by Unknown
She let Chicken lead her through the throng of mourners to the human roadblock.
Her escort presented her as if she were some sort of prize. "This is Enrique's woman. They were to be married."
She realized Chicken didn't know what else to call her. "I'm Munch."
"A terrible thing," the big Mexican said. "Es verdad. We all feel the loss."
"And you are?"
"Humberto. If there is anything you need, ask."
"Can you turn back the clock?"
"Sadly, no."
Munch appraised the big man. He really did look bereaved, the way he cast his eyes down, let his lower lip protrude, and crossed his hands in front of his crotch as if he were already graveside.
"What were you to Rico?" Her slip of using his real name was conscious. If they knew him as Enrique, they probably knew a lot more about him—maybe more than her.
"He was known to me. He will be missed."
Munch wanted to scream her frustration. "Look, Bert, let's not be coy, sabes? I'm trying to make some kind of peace with this all. You offer help, but I don't know you from Adam. Why would you want to help me anyway? You feeling guilty about something, or are you just a really nice guy?"
Mount Humberto blinked in surprise. He obviously wasn't used to being questioned, certainly not so rudely. Chicken's jaw dropped open, then he swiveled his head to look behind him as if he had heard someone call his name. He slid sideways back into the crowd, taking with him a swath of mourners. The dogs whined, sensing the impending blood sport.
Munch felt a nudge at her side. Ellen had come to stand beside her.
"And did you know that your novio was a police?" Humberto asked.
Ellen slapped Munch's arm with the back of her hand. "Didn't I always tell you that?"
"I tried to overlook it," Munch said. "When you're in a relationship, you have to take the whole package, not just the parts you like best."
Humberto's eyes narrowed. You could cut the tension with a machete. Munch wished she had one.
Ellen slowly licked white frosting from her finger, diverting Humberto's attention and most likely the flow of blood in his body.
"You want some cake, honey?" Ellen held the large kitchen knife for him to see. As usual, she could go either way.
They waited for Humberto to make the next move.
He looked down at Munch's five-foot frame, then at Ellen's grip on the cake knife and he laughed. It wasn't a cruel laugh as in, Ho-ha, now I 'm going to crush your bones into fiour for my bread. He was amused. "I am clearly outnumbered and at your mercy, senoras."
Munch pushed down Ellen's knife hand. "So what kind of help are you offering? Rico's work cut him off cold, no pension, nada. They offered to pay to bury him, but we turned them down. I don't want a service that's more for them than for us. Know what I mean?"
Humberto nodded yes. There was intelligence in his eyes.
Munch guessed that a lot of people underestimated the big man, saw all that muscle and forgot to take into account that there was a brain there too.
"The family would be lucky to get his last paycheck."
"How much do you need?" he asked.
He was getting right to business. She liked that. "I just want his end. That's only fair. "
Humberto appraised her, no doubt wondering how much of Rico's business she knew. His expression was easy to read, a mixture of disapproval and mild alarm. Here in the North, women were unpredictable and far more involved in matters outside the home life than was suitable. Most definitely she was a complication he hadn't expected.
Munch planted her feet firmly, crossed her arms over her chest and held her tongue. Her posture and attitude communicated her sentiments. Deal with it, macho man.
When she sneaked a look sideways, Ellen was grinning like an idiot. Her friend didn't get the moniker Crazy Ellen for nothing.
"What is the name of the funeraria you wish to use?" Humberto said.
"Galvan and Sons. They're on Pico Boulevard."
"The service will be taken care of. I'll see to it personally."
"And the rest?" Munch asked.
"That is not my decision, but I'll see what I can do. As to his ‘end,' as you say." Humberto spread his hand and wiggled it, palm down. "This is something we can discuss. There are always opportunities opening up."
"C'mon, big boy," Ellen said, looping her arm through his. "Let's get you something to eat. I bet your girlfriends can't get enough of you."
Munch exhaled, surprised to realize she felt a strange sense of disappointment as Ellen led Humberto away. When she briefly believed she was about to get her ass kicked, part of her had wanted just that. Some cuts and bruises to go along with her pain. That would show them.
Instead, she had gotten what she came for, hadn't she? It would be insane to want things to get messy. Especially since she had dragged Ellen into her nightmare. Not that Ellen seemed to be minding.
No, Munch was on the path now. She would continue to seek the truth until she found a version she could live with. She looked over at the table in time to see a long-haired Hispanic woman pick up Rico's photograph and plant a large kiss on his face. The Chicana was everything Munch wasn't. Rounded curves, large breasts, long black hair, long red fingernails. One of those juicy young mamasitas whose figure would erupt as soon as she started having babies, but by then she would have hooked her man.
Someone called out, "Christina!" and the woman turned.
Christina, Munch thought. Long black hair. She felt something inside her snap.
Christina, writer of love notes.
Munch hated her, hated her with every fiber of her being. She strode across the small yard with murder in her heart. The sea of people parted grudgingly.
Munch shrugged aside the hands that would stop her. She was close enough to see the small crescent-moon earring in the cartilage of Christina's left ear. Munch gathered a handful of Christina's hair with one hand and punched her full on the mouth with the other. Christina screamed and clawed at Munch's face. They went down on the dirt. Munch soon gained the advantage, sitting on Christina's belly and raining punches on her face. The spaces between Christina's teeth filled with blood, her long hair collected leaves and dirt. They had rolled close to the dogs' pen and the animals were snarling and throwing themselves against the chain-link fence. Their frenzied activity churned up the uncollected dog shit in their too-small run. Men shouted in Spanish.
Ellen stood above them, brandishing the large kitchen knife. There to ensure that the fight stayed fair and that Munch won. Finally, strong hands reached down and lifted Munch off the bleeding woman beneath her. Munch felt flush and strong and resisted the arms that encircled her. She tried to bite, but couldn't connect with flesh. She kicked backward, hoping to connect, but the man held her too close for her to do much damage. She realized it was Humberto.
"Let me down," she said. "I can't breathe." His arms encircled her chest. Her feet were at least six inches from the ground.
"Relax," he said.
Munch panted, trying to get more air to her lungs. Strands of Christina's long black hair hung from her still-clenched fist. She shook them off.
Other men helped Christina to her feet. Her face was now punctuated by bright red spots where Munch had punched her. She pointed a finger at Munch and Ellen and promised revenge. Munch felt only the heat of her emotions. It was the best she'd felt in days.
"Let me at the bitch," Munch said.
"You're bleeding," Ellen said.
"Nah, it's not me. I'm fine."
"Yeah, right, you are the winner. Let's just get you to the bathroom."
Humberto brought Munch into the house. Ellen led the way to a bathroom, while the other girl was taken out the front door. Ellen looked in the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of peroxide, then put it back when she saw it was hair-bleaching peroxide and not hydrogen peroxide. Munch turned to the mirror and saw the red bloody stripes on her cheek. The bitch must have scratched her.
<
br /> Ellen moistened some tissue with water and dabbed at the scratches. "What was all that about?"
Munch told her about the lovers' cards she had found in Rico's desk, and the matching earring in Christina's ear.
"They were probably over long ago. Rico only had eyes for you."
Munch told her about the hair in the brush.
"Could have been his daughter's," Ellen said, not sounding completely convinced of this herself.
"Yeah, maybe." Munch's adrenaline was fading, and she felt slightly nauseous. She also felt stupid for not trying to get any information out of Christina before she started wailing on her. So much lor her plan of getting in tight with the women and children.
Ellen produced a tube of antibiotic cream and squeezed a dab onto her finger.
Munch tried to push her hand away. "I'm good."
"I don't want you getting any scars."
"I don't care."
"Maybe not now, but do you really want to think of that skank every time you look in the mirror?"
"Let's just get out of here."
They headed for the front door. Several people patted Munch on the back. Chicken winked at her. Three men and two women were seated on the futon couch in the front room and bent over the spool table before them. The objects of their attention were the rows of glittering cocaine cut on the mirror at their knees. One of the women handed Munch a straw. For a second, Munch almost took it. She saw the hand of a Higher Power here, pairing these two events. First she lost control and started a fistfight, then barely down from that, she was being offered an engraved invitation to jump back into the life with both feet. She hadn't so much as seen a line of coke in nine years of sobriety. Shit, even when she was using, she had only been offered it for free a few times.
The twelve steps and The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous made many references to "powers greater than ourselves." It wasn't always specified whether these powers were good or evil. Potent, to be sure.
Munch couldn't pull her eyes away from the free drugs. With all that had happened, who could blame her? Maybe she was being offered a well-deserved break from reality from a loving God who understood her needs.
The scariest part of that thought was how much sense it seemed to make.
"No, thank you," she said, and somehow her feet carried her out the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DELAGUERRA WATCHED VICTORIA FROM THE DOORWAY OF her studio. She sniffled and touched the edge of her apron to her eyes as she gripped her dry paintbrush and sighed. He wondered what petty bullshit had her down. When he first met her, her hands were stained yellow from stripping the stiff leaves from her family's few acres of coca bushes. She didn't speak a word of English. At thirteen, her back was already assuming the bend of a grandmother.
He had saved her from all that and worse. How quickly they forgot. She could still be in some jungle factory in Colombia, breathing the fumes from the sulfuric acid and petrol used to make the paste that would then be refined into the oily white powder that was his livelihood. Instead, she was living in a beautiful villa, with a driver at her disposal, and anything she desired at her fingertips. Her children attended the finest private schools, where they mingled with the sons and daughters of diplomats, movie stars, and other successful businessmen. She had subscriptions to four different American fashion magazines, which she devoured as soon as they arrived.
All that and she still always seemed to find some reason to be annoyed with him. And one thing about Victoria—she was a genius at letting him know with a million different subtle looks and gestures that he had not lived up to her expectations. And here he was, trying in every manner he could dream of to be a modern man. Sometimes she could be so stupid. A little appreciation for his efforts would go a long way.
Unlike the North, here in Mexico a man was rarely charged and almost never convicted of murdering his wife. Abel didn't believe in violence against women unless it was absolutely necessary. He also conceded that it wouldn't hurt if the Catholic Church modernized some of its views on divorce. He wasn't against dogma. It worked for the masses, but even the local priest agreed that a man in his position could not be and should not be herded with the same staff. He loved his wife. It wasn't her fault that he had spoiled her. She had given him legitimate children and companionship, and in the early years had been quick to draw a laugh from him. He glanced around her well-lit studio, approving of her use of vibrant colors and bold style. He intended to tell her that today. He knew the compliment would please her, perhaps set an example of behavior that would serve her better. Honey instead of vinegar was what she should be using.
They had come a long way together, and the journey wasn't over yet. Since the incident with the gardener, she had shown him more respect. At least she hadn't been so quick to snap. God, that it always had to come to some demonstration. This was annoying, but perhaps only human nature. He had skimmed through the books she casually left on his bed stand. Books with titles like Communication Is Mariage's Strongest Tool and Resolving Marital Conflicts: A Pychodynamic Perspective. Books definitely written by gringos who went to fancy gringo colleges in the North. He would send his sons to those universities when they came of age. Maybe even his daughters as well. Why not?
He paused a moment longer, enjoying the sun on his face, the quiet of his wife's sanctuary. It was almost as if she had managed in this turbulent world of theirs to create an extension of her womb. In many ways besides the obvious, he preferred women. Even those he used in his business were cooler with their emotions and quicker on their feet than many of his men. His men, his women, hah. So many were looking to move up, hoping to be the next big man. Who was truly loyal anymore? At least one was not. That's all that was certain. Someone had tipped the police about the planned jailbreak. He felt his face harden with sudden fury. When he found out who the traitor was, he would show no mercy.
"Hijo de la puta."
Victoria looked up at the sound of his cursing. She must have been unaware that he was there. Her elbow tipped over her water glass and spilled over the landscape she'd been working on.
"Oh, Abel. Now it is ruined."
He threw his hands up in the air and left the room. Some days a man couldn't win.
* * *
"Where to now, slugger?" Ellen asked as they left the wake.
"Rico's," Munch said, feeling suddenly exhausted, even queasy.
"The rosary is tomorrow night. I told Fernando I would drop off clothes at the funeral home." She hadn't told him about the photograph for facial reconstruction.
Ellen pulled an illegal U-turn. "You gonna tell the cops you're going over there?"
Munch had considered it. Briefly. "Fuck 'em. What courtesy do I owe any of those motherfuckers?"
"That's the spirit," Ellen said.
Munch felt a little warning chill. First the coke, now this. She knew she needed always to check herself when she gained Ellen's approval.
"I'm just saying I have legitimate reasons."
Ellen made an adjustment to her wig. "Damn straight you do."
Ellen's tone was righteous and self —assured, as if she were all about legitimacy and would brook no substitutes.
Munch turned on the radio and let the rock 'n' roll remind her of happier, carefree times. The Grateful Dead started singing about riding that train. She knew all the words. "Casey Jones, you better watch your speed."
They drove along Ocean Boulevard. Past the pier, the four-lane roadway paralleled the strip of park that ran along the top of the cliffs. Benches faced the ocean. A bike trail snaked between wind-gnarled trees and beds of perennials. joggers and bicyclers avoided the legs of sleeping drunks. Signs warned pet owners that dogs were not allowed.
Santa Monica had a reputation for accommodating the homeless. Cops were instructed to overlook cardboard campsites. Earnest locals passed out hot soup and sandwiches. Clothing and blankets were collected and distributed. Munch was not without compassion, but she believed in carrying the mess
age, not the addict.
Yep, Munch thought, as they turned down into the canyon. The world was seriously mixed up. What other town's library had a sign in the bathroom asking patrons kindly to leave the deodorant dispensers in the toilet bowls?
No dogs, but please bring us your bums.
Ellen parked in Rico's driveway and followed Munch into the house.
Munch went directly to the closet and reached for the uniform in the dry-cleaning bag. The tag on the hanger indicated that the suit had been picked up three weeks ago.
Munch fingered the thin plastic and wondered how it would feel to die with it tied around her face. She shook that image and showed the receipt to Ellen. "It was almost as if he knew that he'd be needing a clean dress uniform."
"My mama had just put up a case of her jam when she was killed. Weird, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess there's always something like that."
Munch got a bag from the kitchen and packed it with a clean set of underwear, shoes, and hat to go with the uniform. She then moved some luggage and lifted the carpet from the floor of the closet to reveal his floor safe.
"You know the combination?" Ellen asked.
"As a matter of fact"—Munch twisted the dial the appropriate turns left and right, then pulled the door open—"I do." She carefully removed Rico's badge and gun, but left the deed to the house and his car. Ellen tossed her a hand towel from the bathroom without having to be asked. Munch resealed the safe and wiped it clean of prints before replacing the carpet and suitcases.
"Where did he keep his wrapping paper?" Ellen asked.
"In the hall closet. There's tape and scissors by the phone in the kitchen."
Ellen held out her hand and Munch handed over the badge and gun. They had hit on this strategy for moving contraband years ago. It took a pretty hard-hearted cop to unwrap a gift he found in the trunk on a routine search. Especially now, when they dressed relatively straight and weren't under the influences of chemicals.
While Ellen got busy in the kitchen, Munch went into Rico's office. She soon discovered that the desk had been completely cleaned out. Even the blotter was gone, along with the love notes and airplane tickets.