Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (2 page)

So there they all were this one night at the Venture
Inn when the rumor floats down that Terrible Tom had been at Hinano's
and for no good reason he picked up a pool ball and hit Melissa
square in the face. That was Tom's first mistake of the evening. His
second was showing up at the Venture Inn.

Munch gathered the other biker chicks around her,
forming a huddle of five with herself as quarterback. One of the
women was new to the group so she got the bait assignment.

"Promise him anything," Munch said. "We'll
do the rest."

One by one, the women filtered outside. Munch had her
friend Roxanne wait by the doorway. Tom was lured outside; Roxanne
dropped behind his legs and then Munch charged into him, causing him
to trip. When he was on the ground, Munch and her cohorts kicked him
until he curled into a ball and begged them to stop.

"And don't ever come back, woman-beating punk,"
Munch told him, and then, giggling with excitement, the women
returned triumphantly to the bar and were treated to a round by the
management. Although in retrospect the free drinks were probably more
of a thank-you for taking it outside than a reward for delivering
justice.

Munch shivered as a damp, cold wind blew in off the
ocean. She got back in the car, settled down in the cushioned seat of
her Caddy and also remembered being outraged at how quickly the truth
of that night had been corrupted. In the version being told the very
next day it was the guys who had made Tom lie down and let all the
women kick him. She had made the decision then to let the exact facts
of the matter go. Where was the sense in taking credit if it meant it
might make you a target later on?
 

Chapter 2

 
O
n Saturday
night, the ever-popular seven-year-old Asia Mancini had yet another
sleepover. Munch gave her a gift-wrapped chemistry set for the
birthday girl, and reminded Asia how much she loved her as she took
her to her little friend's door. Garret had plans for dinner at a
just-opened but already trendy restaurant in Santa Monica. He enjoyed
those kinds of places with their overpriced but artfully designed
cuisine. But, hey, the guy was a gainfully employed normy. ("Normy"
as in not an alcoholic, sober or otherwise.) Who was she to criticize
how he liked to spend his money? The restaurant was housed inside a
blue three-story Victorian mansion. Munch wished she had known that
ahead of time as she wobbled up the two flights of stairs toward
their table. Garret steadied her elbow as her foot twisted beneath
her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure. I'm just not used to climbing in
these shoes."

They were seated at a small round table with a white
tablecloth and matching napkins, surrounded by a decor of
parchment-colored wallpaper and portraits of old guys. She kicked off
her heels and wiggled her toes in relief.

A waiter arrived and asked what they'd have to drink.

"I'm okay with water," Munch said.

Garret started to reach for the wine list and then
pulled back. "Go ahead," Munch said. "I don't mind."
In fact there was nothing like abstaining at a social function to
reinforce her commitment to sobriety. She derived no small degree of
satisfaction in watching people grow stupider and louder with each
round. When she'd first started the limo business she had picked up
two couples in Thousand Oaks and taken them to a fancy dinner at the
Biltmore in downtown L.A. By the end of the evening, the ladies'
makeup had melted, their hats had wilted, and both couples had gotten
into big arguments. It hadn't mattered that the booze that undid the
evening had been poured from crystal decanters.

Garret perused the thick, leather-bound wine menu and
made a selection. The waiter nodded his approval and Garret seemed
proud of himself. He then ordered the oyster appetizer, which Munch
also let him enjoy all by himself.

"How was the run last night?" he asked.

"Great. A cancer shindig in the Palisades. I
only had to take one guy home and he tipped me twenty bucks."

"
Must have been some party."

"Yeah, they even had fireworks."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "I
missed you."

The waiter returned, saving her from responding, and
recited the specials. She couldn't help but make a face when he
described the bone marrow served on Parmesan crisps. Garret went with
the duck in orange sauce. She ordered the safest-looking and least
expensive item on the menu. It had a fancy name, but basically it was
skinny spaghetti with chopped tomatoes, garlic, and a little olive
oil.

They swapped a few work stories while waiting for
their food. Munch had the feeling that there was something on
Garret's mind.

Fortunately the service was quick—even overly
persistent—and there wasn't a lot of time for awkward silences.

"How is it?" Garret asked after she took a
bite of her pasta.

"
It's all right," she said.

"Good, good," he said, biting into his
duck.

He spent the rest of the meal commenting on every
aspect of the room's decoration. He talked so much she wondered what
he wasn't saying.

It was almost ten when they got to Munch's
two-bedroom rented house in West Los Angeles. She was exhausted. As
they started to undress in silence, she remembered not so long ago
when the undressing had been a big part of the act itself. The first
time they ever made love had been on a lazy Sunday. Asia was at a
friend's house. Munch brought Garret home with the express purpose of
seducing him. He had been surprised, he told her later, that she had
wanted to go all the way on their first actual date. She pointed out
that they had been seeing each other every Monday night at the
college so it wasn't as if they were strangers off the street. She
didn't add that she hadn't done the cute-hitchhiker-hit-and-run thing
since her first lonely year of sobriety, and certainly never since
Asia had come into her life.

The automotive air-conditioning class where she met
Garret had fifteen other attendees. Fifteen guys who were either
married, or too old, too goofy or too stupid to be interesting. Week
after week Garret proved he could hold a conversation, had a sense of
humor, and could grasp the concepts of conductive heat exchange and
pressure differentials. He was also employed, single, and not a
doper.

In fact, it was surprising how slim the pickings were
considering all the functions she went to where she was the only
woman. Automotive seminars, NIASE exams, even the punishment class
she had to attend for eight hours once when she wrongly issued a smog
certificate to a car from the Bureau of Automotive Repair's
undercover unit. The fuel evaporative canister had been removed and
she hadn't noticed. They fined her and Lou one hundred and fifty
dollars each. She got a black mark on her record and had to spend a
Saturday being lectured to on smog control.

Even on that day, surrounded by thirty men, the only
guy who was worth a second look turned out to be married. He revealed
his marital status over lunch at a nearby Mexican restaurant, for
which he paid anyway. They exchanged business cards and tips on
spotting future undercover BAR cars over enchiladas.

On their first, off-class date she and Garret went to
a car exhibit at the Convention Center. Driving home, she had
ventured a kiss or two. He had received them with reluctance. This
had been new to her. This reticence. She had felt even more attracted
to him, though now she wondered if maybe it had been the added
challenge she enjoyed. By the time they got back to her house, he was
offering no more resistance.

She looked at him now, sitting on the edge of her bed
unbuttoning his shirt with the absentminded nonchalance of habit. She
missed the anticipation of a new lover—the excitement of
discovery—the first-time jitters. Not that she wanted to risk all
that went with the unknown. There were nasty diseases out there.
Diseases with no cures. Herpes was bad enough. Somehow she had
managed to dodge that bullet. But now there was this AIDS shit.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You have a weird look on your face."

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"How lucky I am."

He draped his shirt over the chair and kicked off his
loafers.

"Lucky in what way?"

"To be alive. To be sober. To have Asia. Not to
have to worry where my next dime is coming from."

"Oh," he said, looking dejected, "I
thought you meant about us."

"I've been thinking about that," she said.

"
Me, too." He undid his belt buckle and the
top button of his pants, but then stopped undressing and sat down
next to her on the bed. He took her hand in his.

"Maybe I should go first," she said.

"All right." He waited, his puppy dog eyes
fixed on her.

"I was thinking maybe we should back off a
little," she said. "You know, take some time apart."

He blinked.

"What were you going to say?" she asked.

"I was thinking we should move in together. "
He laughed. "Boy talk about mixed signals."

She smiled back at him, glad to see he was taking
this so well. They might even still make love, which was never a bad
thing between them.

"I just think we've reached the point where—"
she began.

"Say no more," he said. "I know
exactly what you mean. We need to grow or go. This is why I think
it's time to take the next step." He hunched his shoulders
forward and scooted closer to her. "Think about it a minute.
What do we have together? Just this one-night-a-week thing. I don't
even keep a toothbrush here. This place is nice, but there's only
room enough here for you and Asia. Of course you feel like you need
space. But it's not space away from me. At least I don't think it is.
What our relationship needs, what you need, is more commitment, not
less. I need a place with a garage. There's a house up the street
with three bed-rooms, two baths, a two-car garage, and a laundry
room. There's even an RV pad for the limo and a fenced backyard. We
could have a dog."

She listened to his pitch. The bit about the dog was
a good closer. Asia wanted a puppy in the worst way.

"Between the two of us," he said, "we
could swing it."

"And this house is available now?"

"Almost. I'll show it to you next weekend."

He kissed her then. His mouth tasted sweet with wine.
With his lips still on hers, he unzipped her dress, and worked her
breasts out of her bra. She succumbed to the sensations, groaning as
he took one of her nipples in his mouth, a shiver shooting through
her body. They giggled through the awkward process of untangling
panty hose and briefs. When they were both naked, they joined.

For long minutes, they coupled with a slow, delicious
rhythm that had them both making small moans of pleasure. Then
gradually the tempo increased. With only half an ear, she heard the
bed frame pound the wall. She arched her back and cried out in
orgasm, expecting him to follow. Instead, he flipped her over and
dragged her to the edge of the bed, somehow finding the strength to
stand there. Their bodies slapped together wetly, and still he wasn't
finished. She grabbed fists of sheet, trembling with exhaustion.

"I can't take any more," she gasped
finally.

He released, thrusting one last time and then
collapsing on top of her. They lay panting for a long minute, and he
rolled off her, letting out a long "Whew."

"Man," she said, "what got into you?"

He laughed. "How could you even think about
breaking up when we've got this going for us?"

She didn't answer. She drew her knees to her chest,
and bunched the pillow to her cheek. Maybe this was going to work
out. She'd just have to learn to be quieter when Asia was in the next
room.

Please, God, she prayed, make my life easy. Let me
fall in love with him. As she dropped off to sleep, her last nagging
thought was that he was a good guy. He deserved better than a
grudging compromise.
 

Chapter 3

SUNDAY

He fingered the button lightly realized he was
holding his breath, and forced himself to exhale and inhale several
times before he proceeded. This was not the last act of the plan, but
certainly the most final one.

He wondered again if he'd missed anything. The house,
he knew, was clean. He'd even mailed her mail and brought in the
Saturday paper.

He looked at her lying there and thought she had
never looked so beautiful. He was tempted to stroke her face. One
last time. It would make no difference if he did. There was no
turning back now. He wrapped the duct tape around her head, covering
her eyes. It was true, he acknowledged in some detached part of his
brain, what the cops always said. That when the murder victim's face
was covered it meant that he or she was known to his or her murderer.
He could only pray he wasn't giving himself away in any other small
way.