No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  Where are you? she asked. Still with me? I could use a little help here.

  All around her, the partiers got rowdier and louder. Another half hour went by She kept losing track of Deb and then Roxanne. Someone turned the music up another notch. She thought she heard the roar of more Harleys arriving, but couldn't be sure. She felt as if her head was going to explode. She needed some fresh air, but to get to the front of the room would require wading through the masses. Whats behind door number one? she wondered, spying one of the doors she had noticed earlier in the back of the room. She fought her way to the corner and tried the knob. It was locked. When she tried the second door, the knob turned, and she pushed it open.

  It was dark. She groped for a light switch, found it, and snapped it on. She'd found the bathroom. Well, that was something. Securing the lock behind her, she used the toilet and splashed some cold water on her face. Beyond the shower stall, there was a second door. She conjured up a spatial image of the clubhouse's floor plan. The rooms of the building seemed to be laid out pretty straightforwardly into squares and rectangles, which meant that the door had to lead to the second room. And perhaps, with any luck at all, the second room also had a back door.

  Wanting no more surprises, she first put her ear to the door and listened. All she could hear was the thrum of the music booming in the front room. She bent down and peeked through the keyhole. The lights were on in the other room, revealing yellow walls. Freshly painted, from the smell of it. She pushed the door open cautiously No, not yellow paint, she soon realized, but a residue. She saw the burners, beakers, and scales. This was a meth lab. Were these guys Fucking crazy? They shouldn't keep all this flammable, toxic stuff in such a closed-in room.

  Munch stepped closer to the table holding all the paraphernalia. Large rocks of meth had been laid out on sheets of aluminum foil to dry They glistened like Jill's chunk of quartz. Rather pretty really

  Fortunately she had never cared for speed. At least that was what one part of her brain said. The other half seemed to be in control of her hand, which was reaching for the meth. It said something kind of funny really In a voice that sounded like Deb's, it told her that she could always learn—that eight months was long enough. She drew her hand back. Maybe tomorrow; she promised to quiet the voices. Just for today I wont use, I won 't drink, and I wont kill myself. Weren't they all the same thing?

  She started to leave the room when she noticed the infant car seats leaning against the wall. They were the same brand as Asias. The cushions had been removed and lay unzipped on top of a table in the comer She felt the skin crawl on the back of her neck. Were james and Asia already here? A row of rifles, like the one Deb owned, was propped against the back wall. She worked quickly to disable them by releasing the catch on the trigger guard as she had seen Deb do and pulling the assemblies free. Using her pocket knife, she popped off all the hammer springs, put the guns back together and returned to the party.

  Back inside the main room, she caught sight of Roxanne, passed out on the couch. Not a good thing, Munch knew Protection or no, an unconscious woman was fair game in these situations.

  She elbowed her way over to Roxanne and shook her awake.

  "Wha . . . ?"

  "Come on," Munch urged, yanking her arm.

  "We've gotta go outside."

  Roxanne stumbled to her feet, swaying as she did. Somehow Munch managed to get her out to the relative safety of the truck and lock her inside. She returned to the clubhouse to find Deb kissing probably one of the ugliest bikers Munch had ever seen. She tugged on Insane Wayne's arm, pointing at the ugly man on the couch swapping spit with Deb.

  "Is that Tux?" she asked.

  Wayne squinted and said, "Fuck no. Thats Shorty"

  Great, she thought, so much for protection and respect—now they were all sitting ducks. She grabbed Deb and demanded the keys. "Time to go home."

  "I'm not ready" Deb said and returned to her new beau.

  Munch felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around. The good-looking man before her smiled.

  "Aren't you the mechanic?" he asked.

  She regarded him for a moment before answering. He didn't seem to be a skeptic or looking to start a fight. Sometimes the knowledge that she worked on cars for a living had this effect on men.

  "Yes, I am," she admitted.

  "Would you mind stepping out back with me for a moment?" he asked. " could use your help. I've got a problem with my truck that I can't figure out and I heard you were pretty good."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Your friend." He pointed at Deb.

  "I don't think I should leave her."

  "Oh, shell be okay" he said, disarming her with a little boy grin. "This will just take a second. You're looking for James, right?"

  'You've seen him?"

  "Yeah, he's back here."

  She followed the guy to a door in the corner that she assumed led outside. It wasn't until they were already across the threshold that she noticed that her escort wasn't wearing complete colors, only the bottom patch that read, NOR CAL. He wasn't a full member, but merely a prospect.

  Alarm bells went off inside her head, but it was already too late. The door didn't lead outside after all, but to yet another room—a room full of card-carrying, full-fledged Gypsy jokers. Her escort grabbed her arm and guided her to a stairway.

  She faced him, searching for remnants of the boyish charm she had seen earlier, but all innocence was now absent from his face. The eyes that regarded her now were venal and calculating.

  Oh, shit.

  One of the Jokers locked the door.

  27

  AFTER LISTENING TO Munch's plan, Blackstone left Moody to pay a visit to Motel 7.

  Claire, he knew, was staying in Room 3. He checked his watch right before he knocked on her door. It was almost nine o'clock. She was probably resting. He rapped on the door with the authority bred by ten years in law enforcement.

  The door opened. She stood before him with a shocked look on her face. "What are you doing here?" she asked. Her eyes strayed to the badge pinned on his lapel. "I don't understand."

  He pushed past her. Dark clothes for the nights raid were laid out on her unmade bed. She closed the door after him. "You might want to sit," he said.

  "This could take a while." He pulled the desk chair closer to the table lamp, where he knew Moody had planted his bug. "I want three things," he said.

  "Should I be taking notes?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  They both turned when there was a knock at the door

  "That's probably Jared," she said.

  "Jared Vanowen? Let him in," Blackstone said.

  "Everyone's invited to this party"

  Vanowen came in. He was as surprised as Claire to see Blackstone there. "What's going on?" he asked.

  "The detective was just about to tell me," she said, recovering her composure. "He has a list of demands."

  "First off," Blackstone said, " want you, your department, to clear the LAPD of any wrongdoing in the shooting of Darnel Willis, and I want you to do it publicly"

  "I already told you I would, Jigsaw. Is this what this is about? You're going to have to be patient. Trust me."

  "Second," he said, ignoring her, "I know the Bureau has deep pockets when it comes to their informants. The man you set up—the man who was killed because of the lies you fostered—left behind a little girl. Her name is Asia Garillo. I want a trust fund set up for her."

  "He was warned," Vanowen said.

  "Shut up, Jared," Claire snapped.

  "You can make the check out to Miranda Mancini after you square things with her probation officer. Be creative. Tell Olivia Scott that Mancini helped you with your case."

  Claire arched an eyebrow, but, to her credit, faced Blackstone coolly "You said there were three things."

  "I want the credit for tonight's bust of the Gypsy Jokers to go to local law enforcement. You'll thank Sheriff 's Deputy Tom Moody for his excellent police work."
>
  She visibly paled. He'd hit a nerve.

  "I won't ask you how you came to your conclusions," she said. "The obvious question is: If we don't do as you ask, what then?"

  "I'll go public with all that I know."

  She said nothing. He could almost hear her gears spinning. She was a bright girl. It wouldn't take her too long to realize that she was out of options.

  Finally her posture slumped.

  "All right," she said.

  He checked his watch. A little under ten minutes had passed since he'd knocked on the door. Jared started to say something, but she quieted him with a hand signal. "I'll give you what you want."

  "Do I have your word?" he asked.

  "Would that suffice?"

  "Sure." He lifted up the table lamp and showed her the bug. "If we don't have trust, what do we have?"

  She smiled then. "You're very good. Have you ever considered a career with the Bureau?"

  "I don't think so," he said.

  "Did you want to accompany us on tonight's operation?"

  "You don't know it," he said, "but you need me and my team."

  "Your team?"

  'Yes, I have a guide to lead us up the mountain.

  She was up there earlier with one of the biker women and knows where the trip wires are."

  "Trip wires?"

  "Connected to illumination grenades as of this morning. Your teams would be sitting ducks. You were planning to go up the south side, weren't you?"

  "How do you know that?" she asked, and then looked at the lamp. "Of course." She looked at the telephone, then back at him. "All right, fine, let's bring her. What's one more? This whole operation has been a circus from the get-go."

  "I know," he said. " was part of the dog and pony act, remember?"

  She actually blushed. That made him feel a little better. He didn't think she could fake a blush.

  "Was it all an act, Claire? Was deceiving me amusing?"

  "The hardest part," she said, smiling almost playfully "was memorizing all those chess moves."

  He shook his head in disgust. This was all a big game to her. The phone by her bed rang.

  She answered it with a curt "Donavon." By the third "uh-huhh," the color had drained from her face. "You've got to stop them," she told her caller.

  "Well, try"

  "What's up?" Blackstone asked.

  "We've got problems," she said. "Our support team got their orders scrambled. They're out of radio contact and going in now."

  Blackstone jumped to his feet. "You're going to have a bloodbath."

  Claire worked frantically over a portable shortwave radio. "Team Alpha, abort, do you copy?"

  Static filled the hotel room. Blackstone grabbed his hat and ran for the door. He could only pray that they'd get there in time.

  * * *

  "Did you bring us a woman, prospect?" a big fat biker with Prez over his pocket asked.

  "I sure did," Munch's escort said.

  "Do you have hair on your ass, prospect?" the prez roared.

  "Fucking right," the guy responded.

  Munch looked around her, searching for an avenue of escape. She didn't know where this guy was going with this line of questioning, but she didn't want to be there when he arrived.

  "Show her."

  The prospect pulled down his pants and mooned Munch. She looked out into the sea of impassive faces before her, trying to catch some sympathy But any eye contact she made was returned with dead, cold stares. She remembered the article she had read on the plane about Communicators and man's evolution as such. Judging from the raw emotions emoting from this crowd, she was in serious trouble.

  The prospect pulled his pants back up and walked over to her. He held out a handful of Quaaludes.

  "Here," he said, "It'll go easier for you if you take these."

  She stared at the pills for a long time before replying, wondering if this was how God was choosing to answer her prayers.

  She used to love Quaaludes.

  Maybe this was the only help she could hope for. If she took the offered pills, they would render her unconscious and then perhaps whatever these bikers planned to do to her body would be easier to live with after. The FBI would find her when they conducted their raid, but that was still hours away She heard Ruby's voice in her head saying, We don't use no matter what.

  "I don't use drugs," she said, but the words came out too softly for anyone else to hear.

  "Prospect," the prez's voice thundered out. "You showed her yours, right?"

  "That's right," the crowd murmured.

  "Now tell her to show us hers." The prospect reached up to Munch's belt and pulled the tongue from the buckle.

  Its up to You, she prayed. I've tried to do my best, but theres no way I'm going through this sober If this happens, I'm getting drunk.

  And then she saw him. James. Their eyes locked in recognition.

  "Wait a minute," he said. "This has to be voluntary." Then to her. "Is it?"

  His question stunned her, but she recovered quickly He had given her an out. "No," she said, fastening her buckle and pushing past the prospect.

  "It's not. It's definitely not. No."

  She walked as quickly as she could without running, somehow sensing that if she ran, if she showed fear, they would descend on her like a pack of hungry wolves and tear her life apart. James escorted her from the room, saying loudly to his brethren, "We need to talk, darling."

  Laughter followed. James leaned over and whispered in her ear, "What are you doing here?"

  "Where's Asia?"

  "I dropped her off." He glanced back over his shoulder.

  "Dropped her off where?"

  "With Deb's neighbor, the broad who always watches Boogie."

  "How could you do that?"

  "She's—"

  "I'm talking about Sleaze. How could you set him up like that?"

  James stared at her without expression. "You better get out of here while you still can."

  Munch found Deb still on the couch in a clinch with her Prince Revolting and yanked her to her feet.

  "Come on," she said, "we're leaving. Now. Give me the keys."

  "What's the matter with you?" Deb asked. "You're no fun at all anymore."

  Munch half dragged, half pushed Deb back to the truck. "We're getting out of here."

  "All right, all right," Deb agreed sullenly "What are you all mad about?"

  Munch looked at her friend, realized she didn't have a clue. "Just get in the truck."

  They drove down the dirt road as quickly as she deemed safe and then a bit more. She had to use all her concentration to keep them from sliding down the bank. How do people do this drunk? she wondered.

  "Where are we going?" Deb asked. .

  "I'm taking you home, then I'm going back to L.A."

  "I love you, man," Deb said. "You're my sister. I'd die for you. You know that."

  "What does that mean?" Munch asked. "You say that. But it doesn't mean shit. You leave me for the first man who wags his dick at you."

  "I don't need to be hearing this shit," Deb said. "Not from you."

  Roxanne lifted up her head and said, "Yeah, pardon the fuck out of us."

  "Another country heard from," Munch said.

  Deb slumped over and rested her head on Munch's shoulder. "I'll miss him too, you know."

  Munch put a protective arm around Deb's shoulders. " know," she said. " know. Let's get out of here." She rounded the blind bend in the road. Her foot hovered over the gas pedal, planning to floor it as soon as the road straightened out.

  When she came around the corner, she hit a wall of chrome and blinding headlights. She slammed on the brakes. The pickup fishtailed and skidded.

  Nothing she did with the steering wheel made a difference. Deb and Roxanne slid under the dash. The eight-track player came loose, fell down at her feet, and jammed against the gas pedal. The truck leapt forward, then made a crunching thud as it smashed into the grille of what she now
realized was the front end of an eighteen-wheeler.

  Deb pulled herself up from the floorboard and peeked over the dashboard. Something in the way she said, "Uh-oh," made Munch's blood run cold.

  The angry man swinging out of the cab of the semi looked like a cross between a pirate and a lumberjack. It had to be Tux. He was just the type Deb would go for—that both of them used to go for—rough and ready A dark goatee accentuated the angles of his jaw, a gold loop dangled from his right earlobe. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and not happy at all.

  "What the fuck is going on here?" he said. "And who the fuck are you?"

  Deb's head popped out the passenger window. "Hi, baby" she said. She released the door catch and tumbled out. "I've missed you so bad."

  It was just then that the first grenade lit up the sky.

  28

  TWO MORE GRENADES went off, turning night into day. The stars disappeared under a haze of white smoke. It smelled like the Fourth of July. Tux grabbed Deb's coat sleeve and shoved her roughly into the cab of the eighteen-wheeler. From his waistband, he pulled a gun and pointed it at Munch's face. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked. She held her hands out, palms facing him. "Easy, I'm Deb's friend."

  They turned when they heard sirens approaching up the highway Overhead, the first faint beats of helicopter blades could be heard.

  "It's over, Tuxford," a loudspeaker announced. "Drop your weapon."

  Tux reached forward and grabbed Munch, using her body as a shield as he backed towards his truck A spotlight from overhead shone down on them. He dragged her with him as if she were no more substantial than a rag doll. Her feet barely touched the ground.

  "Drop your weapon," the disembodied voice repeated.

  His grip around her chest tightened. He gave her body a jerk that pushed the air from her lungs. They had made it back to his semi. She felt his body twist as he made ready to climb aboard.

  Above the sounds of the helicopter and of screeching tires, Munch heard a familiar sound. It was a cross between a thunk and a plink—the sound of the thick bottom of a bottle connecting with a skull.

  She and Tux fell together. The weight of him crushed her, but somehow she managed to push him off and roll away Deb stood on the running board of the truck, a green Thunderbird wine bottle clutched in her hand. Her eyes glowed with excitement.