An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  Not like the old days, when all they needed was a douche bag, filtered smokes, and a lighter to get them through the cycle of their dope-addicted day. Going from John to cooker, motel room to shooting gallery in a matter of minutes, and stopping at hell and all points in between.

  Munch took down the gift-wrapped box from the top shelf of her closet and tore through the paper. Rico's gun was cold when she lifted it from the box. She spun the cartridge chamber, making sure there was a bullet in every slot, and put the weapon in Ellen's purse.

  "Make yourself comfortable," she said. "I'm going to take a bath."

  "I'll come sit with you."

  They left the dress and transmitter in the bedroom, but brought the purse with them into the bathroom. Jasper joined them. Munch had learned from experience that if she excluded Jasper from the room and he could hear her or knew she was in there, he'd claw the paint off the door until she opened it.

  "Oh, man," Ellen said, hopping up on the sink counter. "What a night."

  Munch checked the bath temperature and adjusted the knobs to add more cold water. "Why? What did you do?"

  "What didn't I do? That fella Humberto? Guy's built like a pony. I swear, I about died. I sure enough went to heaven."

  "Thanks for making the sacrifice," Munch said wryly. "He tell you anything interesting?"

  "He works for some kingpin in Mexico named Senor Delaguerra. I got the impression that he felt under appreciated and was looking to move up."

  "Maybe we can use that," Munch said.

  Ellen wiped steam from the mirror and checked her makeup.

  "What's with the wire?"

  Munch explained.

  "So they don't know you know?"

  Munch dropped her robe and stepped into the bath. "That's about the size of it."

  "Speaking of size," Ellen said, "Humberto talked in his sleep. He mumbled a few words in Spanish that I didn't quite get."

  "Yeah, sometimes that sleep talk is just gibberish, you might catch half a sentence here and there."

  "He said a name. Victoria. He said it more than once."

  Munch stopped scrubbing her face. Someone named Victoria had signed one of the gushy love cards Rico had hidden under his desk blotter.

  Ellen continued, "I asked him this morning who Victoria was and he said, 'Senora Delaguerra?' I said, ‘I don't know, sugar, it was your dream.' The boy blushed to his knees."

  Munch rinsed off and reached for a towel. "So you think he has a thing for the boss's wife?"

  "That's what it felt like."

  "Are you going to see him again?"

  Ellen smiled. "I think you can pretty well count on that. He said he'd be in town for a week." She added a layer to her lipstick and pouted at her reflection. "He'll be calling."

  "I hope you didn't sleep with him for me," Munch said. She didn't want Ellen giving it up as a first resort.

  Ellen looked crestfallen. "I was trying to help."

  "I know. I appreciate what you found out. I just don't want you screwing someone because you think you have to. I want you to love I yourself more than that."

  "Oh," Ellen said. "Good to know." She winked at Munch. "It really wasn't terrible."

  "Good. By the way, I'm pretty sure my phone is tapped, too. So think about what you say when you call or leave a message." Munch wrapped a towel around her wet hair, slung the purse strap over her right shoulder, and cinched the robe tightly as she reached for the doorknob. "You ready to mess with big brother?"

  "Always."

  Jasper seemed to understand them. He went to the door, his forehead almost touching the wood, his eyes watching for the crack to widen so he'd be the first one out.

  Munch hesitated, remembering something else she needed to tell Ellen that she wasn't ready to have overheard by the narcs. "Yesterday there were a bunch of scooters across the street visiting my neighbor. A few of the guys were flying Satan's Pride colors."

  "Did you recognize any of them?" Ellen asked.

  "No, and they seemed oblivious of the house."

  "Sti1l," Ellen said, "it's probably only a matter of time before your name gets dropped or the wrong guy recognizes you."

  "Yeah, that's what I was thinking. I can't call the cops. That would just make it worse."

  "You could move," Ellen said.

  Munch felt a gust of righteous anger. She was well on a spiritual path, doing everything she was supposed to; why was she getting penalized for being the law-abiding one? "Fuck that shit. I own this house. I'm not going to pick up and scurry off every time a chopper comes down the street."

  "So what is the play?"

  "I want you to get a message to Petey for me. Tell him I've got some information for him. I'll meet him in public somewhere. Tell him it's worth his while."

  "You got it," Ellen said.

  "Thanks." She opened the bathroom door and mouthed to Ellen, "It's show time."

  PART THREE

  Justice for All

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HUMBERTO PARKED THE RENTAL CHEVVY ON THE STREET.

  The motel had parking in the back, but he had already taken the only empty slot for his 1985 Silverado short-bed pickup truck. The red soil of Mexico still clung to the undersides of the fenders. He'd driven the rig hard to get here so quickly. Flying would have been faster, but had been out of the question, especially with what he carried.

  When this was over, he would splurge on a thorough detail, inside and out. He tried to be modest, but seemed to lose all control when it came to his cherished truck. Despite himself, he loved the way the teenage boys stared with unabashed envy when he cruised the main boulevards and how the smaller boys ran alongside him in heavy traffic, shouting with excitement, knowing better than to touch.

  The headers and the glass packs on his straight pipes created a mighty roar and heralded the power of his big V-8 engine. Three hundred and fifty cubic inches of get up and go. When he took to the highway and opened it up, his hand on the leather-covered steering wheel and boot on the gas pedal, the window rolled down so that the air rushing past filled his ears, it was as if he and the ride were one. He also took great pride in the cosmetic flourishes: the custom paint job, the Brahma bull horns affixed to the hood, and the center-line rims. The truck was one of a kind and bore scant resemblance to the model he'd bought new, with cash money, off the showroom floor.

  His coat pockets bulged with quarters, and the sunlight burned his eyes. He blamed the smog. How did the people of Los Angeles tolerate it?

  The pay phone outside the motel was near a bus bench. An older man in even older army fatigues sat there, well within hearing. Humberto walked to the corner. He had spotted a bank of phones mounted outside a small convenience store. Three were missing the hand receivers, but the fourth was operational.

  He punched in the numbers from memory, then deposited twice as many quarters as the operator requested so there would be no interruptions. The phone rang twice.

  "Bueno." Victoria sounded out of breath.

  "Is Senor Delaguerra there?" Humberto asked.

  She switched to English. "No, he left thirty minutes ago. How's it going?"

  "Okay. I've contacted Enrique's women."

  "More than one?"

  "Christina and a gavacha named Munch who claims they were getting married. Chicken said he'd seen her with Enrique."

  "Any problems?"

  "They both want a cut."

  Victoria clicked her tongue. "Greedy bitches."

  Humberto let that assessment pass without further comment.

  "And the Jefe?"

  "He is angry. He knows someone has betrayed him."

  "I'll take care of that," Humberto said. "Meanwhile, I have found our first buyer. Don't worry, querida mia, everything is going to work out." He hung up, and the pay phone saw fit to return all his money. He took this as a good sign.

  He went inside the store, bought a cup of coffee, a bar of choclate, a large bag of chips, and asked the clerk to double-bag his pu
rchases. He slipped a quarter into the newspaper vending machine on the corner, opening the glass front when he heard the click of the latch releasing. He only took one copy of the LA Times, although he easily could have taken them all, but he was not a greedy man, nor a dishonest man when he could avoid it.

  With the cup of coffee in one hand, his bag of groceries in the other, and the newspaper tucked under his arm, Humberto walked back to the motel by way of the alley. He saw no one, but to be safe he walked past his truck the first time, then turned and walked past it again. Satisfied that nobody was lurking nearby observing him, he unlocked the passenger door and slid across the tooled-leather bench seat. He slid the key in the ignition and turned it counterclockwise to the accessory position. Two red lights illuminated on the instrument panel. He simultaneously pushed the third and fifth buttons on the radio and a panel dropped open beneath the glove box. He removed two brick-sized bundles wrapped in brown paper. A dancing skeleton was stamped in black ink over the folds on the side. He would leave the wrapping intact. The skeleton stamp was testimony to the cocaine's quality. Inside the brown paper, the drugs were protected by another layer of foil that covered a third layer of plastic wrap. Each bundle weighed a kilo. The cocaine within was ninety-eight percent pure and had a street value of thirty-five thousand dollars in its current form—a steal at his asking price of twenty-five grand.

  Humberto didn't have the time to hold out for top dollar or the connections to cut and break down the coke to smaller, more valuable, weight. He needed big money and a swift liquidation. In a week's time, he required large sums of cash for bribes, especially if he was going to outbid Abel Delaguerra for the loyalty of the regional general. The countdown had begun.

  The secret compartment under the dashboard held ten more packages of product. Twenty additional bricks were secreted in the independently sealed bottom half of the gas tank behind the seat. Selling the entire shipment at once to a single buyer would bring unwanted attention. The gossip generated by such a transaction would surely reach the ears of Senor Delaguerra and the other cartel bosses. Humberto was counting on the advantage of surprise.

  He would make Enrique's women earn their money before he decided their ultimate fate. If he wasn't able to raise the cash he needed, he couldn't come back to the ranch empty-handed. Delaguerra suspected a traitor, and would not be happy until one was delivered and an example made.

  Humberto put the two bricks of coke in the grocery bag under the bag of chips, pushed the secret compartment shut again, and returned to his motel room. His bulky coat with its many straps and buckles was already laid out across his bed. The lining of the pockets unsnapped and revealed two netted slings. He removed the automatic weapons hidden there and replaced them with the kilos. He was all set, even ahead of schedule. Humberto took a sip of his coffee, unfolded the morning's newspaper, and turned to Enrique Chacón's obituary. The survivors were listed in order of importance to the deceased. First came the father, then the daughter, the fiancée, the siblings, the ex-wife, and then on to the extended family: aunts and uncles; nieces and nephews. Chacón would serve well as the scapegoat. Suspicions about his loyalty had already been raised. And although he'd proved himself in the end, there might still be enough embers of suspicion lingering that could be fanned into flame. Humberto would have to come up with a creative explanation for his death at the hands of American police, fighting side by side with the Santiago brothers.

  Abel Delaguerra would not lower his guard until the traitor was revealed and his or her family eliminated. None of that would be necessary, of course, if Humberto could raise the capital he needed; then what Abel Delaguerra did or didn't want would be a moot point.

  He toyed with the idea of telling Christina this. Enrique's Mexican lover had already assured him she had the connections to move two kilos, perhaps more. If she knew her life depended on it, she might be more motivated. The same with Munch, although he hadn't approached her yet.

  His budding relationship with Ellen complicated things. Without conscious thought, his hand moved to his dick. He rubbed himself and thought of the nimble American. They had screwed each other unconscious, and he had slept like a dead man after. Just what the doctor ordered.

  He wondered what he had been dreaming to call out Victoria's name. He had allowed the Jefe's wife to believe he was caught up in her charms. Once upon a time this had been true, but things changed, fires cooled. He was adept at keeping his true feelings private. And she in turn had been conceited enough to believe that a man would risk his life for a chance to get between her sheets. As if he could ever trust a woman who would betray the father of her children.

  He sighed, feeling a melancholy twinge for the old days. The narco business used to be fun as well as lucrative. There was plenty for everyone. When he was jefe, he would remember his roots. He would throw grand parties with music and dancing. Orphans would be invited. Everyone would be invited. They would eat and drink until their bellies could hold no more. Corridos would be written and sung to honor the rising of a new and just overseer. A man of the people and for the people, that would be his legacy.

  Humberto had no aspirations to sit on a throne, to be the "king of the white powder," as Abel Delaguerra had dubbed himself.

  The Delaguerras had both gotten drunk on the same power, and neither of them understood the real issue. Nobody has control over the drug business. Not the traffickers nor the generals nor the police of any country. Demand controlled the business. The best one could do was to service that demand, enjoy the bounty, and leave the glory to God.

  But first things first. Humberto finished his coffee. He mugged for the mirror above his dresser, smiling and glowering in turn. Although he probably wouldn't need his pistols, leaving them behind was also out of the question. His boots made good temporary holsters, especially with the help of the elastic bands stitched on the inside. He put on his coat and went out front to where he had parked his disappointing rental Chevy. At least the manufacturers hadn't made the door panels any more difficult to pry open. He made a note to pick up a screwdriver, squeezed behind the wheel of the Monte Carlo, and went on to his assignation with Christina.

  * * *

  While waiting for the mourners to arrive, Munch read the plaques on the sacristy's walls. Ellen joined her at the statue of Saint Monica. The statue was carved from white marble. Saint Monica's head, encased in what looked like a nun's wimple, was canted downward and the expression on her chiseled face was both sad and sweet.

  Ellen picked up a card with another depiction of the saint on the front. This time, Monica was seated, still wearing a wimple. There was an open book on her lap and a shepherd's crook in one hand. A halo circled behind her head and a single tear emerged from one eye.

  "What are these?" Ellen asked. "Catholic trading cards?"

  "Something like that," Munch said, taking the holy card from Ellen and flipping it over.

  "Widow," the card read.

  God, Munch thought, there was no escaping this shit.

  She read aloud, "Born of Christian parents at Tagaste, North Africa, in 333; died at Ostia, near Rome, in 387. Married to Patritius, who held an official position in Tagaste. Mother of Augustine. Patritius was a pagan.."

  "You'd think they'd've discussed that shit before they got married," Ellen said. "I didn't know the Pagans had been around that long. I wonder what kind of Harley Patritius rode."

  Munch looked at Ellen in mock astonishment. "I was wondering the exact same thing."

  "See? There you go."

  Munch read on. " ‘Monica was not the only matron in Tagaste whose married life was unhappy, but, by her sweetness and patience, she was able to set an example in her village."

  "Some example," Ellen said. "What was she? The patron saint of co-dependents?"

  Munch scanned to the bottom. "Close. Prayers are said to her on behalf of abuse victims, alcoholics, and—get this—‘sons and husbands who have gone astray.' Should we light a candle?"

  "Ye
ah, sure. The question is whose ass to hold it to. By the way, I told that guy Humberto that you might be interested in supplementing your income."

  "How'd that come up?" Munch asked.

  "He asked me if I might be looking for work. I'm told him no. But then I was thinking about how you said we were going to help the police get to the bottom of Rico's murder—uh, shooting."

  Munch smiled at the "we."

  "I got the distinct impression that Humberto was suggesting something illegal. Now you know I've gone straight, just like you, but Humberto doesn't know that."

  "Thanks. I'll tell the cops, see how they want to handle it."

  "Don't mention it; you know the only reward I want is to see justice served."

  Munch frowned at Ellen. She was starting to lay it on a bit thick. Their conversation was cut short by the arriving guests. And not a moment too soon.

  Munch left the private sanctuary and took her place with Fernando at the large engraved wooden front door of the chapel. Fernando shook hands, while Munch accepted hugs and kisses on her cheeks. The mortuary had provided a guest book for the mourners to sign. An usher in a dark suit made sure everyone found a seat. Two network news satellite trucks set up across the street.

  Munch recognized a woman reporter who was performing a sound check and directing her cameramen to shoot background footage of the church and black-clad mourners.

  Ellen planted herself in the front pew, next to Munch and Asia. The open coffin was displayed up front, behind the railing where the faithful accepted communion and below the priest's pulpit. Flower arrangements and wreaths on easels filled the air with a sweet perfume. Munch wondered if the smell of flowers would now be forever ruined for her.

  She leaned over to Asia. "You don't have to go up there and look if you don't want to. It's not him anymore."

  Asia's eyes were wide and solemn. "Are you going to go?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I will, too."

  Munch felt an enormous wave of pride for her brave and empathic daughter. She squeezed the little girl's hand. "Thank you."