An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  Ellen appeared at the doorway carrying a phone-book-sized box wrapped in green shiny paper and tied with a yellow ribbon.

  "Problem?"

  "Somebody took all his papers."

  "Those cops?"

  "I guess. It doesn't matter. I've got what I need."

  Ellen gestured toward the door. "Let's get out of here. This place is starting to give me the creeps."

  "It's just a house." Munch reset the alarm before they left. "Brick and mortar. Sticks and stones."

  * * *

  Humberto chuckled as he left the wake. He liked women with fire. Rico must have been some cocksman to invoke such passion. To leave a string of broken hearts in two countries was a legacy to be proud of. Humberto didn't have to wonder who would cry for him when his day came. There was no one. Yet, anyway. He had never attempted to make a woman love him. Now he wondered, How difficult could it be?

  Ellen had given him her phone number before the fight broke out. His business in Los Angeles might take as long as a week to conclude, and her company would be much appreciated. And, who knew? Perhaps a little business to mix with pleasure. Part of his agenda of this trip was to put his own distribution agents in place.

  He had rented a Chevrolet Monte Carlo. His pickup truck with the Brahma bull horns attached to the hood was a bit too conspicuous, even for Los Angeles. The Chevy was this year's model and vastly disappointing. The vehicle was blue and had a top speed of eighty-five miles per hour, according to the speedometer. Having tested the car engine's horsepower on several of the city's freeways, he was inclined to think eighty-five was an optimistic number. He suspected that the only way the gutless wonder achieved maximum velocity was when it was heading downhill or off a cliff. He might yet put one of those theories to the test. If only to make a statement. A low profile was one thing, but this was ridiculous.

  He was on his way to see his cousin. Felix was the son of his mother's brother. The only son and born out of wedlock, therefore somewhat under the radar. Felix worked in the garment district of downtown Los Angeles, selling slightly flawed seconds to the bargain shoppers.

  The building where Felix worked was on Hope and Eighth. Humberto parked in one of the all-day lots, happy to leave behind the disappointing American car. Felix's Store was on the sixth floor. The large sign over the door read SPORTS APPAREL. Humberto thumbed through the zippered pants and logo-emblazoned sweatshirts looking for any that would accommodate his girth. Felix had yet to notice him. He was busy helping a sharp-faced white woman collect flimsy-looking nylon suits of pants and jackets in a range of sizes.

  Felix was small and dark-skinned, but his English was very good, a remarkable accomplishment considering that he had crossed to the North only two years ago. Humberto was proud of him, and sorry that the news he had come to deliver would cause so much grief.

  Felix took the woman's money, counted out change, and thanked her for her business. When he had slammed his cash register shut, he noticed Humberto lurking near the doorway.

  "Hey, bueno," he said, his face lighting with recognition. "¡Qué tal?"

  Humberto pulled his cousin to him in a warm embrace. "You're looking good, little brother," he said in Spanish. "The world is treating you well."

  "I can't complain," Felix said modestly. "What brings you here?"

  "A little of this, a little of that."

  "I understand." Felix licked his lips. "How long will you be in town?"

  Humberto hesitated before answering, "I'm not sure yet."

  "Where are you staying, carnal?"

  "A motel. It's convenient and near the freeway."

  "Nonsense. Stay with me. I have plenty of space, if you don't mind the couch."

  "I'm good," Humberto said. "When do you get through here?"

  "Five."

  "I'll check out some of the other stores and be back before you close. We'll have dinner." His news could wait until then. A few hours would make no difference.

  "Is everything all right?" Felix asked.

  Humberto rested a big hand on his cousin's thin shoulder. "As well as can be expected. We'll talk more later when we have our privacy."

  Felix watched his cousin leave, more than a little concerned. He wondered if they still referred to Humberto back home as the Angel of Death.

  * * *

  Ellen dropped Munch off at her car. "You want to come in?"

  Munch seemed to need a moment to think about it. This was uncharacteristic. She was usually so decisive, so clear on her objectives. She never shopped, she bought. "No, I need to go, take care of all this."

  "How about later?"

  "I guess I'll be home." Munch put the gift-wrapped "present" in her trunk.

  Ellen noted the stoop of her friend's back and how her feet seemed to drag. "You want some company?"

  "Thanks, but no. I'll be fine. I just need to crash for a while. I haven't been sleeping so good lately."

  Ellen gave her a hug, wishing she could magically transfer some life force. "Drive carefully. I'm here if you need me."

  Munch nodded her head in seemingly weary acceptance of this fact. "Thanks."

  Ellen watched Munch drive off, then let herself into the courtyard of her condo complex, Who would have thought that someday she would be living in a ritzy place like the Oakwood Garden Apartments?

  The phone started to ring as Ellen turned her key in the door. It was that big fella, Humberto.

  "Miss me already?" she asked.

  "I wanted to make sure you made it home all right. How is your friend? The little one?"

  "As well as can be expected, I suppose. I've known her for just about ever and I've never seen her so out of her head."

  "WiIl she hurt herself ?"

  "Now what would make you ask a question like that?"

  "I've seen the look before," Humberto said.

  "That little gal is pretty tough. You'd be surprised." Ellen thought about the wild light she had seen in Munch's eyes. The girl was crazy with grief. Humberto wasn't wrong about that. Munch and Ellen had pulled some shit together in the past, but since Munch had sobered up, hers had been the voice of reason. Now, Ellen supposed, it was her turn to take the rudder. "If" she could just understand what happened. You know, the wondering is the worst part."

  "In my country, we have a different saying," Humberto said. "No se pase de listo. Maybe I could come over later and explain it."

  "That would be right nice." She gave him her address and then checked her party supplies. She liked to think she was ready for anything. Big guys like Humberto tended to let their guards down around the ladies. She'd spent enough of her lite in southern California to have a passable comprehension of the Spanish language, with particular emphasis on the dope-related slang. No se pase de listo translated to "Don't be too clever." In other words, don't ask too many questions about dangerous subjects,

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MIINCH TURNED ON HER AIR-CONDITIONING TO ITS COLDEST setting and set the blower on high. The scratches on her face were drying, starting to scab. She moved her rearview mirror to study them and noticed that a blue Shelby Mustang was keeping a careful distance of two car lengths behind her. The car had a California license plate. The driver's hands were at the two and ten o'clock position on the steering wheel. She changed lanes without signaling. He did the same. She slowed so she would miss the light, leaving the guy no option but to catch up with her.

  She almost laughed out loud when she saw the look of consternation on the driver's mustached face before he pulled his cap down in a half-assed attempt at a disguise. It was her buddy, Roger the not-so-artful dodger.

  Munch raised her hand and let it drop, all the while shaking her head at his blatant ineptness. After a second of pretending he hadn't seen her, he waved back. When the light changed, she pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. Roger pulled up next to her. They both left their engines running.

  Rico's uniform was draped over her passenger seat. His hat sat atop his shoes. She had his p
hotograph in her purse.

  "What are you up to?" Roger asked in that too-cheery voice. She pointed to the clothes on her seat. "I'm on the way to the mortuary. You want the address or are you just going to keep following me inconspicuously?"

  "So the funeral is Saturday?"

  "One o'clock. Why? Are you coming?"

  "I'll probably be lurking in the back somewhere. I think it would be better if you didn't acknowledge me."

  Suddenly cold, she crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands next to her sides. "Were you a friend of Rico's?"

  "We knew each other from the job, enough to say hi and shoot the shit."

  Now the trembling had reached her legs and she rocked from foot to foot to hide it. "Are you . . ." She ran out of breath before she finished her question and had to fill her lungs and begin again. "Are you sorry he's dead?"

  "Of course."

  "Will Detective Chapman be there too?"

  "Probably, why?"

  "I just want to know what to expect," she said. How many bullets to pack was what she was really thinking, but she didn't know if Roger-baby would get her humor or if she was even joking. "I don't want a bunch of assholes there that didn't know Rico or who aren't sorry he's dead. I think his family deserves better than that."

  "You probably do," Roger said. "But there are bigger forces at work here. The mayor and the chief might not show up, but we'll at least have the assistant chief and his lieutenant. They'll say some words, get their names in the papers, suit up in those uniforms they never wear. Maybe a spot on the evening news if it's a slow news day."

  "I was warned about the hypocrisy," Munch said.

  "Yeah, well, it's all politics. What happened to your face?"

  "I cut myself shaving."

  Roger pulled some Polaroids from his coat pocket and handed them to her. "Do either of these guys look familiar?"

  Munch felt Roger watch her as she perused the photos. If he was waiting for a reaction, he sorely underestimated her. The two men in the photographs were Hispanic, tattooed, in their twenties, defiant-looking, and very dead. The last she knew because she had just come from their memorial. The captions at the bottom of the photos were dated February 1986. Last month.

  "Bad guys?" she asked.

  "You recognize them?" Roger sounded impatient now, and there was a touch of challenge to his voice.

  Munch didn't know if she had been spotted going in or coming out of the house in Venice, but she had to assume she had. She briefly described the house in Venice and the gangster-style memorial service she had walked into. She left out the part about the fistfight and the cocaine. "I think they were the two guys killed with Rico."

  "You're right about that," he said.

  "So who were they?"

  "Xavier and Candolario Santiago. Brothers and drug traffickers. How did you know about the house on Hampton Drive?"

  "I've been contacting Rico's friends to tell them about the services. I found the address in one of his pockets, I'd never been there before, but it could have been someone important to him. I didn't know."

  "Did you invite anyone you met there to the service?"

  "No, I saw they knew he was dead. There's a notice that will run in the paper tomorrow if anyone is interested." She touched the scratches on her face and recoiled as surprise hit her. "The obit doesn't run until tomorrow, but they knew he was a cop already."

  Something switched in Roger's eyes. His face didn't change expression as much as lose all vestiges of one. "Can you go back to the house on Hampton?" he asked.

  "Why would I want to?"

  "Is that a yes?"

  "Yeah, I could go back there. What the hell. They didn't kill me the first time. Humberto said something about me earning some money. I guess I could find out what that's all about."

  "You'd be wearing a wire," he said.

  "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

  "We'll be close by."

  "Let's not bullshit each other, okay? If and when I go in there, I'll be alone. If I get made or someone wants me dead, a whole army parked across the street ain't gonna save me."

  "Okay, you're right. But you can't work for us and not be monitored. We need to make our case against these guys, and your hearsay ain't gonna get it."

  Munch wondered if her past would always shadow her. She know it—all assholes like Roger would continue to judge her based on a dated rap sheet. People changed. She knew that for certain. Then again, sometimes people changed back. She knew that, too. "When do you want to do this thing?"

  "Soon. If it's all right, I'd like to meet you back at your house and show you how the equipment works."

  "I've worn a wire before, about six months ago."

  "This time will be different."

  That's what they all said. "Okay." She looked at her watch. "But it will have to be later, like around five."

  "Will Asia be home?"

  Munch winced. She hated to hear him call her daughter by name, as if they knew each other, as if they were friends. "Come to think of it, she will. Can we do it tomorrow instead, in the morning, after she's out of the house? Say about nine?"

  He changed back into Jolly Roger. "Okay, nine it is."

  Munch climbed back in her car. Roger waited for her to take off first. She noticed she had buckled her seat belt and signaled her turn. She usually only drove like that when there was a black-and-white in her rearview mirror.

  * * *

  The funeral home of Galvan & Sons looked like a church. The walls were constructed of antique bricks in alternating hues of terra cotta. A large evergreen pear tree in full bloom had left a pretty mess of white blossoms on the front lawn and cast the river rock wishing well in perpetual shadow.

  A woman in a gray dress greeted Munch as she entered, taking Rico's uniform from her as she asked, "Enrique Chacón?"

  "Yes," Munch managed to mutter before a sudden keen escaped her throat. It was a single, high-pitched mewl, a weird and embarrassing sound as if someone had stepped on a mouse. If she loosened her jaw, she might manage a proper howl, but that would be even worse.

  The woman patted her shoulder. "Have a seat. Mr. Galvan will be right with you."

  The waiting room was filled with comfy sofas, tissue boxes on every table, and discreetly placed hardbound, three-ringed catalogs of caskets and urns. There were also business-card holders with contact information for florists, and some scattered brochures for caterers and limo businesses.

  Munch had a small sideline livery service. A&M Limousines. Actually, it was limousine, singular, but most clients booked one car at a time and she networked with a few other single-car operators. So who needed to know?

  She was flipping through the photographs of the caskets when the funeral director entered the room.

  "Ms. Mancini?"

  She lifted her head in a tight-lipped nod to acknowledge him, not trusting herself to speak.

  "May I join you?" he asked.

  He had a black leather-bound folder which he placed on his lap. The right half of the binder had an invoice clipped to it with "Chacón" written across the top, the other pocket was full of documents.

  "Would you like some coffee or water before we begin?" He offered her the box of Kleenex as if they were mints.

  Munch grabbed some tissues. "I'll be fine."

  Galvan put the box on the table in front of them.

  She wrung the tissues in her hands. "Did the, uh, body get here?"

  "It arrived this morning."

  Munch pulled the photograph from her purse and handed it to him. Rico was smiling one of his awful posed smiles where he thought the object was to show as many teeth as possible. "He was much better-looking than that," she said.

  Galvan grabbed the photo by the upper right corner and Munch had to will herself to let go. "We'll do the best we can."

  "I brought his hat, too."

  "Would you like it resting on his folded hands or on top of the casket?"

  "Hands. No . . . caske
t. No . . . sorry, his hands. Put it on his hands and bury him with it."

  Galvan smiled gently. Munch felt the tears rolling down the sides of her face and blotted them with the tissue.

  Galvan clicked his pen open and indicated the casket catalog. "We have some floor models downstairs. It might be easier to choose if you can see the actual product."

  Munch followed the funeral director downstairs. She was glad for the railing as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The showroom was brightly lit. Floral arrangements flanked the various caskets lining the walls. The more the coffins cost, she noted, the more impressive the flowers. Caskets were stacked three-high in individual nooks like so many cocoons. The ones on the floor were open, showing off the tufted silk and satin linings. Parked at the base of the room's central support pillar was a stuffed armchair. She wondered who would want to linger here. Maybe it was for the comfort of the bereaved who became too overwhelmed to stand.

  Fernando had left the choosing to her. He'd buried his wife in a mahogany box that set him back twenty-five hundred, soup to nuts. She felt herself drawn to the buffed bronze, adding that to the cost of the concrete inner lining to prevent seepage, embalmment, the service, interment, marker, and plot—and the bronze job would bring the total to four large and change.

  She told herself that the money spent on the funeral was not the indicator of their love for him. Still, she had earmarked money for the wedding and honeymoon, so it wasn't like she didn't have it. Plus, that Humberto guy said he'd chip in some bucks. She hoped that would happen before he got his big ass busted and his assets seized.

  "The bronze."

  "And the interior fabric?"

  "White satin."

  "Very nice."

  Munch smiled grimly. At least someone approved of her today. "We're going to need five copies of the death certificate."

  Galvan made a note. "No problem."

  "Can I see him?"

  Galvan's pen stopped moving. "Now?"

  "Yeah, I need to. This has all been so unreal."

  "It's a little soon. We'll have him cleaned up tomorrow for the viewing." Galvan looked over his shoulder as if seeking help from someone.