He always dressed in standard contractor garb: jeans, long-sleeved cotton shirts, and work boots, which he never tied until after his first cup of coffee. The untied shoes reminded her of her daughter, Asia, who also liked to leave her laces dangling. When Munch pointed it out the other morning, Asia had archly informed her that "None of the second graders tie their shoes."
"Well, then," Munch had replied, swallowing a smile.
The week after D.W.'s fuel pump went out, he came in needing rear brakes. Rather than have one of his "crew" pick him up, he stayed at the shop and watched her work. He was standing behind her when she removed his tires. The brakes were a mess. Both drums were scored too deeply to salvage, the retaining springs were ruined, and the wheel cylinders needed rebuilding. New brake drums cost a hundred dollars each. The whole bill came to just under four hundred. When she delivered the news, D.W. cried. Not big heaving sobs or anything, but tears had definitely filled his eyes. She looked away until he composed himself. She knew it was a fair amount of change, but c'mon, this was business, and he should have heard the grinding metal noise every time he stepped on the brakes. Had he caught it in time, he would have saved himself the expense of the extra hardware.
Munch and her fellow mechanics, Carlos and Stefano, always put their initials on the work orders so that the correct monies would be credited to their pay. They also made a game out of each other's monograms. Munch's M.M. became "Motor Maid."
Carlos's initials were C.K., so he was rightly dubbed the "Come-back King". Stefano was S.B., "Show Boat," although there were times she wanted to insert an O in the middle and let him figure it out. It was only natural to come up with alternatives for D.W. After the brake-and-tear incident she had begun to think of him as "Darth Whiner."
His reaction had also served to kill any spark of romantic attraction she might have felt for the guy. Not that she was actively looking. She already had the thing going with Garret. She also knew better than to get involved with any guy around the workplace. Especially knowing how guys will talk. She'd worked too hard to match her reputation to her license plate: LDY MECH. She had already perfected the slightly offended look when a stranger cursed in front of her. And if one of the guys at the shop started to tell a dirty joke, she walked away before he finished, shaking her head after the first line was uttered. The old Munch would have stayed tuned until the punch line and laughed the hardest. The old Munch had done a lot of stupid things. She was working her way up to the moment when she could slap the face of a man getting "fresh." Like they did in those old black-and-white movies when the ladies used to wear white gloves and all the men wore hats.
Other than Lou, none of the guys she worked with now knew anything about the wild part of her life. Most of them didn't even know about her not drinking or getting high. And even fewer knew that the qualifier "anymore" belonged in that statement of fact. They knew her as hardworking. Money hungry some of them said, but that was just jealousy talking. They all worked on commission and if she could do more jobs faster she made more. Didn't take Einstein to figure that out. Besides, she had a kid to support. A little girl with a bright future that would never include her debasing herself. Not while Munch was alive to prevent it. A lot of things were going to be different for Asia.
She looked at her visitor now and sighed. D.W. was nice enough, although too sensitive for her tastes. She liked her men a little more in touch with their masculine side, maybe to counter some of her own rough edges.
Sometimes D.W. showed up midday and ate his lunch while he watched her work. It looked as if today was going to be one of those days.
"Want an apple?" he asked.
She noticed the Meals-On-Wheels placard on his dashboard.
"Thanks," she said, taking the fruit, and hoping he hadn't ransacked anybody's box lunch to get it.
"I can't stay," he said. "I've got three more deliveries to make."
"It's really nice of you to do this," she said.
"Yeah," he said, "I figure it's so little effort on my part for the help I give to those less fortunate."
Cue the halo, Munch thought. "How long does your route take?"
"Only about an hour and a half. All my shut-ins are in the same general area. It's hard to just leave the food and split though. With a lot of these people you're the only human contact they have in a day. They want you to stay and talk. Sometimes they need you to help them do something around the house. Some of them can't even get out of their chairs."
"So are they all old?" she asked.
"Not all. They just have to be housebound and alone. In fact, one lady I deliver to in Barrington Plaza Gardens is closer to our age."
"What's her name?" Munch asked.
"Robin Davies."
"Robin Davies?"
"You know her?"
"Sure. Toyota Celica." She realized Robin hadn't been around in at least a month. "She volunteers at Asia's school, mentoring drama students. Apparently she has a lot of theater experience. She helped choreograph the school's summer drama production. We did Pinocchio. Robin was really good to Asia—to all the kids. I should go see her or something. I didn't realize she was sick."
"As I understand it, she was in the hospital for two weeks. When she was discharged it came out that she had no family nearby to help her. They signed her up before she left the hospital to receive meals as part of her aftercare."
Munch looked back over the mostly vacant shop. Carlos and Stefano were sitting on the workbench, watching the driveways for work to roll in. They reminded her of that cartoon of two vultures sitting on a tree limb. One is turned to the other and saying, Patience, my ass. Let's go out and kill something.
She turned back to D.W. "Can I tag along?"
"You want to come with me?" he asked, brightening. "You mean like right now? Today?"
"Yeah, I can take a lunch break for once."
"Give me a second," he said. He slid open the back door and shoved back a stack of two-by-fours. Then he lifted a milk crate full of power tools from the floorboard of the front seat and jammed it into the clearance he'd created. His movements were jerky, hurried. Twice she saw him catch his fingers in between the crate and the building materials.
Lou stood in the office doorway and watched with an amused expression.
"I'll be back in a little while," she told him.
D.W. had a whisk broom now and was briskly attacking sawdust clinging to the upholstery of the passenger seat.
"Real1y," she said. "It's all right." He stepped aside and she climbed in.
The van smelled like fried chicken. She didn't fasten her seat belt. Their destination was only a couple blocks away But it wouldn't have made a difference even if it had been miles. She hated the feel of restraints. She didn't buckle up unless Asia was with her. D.W. looked as if he was going to say something as he fastened his own, but then apparently changed his mind.
The Barrington Plaza Gardens was an upscale housing development complete with spa, fitness center, and lots of Mercedes in the individual carports. It was also surrounded by a twelve-foot block wall. They entered the complex through the security gate off Barrington Way. The gate guard walked out with his clipboard. D.W. pointed to the placard on his dash and was waved through. Robin's apartment was toward the rear of the complex. They drove around the complex's large central fountain. The roads were well maintained and bordered by flower beds full of roses.
Robin's Celica was in her carport. A fine layer of the heavier particles of Los Angeles's atmosphere covered the car. This was odd in itself. Robin was meticulous about how she kept her vehicle. She had it hand-washed once a week, waxed at least once a month by the detail business that operated out of the gas station. She was one of those customers who seemed almost disappointed when you couldn't find anything that needed fixing or servicing.
D.W. parked in a space marked LOADING ZONE.
Munch waited while he got his blue plastic grocer's basket ready. In the back of the van he had three large square quilte
d bags. Each was stamped SANTA MONICA HOSPITAL. When he unzipped the first bag she saw it was lined with silver insulation fabric. He removed a rectangular aluminum box and put it in the basket. Definitely chicken. The second quilted bag contained a cold meal and from the third carrier he pulled two small cartons of milk and one of orange juice. He placed all of these in the basket, started to loop the wire handles over his arm, seemed to think twice about that, and then grasped them in his hand as if he were carrying a briefcase.
"This way" he said, as he headed down a concrete path. She followed.
The morning's newspaper was on the mat. D.W. picked it up and added it to his care basket. To the right of the door was a potted geranium; the foliage was wilted and the soil dry. Behind the dehydrated plant was a spigot and hose.
D.W. knocked on the door. Munch turned the faucet, found it fully functional, and gave the plant a good drink.
"Yes?" a voice called suspiciously from behind the door. "Who is it? What do you want?"
"Meals-On-Wheels," D.W. said. "Robin, it's me. I brought Munch. You know, the lady mechanic from the gas station."
Moments passed. D.W. didn't seem unduly alarmed or impatient. Munch tried not to tap her foot. Then came the sound of a dead bolt lock being snapped open. D.W. put his hand on the knob, waited another ten seconds, and opened the door. "We're in," he said.
He ushered Munch inside. The house was dark and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. She heard D.W. locking the door behind them and turned sharply, the skin prickling on the back of her neck.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Kind of a routine we got going," he said. "Robin doesn't like leaving the door unlocked."
The foyer where they stood looked over a sunken living room. There was a piano made of dark wood. A large yellow swag lamp with fringe hung over the piano. It was on but didn't provide much light.
"Robin?" D.W. called out. "I'm going to put the food in the kitchen." He stepped down the two marble stairs leading away from the entry hall. Munch kicked off her greasy shoes before following D.W. across the thick carpet.
Robin emerged from the back hallway. She was dressed in a bulky white bathrobe. When she saw Munch, she blinked and gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
"Hi," Munch said, feeling as if she were intruding. "We've missed you at the station."
D.W. set down his basket on the kitchen counter. The woman startled at the noise then cleared her throat. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't get much sleep last night." She pushed back her hair with a skeletal hand.
Munch decided that it would have taken more than one sleepless night to account for the dark circles under Robin's eyes. D.W. opened Robin's refrigerator. It was full of boxes similar to the one he now put there. The door of the fridge was lined with small cartons of milk and juice. D.W. sneaked a look at Munch, making sure she registered the implications of all the uneaten food. Robin lit a cigarette.
Her jumpiness was contagious, the silence only serving to amplify the tension in the air. "So, how's it been going?" Munch blurted out, instantly regretting the question.
The gaunt woman laughed and waved her hand in the air as if to encompass the house. A thin trail of smoke followed the movement. "I haven't been out much lately. "
Munch shook off the goose bumps dancing up her spine with a quick hunching and jerk of her shoulders.
"Have you seen Robin's work?" D.W. said. He flicked on the light. Robin recoiled slightly. Munch saw neatly bundled bags of trash lined up next to the sink and the blinking light of the answering machine on the counter. The message counter showed ten messages. There was a calendar on the wall that was still turned to last month, September.
"She was on the cover of Omni," he said, pointing to a framed photograph on the living room wall.
"Do you mind if I look?" Munch asked her, gesturing to the living room, knowing instinctively that in Robin Davies's present fragile state it would be disastrous to make any sudden moves around her.
"Go ahead."
Munch studied Robin's trophy wall. The Omni cover was framed. It showed Robin gazing into a crystal orb. Blue bolts of electricity radiated from the sphere. Robin was dressed in an ethereal gauzy white gown. Her hair fanned up and out from her head as if suspended in a weightless atmosphere. In addition to the cover portrait, there were studio head shots, movie stills showing Robin in various costumes, and cosmetics ads. Robin was beautiful in all of them. An auburn brunette with green eyes. Eyes that once had been capable of a mischievous glint but now darted side to side, making Munch think of a dog who had been beaten and expected more of the same.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" Munch asked.
Robin looked at the pictures. She didn't speak for a long time. Munch glanced back at her and saw that the ash had grown long on her cigarette.
Munch prayed for guidance before she spoke. "What happened?" she asked softly.
She saw D.W.'s reflection in the glass of one of the picture frames. He stood very still, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Robin took quick breaths; soon her shoulders were heaving. A high whimper escaped her throat. Three times she made attempts to speak before she finally said, "I was . . . he . . . a man . . ." She stopped, swallowed, seemed to dig deeply for a last reserve of strength. "I was raped. Raped and tortured. Sometimes I think I was killed."
Tears of empathy filled Munch's eyes and closed her throat. Robin dropped her voice to a whisper.
"You'll have to go now," she said. "I still get tired so easily."
D.W. picked up the bags of trash. "I'll see you next week."
Munch didn't want to leave her. She seemed so damaged and alone. Surely there was something more she could offer this woman, some way she could intervene with the tragedy playing out. No doubt Robin had been made aware of all the counseling services available to her.
Munch flashed back to her own experiences in the Emergency Room all those years ago. They'd all been very nice to her, even though they surely knew who and what she was then. The cop who had driven her there had waited in the hallway. The nurse had held her hand while the doctor did that whole rape kit number. And later, there had been a kind-faced woman who had offered her card and her ear if Munch needed to talk. But Munch had just walked away on her own two feet, wanting to put the whole ordeal behind her. At the time, the only counseling she turned to came in the form of liquid or powder. She had even managed to turn the incident into a joke with a few select drinking buddies, laughing and saying, "Next," as if it were no big deal, as if nothing could touch her.
"I'm going to give you my home phone number," she told Robin now, finding a pad of paper in the kitchen.
D.W. headed for the door. Munch scribbled a note beside her phone number. Call me, please. We can talk or we can do more than talk. Whatever it is you need.
When D.W. and Munch were back in the van and heading for the gas station, D.W. spoke. "She'll never be the same."
"Probably not," Munch said.
"Fucking guy," he said with vehemence.
Munch couldn't help but wonder if D.W.'s emotion was a little put on. Maybe he pegged her as some sort of raging feminist and thought this attitude would appeal to her. "He promised her he would come back."
"The cops didn't catch the guy?"
He looked back at the house. "They didn't have enough to go on."
Chapter 7
Lou was standing outside by the gas pumps when Munch and D.W. returned. "Radiator shop called," he said, looking annoyed. "They said you're looking at a recore."
"You get a price?" she asked.
"Yeah, the numbers are on the desk."
"I'm going to take off," D.W. said.
Lou nodded as if he thought that was a good idea, then went back to the office.
"See ya later," Munch said, her mind already turning to the next hurdle, the Ford owner's reaction to the cost of a new radiator.
The detail guy Pauley was bent over a red Ferrari using a soft chamois on one of the front wheels.
Pauley ran his detail business out of the station. The tip of a bluish tattoo peeked out the sleeve of the black T-shirt as he worked the chrome. He always wore black: black Levi's, black tennis shoes, black jackets. Carlos called him Johnny Cash behind his back. Pauley's hair was cut very short. So short that several healed-over scalp wounds showed through, the largest of which was a horseshoe-shaped scar above his left ear.
"You going to start going out with this guy?" he asked as D.W.'s van pulled away.
"This was about something else," she said.
"It's obvious he's got a thing for you."
"Yeah, he's a nice guy. "
"But?"
She put a hand on Pauley's muscular shoulder and picked which truth to tell him. What she said was, "I'm already seeing somebody." What she thought was, I already have a fixer-upper house and car. One fixer-upper boyfriend in a lifetime is enough. Pauley answered as if she'd spoken her thoughts.
"Yeah," he said. "You can do better." She wondered if she was that transparent.
He straightened and held out his hand. "Give me your keys," he said. "I'll wash your car. "
She dug them out of her pocket and handed them over. They bartered wax jobs for repair work, and he still owed her for the water pump she had replaced on his van the week before.
"I've got to deliver this one," he said, indicating the Ferrari, "but I'll get to yours before you leave."
"You know Diane Bergman? Honda Prelude? Lived on Chenault?"
Pauley found a spot on the hood of the Ferrari and bent over it, his chamois working to blend in the blemish. "What about her?"
"She's dead."
"Yeah?" He still didn't look up. His cheek hovered above the red glossy paint, checking for imperfections only he could see. "I didn't know her that well."
Fair enough, she thought. At least Pauley wasn't one of those types of people who claimed instant kinship with someone newly dead, thereby diverting sympathy and attention to himself.
She called the owner of the Ford and got an authorization to do the work. While waiting for the radiator shop to deliver her parts, she couldn't get Diane Bergman or Robin Davies out of her mind. Maybe Brentwood wasn't the safe haven people thought.
Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Page 4
