An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (19 page)

"
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 purchases. 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.