Unwanted Company
Barbara Seranella
2000
For Mom and Dad,
Thanks for Having me and everything else
PROLOGUE
Christmas, 1983
Artificial green garlands wound around the lampposts topped with aluminum silver stars. Movie-going crowds thronged the wet sidewalks. Colored lights twinkled and Christmas carols played from speakers mounted over the doorways of the shops. The stores were filled with merchandise and still open even though it was almost nine in the evening.
Only in America, he thought.
He'd been in Los Angeles for less than a week and was hungry for diversion. It had been raining most of the week and drizzling off and on all evening. He understood that this was unusual for Los Angeles, even in December. The newscasters blamed it on an El Niño weather front.
He chose an apartment building in Westwood, one of the high-rises on Wilshire. The building had underground parking, keyed electronic gates, and a doorman manning the lobby. Just the sort of place where people relaxed their vigilance.
Westwood was also a college town full of brazen young women who only had eyes, it seemed, for the sculpted torsos and bronzed skin of their contemporaries. He found their overt sexuality offensive. Such decadence usually signaled a civilization's downfall. Didn't they teach history in the universities anymore?
He pushed the button to signal the elevator. He liked to begin at the top of a building and work down, checking for open doors as he went. He was not able to reach the penthouse, lacking the required key for the elevator. His one foible—these crimes, though he hesitated to use such a harsh word, were acts of opportunity. Harmless peeks into the worlds of others. The urges had begun when he was quite young, a boy of ten, confusing as they were irresistible. But what does a boy that age understand of anything?
To satisfy his impulses he took things from people's homes—worthless things: socks, belts, birth certificates—the majority of which he later discarded. The panties, particularly the pink and blue ones, he kept. And later, alone in his room, the feel of the nylon or cotton or silk against his skin brought a gratifying emission that was both terrifying and splendid. It was as if his body were filled with some volatile churning substance which, while making him more alive than most, also needed periodic venting. By the time he turned sixteen, just the sight of an open window gave him an erection. Though he was disconcerted when sometimes it took many trips through the window before he could achieve the desired release.
As his tastes grew more refined, he discovered and devoured books on sex and crime, reading with great interest the works of Freud and material on subjects of masochism, fetishism, sadism, and flagellation. Not that he needed the famous psychiatrist to tell him that the burglaries were about sex. Or that discretion regarding his taste in entertainment was crucial.
Nearly a decade ago, when he had left home for the university, he had almost been caught. Quick thinking and a few words in the right ears saved him. But from then on he resolved to be a better person and exercise CONTROL. He recognized then the need to change his habits. At the time he believed his activities were probably just a passing phase. He'd even started dating girls, even though he found women quite repulsive. His only requirement was that the woman be quiet—and lie very still—then he was able to get himself into a state where he could perform.
And wasn't rising above one's inhibitions the mark of a great man? A man of consequence? In his second year of studies, he put aside psychology and shifted his focus to history. What better way to achieve greatness than to learn from those singular men who dared to go beyond the boundaries? He had no intention of living his life as a sheep, a mere follower.
The elevator came to a stop. His attention was riveted on the opening doors. He took a deep breath and stepped out. A woman emerged from her apartment just as the doors of his elevator closed behind him. She was dressed in a three-piece knit suit, with simple but expensive jewelry. The look on her face suggested that she neither gave nor asked for any quarter. Not the sort of woman too many men would be attracted to, he supposed. Too strong—too willful. In a way she reminded him of his mother.
He walked over to the stairwell door. In the reflection of the fire extinguisher's glass case, he saw she had spotted him. At least, he thought she had. He was having difficulty concentrating. His head hurt and he'd begun to sweat. He stepped back until the darkness of the hallway's shadows enveloped him. He would have willed himself invisible, but then a powerful anger came over him. Who was this bitch to throw him into such a panic? Did she think she was better than he? He left the dark corner she thought to have boxed him in.
"What?" he asked her.
She acted like she didn't know what he was talking about. He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside. Before she could make a sound, he wrapped his arm around her throat. The pounding of his blood, his juices, drowned out all other sounds, all other considerations. Within a few minutes she was still. He released her. As her body crumpled to the floor, his headache also began to abate.
When he checked his watch again, he saw that over an hour had passed. The woman lay sprawled across the floor of her living room. Her clothes were in shreds, and blood covered much of her body. He ran to the kitchen and fetched a wet towel to wipe her wounds clean.
Hi; mother's voice echoed in his mind. Clean up your mess, you filthy worthless monkey boy. She called him many things: stupid, worthless, retarded. She added monkey boy when he began sprouting pubescent hair. Often her exasperation with him was justified. He could be clumsy and thoughtless. Like the time he bent down next to her in the garden to help her weed, and he'd gotten grass stains on his good pants. Slapping his face was the quickest way to get his attention, to teach him right from wrong, she said. But he was on to her little secret. He'd found out for himself on the school yard how good it felt to strike bare flesh, the compensation of release that it brought. Instantaneous. Addicting in its own way. Which was not to say that her other lessons were lost on him.
Cleanliness had its own rewards.
He washed the woman's cuts with soap and hot water, but the blood continued to ooze out. He ran back to the bathroom to look for bandages. He was reaching for the medicine cabinet above the sink when the image of himself in the mirror stayed his hand and nearly stopped his heart. Her blood had sprayed all over him.
Taking a roll of tape from the cabinet, he returned to the woman. He almost hated to admit it, but he felt wonderful—like a new man. As with the little girl-child almost a year ago, whose little body went limp in his hands, this death was not in vain.
"Thank you," he said, bending down to kiss each of the wounds gently before taping them shut. When he finished his ministrations, he placed the woman's cold, bejeweled hand over her heart, hoping to convey his sentiments. Then he returned to the bathroom. Kicking off his shoes, he stepped into the shower and let the water run until the liquid draining away from his black nylon track suit ran clear. He dried himself as best he could, understanding now the reason for the evening's rain, how it was his friend. When he finished, he folded the towels carefully and hung them back up. There was nothing more anyone could do for the woman. The best he could do was save himself. The last thing his career needed was the dark cloud of scandal.
He took the stairs down rather than the elevator. The lobby was full of shoppers, grimly clutching their purchases. He held the door open for an elderly woman carrying a glossy red shopping bag. "Merry Christmas," he said.
She smiled back at him. "Thank you."
That's the spirit, he thought. He also discovered that the wanton appearance of the local women no longer annoyed hi
m. Rather, he felt a benign acceptance. To each his own. judge not, as they say.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath. What a city this was, still in its infancy—virginal. Absent, but not missed, were the old-city smells of sewers, subways, and ancient stone. All the buildings here were new—modern monoliths of concrete and glass. So many cars, so many people, and all too busy to notice anything but their own small lives.
The attitude was infectious. Already, he could barely remember the face of the woman upstairs. And why should a stranger mean anything to him after all?
"Ah, me." He sighed contentedly. There was nothing to do but go on; even the strongest of individuals faltered at times. He would not waste a minute beating himself up over what he had no power to change. What was past was past. Los Angeles was a place of new starts. Opportunities were endless. Annals waiting to be written.
CHAPTER 1
June, 1984
"This patient has a history, " Munch overheard the receptionist tell the dental hygienist as she handed over Munch's thick file. She managed a quick smirk.
That had to be the understatement of the century. Thirty minutes later, after the woman had finished with her scraping and picking, she told Munch to hang tight, that Dr. Moore wanted to have a quick look. How long before that quick look would take place, she didn't say.
Munch glanced at the schoolroom-style clock on the wall above the door. Her appointment for cleaning had been for eleven. It was now almost noon.
She shifted restlessly and adjusted her bib, leaving black smudge marks on the quilted paper. She was wearing her Texaco uniform and greasy shoes, which had also marked up the chair's gray-and-sky-blue-leather upholstery. Even though she had washed her hands before leaving work, black grime encased her cuticles and outlined the numerous small cuts on her knuckles. She longed to get back to the shop and under a hood.
The receptionist ducked her head into the room. "Dr. Moore will be right with you, hon."
"I'd appreciate that," Munch said, but the woman had already gone. Her fingers grazed across one of the dental picks laid out on the tray suspended to her left. The handle was crosshatched for a secure grip; the thin sharp point going off at a ninety-degree angle. It would work well for removing snap rings, Munch thought, or slipping rubber O-rings out of their grooves. Perfect for power-steering pump reseals or any of a dozen other intricate operations. She briefly considered slipping the instrument into her shirt pocket, next to the tire gauge and clip-on combination screwdriver/magnet. The little round mirror that swiveled on the end of its stainless-steel handle raised similar temptations—be good for finding oil leaks in hard-to-get-to places, like the back of intake manifolds. She let the larcenous impulses breeze through her and felt no guilt. Even former president Jimmy Carter had admitted to lusting in his heart.
She thought about the phone call she had received at work just before leaving for this appointment. Speaking of history. The call was from Ellen, newly out of jail, back in Los Angeles, and wanting to hook up. Munch told her to come by later today She wondered if that had been a mistake, but what else could she do?
Crazy fucking Ellen—with her penchant for country music, Dolly Parton wigs, and the distinctive way she spoke in that exacting Deep South drawl, enunciating each word as if it had special meaning. Funny she should call just before Munch's visit to a dentist. One of Ellen's more successful scams had been her ability to land a straight job—usually in some medical-related field, where the good drugs were. The last of which had been in a dental office. She had lied, of course, made up an outrageous résumé, dressed up in one of her big, curly, redheaded wigs, a tight dress, and gotten herself hired. If she had just stuck to the pharmaceutical cocaine, she probably would have pulled it off. Her downfall had come when her new employer returned early l from lunch and found Ellen rolling a tank of nitrous oxide into the parking structure.
"Sorry for the delay, " Dr. Moore said, flipping on the bright light over her head. "We had an unexpected emergency?
"Most of them are," Munch said. She leaned back, opened wide, and closed her eyes. She let her thoughts drift as she disassociated from what he was doing inside her mouth.
Robbing banks had been another one of Ellen's bright ideas.
Munch remembered the day Ellen had come up with the plan. The equipment necessary for the great bank heist had been easy enough to come by: panty hose, Superglue, and their disguises. Simplicity, Ellen had assured her, would be the key to their success.
Ellen's plan was to glue the stockings inside the night-deposit drop slots. They would do this at night, after bank hours, and return before the bank opened and reel in their booty. jail was full of brain surgeons such as them. It had never gotten that far. Their careers as bank bunglers had been blessedly short. The glue had stuck to their hands. The nylons had stuck to everything but the stainless-steel slots. At the third bank a security guard had discovered them. He'd been alerted, he said, by their giggles. Ellen had convinced him that what they were doing was a harmless sorority prank. On-the-spot improvisation was one of Ellen's strong suits. But then, Ellen was good at anything that involved lying. The rent-a-pig had let them go after they let him cop a feel. Cheap payment indeed. Munch didn't realize until later that bank burglary was a federal bee£
"Open," Dr. Moore said.
"Sorry," Munch mumbled, adjusting the suction hose with her tongue.
"So how's the limo business going?"
Munch started to reach for a business card, but the dentist stopped her. "You gave me one the last time you were in," he said.
He had her rinse and spit. She filled the paper cup and adjusted the suction on the hose. While waiting, she had fiddled with every knob and switch. "Now that prom season is over, we've been enjoying the, uh, slower pace."
"I've heard it's a tough business."
"It's the insurance that kills you," she said.
"At least you don't have to worry about mechanic bills. "
"Just parts. But you're right. That's our edge. Plus, with the Olympics coming to L.A. this year, I might have to expand the operation."
"How many cars do you have now?" he asked.
She paused. That was always a tough question. In other words, the truth wasn't the best answer, not if she wanted her business to come off as a going concern. People loved winners. To say she was struggling along with one, previously owned, Cadillac stretch and working out of her house made the wrong impression.
"As many as you need," she said. "Are we all done here?"
"I think we should take some X rays," he said.
How much will that cost? "Maybe next time, I've got to get back to work." She unhooked the alligator clips holding on her bib. The truth was she worked on straight commission, was raising a child on her own, and the limo business—her ticket to easy cash—wasn't panning out.
She thought she had it made when she bought the silver Caddy with its classy, blue-velour interior. Another good feature was that the car had been stretched and outfitted by the reputable Executive Coach Builders, not some half-assed cheapo chop shop that never got the driveshaft right or used enough steel in the reinforcements. The limo had needed some electrical work, but that was no problem. Wire and solder were cheap enough. In fact she had worked all the numbers out, figuring in costs of insurance, advertising, drivers' salaries, and had come up with encouraging results. The limo only had to work twenty hours a month to start earning a profit. After that, everything else was gravy. She worked in Bel Air with all its rich and famous. And weren't those the very people who hired limos to squire them around town?
The reality of the business had been a brutal, depressing lesson in small-business economics. Since starting the business in January and using money earmarked for Asia's education, she had only managed to garner one or two customers who called her with any sort of regularity. And they were mostly sixty-dollar one-way airport runs at inconvenient hours. Then prom season had struck, and she had more business than she could
handle and half of those runs had had nightmares attached. The high-school kids sneaked in liquor, threw up on the carpet, or tried to climb out the moon roof while the car was in motion. Once the limo came back with the side windows broken out. Another time the client convinced the driver to bill him for services. Munch was never able to get ahold of the guy. Letters to the address he had given her came back stamped RETURN TO SENDER: ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN.
* * *
She caught a glimpse of gold on the dentist's ring finger.
"When's your anniversary? We have a special romantic evening package—includes a beautiful silk rose and a bottle of champagne with a three-hour minimum." She didn't mention that both were leftovers from the Valentine's Day special. "You should surprise your wife some night."
"Are your chauffeurs experienced? " he asked.
"And licensed," she said. The dentist would have no way of knowing she was referring to a California driver's license; there was no such thing as a chauffeur's license in California. "I might even drive you myself," she added, trying to sound cheery. "I do that every so often just to stay in touch with that side of the business." She knew she was talking too much. Her bullshit was wearing thin, even to her own ears. It was the first week of June. The opening ceremonies of the 1984 Summer Olympics were still almost two months away. If only she could hold out until then.
* * *
When she got back to work, Lou, her new boss and former coworker, was standing in the lube bay and speaking on the extension. After Happy Jack had sold his business to the Japanese firm that leveled every shop on the intersection to build a twenty-story office building, Lou had bought the mechanical end of a gas station in Bel Air and invited her to come aboard. He even allowed her to install an extra phone line and advertise A&M Limousine Service from the station's upscale location.
In return, she made the limo available for his dates, which were varied and many. Happy Jack used to say that Lou would fuck a snake, whatever that meant. Munch didn't feel she had any room for judgment.
Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 1
