Perdition, U.S.A.

by Gary Phillips

  “We should play him out.”

  Grant put the cup to his lips. “Absolutely. But why don’t you reconnoiter this cat, and I’ll take up the slack on the other leads.”

  Monk was going to protest but he welcomed an out. Blowing his cover was the least of his worries if he had to face more polarized sentiments. “Fine.”

  The older man calmly drank his coffee.

  Pink Sands was a mobile home park in the town of Belmont, a compact municipality lying between Long Beach and Seal Beach. In the past the small city had been home to first- and second-generation Armenians and Italians who were middlemen in the cottonseed oil, olive oil, apricot, walnut, fig and date trades. But Grant hadn’t been there for more than a dozen years and all the homegrown wholesalers had been bought out, or driven out, by the large-scale agri-conglomerates in their ceaseless quest for greater profit and less competition.

  He knocked on the door. A little more than halfway up, a wrought iron grill protected a small inset window. Over that was fixed a miniature plastic cow’s skull. A female voice issued from the intercom.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “My name is Thomas Hillard, ma’am, we’re conducting a survey about whether people think crime is down with three strikes on the books.” Grant was dressed casually in a pair of creme-colored creased Dockers, a tan pair of Nunn Bush, blue shirt with thin white strips, and a Donegal tweed bronze-hued sport coat.

  What might have been a snort escaped from the intercom’s speaker. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I have my documentation,” Grant enthused. They were some papers he’d asked a former forger he knew to doctor for his and Monk’s cover story. “This won’t take too long,” he assured the voice.

  “Hold on.”

  Momentarily the window behind the bars swung inward. “Let me see,” the woman on the other side said.

  Grant complied.

  The larger door swung inward to a crack on double chains. Half of the face of a large, but solid woman in her late fifties could be discerned through the fissure. She was handsome with liquid green eyes and her blondish white hair was cut close but full in the back. “Mind if I see some other ID than just a bunch of papers on a clipboard?”

  “Of course.” Grant offered her the fake business card and a paper that supposedly detailed the nature of the study. It was on a letterhead of a famous university in the Westwood section of Los Angeles.

  She examined these, then said, “If that goddamn school is doing this, then I know it’s going to be some kind of liberal bullshit.” She looked up from the paper to Grant’s unfazed countenance. “I bet some politically correct psychologist is overseeing the project, and I bet his name ends in ‘berg’ or a vowel.” She handed the papers back to Grant.

  “I’m here to tell you, ma’am, that—”

  She cut him off, “You didn’t pick me by random.” The face leaned closer, the mouth taking on a coarse quality. “I bet you know my husband died from injuries he got in a mugging last year.”

  Grant went for the gusto. “Yes, that’s so. We have been combing records such as yours, Mrs. Vickers. But only so that victims, and their families, can be heard from.”

  She considered that, then the door was pushed toward the jamb. The chain was released and she opened the portal to let him in. “Okay, Mr. Hillard, I’ll give you five minutes.” She pointed a blunt finger at him. “But I damned sure want a copy of this thing when it comes out.”

  “Of course.” Grant stepped inside. A tasteful southwestern motif marked the decor. The place was appointed in Navajo-style rugs, straight-backed chairs stained with dark varnish, unglazed thrown pots and vases, and several Georgia O’ Keefe and Fritz Scholder prints framed on the walls.

  Mrs. Vickers was dressed in an oversized purple top, black Spandex pants, and espadrilles. They sat at a glass table with wrought iron legs under a halogen lamp suspended from the ceiling. Grant angled his clipboard with the printed questions on it so she could take her time reading them.

  “How’d you know today was my half day?” the woman asked.

  “I’d been by before. I interviewed a Mr. Ramos at his job over at the tool and die on Keller.” Which was the first one hundred percent true statement he’d made to her so far.

  She read through the questions on his clipboard, flipped through to the second page, then shoved the thing aside. “Besides telling you that I’m still hurting from the fact the cops have never found a lead to my husband’s killer, what can I say new?” There was no emotion on the surface of her delivery, just a practiced cadence that masked the deeper feeling.

  Grant consulted his personal notebook, even though he knew the details he wanted to pursue. “From what we gleaned from the article in the Press-Telegram, it seems your husband, while in the hospital, identified his attacker as a young black man.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Well, how do you and the other members of the family feel about the police and their inability to catch the killer?”

  A wary twinge turned a corner of her mouth. “How do you mean?”

  Grant pretended like he was still referring to his notes. “According to the article, you also have a son in his early twenties.”

  “He doesn’t live here.” The twinge returned.

  The ex-cop pulled the clipboard to him. “I don’t want to get into areas you don’t want to discuss, Mrs. Vickers. I really do know something of what you’ve been through.” That too was another truth.

  She inspected his worn country-mile of a face, the etched lines of experience, and the slate grey eyes that hid secrets personal and political. “Alice,” she said after a pause. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “That’d be fine, Alice.”

  They talked about the incident and the days and weeks following the attack. How at first her husband seemed to be on the mend, but then inextricably wore out, all his life-force leaving him in a burst, and then he was gone. They talked about crime and how she was bitter against the assailant, but that she didn’t condemn all blacks because of it. Over the second cup, the widow pointed out it was a black woman at work, herself the victim of a street mugging, who helped her get through the rough period.

  But when Grant tried to steer the conversation toward her son, she subtly swerved it away from him. The most she’d reveal was that he was around when the father had been hurt, but was now somewhere else. He didn’t push it and thanked her for her time.

  She shook his hand warmly and Grant left the Pink Palms court as a light fog slid off the ocean and began to entangle itself along the land. He rendezvoused with Monk at his stakeout location on a hill overlooking Wayne Edison’s house amid a series of ranch homes in Seal Beach.

  “How was your day, honey?” Grant said, knowing how much Monk detested surveillance duty. He eased his form into the passenger seat of the rented sedan.

  “Stunning. Subject Edison went to the union hall in West Hollywood this morning where he hung around for about an hour and a half. He then took lunch with a dyed blonde in a butt-hugging micro mini at a joint called the Narrow Margin on Oakhurst. Afterward, they went back to her place and, I presume, played hide the salami until a little past two in the afternoon.”

  “My, how blasé you’ve become,” Grant needled. “Was Charles McGraw running the cafe?”

  Monk ignored the comment. “After that, subject Edison drove around, eventually stopping at Aaron Records on Highland for about an hour. Then, on this side of town, he went to a hardware store that sells ammunition.”

  Grant filled him in on his activities. “So what do you think?”

  “Shadow the widow, find out where she plays bid whist or hangs out with the girls on Fridays. And of course you just happen to run into her.” Monk leered at him. “Crank up the charm, you salty dog, and see if you can’t get a picture of the son.”

  “What about backup for your lookout on Edison?”

  Monk pointed his thumb at the sound of tires crunching on the gr
avel laying across the shoulder of the hillock. “He’s here.”

  Momentarily the back door of the sedan opened and a man it took Grant some time to recognize slid in behind Monk. “You remember Alphonse?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Grant mumbled. The last time he’d seen Alphonse it had been in a purple-hooded sweat top and the expensive Air Jordans favored by the members of the Rolling Daltons street gang. Going then by the sobriquet, “Mad-T,” he was working with other gang members trying to install a truce among various chiefdoms.

  “Gents, what it be?” The young man was dressed all in white: jeans, sweat shirt and tennis shoes.

  Monk said to Grant, “Given brother Alphonse’s daring at eluding the FBI in a previous episode—”

  “And the cash you said you’d lay on me,” the young man interjected.

  “I thought who better to take up the slack in the wee hours.”

  “Your protégé?” Grant inquired, not disinterestedly.

  “Just hiring out for a few nights, pops,” Alphonse chimed in.

  Grant’s head tilted toward the ceiling liner. “Pops indeed.”

  Chapter 16

  “Hey, oh damn, I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  In that unmistakable gait of his, Grant got off the bar stool in the bowling alley and came over to them.

  “How you doing … Alice, right?”

  “Yes.” She stuck out a hand which had turquoise and silver rings on the middle and little fingers.

  He hadn’t noticed the rings when he’d been at her place. Maybe she wore them only when she went out. She was dressed in jeans and a loose heavy cotton shirt. Large spangled earrings were set along the side of her rouged face.

  Grant, also dressed in jeans and a worn work shirt, pumped her hand in return.

  “Are you still conducting your survey?” she said.

  “Finishing up in this area.”

  “Oh, let me introduce you to my friends.”

  She did and Grant saluted with the bottle of beer held in his hand. “I don’t want to break up your game, but if you have time afterward, how about a cup of coffee?”

  One of the women, a middle-aged looker named Connie in green eyeshadow and hair lacquered like the tail fin of a ’57 Chevy Bel Air, meowed playfully.

  Vickers gave her a smoldering look. “Sure. We’ll be done in about an hour or so. You’re welcome to stay and watch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks, my ass,” the long-haired grip hissed at the assistant director.

  They were standing in the middle of an abandoned building east of downtown Los Angeles, shooting a scene in a TV series about an undercover detective who solved his cases through prescience flashes from the bad guy’s thoughts. It was the second day of filming in the cavernous space. Lights, cables, a dolly track and several other paraphernalia of image-making abounded.

  The star was sitting in a chair, going over his lines and the guest star, a veteran actor Monk remembered from several caper films of the ’70s, circled about nervously in a corner.

  Monk, resplendent in soiled clothing and a tattered watchcap, milled about with other extras—actual homeless men recruited out of a shelter on Towne and 2nd. Two days ago he’d followed Edison down to this building. Taking a chance on being spotted, Monk had crept to the rear and, using a heavy screwdriver, pried off a wood panel tacked over a former window.

  He’d sneaked inside and spied on the special effects man as he was making a rough layout of the interior. Monk had overheard Edison and the assistant director, the same one presently arguing with the grip, making small talk.

  The A.D. mentioned he’d lined up some men from the Lighthouse Men’s Shelter for today’s filming. Monk had paid one of the men double what he would have made and took his place when the crew rounded them up shortly after seven this morning.

  Their heated discussion over, the grip hitched his equipment belt and wandered off. Edison had been busy outside but had returned and was rigging up the effects for a bazooka shell exploding. The plot of this particular episode involved a renegade Venezuelan general using ex-Salvadoran death squad members to set up rackets in Pico Union.

  The TV company got its scenes, including a successful explosion replete with bursting windows and rivers of flame. Around six-thirty in the evening, the extras were paid and offered rides back to the shelter. Monk made himself scarce. The crew had parked their cars behind the building but Monk had failed to locate Edison’s blue Toyota Land Cruiser.

  “Shit,” he blurted and ran around the corner toward the front. The men from the shelter were boarding a shuttle van like the one that had brought them that morning. Monk caught his breath as a bright red Jeep slowly glided along the street, heading in the direction of the shuttle.

  Monk clawed at the small .38, the hidden hammer model, strapped to his ankle. All feeling in his heart ceased, and crazily he imagined the Shoreline Killer opening up on the van of homeless men, many of whom were black and not yet forty.

  Edison detached himself from the huddle of people as the red Jeep pulled in behind the van. The dyed blonde was at the wheel and Edison got in beside her, holding a small tool box. The vehicle got back into traffic, and took off north along Alameda, the woman’s hair billowing behind her like frayed tinsel.

  Monk raced across the street to the rental he’d parked in a lot before walking back to the shelter. The A.D. gaped at him as he accelerated after the red Jeep.

  The car pulled into the driveway, and the lights went dead.

  Grant got out of the driver’s side and was a little surprised that Vickers hadn’t opened her door. Old-fashioned. He moved around and opened it for her.

  “Want to come in for a drink?”

  She stood close to him. She smelled good and Grant had to fight an urge to put his arm around her and pull her closer. Some guy with a hoarse whisper for a voice said, “Yes.”

  He followed her to the door, mesmerized by the deliberate swing of her ample, shapely hips. A feeling he hadn’t had since the Bradley Administration ached in his gut and touched off nerves laced with nuclear current through his legs. As she put the key in the lock, Grant came up behind her, pressing his body very close, placing his hands on either side of the firm buttocks.

  She reached a hand up and caressed the side of his face.

  Vickers turned her head and kissed him. “I don’t know about you, big fella, but I’d sure like to get you into bed right about now.” Her face reddened and she amended, “I’m not a tramp, mind you. But I haven’t had the pleasure of a man’s company since, well—”

  A melancholy overtook her as her words trailed off. Grant felt a keen disappointment. “Look, I understand, Alice, I’ll just say goodnight.”

  He made like he was going to leave then suddenly swung his legs to the left, out of the Jeep. Edison grinned elfishly at his girlfriend and stepped to the curb. A youngish black man and an even younger girl, Southeast Asian from the look of her, stood on the street. The blonde tapped her long nails on the steering wheel to the music of a Billy Joel tape. She watched Edison and the couple as she sat in the idling Jeep.

  From his vantage point in the rented car, Monk took all this in. The black kid dipped into his sweat top’s bulging pocket and produced something his hand was wrapped around. The young Asian woman was the lookout, but even from where he sat, Monk could tell she was too loaded to be very effective. Edison passed money to the black kid, and took possession of the probable narcotic.

  The special effects man got into the Jeep and the blonde popped the vehicle into gear and took off. The other couple began to saunter down the deserted industrial street, toward Monk. He remained still. The couple got closer and the Jeep came back around the far corner, heading in their direction. They heard it, stopped, and turned around. Monk got out of the car, the young woman glancing at him glassy-eyed. She plucked on her boyfriend’s sleeve.

  The .38 was in Monk’s hand, down by his side. The Jeep kept coming. The young black man was watching the
Jeep, the woman had locked on Monk. Running up, he too was fixed on the oncoming vehicle and the right arm of Wayne Edison which had begun to extend from the Jeep. Monk brought his pistol perpendicular to his body, sucking in a small amount of air to steady his shot like his dad had taught him.

  “Shoot it, baby, shoot it,” Alice Vickers moaned in Grant’s ear.

  Grant moaned loudly and felt a hot flush as he reached a climax. “Jesus,” he panted between breaths.

  Vickers pressed her mouth to his as she climbed off of him, snuggling close. In the corner, a single candle threw off a soft glow.

  The room itself was in direct contrast to the masculine quality of the rest of the house. It was done in soft lavenders and pastel greens with a pattern of blue and yellow cornflowers on the wallpaper. There was an armoire of some sepia wood and a large throw rug woven in a jacquard design. The curtains over the windows were imprinted in an Art Nouveau pattern. She gazed at the ceiling, her hand lightly touching her left breast. “That was nice, thank you,” she intoned.

  A bit disoriented, Grant said, “No. Thank you. I think that’s the first time I’ve used my prostate in seven years.”

  “I doubt that.” She kissed him again, sliding her hand over his silver-haired chest and stomach. Grant’s hand rubbed her buttocks and she entwined herself around his legs.

  This went on until the two of them began to drift off to sleep. “I wonder how my number one son is doing,” he snickered to himself.

  “What?”

  “Open the box real slow, dig?”

  The five of them were arrayed on the darkened section of Wilmington like mismatched chess pieces, their bodies frozen against a lengthening silence. The long neck of a cargo crane jutted in black relief against the heavy gloom on a nearby lot. Monk’s .38 was inches from Wayne Edison’s twitching nose.

  The couple who’d sold him the crack were off to one side, the young man’s arm tight around the waist of the girl. She talked in a low voice to the man, and he in turn tried to comfort her, all the while keeping an eye on Monk. The blonde, wide-eyed, her chest heaving like she was trying out for the lead of Scarlett III, sat perfectly still in the Jeep’s driver seat.