An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (13 page)

"
Can you turn back the clock?"

"
Sadly, no."

Munch appraised the big man. He really did look
bereaved, the way he cast his eyes down, let his lower lip protrude,
and crossed his hands in front of his crotch as if he were already
graveside.

"
What were you to Rico?" Her slip of using
his real name was conscious. If they knew him as Enrique, they
probably knew a lot more about him—maybe more than her.

"
He was known to me. He will be missed."

Munch wanted to scream her frustration. "Look,
Bert, let's not be coy,
sabes
?
I'm trying to make some kind of peace with this all. You offer help,
but I don't know you from Adam. Why would you want to help me anyway?
You feeling guilty about something, or are you just a really nice
guy?"

Mount Humberto blinked in surprise. He obviously
wasn't used to being questioned, certainly not so rudely. Chicken's
jaw dropped open, then he swiveled his head to look behind him as if
he had heard someone call his name. He slid sideways back into the
crowd, taking with him a swath of mourners. The dogs whined, sensing
the impending blood sport.

Munch felt a nudge at her side. Ellen had come to
stand beside her.

"
And did you know that your
novio
was a police?" Humberto asked.

Ellen slapped Munch's arm with the back of her hand.
"Didn't I always tell you that?"

"
I tried to overlook it," Munch said. "When
you're in a relationship, you have to take the whole package, not
just the parts you like best."

Humberto's eyes narrowed. You could cut the tension
with a machete. Munch wished she had one.

Ellen slowly licked white frosting from her finger,
diverting Humberto's attention and most likely the flow of blood in
his body.

"
You want some cake, honey?" Ellen held the
large kitchen knife for him to see. As usual, she could go either
way.

They waited for Humberto to make the next move.

He looked down at Munch's five-foot frame, then at
Ellen's grip on the cake knife and he laughed. It wasn't a cruel
laugh as in, Ho-ha, now I 'm going to crush your bones into fiour for
my bread. He was amused. "I am clearly outnumbered and at your
mercy, senoras."

Munch pushed down Ellen's knife hand. "So what
kind of help are you offering? Rico's work cut him off cold, no
pension,
nada
. They
offered to pay to bury him, but we turned them down. I don't want a
service that's more for them than for us. Know what I mean?"

Humberto nodded yes. There was intelligence in his
eyes.

Munch guessed that a lot of people underestimated the
big man, saw all that muscle and forgot to take into account that
there was a brain there too.

"
The family would be lucky to get his last
paycheck."

"
How much do you need?" he asked.

He was getting right to business. She liked that. "I
just want his end. That's only fair. "

Humberto appraised her, no doubt wondering how much
of Rico's business she knew. His expression was easy to read, a
mixture of disapproval and mild alarm. Here in the North, women were
unpredictable and far more involved in matters outside the home life
than was suitable. Most definitely she was a complication he hadn't
expected.

Munch planted her feet firmly, crossed her arms over
her chest and held her tongue. Her posture and attitude communicated
her sentiments. Deal with it, macho man.

When she sneaked a look sideways, Ellen was grinning
like an idiot. Her friend didn't get the moniker Crazy Ellen for
nothing.

"
What is the name of the funeraria you wish to
use?" Humberto said.

"
Galvan and Sons. They're on Pico Boulevard."

"
The service will be taken care of. I'll see to
it personally."

"
And the rest?" Munch asked.

"
That is not my decision, but I'll see what I
can do. As to his ‘end,' as you say." Humberto spread his hand
and wiggled it, palm down. "This is something we can discuss.
There are always opportunities opening up."

"
C'mon, big boy," Ellen said, looping her
arm through his. "Let's get you something to eat. I bet your
girlfriends can't get enough of you."

Munch exhaled, surprised to realize she felt a
strange sense of disappointment as Ellen led Humberto away. When she
briefly believed she was about to get her ass kicked, part of her had
wanted just that. Some cuts and bruises to go along with her pain.
That would show them.

Instead, she had gotten what she came for, hadn't
she? It would be insane to want things to get messy. Especially since
she had dragged Ellen into her nightmare. Not that Ellen seemed to be
minding.

No, Munch was on the path now. She would continue to
seek the truth until she found a version she could live with. She
looked over at the table in time to see a long-haired Hispanic woman
pick up Rico's photograph and plant a large kiss on his face. The
Chicana
was everything
Munch wasn't. Rounded curves, large breasts, long black hair, long
red fingernails. One of those juicy young
mamasitas
whose figure would erupt as soon as she started having babies, but by
then she would have hooked her man.

Someone called out, "Christina!" and the
woman turned.

Christina, Munch thought. Long black hair. She felt
something inside her snap.

Christina, writer of love notes.

Munch hated her, hated her with every fiber of her
being. She strode across the small yard with murder in her heart. The
sea of people parted grudgingly.

Munch shrugged aside the hands that would stop her.
She was close enough to see the small crescent-moon earring in the
cartilage of Christina's left ear. Munch gathered a handful of
Christina's hair with one hand and punched her full on the mouth with
the other. Christina screamed and clawed at Munch's face. They went
down on the dirt. Munch soon gained the advantage, sitting on
Christina's belly and raining punches on her face. The spaces between
Christina's teeth filled with blood, her long hair collected leaves
and dirt. They had rolled close to the dogs' pen and the animals were
snarling and throwing themselves against the chain-link fence. Their
frenzied activity churned up the uncollected dog shit in their
too-small run. Men shouted in Spanish.

Ellen stood above them, brandishing the large kitchen
knife. There to ensure that the fight stayed fair and that Munch won.
Finally, strong hands reached down and lifted Munch off the bleeding
woman beneath her. Munch felt flush and strong and resisted the arms
that encircled her. She tried to bite, but couldn't connect with
flesh. She kicked backward, hoping to connect, but the man held her
too close for her to do much damage. She realized it was Humberto.

"
Let me down," she said. "I can't
breathe." His arms encircled her chest. Her feet were at least
six inches from the ground.

"
Relax," he said.

Munch panted, trying to get more air to her lungs.
Strands of Christina's long black hair hung from her still-clenched
fist. She shook them off.

Other men helped Christina to her feet. Her face was
now punctuated by bright red spots where Munch had punched her. She
pointed a finger at Munch and Ellen and promised revenge. Munch felt
only the heat of her emotions. It was the best she'd felt in days.

"
Let me at the bitch," Munch said.

"
You're bleeding," Ellen said.

"
Nah, it's not me. I'm fine."

"
Yeah, right, you are the winner. Let's just get
you to the bathroom."

Humberto brought Munch into the house. Ellen led the
way to a bathroom, while the other girl was taken out the front door.
Ellen looked in the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of peroxide,
then put it back when she saw it was hair-bleaching peroxide and not
hydrogen peroxide. Munch turned to the mirror and saw the red bloody
stripes on her cheek. The bitch must have scratched her.

Ellen moistened some tissue with water and dabbed at
the scratches. "What was all that about?"

Munch told her about the lovers' cards she had found
in Rico's desk, and the matching earring in Christina's ear.

"They were probably over long ago. Rico only had
eyes for you."

Munch told her about the hair in the brush.

"
Could have been his daughter's," Ellen
said, not sounding completely convinced of this herself.

"
Yeah, maybe." Munch's adrenaline was
fading, and she felt slightly nauseous. She also felt stupid for not
trying to get any information out of Christina before she started
wailing on her. So much lor her plan of getting in tight with the
women and children.

Ellen produced a tube of antibiotic cream and
squeezed a dab onto her finger.

Munch tried to push her hand away. "I'm good."

"
I don't want you getting any scars."

"
I don't care."

"
Maybe not now, but do you really want to think
of that skank every time you look in the mirror?"

"
Let's just get out of here."

They headed for the front door. Several people patted
Munch on the back. Chicken winked at her. Three men and two women
were seated on the futon couch in the front room and bent over the
spool table before them. The objects of their attention were the rows
of glittering cocaine cut on the mirror at their knees. One of the
women handed Munch a straw. For a second, Munch almost took it. She
saw the hand of a Higher Power here, pairing these two events. First
she lost control and started a fistfight, then barely down from that,
she was being offered an engraved invitation to jump back into the
life with both feet. She hadn't so much as seen a line of coke in
nine years of sobriety. Shit, even when she was using, she had only
been offered it for free a few times.

The twelve steps and The Big Book of Alcoholics
Anonymous made many references to "powers greater than
ourselves." It wasn't always specified whether these powers were
good or evil. Potent, to be sure.

Munch couldn't pull her eyes away from the free
drugs. With all that had happened, who could blame her? Maybe she was
being offered a well-deserved break from reality from a loving God
who understood her needs.

The scariest part of that thought was how much sense
it seemed to make.

"
No, thank you," she said, and somehow her
feet carried her out the door.
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DELAGUERRA WATCHED VICTORIA FROM THE DOORWAY OF her
studio. She sniffled and touched the edge of her apron to her eyes as
she gripped her dry paintbrush and sighed. He wondered what petty
bullshit had her down. When he first met her, her hands were stained
yellow from stripping the stiff leaves from her family's few acres of
coca bushes. She didn't speak a word of English. At thirteen, her
back was already assuming the bend of a grandmother.

He had saved her from all that and worse. How quickly
they forgot. She could still be in some jungle factory in Colombia,
breathing the fumes from the sulfuric acid and petrol used to make
the paste that would then be refined into the oily white powder that
was his livelihood. Instead, she was living in a beautiful villa,
with a driver at her disposal, and anything she desired at her
fingertips. Her children attended the finest private schools, where
they mingled with the sons and daughters of diplomats, movie stars,
and other successful businessmen. She had subscriptions to four
different American fashion magazines, which she devoured as soon as
they arrived.

All that and she still always seemed to find some
reason to be annoyed with him. And one thing about Victoria—she was
a genius at letting him know with a million different subtle looks
and gestures that he had not lived up to her expectations. And here
he was, trying in every manner he could dream of to be a modern man.
Sometimes she could be so stupid. A little appreciation for his
efforts would go a long way.

Unlike the North, here in Mexico a man was rarely
charged and almost never convicted of murdering his wife. Abel didn't
believe in violence against women unless it was absolutely necessary.
He also conceded that it wouldn't hurt if the Catholic Church
modernized some of its views on divorce. He wasn't against dogma. It
worked for the masses, but even the local priest agreed that a man in
his position could not be and should not be herded with the same
staff. He loved his wife. It wasn't her fault that he had spoiled
her. She had given him legitimate children and companionship, and in
the early years had been quick to draw a laugh from him. He glanced
around her well-lit studio, approving of her use of vibrant colors
and bold style. He intended to tell her that today. He knew the
compliment would please her, perhaps set an example of behavior that
would serve her better. Honey instead of vinegar was what she should
be using.