Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [46]
He’d left L.A. with plenty of money in his pocket to enjoy a pleasant night in a decent hotel and to book a flight to Cuba the next day. The Hotel Polanco was recommended to him by the cab driver who drove him into the city from the airport. When he checked in, he intended to have a few drinks in some neighborhood bar and get to bed. But as he sat nursing tequila on the rocks and watching a parade of pretty Mexican women, his libido got the better of him. He set off to buy some female companionship. After stopping in a few more bars, and with the tequila clouding what had always been flawed judgment anyway, he found his true love for the evening, a middle-aged lady dressed like a teenager who promised him a trip to paradise.
“You come with me back to my place, huh?” he’d said after buying her a glass of “champagne” for twenty dollars, U.S.
“No, no,” she insisted. She lived just down the street, she said, and had plenty of whiskey there for him and a big, comfortable bed.
He never got to enjoy either. He followed her into an alley and to a door she said led to her apartment. When she didn’t make a move to open it, Munsch grabbed her and tried to kiss her. The next thing he knew he was attacked from behind by two men who threw him against the building. One of the men straddled him and held a knife to his throat while the second managed to reach into his rear pants pocket and extract the wallet into which he’d put all the cash he’d brought from California. The man with the knife smiled, exposing a mouth full of gold, called him something in Spanish that Munsch thought might have meant fat gringo pig, got off him, and the two men and Munsch’s heavenly lover ran from the alley.
He considered going back to the bar in which he’d met her and looking for them, but summoned up his only wisdom of the evening and walked back to the hotel, muttering all the way.
Now, with three dollars in his pocket that had been left as a tip on an adjacent table, and sourness in his stomach, he drank coffee and tried to come up with a way to make a fast score, enough to get to Cuba. He was deep into his thoughts when two men dressed in suits, who’d taken a table shortly after Munsch arrived, got up and slowly approached. They stood on either side of him but said nothing.
Munsch looked up. “Yeah? What’a you want?”
The taller man, who looked American, said, “Warren Munsch?”
Munsch looked at the other man, a Mexican.
“Mind if we join you?” the American said, sitting.
“Suit yourself,” Munsch said. “I was just leaving.” His heart pounded.
As he started to stand, the Mexican placed his hand on his shoulder, holding him down. The American said, “Let’s have a little talk, Warren. Might be worth your while.”
Munsch again looked up at the Mexican, who’d unbuttoned his suit jacket to reveal a revolver in the waistband of his trousers.
Munsch said to the American, “So, go ahead. I’m listening. What are you, cops?”
The American shook his head. “Private investigators. You can call me Smitty. My Mexican colleague is Jose.”
“Smitty and Jose, huh? What are you, some kinda comedy team?” He sounded confident; inside he was Jell-O.
“We’ve been looking for you, Warren,” said the American.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Someone’s anxious to talk to you.”
“Like who, an ex-wife?”
“Like someone who wants to know what happened back in Miami when you forgot to pay for a certain painting you walked away with.”
“Painting?” He guffawed. “Do I look like an art collector?”
“No, you don’t, Warren. What you look like to me is a two-bit hustler. So, what say we go see the man, let him ask his questions, and you can go on your way. Okay, Warren?”
“Hey, look, quit calling me Warren. I don’t know you, so don’t get familiar.”
“Just wanted to be friendly—Warren. I get the feeling you don’t intend to cooperate with us.”
“What’a you mean, ‘cooperate’?