An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing slightly. She broke a cookie in two and offered him half. "It's an old family recipe. If you don't like it, it'll just break my heart."

  "It's delicious," he lied.

  "So, are you just passing through, or are you going to stay awhile?"

  She gave him her best take-it-any-way-you-want smile.

  Color rose to his cheeks. He took a sip a coffee. "I'll probably be here a week, mas o menos."

  "I hope it's mas." She smiled a little more shyly this time. Mata Hari, eat your heart out.

  He felt a warm glow slip through him and took another sip of the strangely flavored coffee, growing accustomed to its taste.

  "Is this your first time in LA?" she asked.

  "No, I come here when it is necessary, when my boss sends me for, uh, customer relations. He finds it difficult to travel and I don't mind."

  "I love traveling, too," Ellen said. "You hiring?"

  "Are you looking for work?"

  "Not really. My daddy left me set pretty good." One of Ellen's New Year's resolutions had been to avoid felonies. She had spent enough time in prison to have soured on the whole incarceration experience. Between the death of her parents and the advent of her thirtieth birthday, she was starting to realize that time was too short and too precious to waste.

  "Munch might be interested," she said, remembering tonight's mission. "She's always looking to supplement her income, if you know what I'm saying." She reached across him to straighten a picture frame and let a breast brush against his well-muscled arm. Damn, he was solid as a ham hock.

  "In our business"—he paused and looked at her—"that would be the cattle business."

  She smiled, managing to put a wink in her grin and tone. "Of course. Cows and bulls."

  He smiled back, liking her more with each passing moment. "We rely on our agents to handle all business that arises with regards to retail sales, transportation, and issues of security. This leads to problems. It is always difficult when one is unable to personally supervise an operation."

  "I can imagine." They had moved to the couch. He was glad. The many events of the day were catching up with him. It felt good to take a moment to relax. Ellen fed him cookies and looked dreamily into his face. She seemed to hang on his every word, as if she cared about him. She blinked her brilliant green eyes, and Humberto was momentarily confused. He remembered brown eyes; perhaps he had been superimposing Ellen and Victoria. No matter, the couch was incredibly comfortable and he had a lightness of being he'd never felt before. Could this be the beginnings of love?

  Ellen took a sip of tea. "There's going to be a mass for Rico tomorrow night and then the funeral is Saturday. It's going to be really rough to see Munch so sad."

  "Yes, dealing with the family left behind is one of the hardest things I do." Humberto was surprised he had spoken these sentiments out loud. He closed his eyes and saw Felix's face, more specifically the pain in his cousin's eyes. There was never a good way to give such bad news, but perhaps he had been too abrupt. Maybe if he had let some of his own true feelings leak through, shown some empathy, the burden would have been lighter for the sharing. It had been a long time since he stopped and truly looked hard into his own heart. Victoria had pointed this out to him just the other day. He could hear her voice.

  "Hey, big boy."

  He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented. It was not Victoria speaking to him now, but this Americana. This Ellen.

  "Are you going to sleep on me?" She pouted playfully.

  "No." He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth, a little surprised at his own impulsiveness.

  She nestled into him, placing her head on his shoulders, and bending her knees so that her feet were tucked under her. "So how long did you know Rico?"

  He allowed his hand to rest on her thigh. She didn't object. "I really didn't know him at all. Sometimes I feel as if I don't know anyone."

  He felt tears fill his eyes, but he wasn't ashamed. This was a break-through. And this woman, this beautiful Angeleno, was responsible.

  "Oh, pshaw." Ellen kissed him on the cheek and ran a hand across his chest. "I find that hard to believe. You're real easy to talk to and not so bad on the eyes either."

  He sighed. "I would have liked to attend university, perhaps studied history."

  "I was never much for school," Ellen admitted. "I couldn't get out of my house soon enough."

  "I was the oldest son. We were poor. Senor Delaguerra offered me work and I couldn't refuse. I didn't want to refuse. I was the envy of my friends, and soon I could afford many things." He flexed his feet, bringing the toes of his snakeskin boots into view, and stared at them a moment as if he were seeing them for the first time.

  Ellen brushed a hand between Humberto's legs. Holy crap! she thought, and almost asked him if his first job had been as a mule; he was sure built like one. Probably had some kind of stamina, too. Even with the pentothal lowering his blood pressure, he was already hard enough to get the job done.

  She struggled to bring the conversation back on point. "Rico grew up poor, too."

  Humberto was not to be drawn away from his self-discovery. "I wouldn't have minded working with my hands. There is no shame in that."

  "My friend Munch—" she started to say, but Humberto cut her off before she could finish her sentence.

  "People look at me, they see a big man, a frightening man. Senor Delaguerra treats me as if I was another of his pistols, to be aimed and shot at his will, but I'm so much more."

  "I'm sure you are." Ellen looked at the clock. He had to be feeling the full effects of the drugs by now. She had expected it to put him out or at least into serious twilight. Obviously, she'd miscalculated his body weight and tolerance. There also, apparently, was no getting him back on the topic of Rico. She kissed him again, this time putting one of his big paws on her breast. He didn't fumble. He was almost too tender.

  They necked for another ten minutes, until she inferred that his blood pressure was restored to normal levels.

  "Wait a minute," she said.

  He stopped. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave?"

  "Leave?" She almost laughed at his innocence, his old-world manners. "Heavens, no. We're just getting to the good part. C'mon." He staggered a bit when he stood, but quickly recovered.

  She led him into her bedroom. He lit the candles by her bed and shut off the light. She started to unbutton her blouse. He stopped her and tilted her face to look up at his. "Are you sure?"

  "If you were looking for the Virgin Mary, honey, you came to the wrong cabana."

  His touch lost its gentleness, and Ellen wondered when she had given up control of the evening. The boy wasn't a pistol as much as a rocket, and didn't those blow up sometimes when they were fired?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, ROGER CAME BY MUNCHES HOUSE AS promised. Or was the correct term "threatened"? He parked out front and let himself in the front gate. Jasper barked nonstop as the cop made his way to her door. By the time he knocked, Jasper's hackles were sticking straight up, and he had assumed the charge position.

  "It's okay, boy," Munch said as she opened her door. "I'll take care of this one."

  Roger was carrying a briefcase and casing the street with his eyes.

  "You look like an insurance salesman," she said.

  "I guess I am in a way."

  She gestured for him to enter. "I thought we'd do this in the kitchen."

  He followed her through her house. Jasper sniffed at his heels, obviously not liking what he was sensing. While she cleared the kitchen table, Roger stooped down and offered his hand. Jasper couldn't be bothered.

  "He prefers women," Munch said.

  "That's all right, he's just doing his job." Roger set his briefcase on top of the table and clicked it open.

  Inside, nestled in gray foam rubber, was a black box the size of a deck of playing cards, an elastic belt with a pocket, and two white cords with black microphones on one
end and silver connectors on the other. She reached for the instruction manual, but he stopped her.

  "You won't need that; I'll explain everything."

  "I figured I'd read along," she said.

  "No, I want your full attention." He tucked the manual underneath the padding, then removed the components one at a time.

  "This is the transmitter." He connected the silver ends of the cords to the black box and inserted it into the belt.

  "What's this wire?" she asked.

  "The antenna."

  She nodded. "Like an AM radio."

  "Exactly. You run that up the center of your back. Make sure there's enough slack to compensate for stretching and twisting, but not so much that it might snag on something and get pulled out."

  She studied the small wire. "And then I'd stop transmitting?"

  "Worse than that. If the antenna wire comes out of its socket, it causes a mismatch at the transmitter and makes it burn out, usually at very high temperatures?

  "This would be the thing I'm supposed to strap to my body?"

  "Yeah, just be careful with the wire and you shouldn't have any problems. Fit it so the transmitter rides in the small of your back. You could attach the cords and wire with surgical tape, but I use duct tape to be sure."

  "Probably less painful to remove duct tape than bullets."

  "Exactly."

  She watched his face, but there was no change of expression. Either this guy had no sense of humor, didn't get hers, or he had ceased to think of her as a human being and more as another piece of equipment.

  He tapped the tiny black microphones at the end of the cords. "And you want the microphones taped to the front of your body, as near your collar as possible without being visible."

  She noticed a small black switch on the top of the transmitter.

  "What's this?"

  "That's your on/off switch. The green dot is on, red off. Got that?"

  Munch bit back a sarcastic reply. "Yeah, sure."

  "Let's run through a test anyway." He walked her to the front window and pointed up the street. "See that white delivery van?"

  "Uh—huh." She also noticed that it was the same make and model as the van she and Ellen had seen at Rico's house the first time they'd gone there. Only now the lettering and logo on the door weren't for a locksmith. Now it was a flower delivery van. She wondered if the sign was painted on one of those magnetic mats, such as realtors used on their private cars.

  "Detective Chapman is in there with the receiver," Roger said. "Turn your transmitter on."

  She toggled the switch to the green position. Roger picked up one of the small black microphones and said, "Flash your lights, Chapman."

  The van headlights flicked on and off.

  "See?" Roger said. "Child's play."

  "Aren't I supposed to get a code word? You know, to tell you guys something's gone wrong?"

  "Yeah, sure. What do you want it to be?"

  "How about I scream, ‘Don't shoot'?"

  "Serious?"

  Munch sighed. "Oh, forget it. I'll take my chances."

  He nodded as if to say: Suit yourself. "Wear it to the church this afternoon, just to get the feel of it."

  "I don't know about that," Munch said. "A lot of people are going to be hugging me."

  "What better test?"

  "Okay, fine, but I'm not turning it on."

  His face expressed shock at the very suggestion. "Of course not."

  She realized she trusted him less when he acted as if he cared.

  He closed the briefcase. "When will Asia get home from school?"

  There it was again. That familiarity. "I'm having her picked up by some friends, real friends. They're going to bring her to the service."

  If Roger knew he had been insulted, he didn't show it. Maybe he didn't get emotionally invested when he was working. She imagined he could be anyone he wanted to get the job done. It was a hell of a way to live your life.

  After Roger had left, Munch turned on the radio in her bedroom, switching the band to AM so she could listen to the traffic report. There was a sig alert at the airport, heavy traffic on the westbound 10 all the way to the coast, and those planning to traverse the grapevine were advised to bring chains.

  She went into the bathroom and started the bathwater, then on to the living room to shut the curtains. The white van had left. Jasper followed her from room to room whining. She paused to give him her full attention. He'd been neglected of late, perhaps not by most people's scale. She didn't consider him a possession so much as a member of the family. She was also aware how dependent Jasper was on them, and for a lot more than food and water and a place to lift his leg. Jasper had been abandoned by his previous owners and had a lot of emotional neglect to be compensated for. She scratched his throat and the bottom of his chin while he closed his eyes in canine pleasure.

  "You didn't like that bad old man," she crooned. "No, you didn't. Mommy didn't either. Who's my good boy?"

  Jasper rolled on his back, presenting her with his pee-pee. She scratched his chest, and his legs pedaled the air. God, she thought, what he died, too? She couldn't allow herself to think like that. Living things died. That was a fact. With any luck, she'd go first.

  "Okay," she said out loud, "that's enough. Mommy needs to get ready." Munch went into the kitchen and collected the transmitter. She strapped the elastic belt around her waist. The ends were Velcro, but not where she needed them to be in order to have a secure fit. Roger should have brought her a petite.

  A few well-placed safety pins should do the trick. Her rarely used sewing kit was in her closet. She crossed in front of the radio to get to it and static ensued. Surprised, she checked the transmitter's on/off switch. It was turned to the red. It should have been off. She switched it to the green and the radio still crackled. She moved the transmitter away and the radio broadcast cleared again. Why, Officer Roger, you little stinker. The switch was a dummy. The transmitter was a continuously live feed. Well, well, well. She was going to have some fun with this.

  * * *

  Victoria Delaguerra picked at the bedcovers and tried not to tap her foot or pull at her lip or any of the hundred other mannerisms Abel knew so well. She didn't know why he was always so suspicious of her. She had never given him cause. None that he knew of, anyway. He pulled on his black short-sleeved shirt, noticed a thread hanging from one of the buttons and swore.

  "I'll fix that," she said, helping him take it off again. She selected a navy blue shirt in the same style, checked to see that it was unflawed, and held it open for him.

  "You're being nice," he said.

  "I'm sorry I snapped at you yesterday. It must be the moon." She glanced at the clock, trying not to be obvious. Humberto was calling at nine. If Abel answered the phone, Humberto would have no trouble playing the communication off as an update of his mission. Humberto was smart that way, quick on his feet, and sensitive to shifting winds. This venture was a big opportunity for him. For both of them.

  Abel was no fool, Victoria reminded herself. Many other things, but not a fool. If she wanted to hear what progress Humberto was making without her husband around, she needed to act natural. Mentioning the moon had done the trick. Abel would write her mood off to a woman's thing and be happy to leave.

  She really was on a roll lately, though she knew not to let her newfound talent at intrigue go to her head. There was too much at stake to get cocky or careless now.

  Still, she thought with no small amount of pride, having the pilot bail just before sending the transport plane into the mountains had been a stroke of genius. Now she and Humberto had the cocaine to convert to cash. Usurping Abel's power structure was going to be as expensive as it was risky. The penalty for failure would be death."The reward for success, huge. The cost of doing nothing, unimaginable. Victoria blamed Abel for all of it. Would she have been better off if he had not taken her from her home in Colombia? Arguable. Perhaps she would be dead or addicted to the coca leaf as her
brothers had been. Perhaps she would have married some peasant, produced baby after baby, and been old and used up before her time. Or maybe she might have found true love and been poor, but happy.

  Abel had changed her fate. That much was certain. He had made her a princess, but never a queen. He claimed his marital rights whenever the mood struck him. And he did things to her, odd perverted things she could speak to no one about, not even her priest. She worried that she was to blame in the beginning. Sex repulsed her, perhaps she was frigid. Then she educated herself, first by reading, then by her own cautious experimentation, and she realized she was not the one at fault. Sex could be wonderful with the right partner. A partner without anal fixations and sadistic perversions. She did not consider herself a greedy woman, but she was a mother now. She had her children to think of, not to mention the hundred other families that relied on the Delaguerras for their livelihoods. In America, she could claim irreconcilable differences, divorce Abel and receive her rightful half of the estate. But she wasn't in the United States. It was not her fault she had been born on the wrong side of the border.

  Abel's escalating volatility and irrationality only fueled her cause. This was a business, and needed to be run with a cool head. Someday he would kill the wrong person and put them all in danger. Perhaps he already had. She hoped to avoid further violence. Civility promoted order. Abel had forgotten that. Violence only begot more violence. Of course, one had to expect a certain amount of blood when pulling a drug cartel coup.

  * * *

  Ellen came by at noon with a black dress for Munch. It was knee-length and properly somber. Munch thanked her while shoving a note in her hand. The note had one simple message: "It's on." Then she parted her robe and showed her friend the contraption strapped to her body.

  Ellen didn't miss a beat. "Do you have stockings and black shoes? If not, I could run out and get you some."

  "No, I've got those. 1 would like to borrow your purse." She needed a bag large enough to hold Rico's service revolver. Ellen didn't ask. She dumped the contents of her bag on Munch's bed. Munch handed her a smaller leather purse, taking a moment to marvel at the range of objects Ellen considered crucial enough to keep with her at all times.