"Deb's kid. Boogie."
"The nig- Uh, the little black kid?"
"Not so little anymore."
"That's real nice of you to be helping him out and all."
She considered telling him that the cops were looking for him and had some questions, but then he would want to know how she knew what the cops wanted or what they knew.
"Hey, Munch, the past is past, right?"
"You'll have to figure that out for yourself."
"Nothing to figure out," he said. "Unless someone after all this time gets in a confessing mood."
"Who would that be?"
"Alls I'm saying is a person worried about their soul only need tell the parts about themselves."
"I believe that's how it works unless it looks like someone else is going to get hurt."
"As long as we understand each other."
More than you know.
The break was over. Munch walked over to where Danny T. was refilling his coffee. She picked up an empty cup and got in line behind him. "Can I talk to you a minute? Outside?"
She went out to the parking lot. A moment later Danny emerged with a quizzical expression on his face. "What's up?"
"There's a curfew at your house, right?"
"Eleven o'clock. Unless a resident is at a meeting with his sponsor or on an approved pass."
"Is that for everyone?"
"Well, they're only eligible for passes after the first thirty days."
"That's what I thought."
"What's this about?"
"I thought I might have seen that guy Cyrill out late the weekend before last, but no way was that possible."
"No, especially not that weekend. The whole house was locked down. Nobody went anywhere."
Right, Munch thought, and a life-long con would never dream of breaking curfew.
* * *
Rico Chacón finally called St. John on Tuesday morning.
"Nice of you to get back with me," St. John said.
"Oh yeah and guess what?" Chacón said. "You weren't the only person on my list."
"I've heard you have friends all over."
"What did you want?"
"You get a chance in your busy schedule to read the document I left?"
"Stacy Lansford's statement? I saw it."
"I've got an appointment with Donzetta Williams. I thought you might want to be there when I show her some six-packs."
"Yeah, all right. She still working at B&B?"
"How long ago did you interview her?"
"Last month. I'll meet you there. Is two good?"
St. John arrived at the hardware store just as Chacón pulled up. He checked his watch. It was only half past one.
They parked three spaces apart, each man pulled on his coat, aware of the other but not exchanging greetings. St. John carried a manila envelope. Chac6n's arms swung free.
They approached the store together but entered through separate turnstiles.
Donzetta was sorting individually packaged drill bits and hanging them on hooks near the counter. She smiled at the two cops, revealing a wide gap between her teeth.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," she said.
St. John smiled. "How you doin' today?"
"Like Grandmama always says, I woke up."
Chacón smiled but said nothing.
"I hate to keep bothering you at work, Donzetta," St. John said.
"I'm just not sure how much help I can be after all this time. " She turned to Chacón as she spoke and smiled prettily: "But I'll do my best."
Everybody was smiling. It was starting to hurt. St. John opened his packet of paperwork and extracted a Traffic Collision report form. "When we talked before, you said you got a pretty good look at the three people you saw leaving the apartment building on Vernon. Where were you standing?"
"I was across the street, in my yard, waiting on the mailman?
The TC form had a basic diagram of parallel and perpendicular lines depicting streets and intersections. He asked her to fill in the appropriate street names and landmarks. She wrote in Lincoln Boulevard, Vernon Avenue, and Main Street. Then she drew a square on one side of Vernon and labeled it her house, and a larger rectangle across the street that she identified as the apartment building where the three murder victims were found.
"And where was the car they drove away in?" St. John asked.
Donzetta drew in the car and showed it pointing westbound.
"So the Mexican guy where was he?" St. John asked.
"He came out first and got in the backseat. Then the woman with the limp and the big guy with the red hair came out. He was helping her walk, like, holding her by the arm."
"And then she got in the car?"
"Yeah, into the back with the other guy"
"And then the redhead came around to the front to the driver's side?"
Donzetta scrunched her nose and looked skyward. "No, he got in the passenger side."
"So who drove?" St. John asked.
Donzetta looked at Chacón before answering. "The other girl was driving. I didn't see much of her at all."
So there were four of them. St. John showed her the pictures he had assembled.
Donzetta picked out Jane Ferrar from the first set and Cyrill "Thor" McCarthy from the second. St. John thanked her for her help and walked back out to the parking lot with Chacón following.
St. John opened his car door and threw his paper-work on the front seat. "So how much has Munch told you'?"
"About what?"
"Jane Ferrar."
"She hasn't said a thing to me."
"She didn't tell you I had come to see her about the murder?"
"Which murder?"
St. John held his mouth open in exaggerated shock.
"Jane Ferrar, Munch's old running partner. Her body was found in the storm drain near Riviera last week."
"I know of the case," Rico said carefully "but Munch didn't say anything to me about it."
"I guess it's not like you to tell her everything."
"That's none of your business."
"Is that right?" St. John slammed his door shut and planted himself in Chac6n's path. "I'm making it my business. She's a friend, a good friend, and I don't like seeing her dicked around."
Rico raised his palm chest-high. It was a cop interrogation tool (or trick, depending on your perspective). Human nature was to stop talking when a hand was lifted thus.
"Don't pull that shit on me," St. John said.
"You don't know everything. I'm telling you for your own good to just leave it alone."
They were chest to chest now. Chacón had St. John by six inches and fifteen years, but St. John didn't give a fuck. Chacón might kick his ass, and that was in no way a given, but St. John could hurt him too. Maybe he'd get lucky with a punch or a knee in the balls before Mr. Readycock saw it coming.
"The last thing I want to do is hurt her," Chacón said.
St. John breathed hard through his nose, feeling his heart go boom, boom, boom. He got pissed off all over again. "I'm not going to get myself upset over this. You heard what I said. You fuck with her and you fuck with me."
"Fair enough. Now, are we going to box or are we going to work?"
Chacón seemed happy to follow whatever lead St. John cared to take, and St. John felt a grudging respect for the guy He wasn't a sissy anyway
"All right, here's the deal. I'm going to help you with your case and you're going to help me with mine." St. John held up four fingers. "We got four assholes at the scene of a murder." He folded two fingers. "Two of them are ID'd as Cyrill McCarthy and my victim, Jane Ferrar." He added a finger. "You've got three dead dope dealers with V's carved in their chests. I'm putting my victim at your scene. Jane Ferrar suffered from polio as a child. Her right foot is a size four. We've got small bloody footprints in the carpet, a V carved in her chest, and a well-documented history with Cyrill 'Thor' McCarthy"
"And we've got Stacy Lansford's letter," Rico said, "a
bout McCarthy's involvement in a multiple murder that substantiates years of rumors from other sources."
"I want the second guy and the driver." St. John opened his car door and started to lower himself into the driver's seat. "I'm going back over old FI cards for known associates and see what I come up with."
Chacón held St. John's door open. His sunglasses were dark in the bright afternoon sun. He held his mouth as if he were in pain. "You're going to find Munch's name. "
"I know that. I'm interested in the second man."
"So was I." Rico produced a photograph of a laughing Hispanic man. The guy was holding a brown quart bottle of Budweiser in one hand and flashing the peace symbol with the other. His black goatee was trimmed so that it formed a point beneath his chin. All that was missing were the horns, tail, and red suit. St. John stared at the picture, a sick, bleak feeling beginning deep in his stomach. "Isn't this Asia's dad?"
Rico nodded. "Jonathan Garillo aka Sleaze John."
"Oh boy" St. John said. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and exhaled loudly through his nose.
Chacón returned the photograph to his pocket. For a long moment, neither man spoke.
St. John shook his head as if to negate the words he spoke next. "One of us needs to ask her."
Rico raised his sunglasses and stared into St. J0hn's eyes.
"What?" St. John squinted back. "You think it should be you?"
"There is a third option."
"You want to bury it? Is that what you're saying?"
"I didn't say anything and you don't have to do anything. You've got your own case. But ask yourself, how is justice best served here?"
"You think that's our choice?" St. John asked.
"Who better?"
Chapter 20
Munch took a break midmorning, telling Lou t she had some personal business, and went to the law office of Jim McManis. McManis was an attorney who specialized in criminal law, and Munch had hooked him up with her crazy friend Ellen, who had recently needed his help.
He ushered her into his private office and took a seat behind his big desk. She sat opposite him. A big picture window offered a view of West Los Angeles all the way to the ocean. She watched a plane fly north and wondered how long it took to get a passport. McManis asked her if she wanted coffee, but she declined. These guys charged by the minute. "I need to ask you something, about a point of law."
"All right." He moved aside a file on his desk, clasped his hands in front of him, and gave her his full attention.
"Say there was a murder committed, a dope rip-off gone wrong, and the dope dealers were killed."
"More than one?"
"Yeah."
"Definitely a one eighty-seven. First-degree murder and probably special circumstances because the murder was committed in the commission of a robbery and there were multiple victims. So the DA could ask for the death penalty Wait a minute and I'll look it up."
Munch waited while he grabbed a book off the shelf behind him. Her heart was beating so hard that it hurt her throat. She pressed a hand against her chest and took deep breaths.
"Who's this for?" McManis asked. "I can ask the prosecutor in the case."
"There is no prosecutor."
"Charges haven't been filed?"
"No. I don't want to get too specific. Don't ask me to name names."
"I won't."
"It's for a friend of a friend. And I don't know the last name. And this friend wasn't one of the killers, they were in the car, waiting outside." Shut up now.
"Killers plural?"
Munch wished she had never come. "Yeah."
"Was the friend the driver?"
She hesitated for a second, then answered reluctantly "Yeah, the friend was the driver."
"Okay here it is." He adjusted his bifocals.
"'Anyone with knowledge of unlawful purpose is considered equally culpable.' So your driver of the getaway car is responsible for the full crime. It goes to natural and probable consequence of the crime. Is murder a natural and probable consequence of armed robbery? Certainly Did the driver know the perps were armed?"
Thor was always armed, Munch thought, then realized that McManis was waiting for an out-loud answer. "Is there any way I can get a copy of what you're reading from?"
"Sure. It's from a book of jury instructions—what the judge reads when he instructs the jury. I refer to this all the time when I want a succinct statement of law without all the doublespeak. I'1l have my secretary make a copy for you." He pressed a button on his phone.
Eighty bucks later, Munch returned to her car. Even behind the familiar steering wheel, she felt no control. Every short-haired man around her looked like a cop. She wondered for a moment if Thor was in on the conspiracy Maybe he'd come to the meeting as a plant and was wearing a wire, hoping to draw her into an admission. It was crazy thinking and didn't pan out for a variety of reasons. Shit, he had done much worse. He was up there in the apartment. It was his knife, probably his idea. But what if he told his version first, made some kind of deal with the cops? Did they believe the first witness who came forth? Had she already lost the race she didn't have enough sense to enter?
Back at work, the phone seemed to ring at twice its normal volume. She prayed it wouldn't be Rico. She needed to come clean with him or break it off. She practiced the scene in her head. She pictured them sitting in a room, maybe her kitchen.
"I need to tell you about some things," she would say. "I want to lay it all out for you. So you'll understand about me, the things I know, the things I've seen and heard and done."
She'd never told anyone the whole story beginning to end. There had always been parts she'd kept to herself.
Even now, even in this fantasy version, she knew she'd put a slant on it all. It was not just the winners who wrote the history books, it was the survivors.
* * *
She'd explain to him how then, in 1975, the going slang for heroin was boy, cocaine was referred to as girl. Thor gave Munch a share of the coke and she made a trade with a dealer in Inglewood, the girl for the boy She returned to Venice. Possessed of more dope than she could use in a week, she drove to Main Street. She was not by nature a hoarder; hoarding would indicate an expectation of a future.
She found two hookers working, her friend Roxanne and a black woman named Evie.
"Take a break," she told them. "I've brought a gift."
They spent a quarter to use the bathroom in the Laundromat. The three whores huddled around the fixture so often called the porcelain altar. It was fitting, as they were on their knees in fervent adulation. The sink was broken, so they used the water from the toilet tank to mix their dope. They planned to boil it before they injected it into their bloodstream, so what was the big deal? They giggled as they went through the preparation ritual, giddy with anticipation.
Evie lifted her blouse and showed them her distended belly hitting it with her fist in frustration.
"I don't know what's the matter with me," she said. "I've always had a flat stomach, and now this lump is hard as a rock."
Munch glanced up briefly pretending to care, then went back to preparing the dope.
Days later, the dope was all gone. She didn't look for more. Instead, she drank. The whiskey gave her sharp pains in her stomach, but those stopped after a week. It was like smoking. Sometimes the only thing that cured a cough was lighting another cigarette. She decided she needed time to think this through, time out from dope and crazy violence. She was a legal adult, had been for a year, and if she kept going along with Thor and them, it was going to get worse. She wasn't afraid of dying, but she was afraid of life in prison.
She left the Flats. There were no dramatic good-byes. She just walked out the door one day and didn't come back. She heard that Sleaze went to Texas for a while. Thor got busted for shoplifting steak; the cow blood seeped through his white T-shirt and gave him away Jane went back to New York because her father died.
And much more happened.
Bikers were killed in late-night crashes. Babies drowned in bathtubs, while others were born missing fingers. Munch moved in with some biker chicks who had a small wooden bungalow on one of the canal streets. The house burned down while she wasn't home, destroying all her worldly possessions. Deb and Boogie moved to Oregon—took their dream of going to the country and made good on it. Or so it seemed. Roxanne headed up to Alaska, where they were building a pipeline, lured by the promise of adventure and easy cash.
At some point Sleaze returned to L.A. He straightened up long enough to get a job driving for Sunshine Yellow Cab and began hanging out with some square broad named Karen, who worked for the phone company.
He's only with her to scam her, Munch told herself. She doesn't remember who called who first. There was always a magnetism between the two of them, an attraction of like molecules. What began as a morning fix turned into a weeklong binge. And then she and Sleaze were at it again, playing everyone around them, including Karen, who Sleaze went to see on her lunch breaks, wheedling twenties out of her while Munch waited in the front seat of his cab, parked around the corner with the meter off.
But then Sleaze made a big mistake. He started giving Karen tastes of dope. He had to, he said, or she'd cut him off.
It didn't take long before she was through at the phone company standing on street corners, still looking like someone's secretary But she'd learned the look. That bold stare at the single men cruising Main Street. Karen, with her college education and orthodontic-straightened teeth, was getting in those cars, talking the talk, doing the deed, bringing the money back to share with Sleaze. And then Sleaze told Munch they couldn't hang out together anymore.
Munch said, I was about to tell you the same thing. For some reason that she didn't understand, she made one more attempt to find another way to live. She started spending time with a mechanic named Al at Venice Cab Company fixing the high-mileage sedans in the small hours of the night. She wasn't screwing Al. He seemed to like her for some other reason.
Around that time, Al moved in with his girlfriend. The landlord of his single apartment on Paloma Canal wouldn't give Al his first month's rent back so Al told Munch she could stay there for that month since it was already paid for. She stocked the small refrigerator and got a glimpse of what life could be like. She found peace hanging brake shoes, working until her knees felt locked open, and she was too tired to do more than bathe and collapse into bed with her hair still wet.
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