An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (21 page)

She went into the kitchen and returned with a paper
sack and a small plastic box. He recognized the logo on the box. It
was a Ferguson Test Kit. She opened the paper bag to show him the
stacks of bills.

She removed a vial of pink fluid from the test kit.
"Do you have it?"

He reached in his pocket and removed a brick of dope,
setting it on the coffee table next to the cash.

She straightened a paper clip and broke open the
vial. Pointing toward the coke, she asked, "Do you mind?"

"
Please," he said, his ears cocked for any
sound that didn't belong in the supposedly empty apartment. Christina
looked older to him than he had first thought. She was probably in
her thirties rather than her twenties. Her businesslike manner
brought this to his attention. His reevaluation was reinforced as he
studied her face more closely. Now he noticed the creases in her
forehead and the hardness in her eyes. His attention hadn't been
focused on her face the first time they had met.

She stabbed through the wrapping and then dipped the
cocaine powdered end of the bent paper clip into the pink solution.
The test fluid turned robin's-egg blue. She smiled lopsidedly. "I
think I'm in love."

They made the exchange. He didn't need to count the
money there. He flipped through the stacks, making sure they were all
American bills. He would count the money later, in private. If the
count was short, well . . . He was reasonably sure she knew better.

"
How do I get ahold of you?" she asked.

"
Chicken knows how to
reach me. Call him."

* * *

Humberto took a circuitous route back to the motel,
retrieved three more packages from his truck, and went to the house
on Hampton. Chicken was waiting for him out front, nervously hopping
from one foot to the next, scratching the dirt at his feet. Humberto
wondered if this was how he had earned his nickname.

Chicken got in the Chevy and directed Humberto to a
house in Compton. They drove down Rosecrans, a wide avenue in the
predominantly black neighborhood. The liquor stores offered to cash
checks and decorated their windows with Laker pennants. The small
markets accepted food stamps and sold lottery tickets. Humberto
wondered if they made direct exchanges. Girls in knee-high boots and
short skirts waited at bus stops, but judging by the way they
assessed the single-occupant males of passing cars, it was not for
public transportation.

"
What do you think,
esse
?"
Chicken asked, giving the nod to a chubby black woman in hot pants
and a red wig. "You want to change your luck?"

"
My luck is running well," Humberto said.

"
Okay, turn up here," Chicken said, giving
the hooker an apologetic shrug, which she answered with a
one-fingered salute. Chicken glowered at the disrespect. "I
ought to go back and cut that puta a new hole."

"
She's lucky we have other things to do,"
Humberto said, reasonably certain that the amply endowed prostitute
could take Chicken one-handed. He knew girls like her, girls who
concealed razors in their hair or stilettos in their boots and would
just as soon slice you as spit on you. At least this one was open
about her hostility. He appreciated honesty in women.

They pulled up to a house on a side street. Three
teenage kids with very black skin sat on the front stairs. Rap music
drummed from a boom box at their feet. Two of the boys wore their
hair long and natural, with metal "cake cutter" pick combs
stuck in the sides. Humberto thought again of the hooker, open
hostility, and concealed weapons. The third boy wore a hair net and
recognized Chicken with a nod. A jet took off overhead, drowning out
the mu- sic. The two long-haired boys bobbed their heads, keeping the
beat perfectly until the jet had passed.

"
This guy is cool," Chicken said to
Humberto as he returned the teenager's nod. "The father might be
there, Waiter. He's the bank."

"
How does he make his money?" Humberto
asked.

"
Chiva. Lamont, that's the kid in the hair net,
thinks the future is in blow. He talks a lot, but these guys are
solid."

Humberto nodded in acknowledgment, but not agreement.
From what he knew of the narco business, and that was considerable,
he didn't think heroin would ever go out of fashion.

The teenagers parted, creating a narrow path for
Humberto and Chicken. Lamont knocked on the door, two quick taps, a
pause, then two more, and then he invited them to follow him in. The
television was on and tuned to a soap opera. Seated on a plush orange
couch opposite the set was a very fat black man. A thin white woman
with a bad complexion and unfocused eyes sat beside him stroking his
head. Another girl, much younger, but with dark circles under her
glassy pale blue eyes rubbed lotion into the big man's hands. "I
love your skin, baby," she said. She sounded sincere.

"
You'll forgive me if I don't get up," the
fat man said.

"
I wouldn't either," Humberto said. He
watched the television show for a minute, mesmerized by the flashing
dark eyes of a beautiful woman who was obviously up to no good. It
amused him that outlaws followed the trials and tribulations of
wealthy socialites with the same fascination that the law-abiding set
had for shows about cops and robbers.

Chicken waited for the commercial, then planted
himself in front of the television. "Walter, this is my homeboy,
Humberto." The younger woman's blouse was carelessly buttoned,
but Chicken ignored the free show.

Lamont had gone into another room and now returned
carrying a long flat wooden box with an electrical cord which he
plugged into a wall socket. Chicken, Humberto, and Lamont all sat
down around a glass-topped table. Humberto noticed the multiple
straight scratches left by single-edge razor blades. Lamont opened
the hinged box to reveal a red, LED, digital display crystal, a
one-by-two-inch stainless-steel rectangle, various knobs, and a
compartment full of glass slides.

"
Let's see the shit," Lamont said.

The girl on the couch raised her head as if she were
a Labrador retriever and someone had just said, "Ball."

Humberto put a kilo on the table. Lamont opened one
end. The inside of the paper wrapping had a number on it: 249.
Humberto hid his discomfort. He didn't know the bundles were
numbered. This could be a problem.

Lamont put a small amount of the cocaine on one of
the glass slides and chopped it up very fine. He put the slide on the
rectangle of steel inside the box and flipped a switch. The LED
display, which had been blinking dashes, showed the temperature in
Fahrenheit degrees.

"
This'll take a few minutes to get going,"
Lamont said. He spooned a second small helping of cocaine into a
petri dish, again crushing the crystals into a fine powder. While he
worked, he chanted a steady monologue, directed at no one, under his
breath. Both women were now looking at them. The younger one licked
her lips.

Lamont poured some methanol into the dish with the
cocaine and swirled it around.

"
What's you doing now, boy?" Walter asked.

Lamont showed him. "I'm looking for complete
solubility."

Walter laughed. "Yeah, so's Marjorie here."
He slapped the older woman on her bare thigh, and she laughed
indulgently.

Several minutes passed. The heating element on the
hot box glowed red. The display showed 150 degrees Fahrenheit.
Lamont's chanting became a song.

Marjorie untangled herself from the couch and came
over to watch. "Looking good, Daddy," she said. "Looking
real good."

Humberto was unconcerned. The common cuts used to
dilute coke were sugar-based and would leave golden-brown dots of
caramelization when heated. He knew his cocaine was pure. It would
melt cleanly and quickly at 198 degrees. He admired Lamont's
professionalism. Chicken could learn a thing or two.

Lamont looked at Marjorie. "Okay, girl, get your
stuff."

Marjorie went into the bathroom and returned with a
glass of water and a zippered leather kit, such as one might keep
manicure tools in. She opened the kit to reveal a syringe and spoon.
Lamont measured a quarter gram into her spoon, saying, "The
proof of the pudding . . ."

Marjorie finished his sentence, ". . . is in the
tasting."

She drew water into the syringe and slowly squeezed
it into the bowl of the spoon. The white crystals dissolved quickly.
She dropped a small wad of cotton into the solution and drew the
liquid cocaine back into the syringe through this makeshift filter.

They waited while she found a vein and slammed the
coke directly into her bloodstream. A smile formed on her lips and
she seemed to be in the throes of an orgasm.

"
It's good?" Lamont asked needlessly.

"
Oh, yeah. It's very good."

Lamont lifted his shirt to reveal a money belt and
counted out the cash. "Give me a day or two to talk to some of
my boys, and we can move some serious weight."

"
You got it, my brother," Chicken said.

Mutually lucrative business transactions, Humberto
noted, made brothers of them all.

Ten minutes later, Chicken
and Humberto were out the door.

* * *

Christina had also noticed that the kilos of cocaine
were numbered. She unfolded the end flap and positioned the packages
on the front page of a week-old copy of the the
LA
Times
. She took many Polaroids, making sure
in the last few that the three-digit numbers, the black ink
skeletons, and the headline with last week's date all showed plainly.

She'd also seen Chacón's obituary, read it as she
ran her tongue along the inside of her split lip. Stupid little bitch
had provided a shopping list of Rico's entire family. Fucking
amateurs.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ELLEN HAD ARRANGED FOR MUNCH MEET WITH PETEY on
Saturday afternoon. First Munch had to get through Rico's funeral on
Saturday morning. She wasn't worried about her safety. She would be
in the company of hundreds of policemen.

At nine A.M. , the only bikers visible were the rows
of motorcycle cops accompanying the hearse that delivered Rico's body
to the Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City.

Munch had her limo bring her and Asia. They had
stopped at Fernando Chacón's house in Lawndale on the way and picked
up Fernando, Sylvia, and Angelica. These were all the people closest
to Rico as far as Munch knew.

As far as she knew, which wasn't far enough,
apparently, Rico once said most wives of undercover officers didn't
want detailed accounts of what their spouses did while on the job.
Munch had been the opposite. She often was. Rico had chosen to hold
back on her. It was for her own good, he said, and at the time she
had believed him.

At the time.

There it was again. She hated how doubt had crept
into her thoughts.

It was a bright clear cold day. Snow capped the San
Gabriel Mountains visible to the north. The mayor was there, as were
several city council members, the city attorney, and the Los Angeles
County District Attorney, putting on a show for the troops. Munch
wouldn't have known any of them if she had tripped over them.

Well, maybe the mayor.

The day passed in a blur of politicos shaking her
hand without looking at her, but making sure they faced the camera.
Art Becker wept openly, unconcerned about how it might look. She saw
several photographers record his grief.

A semicircle of folding chairs had been assembled at
graveside. Rico's academy graduation photo had been enlarged to
poster size and placed on an easel next to the tarp-covered waiting
grave. He looked young and strong. For the photograph he had affected
a fierce glare. He was also wearing a wedding band. Munch thought
about his life when this picture was snapped. Rico would have had a
new wife and baby girl at home to feed, his career before him, his
early years of poverty in Mexico in the past.

Munch studied Sylvia now, standing stoically in a
large black hat. Angelica was even paler than usual, no small feat.
Sylvia, seeming to have sensed Munch's scrutiny, turned to her. Fresh
tears streaked her face. Munch gestured to the open chairs, inviting
Sylvia to make peace. Sylvia grabbed her daughter's arm and led her
to the front row. Asia reached out a hand to Angelica. After a
moment's hesitation, Angelica took the small hand, offered so
guilelessly, and sat. Munch looked for Fernando and found him within
a knot of his other sons. The siblings formed a protective ring
around the grieving patriarch, and now moved
en
masse
to the folding chairs.

She somehow sat through another hour of speeches.
Dark glasses hid her eyes as she summoned her own memories of her
beloved. Asia had picked a bouquet from their yard and clutched it to
her chest as she listened to all the words being said. When the last
politicians finally ran out of wind, she carefully unwrapped the
foil, packed with wet paper towels, and distributed roses to the
women around her.