Perdition, U.S.A.

by Gary Phillips

  After a long shower and a meal at the Chinese-Mexican cafe called the Picante Eggroll on National, Monk got over to his office after six. Delilah had gone home but Hendricks, of Ross and Hendricks, was working at a draft table as Monk knocked on her door.

  “Ivan, how’re things?” the stately architect asked.

  “Getting interesting. What are you working on?”

  “We’re in the running for a series of virtual reality arcades from Mid-City to Oxnard.”

  “The brave new electronic age dawns.”

  “So it would seem.” The edge of her number two pencil followed the side of her T-square in a precise, even stroke. “By the way, some woman just left here looking for you.”

  “Did she leave a name?”

  “Urbanski. I told her you’d be in tomorrow and that bent her whistle somewhat. She mentioned you never seem to be around, and she’s not used to being held up on important matters.”

  “She say what she want.”

  “No.”

  “What did she look like?”

  Hendricks made some notations on her work then looked over at Monk. “Mid-forties white woman, natural blonde, a little touch-up I think. Good dresser. Stylish but not ostentatious.” She went back to her work. “Her handbag was a DKNY, genuine, not a swap meet special.”

  “Well, if it’s important, she’ll call back I guess.”

  “She left a note for you, slid it under your door, made a point of telling me so.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mmm.” She was engrossed in her work again.

  Monk entered his office and picked up the envelope. It was the color of lilac and smelled like it too. In a feminine script his name was spelled out on its cover. Hitching a hip onto his desk, he opened the perfumed envelope and removed a similarly hued sheet. In the same feminine script, it read: “My dear Mr. Monk, it is quite possible I shall be in dire need of your services within the next two weeks. Please consider this a formal offer.”

  It was signed Tassia Urbanski. There was no phone number nor address on the note or envelope. He refolded the sheet and placed it on his desk. He dug out the index card Captain Olson had given him and dialed the number for Malik Bradford. After three rings an answering machine came on the line and Monk left a detailed message, including his office and home numbers.

  He checked his watch and left his own note clipped to Urbanski’s for Delilah. He said goodnight to Hendricks and drove over to the Satellite bar on Adams Boulevard. It was a cozy neighborhood kind of place whose mostly black working class patrons included bus drivers, phone operators and Chief auto parts clerks. And it seemed, a school teacher or two.

  His sister Odessa was sitting at a table with Dexter Grant.

  “Please don’t tell me you two have started dating,” Monk said seriously. He kissed his sister on the cheek, and sat at the table.

  “Even pious public school teachers come can come in for a beer now and then at a family watering hole.”

  Grant winked broadly at Monk. “Yeah, you can’t have all the fun.”

  Odessa said, “What’s happening on this case of yours down in Pacific Shores?”

  Monk ordered a beer from a passing waitress. “It’s coming along.”

  “I got news for you, Black Eye,” his sister shot back, “it’s busting out all over.”

  “Huh?”

  “The story was going around my school today about the Shoreline Killer.”

  The beer had come up and stopped midway to his mouth. “What?”

  “Mrs. Waterson, the math teacher lives in Wilmington and she’d heard about it at the market she shops at.”

  “It figures.” The beer made it to his mouth.

  His mentor scratched the side of his chin with a weather-tanned hand. “Now that you don’t have to protect your sister’s delicate sensibilities, why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

  “But first,” Monk said to his sister, “what are you doing here?”

  Odessa answered. “I think that’s none of your business, brother dear. Now what about this serial killer rumor?”

  Monk filled them in on his progress including his spotting of the white-haired man in the fire-engine red Jeep.

  Odessa placed a hand on his arm. “Ivan, this sounds like it could be some kind of Klan thing.”

  A pained look screwed up Grant’s face. “We got to be careful about what we say. That sort of talk starts going around up here in L.A. and we’ll never get the cats back in the bag.”

  “That’s certainly Olson’s take on it, Dex. But if it’s already going around a school in South Central L.A., then how long before everything ratchets up?”

  “But that’s just the point, Ivan,” Grant responded, “if the big media starts sniffing a story, then you can be damn sure the killer will move on.”

  “If it’s a serial killer, he may welcome a game with the authorities,” Odessa observed.

  Monk spread his hands in the air. “So which is it, Odessa? Is he a serial killer who just happens to be playing out a racist fantasy, or is it some kind of supremacist plot?”

  “If it is a serial killer,” Grant began, “then maybe he’ll stick to playing hide and seek with the cops. But there’s plenty of examples of these guys splitting for easier pickings once the temperature heats up.”

  “And thinking more about it, I’m not so sure about the supremacist angle,” Monk said. “So far, there’s nothing to tie the dead-faced man to Scatterboy’s killing, and there’s already been someone else arrested for the second murder.”

  “So you think there’s some other connection between the attempted killing of Henderson and the attack on this Midnight?” Grant had some more beer. “That could mean Bradford’s up to more than he’s let on.”

  As if on cue, a man entered the bar and sauntered over to their table. He was over six feet, broad in the shoulders and wore sharptoed boots. His tight-fitting jeans revealed an athletic build. He bent and kissed Odessa on the mouth.

  “Frank, this is my brother, Ivan.”

  Frank extended a corded hand and shook Monk’s. “Odessa’s mentioned you. I’m pleased we finally meet.” His brown eyes hovered on Monk then went over to Grant.

  “I’m the family’s trusted manservant.” Grant also shook hands with the man.

  “I didn’t realize I’d have to run the gauntlet tonight,” Frank joked.

  Odessa rose from her seat. “I didn’t realize Ivan and Dexter were going to be here either. Let’s get going.” She put on the jacket that had been draped on the back of her chair, then placed a hand on Monk’s shoulder. “Now I know you know how to handle yourself, but don’t do anything foolish.” She kissed him on the forehead, waved goodbye to Grant and left with her date.

  Grant chided, “How old would you say Frank is?”

  Monk was still staring at the door his sister had gone through. “Dude can’t be more than thirty, thirty-one.”

  “Yep.”

  “Shit.” Monk raked down some more beer.

  “Relax. Anyway, you ain’t got much room to talk considering you’re younger than Jill.” Grant guffawed softly.

  “There’s not but a few years difference,” Monk said, pointing at Grant. “Not like this boyfriend who’ll have to take a nap during the day.”

  “He won’t be taking it alone, slick,” Grant needled.

  “Shit,” Monk swore again and ordered another round of beer. “So what brought you to town today?”

  Grant tipped the waitress after she’d set down the fresh brews. “A funeral, Ivan. Father Time come a’knockin.”

  “Somebody from the force.” Monk knew it without stating it.

  A sharp “Yeah” escaped from Grant. “Perry Jakes and me went a long way back, Ivan. Back to the days of Black Mariahs and twenty-cent roast beef sandwiches at Cargo’s on Alameda.

  “He was the first one in the door, the guy at your back going down a blind alley.” Grant trailed off, trying to get his voice under control. “Don’t get
old, Ivan,” he said, looking up. “You gotta keep burying your friends.”

  Monk knocked the rim of his glass against Grant’s. “I’ m going to get you busy, enough of this maudlin jive.”

  Grant smiled faintly, raising his beer to the hand of the specter at the table.

  “Midnight, my main man.”

  He stood there, one hand holding a car stereo unit, the other one around the light cord. He blinked at Monk who was sitting on top of one of the pieces of machinery in the thief’s workshop.

  “Glad you finally made it. Sitting around in this unheated room for two days and these cold nights y’all have out near the ocean here sure isn’t good for my rheumatism.” Grant shifted uncomfortably.

  Midnight ogled the ex-cop, who was resting on a folding chair with a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup in his hand, his legs crossed and his upper body tightly encased in a flannel shirt and an armless parka. “What?” he began and suddenly jerked on the light’s string.

  Darkness enveloped the room but Monk was already on his feet, having anticipated the thief’s action. He bent his body forward, arms extended before him in a sweeping motion. Monk caught Midnight around the lower legs and they both slammed against something solid and heavy. The radio he was holding went skittering across the cement floor like a big metal rat. Grant pulled the light back on. Grabbing the kid around the collar of his leather jacket, the larger man hauled him to his feet.

  “Young brother, we just want to have a few words with you. Okay?” Monk said forcefully, shoving Midnight into the chair Grant had vacated.

  The colorless black man exhaled a lung full of air and pointed a pale hand at the detective. “I know you, you with them other dudes who was down at the sheriff’s station.”

  “I’m not with Bradford and his group. He’s looking to avenge the shooting of his cousin, Jimmy Henderson. I’m the one looking for Scatterboy’s killer.”

  What passed for a sly look slitted Midnight’s lids and he folded his arms. “What kind of reward are they giving to find the guy who hit Scatterboy?”

  Grant hooted, “And I suppose for the right price you’ll tell us what you know.”

  “I might,” Midnight shot back.

  Monk said, “I doubt if you know jack about who killed Scatterboy.”

  Indignantly, Midnight retorted, “If you think that, then what the hell are you doing here?”

  Grant was about to speak but Monk held up his hand and he stopped. “When was Scatterboy killed?”

  “Huh?”

  “What, are the acoustics bad in here?” Monk bellowed. “When was Scatterboy killed?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I’m authorized to share half the reward with you if your information leads me to the murderer.”

  Midnight looked from Monk to Grant, each giving him the poker face. “You’re lying.”

  “Don’t forget, Shadrach, I’m the one who pulled his piece the other night taking shots at the man who tried to cap you.”

  “I’m supposed to be grateful?”

  Monk knew it would be easier for him to scale City Hall with an ice pick. “The sheriff didn’t hold me, did he? We’re in your place, right?”

  Midnight considered the information, looking from Monk to Grant, each one giving him nothing in the way of body language. Finally he said, “How much is the reward?”

  “More than you make selling these tinker toys.” Grant flicked a hand at one of the radios on Midnight’s workbench.

  Midnight rolled his tongue around his closed mouth, poking out his cheek as he did. “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ for free.”

  “But you gotta convince me you know what you’re talking about,” Monk countered.

  Midnight all but stuck out his lip like an obstinate child. A begrudging, “All right,” issued from him softly.

  “What day was Scatterboy killed on?” Grant said.

  “I don’t remember,” he mumbled.

  “What was he killed with?” Monk asked.

  “A gun,” Midnight blurted triumphantly.

  Grant asked him. “What kind?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How many shots?” Monk tested.

  “I wasn’t there, man.” He kicked at the floor.

  “Then you’re just dickin’ us,” Grant said angrily.

  “Yeah,” Monk drawled, “Let’s go call Olson.”

  Midnight stood up furiously, upending the chair as he did. “You two cold-eyed bastards are trying to fuck with me.”

  Monk looked at Grant for mock solace. “I gave him every chance.”

  “Chance my ass,” Midnight started for Monk.

  “Whoa, champ.” Grant said, his well-traveled .38 Police Special popping into his fist. He waved the piece and Midnight righted the chair and sat heavily onto it. His entire frame seemed to sink in on itself as if he were wasting away from the expenditure of energy, his slick moves not fast enough to outdistance fate. “Why don’t you two sorry-assed Amos and Andy leave me the fuck alone.”

  “We like you too much.” Monk patted him on the knee. “Besides, you may know something of value.”

  “Yeah? like what?”

  Monk didn’t have a specific answer, but Grant said. “What did the man in the red jeep say to you before he took a shot?”

  Midnight said nothing.

  “You want me to tell Captain Olson about this Santa’s workshop of yours?” Monk indicated the room.

  A glum, “No,” escaped. Midnight’s lower face clamped together. “I guess you didn’t say anything or he wouldn’t have let me go.”

  “So did the man say something?” Grant reiterated. Monk gave him a questioning look but went along with the flow.

  Midnight rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, then dropped it flaccidly into his lap. “You’re right. I remember I was kissin’ on Jackie, rubbin’ all up on her when we hear the burnin’ rubber. I look up and see this candy red Jeep speedin’ for us.” Midnight talked like a man in a trance, his hands clasped together and his body erect in the chair.

  “Coming closer I’m thinking, ‘aw shit,’ here I am a sittin’ fuckin’ duck and without my rod.”

  “Did you recognize the driver?” Grant said.

  “No. And I’d remember somebody who looked like him.”

  Ignoring the irony, Monk proceeded. “So he’s coming closer.”

  “Yeah, I can tell by the way he’s startin’ to slow up he’s gonna try a drive-by.”

  “Could you tell what kind of gun it was?” Monk asked him.

  Midnight stared straight ahead again, visualizing his close call. “Automatic of some kind. Didn’t really get that good a look ’cause I was tryin’ to pull Jackie off the hood and down to the ground.” In a fast motion Midnight slapped his hands together loudly. “I swear I could see the bullet leavin’ the chamber and feel the wind as it whipped past my head.”

  He paused and looked over his shoulder, possibly looking for the Grim Reaper. “I don’t know why I wasn’t killed.”

  Monk was tempted to say something profound about Midnight being given a second chance in life so that he could do better. Instead, he asked, “What did he say, man?”

  Midnight’s head tilted toward the floor for several moments then he said, “It sounded like he was clearing his throat.”

  Grant inched closer to the young thief. “Think hard.”

  Several moments elapsed. The left side of Midnight’s face bunched itself up in his concentration. “Shit, I never got past intro Spanish in school.”

  Grant declared, “It was Spanish?”

  “No, I just meant I don’t know nothing about words that ain’t American. It wasn’t Spanish, I hear that enough from the eses. The shooter said something like ‘dad, dod’ or something. It was quick, like he was spitting it out from his throat.”

  Monk frowned at Midnight then watched Grant as he advanced before the seated radio booster.

  “Fur die herrlichkeit,” the ex-cop said.

/>   Midnight’s jaw hinged open. “Yeah. I mean I don’t know if those were the exact words but the sound was like you just did, like that.”

  “What did you say, Dex?”

  “I had a hunch if it was a neo-nazi type he’d be versed in National Socialist history. I imagine our friend might have said something like, ‘Fur die herrlichkeit und die ehre.’ For glory and honor.” Grant translated. “It was one of the slogans used by German foot soldiers during the war. Something they might say over drinks before a bloody campaign.”

  Chapter 10

  Kodama’s short-nailed fingers rubbed Monk’s close-cropped hair. Her back arched as she lay on the kitchen table, moaning with pleasure. She pushed on the rear of his head, the muscles in her upper thighs tightening.

  After a fashion, Monk, wearing only a shirt, rose from where he’d been kneeling between her spread legs. He leaned his perspiring form over hers and Kodama latched onto him, pressing her clothed body against his. “Hey, baby,” he rushed out heavily. He started nibbling on her neck.

  Kodama fondled him and whispered, “Come on, Ivan.”

  Monk pushed up her skirt and entered her. Kodama wrapped her feet around his back, the shirt wet from perspiration. “Naima” on vinyl by John Coltrane throbbed even through the scratches with a low, strong intensity from the beat-up but dependable stereo. Their own sounds blended with Coltrane’s sax as the master bore notes into the timeless ether.

  “Thank you,” Monk said after Kodama handed him a glass of pineapple juice. He took a drink and put the tumbler on his nightstand where a candle burned, spiked in a hunched-over gargoyle of patinaed iron. Monk watched Kodama get in on the other side of the bed. She eased toward him and they kissed for a while.

  “That was quite something tonight,” she enthused, running her hand through his pubic hair. “Not that I’m complaining, but what brought all that on?”

  Monk feigned indignation to mask any guilt he might display from his escapade with Gloria in the bar. “I’m not sure where you’re going with that line of questioning, your honor. I believe you were the one showing up on my doorstep at eleven-thirty tonight. Dressed seductively in your Sag Harbor matching coat and skirt.”