An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (20 page)

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?"

"
Yeah, 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."

There was an anticipatory rustle in the room as
Father Lanning, in full white robes, swept down the aisle. He paused
to take Fernando's hand and murmur something that made Fernando nod
in agreement. Father Lanning then laid a hand on Cruz's head and
smiled beatifically. Cruz smiled back, childlike, an echo of the
emotions surrounding him. Father Lanning continued down the front
row. Sylvia crossed herself. Angelica wouldn't meet his eye. He
seemed accepting of the teenager's reaction.

At last he came to Munch and Asia and Ellen.

He looked Munch in the eye and said, "God didn't
bring you this far to drop you."

Munch felt a tingling sensation climb up her back to
her scalp. She didn't go in for all the mumbo-jumbo of organized
religion, but she recognized when God reached out and spoke to her
directly.

She managed to mumble back, "I know that."
And she did know that, though not lately. She'd forgotten lots of
things she knew. That was a common denominator among alcoholics and
addicts, sober or not. They were the last to remember and the first
to forget. It was these timely reminders, delivered by angels of all
ilks, that she counted as miracles.

It was also at that moment, with the smell of incense
and flowers in her nose, the sun filtering in through panes of
colored glass, the church bells striking the hour, that she knew she
needed to find a way to get through this. And she knew why. It was
for Asia and Angelica, to lead by example. Survival wasn't for wimps.

Father Lanning mounted the stairs to his pulpit and
intoned, "Let us pray."

The service went on with the liturgy. Father
Lanning's voice was sonorous and hypnotic. The church was warm. Munch
stared at the open casket. They'd done a nice job of cleaning Rico
up. His mouth was closed and there was a faint suggestion of a smile
on his lips as if he were sleeping peacefully. The skin color was
more natural and they must have put some padding under his—Rico's
eyelids fluttered. Munch bolted upright as terror shot through her.
She sneaked a look sideways at the other mourners, waiting for
someone else to scream first.

Get a grip, she told herself. This wasn't some horror
movie. He'd been shot, autopsied, and embalmed. No one could survive
all that. It was an illusion of light combined with fatigue. It was
the candle-lights that flickered, not his eyes.

Ellen reached over and squeezed Munch's hand. Asia
snuggled into her, finding the comforting softness of her mother's
breast. As she cuddled, Asia also sucked the three middle fingers of
her right hand, as she used to do when she was a toddler.

Munch took a deep breath and noticed that Father
Lanning was finished with his sermon and stepping down. A plump,
mustached Hispanic politician who was some representative of
something or on the board of something replaced the priest. Munch
didn't quite catch or understand his relevance to her life or Rico's.
The guy started speaking about the Hispanic community and role
models. His self-serving speech was so permeated with ambiguity as to
be impossible to understand in any language.

"
And so it begins," Munch said under her
breath.

Ellen leaned over and whispered in her ear, "What
do they call four Mexicans in a boat full of holes?"

"
I give up," Munch whispered back.

"
Quattro sinko."

Munch strangled back a laugh, Fucking Ellen. She
buried her face in Ellen's shoulder, hoping that her heaving
shoulders would be interpreted as sobs. Asia pulled her fingers from
her mouth and patted Munch's leg. Her mouth dropped open in
astonishment when she realized that the two adult women above her
were laughing.

"
Stop it," she hissed. "You're
humiliating me."

This only made them laugh harder. Ellen buried her
face in her hands. Munch stopped looking at her until she could get
herself under control. She kissed the top of Asia's head. "I'm
sorry, honey."

Hands patted her shoulders and she turned back to
smile her appreciation. What she saw was Mace and Caroline St. John;
her boss Lou; her sponsor Ruby; Happy Jack—her boss when she first
got sober—and his wife; Art Becker and his wife; even Cassiletti,
Mace's protege, who had brought a date. The row behind them was
filled with the other guys from work and four women Munch sponsored.
She didn't know how they knew to come. It certainly wasn't expected
of them, but it was very thoughtful, particularly for the newly sober
whose heads weren't out of the dryer yet.

What she felt was loved. She'd forgotten how this
worked—that the worst moments of her life were always balanced
somehow with the best of human nature.

She felt the microphone jab into her collarbone and
wondered what Roger and Chapman were making of all this.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY

HUMBERTO DROVE TO CHRISTINA'S APARTMENT. NUMBER 6,
she had told him, on the second floor. He could park in the back if
he liked. He wouldn't and he didn't.

He arrived for their meeting a half hour early, and
did some recon. Her apartment had a front and a back door. Unusual
for an upper-floor unit. She had only told him about the front
entrance. The back door he discovered on his own when he walked the
perimeter. The door was the type that had a window built into it. A
dryer vent protruded to the left of the door. Wooden stairs on the
right led down to the driveway and parking for the building. The
driveway was shaped like a flag, with the pole running the length of
the building and opening to a paved rectangle painted with yellow
lines. The spaces were numbered one to seven. A blue Honda Civic with
primer spots occupied Christina's space. He put his hand on the hood.
It was slightly warm. The other slots were mostly vacant. Splatters
of various automobile fluids glistened on the cracked asphalt
assigned to apartments 4, 5 , and 7. Weeds grew in the cracks under
an aged Oldsmobile up on blocks. A boat in a rusted trailer was
parked beside the Olds. It, too, had seen better days.

There was a string of free-standing garages at the
far end of the parking lot and no alley. Most of the garages were
padlocked. One door had a red-and-white FORRENT sign tacked to it.

His car was parked at the curb, and would remain
there. He rubbed his arms as if suddenly realizing he was cold, and
retrieved his coat from the trunk. A car drove by and he glanced at
it briefly, avoiding eye contact with the driver. The car was a dark
blue Ford, the driver a lone white man. There had been a yellow
parking stub under the passenger-side windshield wiper. All this he
had noted in a second's time.

Humberto wondered what the driver of the Ford had
thought of him. Probably nothing. Humberto was just another big dumb
Mexican after all. He shifted the gun in his right boot so that the
barrel rested to the side of his ankle and crossed the sidewalk.

The building's scrappy front lawn was more weeds than
grass, but trimmed short. A few shrubs with dusty leaves and a twin
palm shared the same flower bed. The cement stairs leading to the
second-floor landing were flanked with iron railings in need of
paint.

Apartment 6 was a corner unit. He knocked on the
green wooden door, placing his face in front of the peephole. The
mini blinds to his left parted briefly. Moments later, the
new-looking dead bolt snicked open.

"
Aye, yi yi," he said.

Both of Christina's eyes were black and swollen. She
lifted the ice bag she was holding to her lip long enough to say,
"Come in."

He stuck his head in the door and looked quickly left
and right. "We're alone," she said. She tossed the ice bag
into a large ceramic ashtray.

He sat on the couch and rubbed his palms across the
tops of his thighs. "Are we set?"

She licked her lips and winced. "They wanted me
to test a sample." Humberto scratched his shin, feeling the
reassuring pressure of his forty-five. "Who?"

"
The guys putting up the money."