?"

Though she was very strong for a woman who stood a
little over five feet tall and weighed in at one hundred and five
pounds, she was still a "munchkin" and would hardly be
anyone's first choice as bodyguard. She looked around for one of the
security guys, but, of course, they weren't anywhere
in sight now that they were needed.

The man bothering Diane waved a dismissive hand at
Munch. It was the sort of signal you might use with a dog when you
wanted it to stay.

Munch knew the best way to deal with an opponent who
out-weighed her was to gang up on him, preferably by ambush. Like
that time years ago with Terrible Tom. Second choice, when the
element of surprise was unavailable, was to employ an equalizer. She
reached behind the seat and grabbed a long-handled black flashlight.
The cops called them "five from the sky," and she aimed to
show this bully why The adrenaline rushed through her veins in
anticipation as somewhere in the back of her mind the theme music to
Mighty Mouse played.

Diane regained her balance and stood straight. She
half-turned to Munch. "Really it's all right."

Munch hesitated. The head of the flashlight rested on
her shoulder. Both hands gripped the handle. "You're sure?"

The man turned toward Munch. His face was obscured by
shadows, but his body language had the feel of one big sneer. Munch
lifted her makeshift club so that there would be no doubt of her
intentions. The guy made a derisive snort, but he turned around and
went back into the house. Diane walked over to the limo.

"What's his problem?" Munch asked, suddenly
feeling embarrassed about the quasi-weapon she held. This was Pacific
Palisades, after all. When people here got angry they dueled with
checkbooks, not clubs.

"It's a long story. "

Munch nodded. She knew the shorthand for "none
of your business." She had enough "long stories" of
her own, some of which would take years to tell, depending on statute
of limitations laws. Besides, she was there to provide a service, not
to pry where she wasn't wanted.

"Do you have a cigarette?" Diane asked.
Trembling hands picked at the gold cuffs of her maroon jacket. She
was a well-preserved fifty with only the first hint of a double chin.
Even now, her hair and nails were salon-perfect.

Munch wondered how much time it took to achieve those
kinds of cosmetic results. "Won't they shoot you if you smoke?"
she asked.

Diane laughed. "They might at that."

The evening's event was a cancer research
fund-raiser, the proceeds to go directly to the new Bergman Cancer
Center. Diane was not only the event coordinator and president of the
board, but a recent nicotine widow. Sam Bergman had smoked three
packs a day before his death from cancer last spring. Munch knew both
Bergmans from the Texaco station where she worked as a mechanic on
their cars.

"I might have a pack in the trunk," she
told Diane now, slipping the flashlight back behind the seat and
pushing the yellow button inside the glove box to open the trunk.

Diane followed her to the back of the big car and
waited while Munch searched through her boxes of supplies for an open
pack of Marlboros. "I can't testify to their freshness."

Diane inhaled while Munch held a lit match to the
cigarette's end. Diane didn't speak again until she'd taken a long
drag. "Thanks. I hope you're not bored out here. God, you must
be exhausted." She twisted one of the solitaire diamonds
weighting down her earlobe. Munch was glad to see that her shaking
had ceased.

"Nah, I'm all right," Munch assured her.

"But you worked all day at the station and now
this."

"I'll sit in any driveway you want for forty-six
bucks an hour."

The truth was, this was one of her sweetest gigs in a
while: waiting for someone to get drunk enough to need a ride home.
And being paid full rate to wait. It was as good as any wedding
charter. Ten times better than a high school prom.

Diane took another hit on her cigarette and looked at
the house. "How old are you?"

Munch had to think a minute. "Twenty-eight."

"And your daughter?"

Munch didn't hesitate. She knew every detail, and
cherished every moment of her adopted daughter's life. Asia had been
six months old when Munch met her. She was the orphaned daughter of
an old lover, and destined perhaps for a much different life if Munch
hadn't taken her as her own and given her the best home she could.
Fortunately the child welfare services had agreed when Munch finally
got around to telling them earlier this year.

"Asia is seven and very proud, the little
pumpkin head. She lost her second front tooth yesterday"

"What's she doing tonight?"

"She had a sleepover, so this job worked out
great."

"And how does your boyfriend feel about giving
you up on a Friday night?"

Munch grinned with a lasciviousness she didn't really
feel. "I'll make it up to him." Then, remembering Diane's
still recent widowhood, she felt like a jerk.

But Diane only smiled. "What's his name?"

"Garret. Garret Dimond."

"How did you meet?"

"At a class I took at Santa Monica College this
summer. He works at a Chevy dealership downtown." Garret also
didn't drink or smoke, and was crazy about her. Tall, dark, and
predictable. Garret was the kind of guy who, when he went out for a
quart of milk, always came back. A healthy well-adjusted woman would
appreciate that kind of thing, she often reminded herself.

On top of that, he worked. Five points for that.
Derek, her previous boyfriend, had been a dud work-wise, and she
wasn't going to make that mistake again. She already had one kid.
Seven-year-old children have a right to be dependent.
Thirty-seven-year-old men should stand firmly on their own two feet.

"And it's going well?" Diane asked.

"
Actually we've gotten to the third stage."

"What's that?"

"You know. First comes excitement. That's when
everything is new. Then you get to know each other, and you're both
trying real hard to be your most likable. That's two."

"But that only lasts so long."

"Exactly. Then you have stage three when you
wonder if the guy's worth the effort."

"
What's stage four?" Diane asked.

"I don't know. I've never made it that far yet."

Diane patted her arm in a sisterly gesture. "Are
you hungry? Would you like some shrimp?"

"No thanks."

"Is there anything I can get you?"

Munch looked at the line of luxury vehicles, maybe
thirty in all, and thought of all the potential clients they
represented.

"How about a copy of the guest list?"

Diane laughed good-naturedly stubbed out her
cigarette, and accepted a breath mint. "I'll see what I can do,"
she said, disappearing back into the house.

Munch leaned against the car, thinking back to the
night justice had been dealt to Terrible Tom in the parking lot of
the Venture Inn. It was years ago, when she was still drinking and
hanging with a loose-knit group of bikers who jokingly referred to
themselves as the "Road Buzzards." They'd spend most
evenings cruising the local Venice Beach bars, drinking and
carousing, or as she and her friends put it: "causing fun."

Terrible Tom had ridden with the gang occasionally,
but he was never completely accepted as one of them. His Harley was
too stock; his long black hair and beard always looked too neatly
trimmed. Munch suspected he had named himself, too.

One of the group's common hangouts was Hinano's on
Lincoln Boulevard, a beer bar with sawdust on the floor and pool
tables. Melissa, a mellow hippie chick with long, straight brown hair
and wire-rimmed glasses, served pitchers on tap. Melissa showed no
interest in hanging out with the Road Buzzards after hours, but she
was always friendly and cool. Hinano's was a good warm-up bar;
however, for serious drinking Munch preferred the Venture Inn or
Sundowners, where they sold generous shots of Jack Daniel's in bucket
glasses.