Unpaid Dues

by Barbara Seranella

  "Yeah. They're friends of mine. They won't hurt him."

  "C'mon, boy" Doleen called to the back of the house. "C'mon out here and le's get this out in the open."

  Nathan emerged from the back bedroom. His face looked like he'd been in a car accident. The tears on his cheeks were fresh. "What's going to happen now?" he asked.

  "You were there, weren't you?" Munch said. "You were in the house when they killed your daddy"

  Nathan looked at his grandma, then down at his boots.

  "And Jane?" Munch's grief was for all of them. His jaw dropped open, quivering with emotion. It was several seconds before he could speak. "My daddy begged her to stop. He called her by name. That's when she cut his throat. When she was done with that, she carved a V on his chest. He was still alive when she did that. Did you know that? It took him a long time to die."

  Doleen let out a keening wail and sank into the couch.

  Nathan pulled up his shirt to wipe his face. "Those V's in the bodies were her idea. To make the cops think the 'niggers were offing each other.' She said that."

  Munch shot a worried look at Doleen. The older woman's eyes were closed, her face seemed folded in on itself, but she was still breathing.

  "Did you come here to kill us all?" Munch asked.

  "I never meant to kill anyone. I just wanted . . ." He looked lost and very young. "I don't know what I wanted. I called her a few weeks ago, told her I had some pictures of her she might not want anyone else to see."

  "And you knew where to find her because your mom kept tabs on everyone."

  "My mom made sure it never went away for them. Every year on my dad's birthday she sent out those I-haven't-forgot-you cards. That's all she did," he added bitterly "Just so they'd know somebody remembered."

  "What pictures?" Munch asked.

  "I didn't really have any But I figured it would freak them out a lot more if they thought I had, you know, proof."

  Munch spoke slowly and carefully unconsciously mimicking Jim McManis's tone and cadence. "So you contacted Jane to confront her, to make her apologize, to face you."

  "Lissen what she's saying, boy" Doleen said.

  "The truth is you weren't really sure what you needed from her," Munch said.

  Nathan nodded, tears flowing freely now. "She agreed to meet me at the job site where I went for an interview. She was drunk when she got there. Kept me waiting an hour. Everyone else had gone home for the day cuz it started to rain."

  "It was also Valentine's Day" Munch said.

  "She never said she was sorry. I told her what I saw her do. She was holding a baby The rain started coming down real hard. She said, 'Let me get my baby out of this weather.' I told her I felt sorry for any kid of hers and she hit me with it."

  "It was a doll," Munch said.

  "I didn't know that. I thought she was swinging a real baby at me. I just snapped then," he said. "I went off on her and by the time I stopped swinging"—he paused to stanch the flow of watery mucus dripping from his nose—"it was too late. She was dead."

  Doleen shook her head slowly and she said, "Jesus help us."

  Munch considered the irony of Jane's demise, wondering if this was the first time Jane had fought back, and if that had cost her her life. Maybe in some sick, sad way that had been her hope all along. Suicide by instigation.

  "Can't I just go?" Nathan asked. "I could leave the country and never come back."

  "It's not up to me. The police are here. They're going to arrest you."

  "But I—"

  Munch held up a hand to silence him. "I'm not going to abandon you. When the cops read you your rights, you tell them you have a lawyer and don't want to speak to them without him. Here's his name and number." She handed him Jim McManis's business card.

  "You think we can beat the charges?" he asked. The look on his face shattered her heart into another thirty pieces. He was five again and wanting to know if Santa would still come even if they didn't have a tree.

  "No, honey" she said. "They have too much on you. The lawyer is so you don't have to spend the rest of your life in jail or be tried as an adult."

  He looked at Doleen. "Do you think it would be all right if my grandmother kept the Honda?"

  "I think that would be very nice."

  St. John knocked at the door. Panic crossed Nathan's face.

  Munch wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but the time for that had passed. If his father hadn't been murdered. If Deb had called the police ten years ago, instead of fleeing the state. If she hadn't taken her black-skinned baby to be raised among people who would revile him without mercy. If Munch could have been mother and father to him, stolen him away from Deb, and raised him herself. Things might have turned out differently. And if any of them had been different people, they would have had different lives.

  The reality was that Deb was an outlaw and would never dream of calling the police for justice. She had raised her son to believe the same. Munch couldn't save anyone else until she'd found a way to save herself. And that had come too late for Nathan.

  St. John entered Doleen's tidy little house. His manner was respectful, almost reluctant.

  St. John asked Nathan to take off his jacket. Munch watched St. John examine the scratch on Nathan's arm that had tom through the tattoo of his father's name. There would be a match with the ink found under Jane's fingernails. Then St. John brought out his handcuffs. Nathan consented without protest. His shoulders relaxed with resignation, but also relief. This was truly the only way to save him.

  Love didn't get any tougher. He'd almost gotten away with it. But the truth was no one gets away with murder. Better he take his punishment now.

  McManis had thought—although he wasn't promising anything—that the courts would take into account Nathan's age, the trauma of watching his father butchered. If Nathan came clean with everything, expressed remorse, and was willing to cop a plea and save the county the expense and hassle of trial, the cops and the DA would deal. One day not too many years from now, Nathan would be able to face the world a free man. Munch vowed to do what she could for him to keep him on the right path.

  Epilogue

  Munch sat next to the St. Johns. It was the eighteenth of March. The auditorium was filled to capacity with the relatives and friends of cast members. Tinker Bell was saving Peter Pan by drinking the poison Captain Hook intended for the hero of Never-Never Land. Tinker Bell, played by the ever-smiling and over-enthusiastic Asia, was at a distinct disadvantage being that she couldn't speak and warn Peter Pan.

  Throughout the play Asia had done much with her part, especially showing her jealousy toward Wendy but for the big death scene she was outdoing herself. She downed the poison and then went into her death throes. First she clutched her throat and pirouetted. Then she staggered, an outstretched hand clutching in what was supposed to be a pitiful gesture, but lost some in the translation due to her wide smile and twinkling eyes. The child playing Peter Pan waited patiently to deliver his line, but Asia/Tinker Bell took her time to gasp her last breath.

  A collective giggle started in the audience, flashbulbs went off. This brought another inappropriate grin from Asia, aimed at her adoring fans. She swooned to the floor, her legs kicking and arms flopping. Finally she lay still.

  Peter Pan discovered the flask of poison and realized what had happened. The script called for Peter to appeal to the audience. If they believed in fairies, then the power of their belief (shown by applause) could bring the fallen Tinker Bell back to life.

  The audience was apparently possessed of huge magic that day because no sooner had Peter Pan made his plea than Tinker Bell was back on her feet, bouncing across the stage with an ebullience reserved for the resurrected.

  "Can't keep a good fairy down," St. John quipped. Munch laughed in delight. Rico was gone, yet she didn't feel alone. Life was good and full of endless possibilities.

  She had another reason to feel lighthearted.

  The DA had allowed Nathan to plead
to second-degree murder. He had also offered Nathan a deal whereby he would serve his time at the California Youth Authority. It he behaved himself there, he would avoid one of the tougher, so-called "gladiator school" prisons. There was a good chance he'd be out in time for his twenty-fifth birthday which probably sounded like forever to a young kid, but, given the alternatives, it was the best anyone could have hoped for.

  He'd have to do his penance one day at a time and cling to the belief that he'd be free while he was still young enough to make something of himself. He had avoided a more severe charge of first-degree murder. The police didn't have enough evidence to support premeditation or lying-in-wait.

  The second call Munch had made from the police station was to Nathan's grandmother. She told Doleen to gather up all the clothesline at her house and put it somewhere where it would never be found. Doleen had not asked questions, which was telling in itself. The police never came up with a match or source of the rope that bound the cement block and doll to Jane's body If Nathan had brought the rope with him to Jane's murder scene, the DA would certainly have argued premeditation and Nathan would have not seen the light of day again until he was an old man. St. John, if he were ever to learn of Munch's choice, might not agree with it. But she remembered the little boy who was, and she had faith in the man he could still become.

  Doleen and Munch had their little secret and each would take it to her grave.

  Acknowledgments

  Many good people helped with the composition and research for this book. I'd like to thank Marilyn Hudson for sparking the idea years ago when she asked me "Whatever happened to Boogie?" after she reviewed No Offense Intended. Terry Baker of Murder Ink in Venice Beach told me she'd like to see a prequel to N0 Human Involved that showed the events leading to Munch sitting on that bar stool. And Bay Area bookseller Sandy Graves told me the story of her little sister who, like me, ran away from home at age fourteen. Instead of going to the Haight Ashbury the sister went to Spahn Ranch and lived with the Manson Family. She left two weeks before the Tate-La Bianca murders. This got me thinking about twists of fates and how lucky some of us were.

  I also gained valuable insights and information from my friends Riverside County Sheriff's Investigator Carl Carter and his wife, Deputy District Attorney Dianna Carter, what a dynamic duo they are. Patty and Charles Hathaway for the info about the Riviera Country Club. Phyllis Spiva for her in-depth research on "The Eskimo Story," Scott of Valley Block for the clue about the pigment. Janet Newcomb for her explanations of the battered wife syndrome. My author friends Robin Burcell for police procedure and Sinclair Browning for the horse stuff. Barry Fisher for forensics information. LAPD Narcotics officer Joe Flores for helping me understand where Rico grew up. My Coachella Valley critique group, Poison Pen's Patrick Millikin, and the Fictionaires of Orange County for valuable feedback (with special mention to Patricia McFall and Gary Bale). And always my A-Team: Sandy Dijkstra and staff; Susanne Kirk, Sarah Knight, Laura Wise, Emily Remes, and all the wonderful, gifted people at Simon & Schuster; my publicists Jackie Green and Jim Schneeweis.

  My husband, Ron, for making it all possible.

  Con mucho gusto.