Unpaid Dues

by Barbara Seranella

  The reality is that all the money goes for dope for her and Sleaze. It's gone within a few days.

  In the fictionalized version of the wedding that she wrote for Easy Rider, she made out like Jane and Thor were getting married for tax reasons. She left that part kind of vague, not really understanding how that whole income tax deal worked, only that married people paid less. Some of' the guys she knows in the Satan's Pride Motorcycle Club have straight jobs, but they don't talk about them much. One guy drives a school bus, another works for Pacific Gas and Electric.

  The closest Munch ever had to a real job was the month she spent at a wholesale bakery, wrapping big chocolate chip cookies in cellophane and sealing the seams with white paper labels. The job didn't last long. She only took it to satisfy her probation officer who said she needed to show some legitimate source of income. Her boss, the lady who owned the bakery, fired her for nodding off after her breaks.

  "No hard feelings," the lady said. "It's just that you're a junkie."

  Munch said she understood completely.

  Her magazine story also had a happy ending. The married couple partied all night, the bikers did their own version of kissing the bride, and the bridesmaids made of with the groom. The real story would not have made good copy, especially the part where the bride had to hide all night in Munch's closet and throw away her ruined, bloody white dress the next day.

  * * *

  Midmorning, St. John met up with Cassiletti in the hallway outside the detectives' bullpen on the second floor of the West Los Angeles police station.

  "What you got for me?" St. John asked.

  Cassiletti was holding a white paper bag and a cardboard tray of coffee. "One decaf, black," he said, "and a low-fat bran muffin."

  St. John spotted flakes of pastry on the younger man's jacket and felt a sudden intense resentment toward his partner, followed by an acute attack of self-pity at his own morning regime of egg-white omelets and dry toast; his smokeless, liquor-free evenings; his dick put into a coma by blood pressure medication. It was true what they said, that youth was wasted on the young. He was thinking like an old man and he wasn't even that old.

  "Anything on that cinder block?"

  Cassiletti handed the muffin and decaf to St. John, looked for a place to set the empty coffee tray and then settled for sticking it under his arm while he rummaged through his pocket for his notebook. St. John relieved Cassiletti of his coffee cup, freeing the big guy to flip back the cover of his notebook.

  "Is that real cream?" St. John asked.

  Cassiletti took the cup back and cleared his throat.

  "I have a few more block manufacturing companies to check out. It' s not a cinder block, by the way it's a concrete block."

  "That's all you found out?"

  "No, no. There's more. It's not the kind you buy at one of those warehouse building-supply stores. It's more the kind contractors use."

  "There's a lot of building going on up there," St. John said.

  "Right. Yes, sir. I could run down building permits, but I think it would be quicker to find the supplier and then request a client list." Cassiletti checked his notes. "The engraving on the face of the block is called a Malibu cut," he said with a knowing look. St. John wondered if he expected praise for that little nugget. "All right, stay on that. You're, uh, doing good."

  Cassiletti took another long swig of his creamy caffeinated coffee.

  St. John spoke while the man still had the cup to his lips. "I watched them cut Jane Ferrar this morning. Sugarman did a full bone survey" Meaning a complete set of X-rays of every bone in the woman's body Cassiletti, perhaps sensing it was his turn to say something, spit a little coffee back into his cup.

  "And?"

  "Many signs of long-term abuse." St. John explained that the post had shown that Jane Ferrar had never given birth.

  Cassiletti looked thoughtful. "Maybe the doll was her way of going back to childhood, to a safer time for herself."

  St. John wanted to ask if they were all going to hold hands now and sing "Kumbaya," but said instead, "Good thinking."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah, and I'm not just saying that."

  Cassiletti's smile froze on his face.

  Oh, good Christ, St. John thought. His feelings are hurt. Again. "I'm going to run out and see Munch, see if she can give me any more on this Thor guy You keep going with the block thing. I think you're really on to something, I mean that." He made his mouth smile and patted the big man's shoulder.

  Cassiletti's voice was flat as he said, "Yeah, I'll get right on it."

  St. John didn't know who he wanted to kick harder, Cassiletti for being such a pussy; or himself for being such a bonehead. Caroline was right, he needed to learn to give a compliment and then shut up.

  Chapter 8

  I'm honored," Munch said when Mace St. John told her he was coming by for a second visit. What she really felt was dryness in her mouth and an urge to feel wind in her face.

  By 9 A.M., the customers were backed up three-deep. Munch ran from car to car with her clipboard. Each work order had to be completely filled out with the customer's name, address, work and home phone numbers, then she had to record the make, year, model of the vehicle, license plate, VIN number, and mileage. All that before she even got to the problem. She had boxes to check for routine maintenance such as tune-ups or oil changes—that saved a little time. If the car was there for a certain problem, she wrote brief descriptions of the customer's complaint—AC not cold, overheating, hard start in the morning—made a guesstimate at cost, had the customer sign, and then gave him or her the yellow copy In a small box in the upper right comer, she would write in the mechanic's initials. This came in handy later if there was a problem with the work. It also ensured that the correct technician got credit for his or her labor when Lou did the books.

  She and Carlos and Stephano all had their own customers, although Munch's job as service manager gave her the power to assign the work as she pleased. She did her best to keep everyone happy finding that she got much more production out of the guys if their noses stayed in joint. Some jobs were gravy others were shit, and she did what she could to distribute them equally.

  Stan from the pharmacy across the street came in complaining of a noise emanating from his Datsun. From past experience, Munch knew chances were good that something was about to fall off. He was the kind of guy who waited until he had to steer the car into a curb to stop it before he got his brakes repaired.

  "I'll check it out when I get a free rack," she told him.

  She took down his information and promised to call him when she knew more. Then Mrs. Hartley brought in her Mercedes, complaining of a horrible racket under the car. Munch went on a test drive with her, and on the third time around the block Mrs. Hartley finally said, "There, you hear that? It just did it."

  "I'll make a safety check," Munch told her. "You're going to have to leave it."

  "Fine," Mrs. Hartley said. "I can't drive it like this."

  "Do you need a ride?"

  "No," she said, "Rosita followed me down here."

  Munch looked to where Mrs. Hartley's maid waited in her Ford Pinto with a patient look on her face. They exchanged a smile of solidarity/

  Munch parked the Mercedes on the lot and walked back to the service desk to arrange the day's work. With three mechanics and only two lube bays, there was the usual shortage of available hoists.

  Stephano had an old Jaguar on the rack. He had been working on it all week with not much progress as far as Munch could see.

  "Now what?" she asked, coming to stand beneath the car. Stephano turned at the sound of her voice and opened his mouth—a sure sign that bullshit was about to emerge.

  "It's still not shifting right," Stephano said, managing a strut in the short distance between his toolbox and the car. He would be handsome, she often thought, if he wasn't such a snake oil salesman. The Jag's owner was a twenty-something office worker who had inherited the car, and she re
ally couldn't afford the maintenance. Stephano had no heart where money was concerned and had already racked up a bill of four hundred dollars. He claimed to have done a "major" time-up and had a long line of patter for the customer about synchronizing her carburetors and calibrating her dwell.

  As far as Munch could tell, all he'd really done was change the spark plugs and perform a basic transmission service, which really only amounted to changing the fluid and filter. It was needed maintenance, but it wasn't solving the problems that the car came in for. If Stephano put half the energy he used coming up with excuses into trying to fix the car, they'd all be better off.

  The Jag's undercarriage was a mess. Everything leaked, the transmission, the power steering, the crankcase, the radiator. Someone needed to put the car out of its misery before Stephano drove its owner into bankruptcy

  "Did you check the modulator?" she asked.

  "I don't know if these have one," he answered. She wanted to say You're supposed to be the expert, but she knew he'd just get all huffy and treat her to a string of technical terms that meant nothing. All the talk in the world wasn't going to convince an engine to run better.

  "What's this?" she asked, pointing to what might be a vacuum pod sticking out of the transmission. Stephano looked, but said nothing.

  "Put it down, and start it up," she said. "I want to check something"

  Stephano did as she asked, not letting his male chauvinism stand in the way of free help. She put the car back up in the air with the engine running. The idle was rough, and slightly higher than it should be. The part she suspected of being the transmission's vacuum modulator valve had a small pipe nipple. The tubing was slightly cleaner than the other metal around it, suggesting that at one time it had been covered. Munch grabbed a drop light and searched until she found a dangling, sixteenth-inch, neoprene hose. Heat and age had hardened the rubber, causing it to split. She put her finger to the end of it and felt vacuum. She snipped it down to where the rubber was still soft enough to be pliable, pulled it gently to create enough slack so that it would reach the nipple on the valve, and then stuck it back on the exposed tip. The engine idle immediately slowed down and smoothed out.

  "Try it now," she said, "and let me know. You've got a water pump on an Alpha Romeo coming in."

  "Thanks," he said, puffing his chest into her face. "Anything I can do for you, just ask."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  A guy Munch didn't recognize pulled up in a BMW 320 and got out.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  "I spoke to Carlos," he said.

  She gave him a quick appraisal. Up-and-coming white-collar professional, thirtyish. Probably rented a condo on Montana, leased the Beamer, and drank wine spritzers with his pasta. Total Yup. Big show, but tight with the dough.

  She left him and moved on to the next customer, smiling when she saw it was Mrs. Obie. Everybody loved Mrs. Obie. She was a widowed, retired schoolteacher, had an older house up in the hills, and was the original owner of an absolutely cherry metallic green 1966 Pontiac Bonneville. If anything ever went wrong, she got it fixed, no questions asked, paid any price requested, and did all the recommended maintenance. Even Stephano went easy on her.

  "Hi, Mrs. Obie," Munch said. "What can we do for you today?"

  "Brakes. You said I'd be due in five thousand miles. It's only been three, but I need an oil change, so we might as well take care of both now."

  "Do you need a ride home?"

  "Yes, dear, if it's not too much trouble."

  "Not at all," she said, looking around for Pancho, the shop's gofer. She noticed that the guy with the Beamer was still standing by his car and looking impatient. Carlos was under the hood of a Honda that was parked in front of the office. "Pancho," she said, peeling two sheets of carpet protectors off the pad under the service desk and handing them to him, "I need you to take this lady home. Okay?"

  "Sure t'ing, baby" he said in his Jamaican lilt, flashing her a smile that showed off the gold edging on one of his front teeth.

  "What did you need?" she asked the guy in the Beamer again.

  "I got my tire fixed here last Saturday" he said, "and it's still losing air."

  "No problem," Munch said, thinking no wonder she didn't recognize the guy. She didn't work Saturdays. Carlos had a new baby on the way and took all the hours he could get. "Sometimes a plug leaks, or you might've had more than one nail."

  "All I know is that I still have the problem, and now I'm missing work."

  "And Carlos knows you're here?"

  "I called an hour ago."

  "Oh," Munch said, seeing the mix-up, "but you haven't spoken to him in person yet?"

  "I've already been waiting"—the guy looked at his Cartier tank watch—"over fifteen minutes."

  Obviously the thing didn't keep accurate time. "Carlos," Munch yelled, "you talked to this guy about his tire?"

  Carlos looked up, then at the guy "Oh yes," he said, in his thick, nasal El Salvadorean accent. "I be right there. Jus' one minute."

  The Yuppie shifted feet, tapping a shiny loafer on the cold concrete. He clearly was not accustomed to waiting.

  Carlos wiped his hands and went to the back of the shop to fetch the floor jack. The expression on Mr. Yuppo's face grew more exasperated by the second.

  "Do I have to sit here and take this from him?" he asked. Saying him as if Carlos were some piece of scum. Munch's face went hot. "He's going to help you right now."

  "He's ignoring me. I don't see why I'm expected to take this kind of shit."

  "How much did you pay for the tire repair?" Munch asked.

  "Eight dollars," the guy said petulantly as if this was another point in the case building against Carlos. Eight whole frigging dollars, wow.

  Munch went to the cash register and pushed the return key The drawer slid open and she pulled out a five and three ones. She motioned for Carlos to wait, walked back to the guy and thrust the cash into his manicured hands. "Here's your money back, now get the fuck out of here."

  Carlos looked embarrassed. The guy in the Beamer looked like he was going to burst a facial vein. "I want the manager."

  "You're looking at her."

  "Then the owner."

  "Be my guest," she said. "He's in the office. Here, I'll show you so you don't get lost."

  The guy followed her into the office. Lou looked up from his desk, his weathered face expectant. "I want to register a complaint." The guy explained his version of the event, ending with, "And then she said, 'Get the fuck out of here.' I mean, can you believe the mouth on this woman?"

  Lou pursed his lips thoughtfully "Is that what you object to? Her language?"

  The guy looked confused and then said, "It's her whole attitude."

  Munch opened her mouth to speak, but Lou beat her to it. "Maybe," he said, "you'd be happier taking your business elsewhere."

  The guy stormed out of the office and burned rubber as he left the shop.

  "Can't win 'em all," Munch said.

  Lou shook his head. "I mean, what an idiot. For all he knew I could be in love with you."

  She didn't want to look at Lou's face, afraid of what she might find. Her life was already too complicated. She was trying to find a graceful exit line when Lou glanced out the window over his desk. "Your cop buddy is here."

  "Yeah, I was expecting him."

  He proved that he had read her tone correctly when he said, "You want me to tell him you joined the Foreign Legion?"

  "Nope, it's too late for that." Ten years too late.

  Chapter 9

  I had trouble meeting St. John's eyes and didn't know what to do with her hands. "Let's get this over with," she said.

  "Bad as all that?"

  "I'm just not sure what you want from me."

  "Tell me about this Thor character." They were standing outside the office. He pulled out his notepad and clicked his pen open. "Start with the basics. How old is he?"

  She did a quick calculation, surpris
ed to realize that he would have aged. She avoided driving past her old haunts, seized by an unreasonable certainty that if she turned down certain familiar streets she would find herself with the old gang and nothing would have changed. It would all be exactly as she had left it: Boogie would still be a little kid. Sleaze would still be alive and flashing his trademark devil-may-care grin. Her few close women friends would still be capable of laughing without it sounding forced and harsh. Flower George would still be leering at her with his one good eye. In her mind, Thor was always in his twenties, old enough to be on the lam from a felony warrant back East, young enough to still be crazy dangerous. "Mid-thirties," she said. "God, he could be as old as forty." ,

  St. John raised an eyebrow. "Old as that, huh?"

  "I didn't mean forty was old."

  "How tall is he?"

  "Six feet, maybe six-one, I never measured exactly."

  She had a quick image of herself holding a wooden ruler next to Thor's erect penis. Ten inches, like the Aerosmith song. They had both been impressed.

  "Build?" St. John asked.

  "Strong. He was very strong."

  "Hair?"

  Munch looked over at the open lube bay If she didn't soon claim the bay Stephano would tie it up for another hour. "Reddish, like, not a carrot top, lighter. Blondish."

  "Beard? Mustache?"

  "When I knew him he wore a full beard, covered his neck." She turned so that her feet were pointing toward her toolbox.

  "Eyes?" St. John turned the page.

  "You mean the color?"

  He looked up at her, his pen marking his place.

  "Yeah, listen, I only have the rest of my life here. You think you could step it up? You know what I want."

  "You want to find him, see if he had anything to do with Jane's death."

  "That's right"

  "I really don't—"

  "Why would you want to protect any of these assholes?"

  "It's not that."

  "What then? Are you worried this is going to come back to you? You want to be an anonymous source?"

  She looked past his shoulder, feeling the increasing gap between them. She didn't want to be a source at all. Anonymity wasn't the issue. She knew how this worked. They could start pulling on some of those threads from the past, and the next thing she knew, her whole life could unravel.