An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  Well, maybe the mayor.

  The day passed in a blur of politicos shaking her hand without looking at her, but making sure they faced the camera. Art Becker wept openly, unconcerned about how it might look. She saw several photographers record his grief.

  A semicircle of folding chairs had been assembled at graveside. Rico's academy graduation photo had been enlarged to poster size and placed on an easel next to the tarp-covered waiting grave. He looked young and strong. For the photograph he had affected a fierce glare. He was also wearing a wedding band. Munch thought about his life when this picture was snapped. Rico would have had a new wife and baby girl at home to feed, his career before him, his early years of poverty in Mexico in the past.

  Munch studied Sylvia now, standing stoically in a large black hat. Angelica was even paler than usual, no small feat. Sylvia, seeming to have sensed Munch's scrutiny, turned to her. Fresh tears streaked her face. Munch gestured to the open chairs, inviting Sylvia to make peace. Sylvia grabbed her daughter's arm and led her to the front row. Asia reached out a hand to Angelica. After a moment's hesitation, Angelica took the small hand, offered so guilelessly, and sat. Munch looked for Fernando and found him within a knot of his other sons. The siblings formed a protective ring around the grieving patriarch, and now moved en masse to the folding chairs.

  She somehow sat through another hour of speeches. Dark glasses hid her eyes as she summoned her own memories of her beloved. Asia had picked a bouquet from their yard and clutched it to her chest as she listened to all the words being said. When the last politicians finally ran out of wind, she carefully unwrapped the foil, packed with wet paper towels, and distributed roses to the women around her.

  And a child shall lead them, Munch thought.

  A bugle played taps. The family stood and filed past the sealed casket. The women placed their flowers on the grass beneath Rico's portrait, and then negotiated the soft turf to the waiting cars.

  During the drive back to Fernando's, nobody spoke. Asia fell asleep on Angelica's lap and had to be roused gently when the limo pulled up in front of the house in Lawndale.

  "Are you coming in?" Sylvia asked.

  Munch looked closely at Sylvia, waiting for the left-handed comment, the implied insult, that Rico's ex-wife was so wont to dish out. This time, she seemed to be saying exactly what she meant.

  Though not exactly a warm invitation, coming from Sylvia the question was tantamount to rolling out the red carpet.

  "Maybe later. I was hoping to go home, maybe catch a nap."

  "Asia can come with us if she wants," Angelica said.

  Munch was flabbergasted. Both for the invitation and that Angelica was capable of unprompted social overtures. Not to mention expressing a sentiment that didn't revolve around her.

  Munch turned to her daughter. "Up to you."

  "I'd like to go with them," Asia said. "You're coming back, right?"

  "Of course I am."

  Angelica put a protective, if bone-thin, arm around Asia's shoulders. "I'll take care of her."

  Munch kissed her daughter good-bye, gave the driver his instructions, and then sat back for the ride home to Santa Monica. Back into the belly of the beast, as it were.

  * * *

  Munch met with Petey at the coffee shop on Pico and Lincoln. It was close enough to the police station to ensure at least one party of cops would be there, off-duty or in uniform. She took a booth by the window that cast plenty of light on their table. Petey swaggered in at the appointed hour. He probably assumed that she had asked for this meeting so she could beg for her life or buy him off somehow. She was really going to enjoy watching the smirk leave his face.

  "Hello, Munch," he said, swinging into his seat, chains jangling. He smelled of tobacco and stale beer and unwashed hair. She also detected garlic on his breath and that from all the way across the table from him. He wasn't half as cute as she remembered. Funny how things changed once the veil of intoxication was lifted.

  "Hello, Petey," she said. "They still calling you that?"

  "Yeah." His expression was suspicious.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I had heard different."

  Now he was getting mad. "What did you hear?"

  "Something about a desert fox." She opened her purse. "Let me look it up. I want to make sure I get it right."

  Sweat broke out on Petey's forehead and he looked as if he might be sick.

  She pulled out one of the many copies of the forms Rico had mailed her and spread them across the surface of the table. "Here's the deal. I've sent copies to different friends."

  "What do you want?" Petey asked, his voice sort of a croak.

  "I want you to live a long and healthy life. Just like me. You're my new guardian angel."

  She wrote her address on the back of one of the forms. "This is where I live. I work in Brentwood, at that Texaco station. If my friends hear something has happened to me, and only if, copies of these papers will be sent to Tony Martin. You know the name, right? He's the Mongols' lawyer. I also have left instructions that Red Al gets this information. He's still in San Quentin, right?"

  "You know he is," Petey said.

  "I bet he's good and pissed."

  "Okay, I get your point. You don't have to worry about us anymore."

  "You got one of those courtesy cards with you?" Munch asked.

  Courtesy cards were what bikers passed out in lieu of business cards, but they were more than that. They had the club logo, the name of the club member who had issued it, and a space to write in the recipient's name. The bearer was officially a friend of the club. On the rare times a woman had one, it could very well serve as a "get out of hell free" card. She had him fill it out to Miranda "Munch" Mancini.

  "Date it today," she added.

  One down, Munch thought, a million to go. But all she could do was all she could do. One asshole at a time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ABEL DELAGUERRA PACED HIS FLOOR AND STARED AT nothing. He didn't like the reports he was getting. An unaccounted-for kilo of his cocaine, displaying the revered black skeleton, had shown up in Los Angeles. Was this a counterfeit? The work of some narco pirate infringing on his hard-won trademark? Or was this part of the shipment he had lost to thieves in the mountains?

  The tip had come from that Peruvian woman, La Sombra, she was called. The Shadow. She was a freelancer whose services were available to the highest bidder. She brokered many things; information, weapons, airplanes, disappearance services. The tantalizing snippet of information had come in the form of a Polaroid photograph, passed to him by a young child who said only that a lady in a black veil had given him two Hershey bars to deliver it. When pressed, the child admitted that they were the kind with the nuts. The picture showed a sealed kilo of his product placed strategically on the front page of last Friday's Los Angeles Times. On the back of the photo was a phone number with a Los Angeles area code. Saturday noon, it read, if you're curious. The note was signed with an S that appeared to be casting a shadow. La Sombra's mark.

  At exactly twelve o'clock he placed the call.

  La Sambra answered her phone with a curt "Si?"

  "It's Senor Delaguerra," he said in Spanish. "Returning your call."

  "Good morning, sir. What is your pleasure?"

  He liked her manners. Deadly and polite, always a winning combination. "I understand you have located a book for me. One I am most anxious to have back in my collection."

  "Yes," she said, toying with her crescent-moon earring, "I thought you might be interested. How have you been? I haven't gotten a letter from you in a long time."

  "I will send you twenty-five thousand letters if I could restore my library."

  "I hope they will be in American. I'm trying to improve my English."

  He chuckled. "Of course." Twenty-five thousand pesos would buy several nice dinners in Los Angeles. Twenty-five thousand American dollars would feed a small village in Mexico for a year. "Is there a mark on the inside cover?" he asked.


  "There is. I would be happy to send you another photograph. Perhaps you could post a letter to me outlining our agreement."

  So it was to be cash and carry. This was a problem. Abel hated to wait, but in such an uncertain world, cash was king. They both understood that. "I am a man of my word," he said.

  "I am not saying otherwise, but I have expenses to cover. I'm sure you understand. If you are in a big hurry, perhaps you can come over for the day. The weather is beautiful now."

  "Not too hot?"

  "No, very pleasant."

  Abel sipped his hot chocolate and struggled to keep the agitation out of his voice. La Sombra had strict rules regarding whom she would deal with, especially on a face-to-face basis. Humberto was already there, but he might as well be in Canada. La Sombra would never agree to meet with a middleman. In any case, Abel didn't want to divert Humberto's attention from his appointed task. The big man's job was equally important and possibly connected to the errant product, which was all the more reason to keep Humberto unaware of this latest twist.

  Part of Abel's strength was that no one person was privy to all his moves.

  He sighed into the phone. "Could I talk you into coming to me? I would, of course, pay all your expenses."

  "Regretfully, this is a busy time for me. Let me see if I can move some dates on my calendar. I will call you later. Shall we say five?"

  "Thank you, señorita, I will be most anxious to hear from you. Please inform me immediately if you run across any more books and I will really make your trip worthwhile."

  "I'm sure you will." Christina smiled as she hung up the phone.

  * * *

  When Munch returned home, she had several messages on her answering machine. She paid her driver and sent him on his way before she played back the recordings.

  The first and second calls were from Ellen. Humberto had called her and wanted to see Munch. Ellen didn't want to give him Munch's number, but couldn't think of a good reason not to, so she gave him a wrong number and was now screening her calls so she didn't have to talk to him again before Munch called back with instructions. The machine cut her off.

  Ellen's second message was that she hoped Munch was doing okay, and was thinking of her, and hoped Munch didn't think she had forgotten where Munch was and what she was doing. Munch smiled. Some people didn't know what to say at times like these and others didn't know when to shut up.

  The third call was from Roger. Her heart sped up at the sound of his voice.

  "Call me when you get this," he said. "I'll be waiting."

  He left a number. She dialed it.

  "Munch?" he asked.

  "Doesn't sound like you were expecting anyone but me."

  "We have an opportunity to wrap this case up. Are you with me?"

  "I guess that depends. What"s in it for me?"

  "You mean like your reward? I'm sure we can work out a commission."

  "That's only part of it." A few days ago, the danger hadn't bothered her. She'd had blood in her eyes then, but now she was thinking more clearly.

  "The sooner we shut down this ring," Roger said, his tone patient as if he were speaking to a small child, "the sooner we can unseal the indictments and reveal Rico's role in all this. That's what you want, right?"

  "What do we have to do?"

  "I need you to help me buy some dope," he said.

  "What kind of dope?" she asked.

  "Does it make a difference?"

  "To some of us. Yeah. It does." She was pretty certain she could resist coke or pot, but much less sure that her sobriety was up to the ultimate test of her drug of choice. Heroin.

  "Cocaine. You'd be wearing the wire."

  "What weight?" she asked.

  "A kilo to start."

  She whistled. That was some serious money. The largest deal she'd ever been a part of was a half of an ounce. She didn't like the fact that she'd be so far out of her element. "I can't do any, you know, to like test it." Rico wouldn't want her sacrificing her sobriety, not that she would for him anyhow. "And I want an agreement in writing from you guys, saying I'm doing this for you."

  Roger chuckled into the phone. "Don't you trust me? I'm crushed."

  "I'm sure you're not. When do you want to do this thing?"

  "As soon as you can set it up," he said. "You remember that big guy, Humberto? You met him at the house on Hampton?"

  "Yeah, I know who you mean."

  "He's the man I want to meet."

  Munch chuckled now. "Yeah, the man is goddamn everywhere lately."

  "Put out some feelers," Roger said. "Let it be known you're looking for him."

  "I can do better than that. My best friend is helping with this case. She gave Humberto her number." Munch decided it was time to dispense with at least some of the bullshit. "But I'm not telling you anything you don't know already, am I? You get me the authorization for this deal in writing. Put down that Ellen Summers is a cooperating witness who I recruited to help us."

  "All right."

  "How long will all that take?"

  "I'll be at your door in forty minutes."

  Munch felt a little sick to her stomach. This was all moving too fast and seemed too easy. She should have asked for more time. She called Fernando's house and asked to speak to Asia. "I'm going to be another hour at least, honey. Is that okay?"

  "There's a boy named Sean here. He knows magic tricks."

  "Is he any good?" Munch asked.

  "Sometimes. He needs more practice."

  "So you're okay for now?"

  "Yeah, it's weird."

  "What's weird?"

  "I'm kinda having fun. Do you think that's okay?"

  "Of course it is. I'll be there as soon as I can." She called Ellen next and spoke to her machine until Ellen picked up.

  "The cops want me to help set up Humberto."

  "How do you feel about that?" Ellen asked.

  "Not great, but the sooner they close the case, the sooner they can release the truth about Rico."

  "And you're sure that's what you want?"

  "I've come this far, might as well see it through." Munch felt that uncomfortable tingling feeling again. Was she rushing into this? Or, more precisely, being rushed into it? "Next time he calls, give him my number. I'll be home."

  "How much blow are we talking about?" Ellen asked.

  "Pretty serious weight. A key."

  "And what's to stop him from gunning for you after? Going to jail doesn't stop these guys. Some of those Mexican Mafia guys have more power in than out."

  "So what are you saying? Because they're scary, we let them do what they want?"

  "I'm just saying it isn't smart to be too obvious."

  After Munch hung up, she laughed out loud. Ellen had just lectured her about being too obvious. Wasn't that one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse? It was definitely time to take the initiative, and that meant calling for reinforcements. She strode across the street and knocked on her biker neighbor's door.

  From previous encounters, she knew the guy's name was Li'l Joe. In a reverse twist on the biker naming game, Joe really was little, for a guy, although he still had six inches on Munch. He was wiry and wore his dark hair in a ponytail. His beard was trimmed into a goatee, and like many small men, he was even-featured and handsome, the kind of guy she might have gone for back in the day. Not that that would happen now. Even if she weren't grieving, she was smart enough not to date a neighbor. Again, anyway.

  "So I got the word about you," joe said.

  "Yeah, what was that?" Munch asked.

  "You're under the protection of the Pride. Petey called and said I should look out for you."

  "Yeah, me and Petey go way back," Munch said.

  Li'l Joe arched his back as they spoke. Munch supposed she was meant to admire his physique, but what she was interested in was his untapped telephone.

  She gave him a five-dollar bill. "I need to call a friend of mine in Sacramento. Can I use your phone?"


  He took the cash and pointed to his kitchen. "It's in there."

  "Thanks." She had to pass through the front room. The house was dark, the windows shuttered. It smelled like a brewery. Foldouts from Bag! Rider magazines were stapled to the wood paneling. The glossy pictures featured custom scooters with lots of chrome and large-breasted white women draped across the seats. She wondered if he had the April 1977 issue, the one with her short story in it. She decided that could wait for another time as she turned on the kitchen light, opened her address book and dialed Roxanne's work number.

  "Department of Motor Vehicles, Records," a voice answered. Munch asked for Roxanne Glantz. Roxanne had been a running partner in the bad old days. Munch and she had crossed paths when Munch was six months sober. Roxanne and another friend, Deb, were sharing a small house in Oregon then, drinking, snorting speed, and carousing with a motley biker club called the Gypsy Jokers. Munch's sobriety had so impressed Roxanne that when Munch's business in Oregon was over, Roxanne returned to Los Angeles and got sober herself. She had since gone back to school, learned about computers, and moved to Sacramento, where she got a lucrative job with the DMV, implementing new software.

  "This is Roxanne," a familiar voice said.

  "Hi, it's Munch."

  "Hi yourself. What's new?"

  Munch told her about Rico's death and the narcs putting a squeeze on her.

  "What can I do to help?" Roxanne asked.

  "I was hoping you'd say that. If I gave you a car's VIN number, could you find the previous owners?" The seventeen-digit VIN, or vehicle identification number, unlike a license-plate number, never changed and was found on the vehicle's registration and owner's certificate as well as on the car or truck's doorjamb, dashboard, and frame.

  "Is it a stolen car?"

  "In a manner of speaking. But I don't think it's hot."

  "Yeah, I could do that, but let's keep it to ourselves."

  "That was the very next thing I was going to ask."

  Munch told Roxanne she'd call her back with the numbers, and then placed a second call. Ellen's answering machine was still on. "It's me again," Munch said.