“Yes,” Carson repeated. “We only knew Mr. Spears from seeing him around here.” He flicked his long fingers at the ceiling, as if seeking to pull descriptions from the stratosphere. “Can’t say I know anything about his family or where he lived. Sorry.”
“That true for you gentlemen, too?” she asked, swiveling her head and upper body to address the others.
“Yep,” Kelvon Little corroborated. “He’s been coming here ‘bout eight years, and this was the first time I knew he’d played in the Negro Leagues.”
“He must live around here,” Patterson concluded. “He always was on foot.”
The woman had already closed her clipboard carrier and had retrieved her small plastic case of medical supplies.
“Take this if you need us for anything else.” Monk handed her a business card. “Where will Spears’ body be?”
She glanced at the card and was putting it in a pocket of her overalls when she looked at it again. She read it carefully as she talked. “California Hospital on Grand. At least for tonight. We’ll try to contact a family member or relative, of course.” The woman exited, climbed behind the wheel of the ambulance, and sped off.
Monk, crowding with the others in the doorway, made a note of the vehicle, a Med-Trans van. As one, the quartet went back into the shop.
“They ain’t gonna be able to find any relatives, are they?” Carson twisted his bottom lip, fixing Monk with a snide glare.
“My mother’s an RN, Abe. I know all about how wallets and keys disappear from hospital bedsides.” He lifted the wallet to eye level. “And don’t tell me you’re not curious like I am about Spears.” What had he meant about Malachi?
“Yeah, and it shouldn’t be strangers goin’ through his stuff anyway,” Brant rationalized.
“I suppose,” Carson amended. Little indicated for him to get back in the barber chair. The contractor did so. “So Monk, did the old man have a driver’s license?” Brant wanted to know.
“We’ll see.” He had the thin wallet open and was going through its contents. There was $23 in cash, no ATM card, a Kaiser card, a two-jumbo-jacks-for-99¢ coupon, no credit cards, an NAACP lifetime membership card, some loose receipts, and no driver’s license. “That’s it,” Monk announced, looking up. He was seated and Patterson and Brant stood near him.
“His social security number’s on the Kaiser card,” Brant stated. “I belong, too.”
Monk read the number on the medical card. It began with 4-2-6, and the letter A came after the nine digits.
“That means,” Brant said, poking the letter with his finger, “he worked for the railroad.”
Patterson took the Kool out of his mouth and pointed with it. “You sure about that, Willie?”
Offended, Brant merely bugged his eyes at Patterson.
“And these first three numbers of his social security ID indicate Mississippi,” Monk noted.
“Ain’t you the Simon Templar,” Patterson flattered him.
“His first name was Marshall, and his middle name was Adam,” Brant announced, tapping the Kaiser card in Monk’s hand.
“But what about where he lived?” Little snipped at the back of Carson’s head with a pair of his long scissors, finishing the haircut.
“You would bring that up,” Monk fretted. He went through the receipts. There was a recent one from the Ralph’s Market not too far away on 52nd and Main, one from Gadberry’s Bar-B-Que on Broadway near Slauson—did he walk or did he ride?—a couple from liquor stores for chips and sodas, and a large rectangular NCR receipt from Lordain’s Hardware folded in four.
“You know this place, don’t you?” Monk stood close to Carson, extending the receipt.
“Sure. I trade there all the time.” He was also standing, and he began to brush loose hairs from his pant legs with his large hands.
“Then you two ought to get on your horses and find out where the old man lived.” Brant also came over.
Carson shrugged a shoulder and Monk nodded. “I’ll drive. Can I go in front of Johnny for my haircut?”
“Ain’t you on a mission, man?” His cigarette tilted sideways as he grinned.
“Gotta look clean, baby.”
Monk was allowed to bump the others, and soon he and Carson were in his cherry ’64 Ford driving over to Lordain’s Hardware. The business was on Main Street in the 6700 block. The building it was housed in also contained a furniture store and a chrome-plating service on the ground level. In its second story were the cursory ghetto apartments that were hot and sticky in the summer, and inadequately heated in the surprisingly cold Los Angeles winters. Yellowed curtains blew from weathered sashes and Monk could hear Nortena music over an infant’s cry coming from one of the windows.
“You should do the talking, Abe,” Monk said as they entered Lordain’s.
“Yep,” he responded. “One of these fellas ought to know Spears.”
The two were near a collection of rakes whose tines stood ready in industrial green and glossy black. Off to the side from the rakes was a row of shelving containing bins of nails, hooks, wood screws, carriage bolts and the like. Opposite that row was a stand-alone counter where a heavyset man in a striped shirt was measuring a piece of glass. On the owner’s side of the counter, an older man sipped coffee noisily despite the heat.
“See, it’s off by a quarter of an inch,” the man in the striped shirt growled.
“That was made ’cordin’ to the measurements you gave us, Blass.”
“It’s a quarter inch off.”
The other man produced a small piece of paper from underneath the counter. “You tell me.”
Blass picked up the paper and scrutinized it for too long, like he was working out his best excuse. “Well, you can see this here is a three, not an eight.” Even he didn’t sound like he believed what he was saying.
“That’s an eight,” the other man said, enjoying his coffee. He acknowledged Carson’s presence. “Tell you what, Blass, I’ll charge you half for that glass and you pay me cost for the other’n.”
The lower part of Blass’ face contorted and he leaned heavily on the counter. He looked as if he were going to get into it, then gave himself an out. He made a production of looking at his wristwatch and sighing. “All right, Price,” he said, shifting his weight on tiny feet. “What can I do, I’ve got to get this pane in.”
Price gave Carson a dry look and took the pane into the back. He returned momentarily. “It’ll be out in a minute, brother Blass.” He sipped and said over the rim of his cup, “What’s on your plate for today, Abe?”
Carson put a hand on Monk’s shoulder. “This is Ivan Monk, Price. He’s that detective I’ve mentioned now and then.”
“Pleasure,” Monk said, returning the other man’s assertive handshake.
“Same here.”
“Without getting into a whole to-do, we’re trying to find out where one of your customers lives.” Carson was careful to use the present tense.
“He steal some drywall from you, Abe?” Price asked half seriously.
“Nothing like that,” Carson replied. “His name is Spears, and he was in here”—Carson took out the receipt—“day before yesterday. He bought some Clear-All and a whisk broom.”
“What does he look like, Abe? A lot of folks come here to buy the real stuff once they find out that advertised shit can’t unclog nothing. Now how in the hell anyone expects people to get a drain backed up with that conk, wave, Jheri Juice, straightener, and what all men and women be putting on their hair with that weak-ass gel crap they sell them dupes, is beyond me. ’Course, if people just used some plain ol’ Ivory Soap and a spot of Brill Cream, then they wouldn’t be having such problems.” He touched his fingers to the side of his receding hairline.
Monk was hoping Carson could get Price back on the subject.
“That might cut down on your business, Price,” a new voice said. He was an older man, and he walked slowly through a doorway leading from an area where the sign EMPLOYEES ONLY was t
acked overhead. He had on matching green khaki shirt and pants, and there was a white handkerchief protruding from one of his back pockets. He was above medium height, and his graying hair had a reddish hue at its roots.
“Least I got some people who come in here to buy something now and then, Dellums,” Price responded.
“I bring in new customers, man.” Dellums stopped at the counter and leaned against a fly-fishing decal. “How you gentlemen doing today? Now who you say you were looking for?”
“Why don’t you go on back there and finish counting the bags of peat moss like I asked you?” Price folded bony arms.
“Thirty-seven, Price. I told you it was around that ’fore you had me count them ’cause I knew how much was unloaded last week. And I knew roughly how many bags had been sold since then.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t got no place to be ’cept here.” Price picked at the space between his teeth with the edge of a matchbook cover.
“Mr. Dellums,” Monk started, we’re trying to find out where Mr. Marshall Spears lived.” He purposely used the past tense reference. “He was about this tall”—Monk leveled a hand two inches below the top of his own head—“dark complexion, had a scar on the right side of his nose. He wore suspenders, the button-on kind, not clip-ons. He—”
“I know who Spears is, mister,” Dellums interjected. “He lives up the block from me on Stanford.”
A middle-aged woman in a jean skirt entered, and Price moved from around the counter to assist her.
Dellums regarded Monk and Carson with a fixed interest. “I’ve seen you in here a time or two,” he shook a finger at Carson. “How come y’all’re looking for Marshall?”
Monk and Carson exchanged a feeble look and Carson spoke. “He just died, wasn’t an hour ago it happened in the barber shop me and him go to.”
Dellums lowered his head and shook it from side to side. “Son of a gun, son of a gun,” he repeated, then blew his nose on his handkerchief.
“We’re sorry to tell you like this, Mr. Dellums,” Monk offered quietly. “Do you know if he had any family? Anybody we should call to let them know what’s happened?”
The older man took out a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from a breast pocket. He didn’t put them on, but handled them like prayer beads as he spoke. “There’s one family member, I think. But I don’t know how to contact her. We weren’t the best of friends, you understand, but I’ve known him for quite a while, I guess you could say.”
“Did you know he played in the Negro Leagues?” Monk asked, aware he was digressing, yet eager to know something more about Spears.
“Oh yeah,” Dellums beamed, “he was very proud of his scrapbook.” The old man composed himself and put the glasses back in his pocket. “If you want, I can show you where he lived.”
The trio got to the duplex on Stanford in the 5300 block in less than ten minutes. Like a lot of Los Angeles’ plaster-and-wood duplexes, it had a square front and was long down the sides. Running below the roof line was a wide arabesque of acanthus scrolls and swags. The building’s only other nod to style were the doors, which were rounded on the top and recessed in the doorways. The small overgrown lawn was choked with alligator weeds and was bifurcated by a segmented walkway. A looming maple tree took up most of the space on the left area of grass, and there was a child’s wagon upended on the right-hand side. A high shrub ran perpendicular to the duplex on one side, separating the place from a two-story house.
“He lived in that one,” Dellums pointed at a black security screen on the right side of the common porch.
“Ain’t there something about using a dead man’s keys?” Carson mumbled.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Abe,” Monk chided. He got the security door open on his second try and then got them through the inner door. The room beyond was spacious, and light came in through the clean front windows. There was a couch underneath the windows, and two mismatched end tables in opposite corners. An ancient floor lamp in a third corner had a crooked shade perched on it at an angle. There was a coffee table with a scarred top in front of the couch. A copy of a recent Ebony lay open upon its surface.
Spears’ apartment looked comfortable. It was a home waiting for its occupant to return. Monk knew the other two felt as uneasy as he did as they stood there, uncertain of what to do next.
“Let’s close the door at least,” Carson said. “Just our luck the cops will roll by and we’d have a hell of a thing to explain.”
Dellums eased the door shut. “I been in here plenty of times, but it feels funny now.”
“I’m sure,” Monk said. “But we should try to find a number for a relative if we can.”
An open archway let into a dining room with a built-in sideboard and drawers. To the left of the sideboard was a doorway presumably leading to the bathroom and back bedroom. On the sideboard were a stack of magazines. The dining room also contained a drop-leaf table in the center that had four chairs placed around it. Two of the chairs matched. In one of the walls of that room, there was another open archway.
Carson peered at a poster taped to the wall near him. “What’s with this?”
“Yeah, he got that the other week,” Dellums said.
The poster depicted an attractive black woman with streaming bejeweled braids in a tight, short skirt, her legs wrapped around a giant can of a malt liquor. It was a brand sold exclusively east of La Brea, in the ’hood, the ghetto delight of eight-ballers and shot-callers.
“She’s the relative I mentioned,” Dellums illuminated. “That’s why he put it up.”
“You got a name for her?” Monk inquired, anxious to look around and get out.
“Well,” Dellums mused, scratching at his chest. “I met her over here once, and he’s mentioned her name a couple of three times and all.”
Monk squinted at Carson as the old fella worked up to giving them a complete answer.
“See, he called her name, but it wasn’t normal. It was like, oh, you know that tall black-haired woman who’s Italian or something? She goes by one name like that singer, the one who plays in movies. Always dressing kinda loose, even though she must be over fifty by now.”
Carson grinned and said, “I’m going to start looking around.” He walked toward the sideboard, leaving Monk to play Jeopardy! with Dellums.
“You mean like Madonna or Cher?” Monk hazarded.
“Right,” Dellums snapped his fingers. “This child got a name like that. Yeah, she’s some kind of Hollywood model.”
“Maybe we’ll find a phone book,” Monk said, touching the old man’s arm as he moved past him.
In one of the drawers Monk found several paper bags folded over and kept shut with rubber bands. The bags each contained a wealth of receipts from the grocery store, drugstore, and so on. There didn’t seem to be any particular order by dates, as the receipts went back past the last two decades.
Monk crouched down to a lower drawer under the yellow-and-white tile counter. A throb lanced his lower leg, and he winced, sinking to a knee. It had been more than nine months since he’d been shot in the Rancho Tajuata Housing Projects. A burst of high-velocity slugs had shattered part of his tibia and his leg had required reconstructive surgery. The case had started with the firebombing murder of several members of an immigrant family, and ended with him and Lt. Marasco Seguin of the LAPD fighting for their lives in an abandoned part of the projects.
He was in good condition for a man his age, and had healed satisfactorily. But, as the doctor indicated, the two areas on his torso from previous gun wounds years earlier, and a calcified lump behind his ear from one beating or another, there was a cumulative effect of violence to the body. Pro football and hockey players, boxers with their dementia pugilistica, and street fighters after enough brawls, suffered such effects. There was only so much resiliency to the flesh, the doctor had warned Monk. The older you got, the more knocks you took, it added up. And there were the psychological ramifications, too.
Monk focused and got the drawer open and looked through its contents.
“Spears had more receipts in this drawer, too.” Carson held up several more packets where he leaned over the sideboard. He turned and straightened. “Why in the hell did he keep all these? I keep mine for taxes, but I bunch them by year. And I sure don’t have them going back all those years like he’s got. And some are from out of state.”
“What if he got audited once and swore it wouldn’t happen to him again?” Monk was looking through more drawers in the kitchen, occasionally massaging his lower leg.
“Mr. Dellums, any idea on that?” Carson asked.
Dellums was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, watching the two intrude in his friend’s home. “Not a one, really. Marshall wasn’t the most talkative of sorts.”
“That’s for damn sure,” Monk said. “Did Mr. Spears work for the railroad?” he asked Dellums, stepping into the dining room.
“Yes, but me and him mostly talked about baseball, Doan’s pills, and argued about what was the best way to change a sink trap.” A rueful look crossed the old man’s face, the significance of the loss of his companion coming on him in increments, deepening his melancholy.
“We’ll find something,” Monk said, trying for a reassuring tone.
Back in the kitchen, in a drawer underneath the counter he found some tools, a potholder and electrical tape. No phone book. He looked about and spotted a phone attached to the wall in the breakfast nook. Scribbled on the wall next to the phone were several telephone numbers. Monk got a piece of paper and recorded the numbers.
“Hey, anybody look in the closet?”
“Not yet,” Carson replied to Dellums.
“I think that’s where he kept one of his scrapbooks.” The older man crossed to a closet along the northern wall of the dining room. He opened the door, revealing a compact cubicle.
Two suits and several white shirts hung on a wooden rod spanning the length of the small space. On a shelf above the clothes was a large cardboard box. A green BEKINS logo was stenciled on its side.
Only the Wicked Page 2
