No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 11

  "Those go in the closet," Charlotte said sullenly.

  Munch opened the closet and found it filled to overflowing.

  "What is all this stuff?" she asked, pulling out a cardboard box full of high-heeled shoes, brightly colored scarves, and wigs. The ladies' footwear had been carelessly stowed. Most of the pointed tips curled up and the patent leather showed deep cracks.

  "Those are for when we play dress-up," Charlotte said, trying to stuff the box back in the closet. But whatever had been behind the box had shifted and the box no longer fit. She let out a wail. "Now you mined everything."

  'We can make it all fit again," Munch said. "We just need to organize things a little better Let's check out your dresser." She opened the top drawer of a large chest of drawers in the corner."If we fold your shirts, they'll stay nicer."

  "That's not how Mommy wants it," Charlotte insisted, her voice rising in pitch.

  "Do mine," Jill said.

  "All right, which ones are yours?"

  She pointed a chubby finger. "This ones."

  Munch wrestled the lowest drawer open and found it stuffed with socks. She dumped the drawer out at their feet, and began to sort. "It's good to be orderly isn't it?"

  "Yes," Jill said, snuggling into her lap. "Very good."

  Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed and watched them. She sniffled loudly plainly perturbed at no longer being an object of attention. "We're moving to the country" she said abruptly

  "You are?" Munch asked, surprised. Lisa had said nothing about moving.

  "My mom said we're going to get a house and, if I promise to take care of it, she said I could have a horse."

  The seven-year-old's declaration took Munch back to her own mother and all the promises, especially when old mom had a buzz on. Munch's early years had yo-yoed between feast and famine. Nothing for breakfast, then Mama would spend fifty bucks on a pair of patent leather shoes that Munch outgrew in a month. You're my little princess, Mama would say her eyes ringed black with too much eyeliner. Munch could still see the unearthly glow of her mothers brown eyes, feel the flutter of her hands, and hear the lull of her voice as she mumbled her crazy unrealistic promises.

  Those promises were pipe dreams, Munch knew now, born of opiates and good intentions.

  "Daddy James said he'd come, too," Charlotte said.

  "That's nice. Where's your real dad living now Charlotte?" Munch asked. "Your Daddy Patrick?"

  "Oh, he's dead," Jill explained with a four-year-old's pragmatism.

  "Like Uncle John," Charlotte said.

  Munch nodded awkwardly fighting back sudden tears. "And what about your real dad?" she asked Jill.

  Both girls wrinkled their noses. "Daddy Darnel talks too much and he gets all sweaty," Charlotte said.

  "Yucko."

  "Yeah," Jill joined in, giggling. "Yucko, bucko."

  "We don't like him anymore," Charlotte said. "He's a zombie pig."

  "Yeah, he's a loser," Jill added, making an L with her thumb and forefinger.

  Munch swallowed back a smile.

  "Daddy James takes me lots of places," Jill said. "Yeah, he's nice," Charlotte said. "Mommy says that we'll all live together. "

  "In your country house?" Munch asked.

  "Well, maybe by the beach. We haven't decided? Munch almost laughed. The kid might as well plan to move to the moon.

  "That sounds great," Munch said. "Maybe I'll come visit you there." She didn't see the point of spoiling this kid's delusions. Let her believe what she could as long as she could. It only got worse. "You know, when I was your age I used to like playing lets pretend. I wanted to live in the Old West when I grew up."

  One day maybe not today the girls would need to sort out what was real and what was not. " know"

  Munch said, "Let's make a pact—just the three of us."

  "What's a pact?" Jill asked.

  "A secret promise of something we'll do one day. You want to?"

  "Okay" Charlotte said, speaking for both of them.

  "Hold out your right hands," Munch said, helping Jill. She dropped her voice to a whisper and the girls leaned in close. "Ten years from this day when you're both grown up, we'll all meet again on this very spot."

  "That's it?" Charlotte asked.

  "You have to cross your hearts and swear," Munch added.

  The girls solemnly complied.

  She pictured herself explaining to Charlotte and Jill at that future date how their mother had been a flake and that all her promises, though possibly made in good faith, had been bullshit. She would tell the two girls that they were born into the family they were born into and that was their fate. She would explain to them both that they had only themselves to take care of themselves—that they could count on no one. Well, maybe God, but even He had His own agenda.

  And if they asked her, "Wasn't there anything you could have done for us then?" What would she say to them? That it wasn't her business? That she'd been too caught up in her own problems?

  Speaking of which . . .

  She pulled out the picture in her pocket and showed it to the girls. Charlotte took the photo and studied it for only a moment before she asked, "Who's this?" Munch saw she was pointing at the man in the suit.

  "I don't know. How about the other guy?" Munch asked, pointing to the long-hair. "Do you know him?"

  "Sure, that's Daddy James."

  Jill popped up, reaching for the picture. " want to see. I want to see."

  Munch obliged her.

  "Uh-huh," Jill agreed. "Daddy James."

  Munch felt a coldness fill her heart. Lisa said she didn't recognize the description of the guy in the truck with Sleaze. How deeply was she involved? Munch's reverie was cut short by the sounds of Lisa wheeling her bike in through the doorway

  "You two stay in here. I need to talk to your mommy for a second"

  Munch walked out to the front room and held up the photograph to Lisa. "Anything you want to tell me?"

  Lisa grabbed for the picture, but Munch pulled it back.

  "Where'd you get that?" Lisa asked.

  "You know this guy?" Munch asked.

  Lisa's gaze strayed to the bedroom where the kids played. Munch saw the calculations going on behind her eyes. 'Yeah, I know him." She put the pizza down.

  "This is the guy I saw with Sleaze, the one I was asking about with the lightning bolt tattoo."

  Lisa lit a cigarette, taking a long time to take a drag, watching Munch through the smoke with her little pig eyes. "So what about it?" she finally asked.

  "You know where he is now?"

  "What's it to you?"

  "He might know something about who shot Sleaze."

  She turned weary eyes to Munch and said, "Listen, I know your heart's in the right place. But believe me, you don't want to get involved. These people don't give a shit who gets hurt, understand?"

  Munch remembered the bodies in Venice.

  "The best thing you can do," Lisa said, "is to freeze. Pretend you don't know anything."

  Well, that was almost true, Munch thought. The girls came running into the kitchen. Lisa cleared the table and Munch pulled up four chairs. Asia woke up crying. Munch lifted the baby out of her crib and gave her a bottle. The little girls chattered as they picked toppings off the pizza, making up a game with the rings of pepperoni. With Asia sitting on her lap, Munch ate a slice of pizza. She never felt the food hit her stomach. She couldn't stop thinking about what Deb had said about Tux taking Boogie on the road with him. It didn't take much to put that whole scenario together. The guy was just using Boogie as a cover, a diversion. The idea sickened her. The first time a man had treated the boy decently and it was in the commission of a felony Wvhen she said her good nights, Munch gave all the children an extra-long squeeze. She could barely bring herself to look Lisa in the face.

  * * *

  Lisa watched Munch's car drive away and then flicked her porch light three times. An eighteen-wheeler parked down the road fired up its diesel engi
ne. Lisa waited as it pulled away from the curb and stopped in the street outside her gate.

  She glanced nervously up and down the street, wondering what other eyes were on them. Her palms beaded with sweat when the door to the semi swung open and the large, leather-clad driver stepped down.

  "Did she bring it?" Tux asked.

  "Yeah, but the shit was gone already"

  "Fuck. You saying that bitch ripped me off?"

  "No, she's all AA'd back. She don't use or drink or anything." Lisa scratched at a piece of dried food on her shirt. "Maybe the dope was gone from before."

  Without warning, Tux's hand shot out, delivering a backhanded slap to Lisa's face and knocking her off her feet. She didn't try to get back up, just held an open palm out as if to ward him off.

  "Don't fuck with me, you stupid cunt," he said. "There wasn't time. Give me her address. I think it's time I pay this bitch a little visit."

  "I don't know where she lives," Lisa said.

  Tux took a step forward, grabbing her wrist and pulling his fist back.

  "Wait," Lisa said, trying to protect her face with her free hand. "She only gave me her phone number, but I know where she works."

  "Yeah," Tux said. "So do I. What does she keep coming over here for if shes so holy roller?"

  "She wants the baby Sleaze's little girl."

  "For what?"

  "She wants to like adopt her."

  "If she keeps fucking with our business, she can kiss those plans goodbye. You tell her that. Better yet, let me see that kid. I'll deliver the message myself."

  * * *

  Munch pushed the speed limit all the way home. Before she took the next step, she needed to take care of a few loose ends.

  She parked in the alley behind her apartment and grabbed the pocket knife from her glove compartment. Looking both ways to make sure no one was watching, she slipped the knife open and crouched down to the sewer grate. She groped for and found the twine. It severed easily She let go of the string and was rewarded with the sound of the dope splashing as it hit waste water. Shit to shit. It felt good, but she didn't spend any time congratulating herself. Not for something she should have done in the first place.

  She went back to her car and retrieved the packet of documents from under her spare tire. Inside, after locking her deadbolts, she fanned the contents of the packet across her bed.

  It wasn't until she got to the bottom of the pile that she found the things that disturbed her the most. It was an interoffice memo on FBI stationery recommending that the raid on the Canyonville compound be "delayed until the end of October when the marijuana crop will be gathered and baled."

  It was almost ten when she called the Snakepit.

  The bartender summoned Deb to the phone.

  "Hey" Munch said, "it's me."

  "You coming up?"

  "How about if I pay for you all to come see me?"

  "I can't leave just now. It's a harvest moon, if you know what I'm saying. "

  "I really need to see you guys," Munch said. Did the feds have the Snakepit's phone tapped?

  "Well, get your ass up here, woman."

  "No, that won't work. I'm kinda in the middle of a few things myself right now. I'll catch you later."

  She hung up the phone, went back out to her car, and stuffed the packet of paperwork back under her spare tire. When she came back inside, she emptied the contents of her pockets on the dresser. She fingered the business cards for a moment, reading the names. She thought about the two cops she had seen on TV and at the coroner's office. Detective Alex Perez had to be the friendly-looking one.

  14

  BLACKSTONE CHECKED HIS messages upon leaving work Tuesday morning and learned that Bernie had called. When he dialed the Vice extension, Bernie answered on the first ring.

  "What's up?" Blackstone asked.

  "You were interested in military weaponry right?"

  "You got something?"

  "You're going to owe me a drink."

  "All right, all right. What did you hear?"

  "Why don't you meet me in Santa Monica and you can hear for yourself."

  "When?"

  "Eleven good for you?"

  "Where?"

  "Chez Jays."

  "That little joint across from the pier?"

  "I'll see you there."

  * * *

  Chez Jays would have been easy to miss. The low wooden building dissolved easily into the surrounding backdrop of hotels and office buildings, just as the unremarkable blue letters on the faded sign over the saloon-style doors did nothing to call attention to the place. But that, Bernie said, was part of its charm. Blackstone knew that the proximity of motel rooms with their special hourly rates also added to the restaurants allure.

  The tiny bar and grill did a phenomenal amount of business. The owner was a character actor with many ties to the Hollywood crowd. He'd managed to hit a vein with his small establishment—finding just the right measures of exclusiveness, location, and visibility The drinks were strong and the scampi fresh. But if you didn't know someone connected to the film industry you would be hard-pressed to get a reservation for dinner.

  The lunch crowd, Bernie assured Blackstone, was different.

  Blackstone waved off the valet. The lot held only maybe twenty cars, and it was less than a quarter full. He chose a spot on the end away from the other vehicles. Even if someone parked next to him, they would have to pull in on his left, which meant that their driver's door wouldn't be opening into him. He would have preferred a spot sheltered on either side from inconsiderate drivers who thought nothing of nicking paint jobs, but was forced to make do. Hopefully Bernie's information would be worth his while.

  He stepped into the darkened restaurant and took a second to get his bearings, resting a hand on the chest-high ship's wheel anchored to the floor. The smell of beer and whiskey assaulted his nostrils, and he blinked several times to make the transition from bright daylight to the smoky twilight atmosphere. Red-and-white-checked tablecloths covered the vacant tables in the center of the room. The majority of the midday clientele sat at the J—shaped bar, waiting, no doubt, for the sun to go down. They were served by a burly bartender who called each of them by their first name.

  "Be right with you," he said when he noticed Blackstone standing there. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the TV that was mounted high in one corner and tuned to a game that no one was watching.

  "That's all right," Blackstone told him. "I'm meeting someone."

  The bartender had already turned away busy loading his cash register with soggy one-dollar bills. Blackstone spotted Bernie at one of the red Naugahyde-covered booths near the back. He wasn't alone. The gaunt Caucasian woman with him had a used look about her. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore one of those T-shirts they sold on the boardwalk with lace around the collar and the sleeves.

  Bernie's hand rested on the back of the booth, almost touching her neck. He saw Blackstone out of the corner of his eye and held up his fingers, motioning Blackstone to hang back.

  Blackstone pawed at the sawdust on the floor and studied the signed movie posters taped to the walls. The phone rang and the bartender answered it, listened a moment, and then said, "He's still not here." The patrons laughed. Bernie motioned for Blackstone to join them.

  As Blackstone slid in the booth opposite the pair, he overheard the woman saying: " kept telling him not the fashe, you know?"

  Her voice was garbled. Bernie murmured something, patted her hand, and then acknowledged Blackstone.

  "Jigsaw, this is Angie."

  She turned sad eyes to greet him. The blood vessels were broken in the left eye; her upper lip was split and swollen. "How do you do?" she said between clenched teeth. Her lips curled back far enough when she spoke so that he could see the wires that held her jaws together.

  He guessed she was in her twenties and then quickly calculated the rest of her pedigree: doper, hooker, petty thief. "What happened to y
ou?" he asked.

  "Shun of a bitch went off on me," she said.

  "Angie got ahold of a real freak," Bernie cut in.

  "Put me out of bishness," she lisped as saliva leaked down her chin. She mopped the drool with a cocktail napkin.

  "Tell him what you told me, Angie."

  "Champion shaid to make shure you promish," she said. For Blackstone's benefit she added, "Champion ish my man."

  "You tell him if the information is good," Bernie said, "I'll lose some paperwork. You check it out on the street, my word is good"

  "I know it is," she said. They exchanged private looks and she continued. "Thish guy was amped to the max."

  "What guy?" Blackstone asked.

  "I should of jusht shined him, you know?"

  Jigsaw looked over at Bernie. Bernie nodded for him to be patient.

  "He shaid either I blow him or he'd blow me up."

  "Blow you up?" Blackstone asked.

  "He shtuek a grenade between my legs and told me to make a wish."

  "A grenade, like a hand grenade?" Blackstone asked.

  "Yeah, like what elshe would I mean?"

  "What did this guy look like? Did you get a name?"

  "I got all that already Jigsaw." Bernie cut in. "White guy mustache, reddish hair. They didn't exchange names, but she described two tattoos that the guy had on his forearms. On the right, he had crossed pistons and the words Ride to Live, Live to Ride, surrounded with a ring of red and black swastikas. And you're going to love this. On the left forearm he had a four-inch-diameter blue target with the words One Shot, One Kill written above and below"

  "That's a Marine tattoo, isn't it?" Blackstone asked.

  Bernie nodded. "Force recon, sniper corps."

  Blackstone whistled. "What about the car?"

  "It was a Hertz rental with Oregon plates. We're checking on it."

  "And a car sheet," she said.

  "What's a car sheet?" he asked.

  "You know, like to put a baby in?"

  "You mean a car seat?"

  "Yesh."

  "You done good, Angie," Bernie said. "Now Jigsaw here is going to buy us both a drink."

  Blackstone left after paying for their Long Island iced teas. The trip had been well worth it. The Oregon plates on the rented vehicle cinched his suspicions that the FBI's case involving the stolen National Guard weaponry also involved a smuggling operation across the Oregon/California border. Smugglers often used rented cars that they paid for with cash. When Bernie described the target tattoo, Blackstone's scalp had tingled. The guy was an expert sniper, if you believed the skin advertisement. The crossed piston tattoo was also familiar as a favorite of bikers, and bikers loved their speed. It was all starting to fit.