Unpaid Dues

by Barbara Seranella

  "So you were all out partying . . ." Rico prompted.

  "Yeah. This is his mom, Deborah; Asia's daddy Sleaze John; and some other guy I can't even remember now."

  "Deborah's date?" Rico asked.

  She grinned. "Probably She's rarely without a, um, date. Anyway we drove around all night, looking for parties, whatever, and we wound up in some house in Tujunga. We all had to crash on this mattress in the garage. I'll never forget Nathan's little voice saying,

  'Mom, I'm hungry' We didn't have anything, no money no food, the car was out of gas. We didn't even know where we were. Deborah said, 'Go to sleep, son, and dream about food."

  "The really pathetic part is that we all thought that was hilarious. Everybody but Boogie."

  "Who was Boogie?"

  "Nathan. That's what we used to call him back then. His daddy was a musician."

  "Where's this guy now? Why isn't he taking care of his kid?"

  "He's dead."

  "How about other family?"

  "I feel like I'm his family " Munch realized her tone had grown defensive.

  "But you're not. When's his mom coming back?"

  "I don't know. She's not somebody to count on. I talked to her on the phone last night. Nathan might be eligible for some Social Security benefits."

  "What does that have to do with you?"

  "She needs affidavits from people who knew her and Nathan's dad, knew they were together and that he was the daddy."

  "You don't have the time to be hunting down ghosts from her past."

  "I can ask a few questions." She pulled away from him, annoyed that he thought he knew what she did and did not have time for.

  "So you want me to run the father's name through the system?"

  "Won't you get in trouble?"

  "Let me worry about that."

  "I think he got busted once in the early seventies, but it was just for pot."

  "If you know when and where he went to trial," Rico said, "the court transcripts would be a matter of public record. They would probably yield all sorts of information. It's all available to you as a private citizen. Actually you don't need me there."

  Yeah, she thought, but just once I'd like to do something with you in public. She got out of bed and gathered her clothes.

  "Can't you stay?" He reached out a hand to stroke her thigh before she pulled her pants up. "I hate to have you out on the streets this late."

  She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her boots. "I don't want Asia to wake up with me not there"

  "That reminds me," he said, plumping up the pillow behind his head. His features were soft in the dark, making him look young and deceptively vulnerable. "My daughter wants to meet you."

  "She does? When? I'd love to."

  "I'll set it up and let you know."

  He rolled out of bed with a grunt, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and walked her out to her car. She kissed him good-bye and drove away happy thinking how it was a definite move in the right direction to meet his daughter.

  She was very aware that she hadn't mentioned Jane's murder or St. John's visits. Partly she held her peace because she sensed tension between the two cops whenever one of their names was mentioned to the other. Why the two most important men in her life seemed to be at odds was a cruel cosmic complication. But then, even Lou didn't get overjoyed at the sight of either Mace or Rico. She wrote it off as misdirected machismo and tried not to get too frustrated at their childishness.

  She also didn't want to get into a big question-and-answer session with Rico. The lies by omission she had going on with Mace were bad enough.

  She'd like to see Jane's murderer brought to justice, but did that have to mean dredging up the details of events better left forgotten? Maybe she was just being paranoid, but that horrible episode had linked a group of four people in a knot of complicity for nearly a decade, and now the second of two of those people was dead. That still left two little Indians who had a lot to lose.

  The program even had a provision in the twelve steps to cover this contingency Step nine was the amends step, and like all of the others was written as a suggestion only. In step eight, you made a list of all persons you've harmed. In step nine you were urged to make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

  A spiritual program with loopholes, you had to love it.

  When the twelve steps were written decades ago, the transgressions the founders had had in mind were probably more along the lines of marital infidelity. The confessions of a cheating spouse would only make the spouse who had been cheated on feel worse. Was she wrong in how she applied that step to this situation? If she told all she knew, people would be hurt. There was no statute of limitations for murder. As she drove away, she absently pawed at her shirt pocket as if searching for a pack of cigarettes. This was especially weird since she'd been quit for years. She assumed she was over them. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe that addiction was just one more wolf snapping at her door, looking to chew her up if she let her guard down.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday morning was St. John's honey-do day. Caroline had on her yellow rubber gloves and was scrubbing the bathroom. St. John's duty was trash and anything that could be washed clean with the hose. He adjusted the nozzle to its smallest aperture and aimed the stream toward the eaves of the house where cobwebs gathered. The pleasure he derived from directing the water's force had to be a guy thing.

  "Hey master blaster," Caroline called from the doorway

  He kinked the hose. "Yeah, hon."

  "I need your big, strong muscles in here."

  He smiled and flexed his arm. "Yes, ma'am. A gal in need is what we tough guys are all about."

  "Impress me with the sofa. I'm vacuuming? St. John shut off the hose and followed his wife into the house.

  They pulled the couch away from the wall together. Caroline bent down to work the pipe attachment in the corner. St. John grabbed her ass. "Not bad for an old married lady."

  She pushed his hand away. Her rubber glove on his skin brought up unwanted images of the dead woman, Jane Ferrar. He had not been able to learn any more about her. His queries had not turned up friends or a work history. There were relatives back East, but they hadn't had contact with her for years and were not stepping forth to claim the remains. Jane Ferrar had been a ghost, it seemed, long before she died.

  Sensing his mood, Caroline shut off the vacuum.

  "What's up?"

  "Just thinking about something."

  The phone rang and Caroline went in the kitchen to answer it.

  "Hi, kiddo. The eighteenth? We'll be there."

  "Who's that?" he asked.

  "Munch," she said, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece.

  "Does she want to talk to me?"

  Caroline listened for a moment and then shook her head no. St. John went back in the living room and pushed the furniture back against the wall. Caroline was saying, "Uh-huh" and "That sounds nice" and "just be careful."

  St. John wanted to pick up the extension and listen in, but had to content himself with standing near the doorway When he heard her hang up, he hastened outside.

  She came to the back door a moment later looking thoughtful.

  "Is she all right?" he asked.

  "I hope so. Rico's taking her to meet his daughter."

  "On the eighteenth?" ·

  "No, that's Asia's play Next month. She's getting us tickets."

  "Sounds fun" St. John liked kids in theory. Asia's occasional visits, his and Caroline's attendance at the kid's various performances and graduations suited his comfort level. St. John had been an only child and Caroline was the oldest female sibling of a large family. Helping care for the brood most of her yormg life had cured her of the desire to have her own children. It was not a subject they argued about.

  * * *

  On the way to Nunn's retirement party St. John told his wife about Cassiletti and what he'd revealed about himsel
f.

  "We're lucky" she said, reaching for his hand. He kissed her fingertips, loving the delicate softness of her. "I think that every day."

  "I hope Munch isn't setting herself up for a fall with this Rico."

  "She's a big girl."

  "Big girls get hurt too."

  They didn't speak again until they arrived at the restaurant. He liked that about them, that they could be comfortable with each other's silence, didn't have to intrude or be privy to every single thought.

  The party was in a private room at the Billingsly Restaurant on Sawtelle, a favorite haunt for Westside cops.

  Art Becker and his wife were in attendance; so were Rico and Kathy. Half the cops there were with different partners than they'd had at the last shindig. Caroline pointed out with arched. eyebrows that Rico didn't treat Kathy like some soon-to-be ex, and Kathy in turn seemed rather proprietary, picking lint off of Rico's jacket, and generally giving the evil eye to other young women at the party.

  "I'm going to snub them," Caroline announced.

  "You do that," St. John said, smiling, knowing that in his wife's case "snubbing them" meant she would not offer to cook them a three-course dinner on the next available Saturday night. They probably wouldn't notice her version of a cold shoulder.

  The men gravitated to the bar, and Caroline joined a group of women. As St. John walked past, he heard one of the women say "I love my husband, but . . ."

  He didn't need to hear the rest. He stopped to pay his respects to Bob Numn, the guest of honor. Nunn was holding court from a bar stool. He had a highball glass in his hand that he was using like a baton to punctuate his words.

  A group of five middle-aged cops that St. John knew by sight if not by name was Nunn's audience.

  "ln English," he was saying. "In my day the signs were all in English. My parents didn't come to this country and expect everyone to speak Russian. No, they learned the language. They assimilated."

  "Shut up, you fucking Commie," a red-faced narc from Parker Center shot back good-naturedly

  "Hey am I right? Tell me I'm wrong. Fucking spics are taking over the city. Five more years they'll be running everything"

  "Yeah, Bob, that's right," St. John clamped a hand on his shoulder and brought his face in close. "Couldn't do worse, could they?"

  "Hey, St. John." Nunn pulled him into a boozy hug and kissed his cheek wetly "How the hell are you?"

  St. John patted his back. "Looking good, babe. Let's get some of that chow."

  "Nah, I'm not hungry Here, have a drink."

  "In a minute."

  Nunn swung his drink hand across the crowded room. His eyes moistened. "We gave it a good run, didn't we?"

  "Sure did, Bob. You done good."

  "Not all the time. Couldn't get them all." Another drink appeared on the bar behind him. Nunn grabbed at it but missed. Half the booze spilled. St. John figured that was just as well. Nunn growled in frustration and pulled a bent cigarette from the pack in his pocket. St. John struck a match and held it steady while the drunk detective homed in on the flame.

  "I won't miss it," Nunn said, his eyes tearing.

  "Sure you won't." St. John blew out the match, patted Nunn's shoulder, and moved on. Against the far wall were long tables covered with food. Art Becker had two plates, and was heaping salad on each, balancing them against his substantial gut.

  "Where's the beef?" St. John said.

  Becker looked up and smiled, transforming his pockmarked face into a mask of creases that all but obliterated his small eyes. He had to be about the ugliest man that ever walked, and St. John knew that Becker used that mug of his to good advantage when he wanted to intimidate a suspect. Becker went out of his way for victims and their families, even bringing them home on occasion. He also had all kinds of outside hobbies. That's what saved him, kept him balanced.

  Salvation was a funny thing.

  Eight years ago, St. John had had his first conversation with Munch in a biker bar in Venice Beach. Him playing the cop, her his drunken prey. They had talked about redemption then and Munch had said in a tone completely innocent of irony Maybe we can save you too.

  The weird thing was he had understood her and had even felt an odd stirring of hope.

  "Ahh," Becker said now, "they got me on all this rabbit food. I haven't trusted a fart for five years."

  "Tell me about it," St. John said, eyeing a platter of deviled eggs. He envisioned the thick yellow yolk paste coating his arteries.

  With a furtive look to his left, Becker sneaked a chunk of cheese into his mouth. "I understand you're looking at a mope named Cyrill McCarthy; street name 'Thor.' "

  "Yeah. I caught a homicide of a woman who used to hang with him," St. John said. "Someone beat her to death and dumped her in a storm drain."

  Becker shook his head like he was really pained and sighed. St. John wondered what the guy was still doing in homicide. Too much empathy was a bad thing in their business. A little was absolutely necessary.

  "I saw the bulletin. You think Cyrill McCarthy is your guy?"

  "His name keeps popping up. You know him?"

  "Yeah. I always had a sneaking suspicion that he was involved in a triple homicide in the Oakwood Projects ten years ago. We questioned him, some witnesses put a car like his at the scene, but he never broke."

  "Wait a minute," St. John said. "Are you talking about the Ghost Town Three?" The killing of three black men in an apartment building in Venice's black section, a little Watts-by-the-Sea, had been impressively gory rivaling even the Tate-La Bianca murder scene, but without the fancy zip code. As in the Manson tribe killings, the murder weapons had been knives. St. John remembered looking at the photographs and being amazed at the sheer volume of congealed blood in the bedroom, ponds of human gelatin. He saw the image of a blood trail across a wooden hallway in his mind's eye, but couldn't be sure if he was remembering photos from the murder book or confabulating with the help of Stacy Lansford's letter and her description of a murder victim crawling down a hallway with an open jugular.

  "Shit," he said, popping a naked carrot stick into his mouth, "that takes me back. We were up to our eyeballs in gang wars. The All Black Shoreline Crips versus the V-Thirteen Homeboys. I thought the wisdom on that one was that it was a turf dispute.

  McCarthy is a white guy a biker. What makes you think he was messing around in Ghost Town?"

  "We found scales and bags of cut at the scene. It was probably a dope rip-off."

  That made sense, St. John thought. Even the most color conscious doper would overlook race when it came to copping a fix. "How'd he do in a lineup?"

  "We never got that far. Our witness became unavailable. The case fell apart, and we got busy with other investigations."

  "I've come across something you're going to want to read," St. John said, "another case involving McCarthy where the witness disappeared. He bragged about having a hand in some murders when threatening a woman he was involved with. I'll bring it by Monday and take a look at the Ghost Town Three murder book."

  Across the room, Rico Chacón said something to Kathy and she laughed loudly too loudly, St. John thought. He found Caroline's eyes, and her expression told him that she had noticed as well.

  "How's your partner working out?" St. John asked Becker.

  "We're not together anymore."

  "Is that a good thing?"

  Becker grew wary. "Chac6n puts in the hours. He's been on the rotation, working cold cases. We still talk. That's why McCarthy's name rang a bell."

  "Hey look, I wouldn't ask, but a friend of mine has been, uh, getting involved with him and I'd hate to see her get hurt."

  "The mechanic? What is it, Munch?"

  "Yeah, Munch."

  "She helped us out on the Summers's double homicide last month. Brave girl."

  "Yeah, she's got heart all right."

  "What have you heard about Chacón?"

  "Something about him accepting gratuities from the wrong kind of people"

/>   Becker's face puckered as if he'd bit into a raw olive.

  "We got deputy chiefs flying to Vegas with their families for three-thousand-dollar weekends—all expenses paid." He bent his nose sideways with a stubby finger and gave St. John a knowing look. "But a cop gets a few front-row seats at a middleweight bout and people get all shook up."

  Becker looked over to where his wife was sitting at one of the booths sipping a soda and shifting her weight. St. John had heard that she had health problems, something degenerative in her nerves and very painful. It was rare to see either of them out socially. She was no beauty either, but they made each other happy as far as he could see. They had been high school sweethearts, married young, and stayed married. He respected that.

  Becker heaped two quivering mounds of Jello onto his plates and pointed his body toward his wife, giving the feeling of protective hovering from across the room. "Look, Chac6n's a good guy he just has a habit of doing things that get him in trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "Administrative mostly He does what he thinks is the right thing. That doesn't always agree with the big boys. This last stunt is probably going to buy him some freeway therapy."

  Freeway therapy, St. John thought, Admin's way of sticking it to you. You took a wrong step and you found yourself working down at the harbor when you lived fifty miles away in Simi Valley or pulling nothing but night shifts. Transfers like that seriously fucked up your quality of life. The brass justified such actions by saying that rotation kept a guy from getting too settled—read that complacent—in any one job. A cop had a right to his rank was the message, but not necessarily his duty assignment. And guess who had the biggest gun?

  "Who'd he piss off?" St. John asked.

  "Let's just say the boy has ideas how the job should be done and sometimes those ideas lead to not the best decisions. Your friend better keep her eyes open."

  St. John nodded. This was advice he'd learned too late to give himself. Sometimes you see, but you don't see.