Only the Wicked

by Gary Phillips

  “Yes, thank you,” the old ballplayer said. “She was a terrific woman. I want you to meet this young man, here. He’s a cousin of mine on my mother’s side of the family.” He extended an arm like a maitre d’. “This is Ivan Monk.”

  “Ma’am.” He shook her hand with its set of long, fresh-crimson nails.

  She shook a finger at him. “I’ve heard of you. Or read about you, I should say. You’re some kind of detective, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh, private.”

  His cousin and Dellums opened their mouths in mild shock. “Just like Jim Brown in them Slaughter movies?” Dellums exclaimed.

  Monk grimaced. “Not really. It’s much more ordinary than that. I can’t be blasting at people in restaurants and airports like big Jim does in his flicks.”

  “You carry a rod?” Cedras asked.

  “I have a permit, yes.”

  “I’ll be goddamned twice today,” the one-time catcher said. “Got us a hawkshaw and the one white man who’s been better to me than some of my own.” He clapped Monk on the back, and looked at the one they called Ardmore. “Come on, let me buy you fellas a drink.” And he led the way to the Old Grand Dad, the Gentleman Jack having been exhausted.

  Three belts of bourbon and numerous tales of days past later, Monk was leading his cousin and Mr. Dellums out of the Abyssinia Barber Shop and Shine Parlor.

  “Both you fellas got nice wheels,” Dellums exclaimed. He was walking with the careful exaggeration of a man who’d been bedridden for months, the use of his legs having suddenly returned. He put one foot assiduously in front of the other.

  Monk ambled over to the 1958 Chevy Bel Air ragtop coupe parked a car down from his Ford. The classic was bronze-colored with silver-and-white trim, the leatherette seats the hue of dried oxblood. Ardmore and Clara Antony were exiting the shop too, heading toward the finely redone ’50s Detroit iron.

  The portly man had been the owner of the Nile, a jazz and supper club on Slauson near Towne Avenue back in the day. The Nile had opened in the waning days of club life along Central Avenue, the Stem, in the mid-’fifties. Monk, had learned this from his cousin and the other ex-ballplayers conversations over the past few hours.

  The Nile’s line-up of talent had represented the next phase of jazz. The mid-’fifties gave birth to the hard driving, be-bop era as exemplified by the warriors of cool such as Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie, and L.A. natives Dexter Gordon, Eric Dolphy, William “Budd” Collette and near-native Charles Mingus, born in Nogales, Arizona—but raised in Watts, California. Their tunes permeated the scene of clubs and records, and seeped under the skin of hipsters and squares. This jittery pulse was a reflection and a response to the oppressive Red Scare, and the stuffiness of Jim Anderson, the model patriarch of TV’s Father Knows Best. But ol’ Jim had one thing going for him: He was all reet in his snap-brim hat. And it was this insurance man’s chapeau the jazz cats and beats would appropriate to wear on their wigged-out heads as they jammed or lolled in other night spots besides the Nile, like the Gas House in Venice or the original Parisian Room on La Brea and Washington.

  The ’fifties was a time when you had to work to show you weren’t a fan of Uncle Joe Stalin. One way to prove you weren’t a pinko was to rat out a pal so you could keep your public teacher gig or get your name taken off The List. And it was in this environment that the wail of these jazz messengers could be heard, a signal that things were gonna change.

  These cats were telling in their music, but few were listening, that they were part of a people that expected allegiance from the government and the people down south and up north, not to loyalty oaths worth their weight in toilet paper, but to a piece of paper with some real weight called the Constitution. That being a good American wasn’t about denouncing your fellows to political poseurs like Tricky Dick Nixon and closet gay bully Roy Cohen, but upholding ideals like equality and fairness.

  As these jazz players came of age in that time, it was no surprise that mid- to late-’fifties Jazz would blow the stanzas of the freedom suite. Collette and Mingus would integrate their musicians’ local in Hollywood. The music had an edge, and the Nile was one of the venues where one could come and commune with the masters who laid it all out in tumbling, preening notes and innovative musical annotations.

  Monk halted his ruminations, paying attention to Ardmore Antony, who was talking to his cousin. Clara Antony had the passenger door open to the Chevy, starting to get in the seat.

  “You and your cousin tight?” she asked Monk abruptly, stopping midway into the car.

  “Fact is, I haven’t seen or heard from him since I was a kid.”

  She considered his words, then sat heavily in the Bel Air. Monk closed the door for her.

  “But you know about him, right?” she asked, rolling down the window. She rested her head on the back of the seat. She removed her hat and fanned her face, which was warm from the booze.

  Her tone told him she wasn’t talking about baseball. He was about to inquire further when her husband and Kennesaw Riles wandered over.

  “We got to talk, you know what I mean?” Riles slapped a large hand on the Bel Air’s fender. He leaned in to the car on his cane as if a harsh wind had suddenly whipped down from the San Gabriels. “I want to tell my side.” The older man was staring at Clara Antony, and she was making an effort not to return the look. “I need to,” Riles pleaded.

  The fat man stood on the driver’s side of the car. “We’ll talk, Kennesaw, really, we’ll talk. Now don’t forget, I gave you my card.” He pointed at Riles’ breast pocket. “I’ve got a concert coming up at the Olympic next month I want to give you tickets for, all right?” The round man squinted at something that wasn’t sunlight. “I know where you’ve been, Kennesaw.” Antony got in the car and ignited the fine-tuned engine.

  “I think he said his office was in the Dunbar,” Dellums mumbled, rubbing his head with both hands.

  The Chevy melded into the light traffic on Broadway.

  Kennesaw had Antony’s card out, holding it far from his face. “Says the Somerville Two on it.” He looked blankly at Monk.

  “Those’re new buildings the economic housing people built after taking over Dunbar,” Monk illuminated. He unlocked the car for the men.

  “Hey,” Kelvon Little called from the doorway. “Why don’t you gents take this, otherwise it will Just go bad.” The barber came over with one of the serving tins that he’d folded over to hold its contents inside.

  Dellums took the food and got in the back behind Riles in the Ford. Monk waved goodbye to Little and drove away.

  “Them ‘Killin’ Blues’ is playin’.” Riles was slumped in the seat, his right leg moving with nervous energy. “Marshall is gone and Charlie Patton is strummin’ for me.”

  “What’s all that about, Kennesaw?” Monk continued piloting the car south along Broadway.

  “Testament and sacrifice.”

  “Whose sacrifice? Yours or Patton’s?”

  “The people who cared.”

  “What people?” Dellums chimed in.

  Riles rubbed a hand over his whiskered jaw and began to sing softly. “The levy done gone bone dry, the fields lie fallow like a virgin’s heart, them cries are in the woods, I can hear my name on the steel.” Kennesaw’s voice was steeped in the sound of the Delta and its jukes.

  “What is that, Kennesaw?” Monk asked. “That a song by Patton, that the ‘Killin’ Blues’?” Monk was booming his voice in an effort to cut through the man’s melancholy and whiskey stupor.

  The PI reached El Segundo, then turned east, heading toward the address his cousin had given him earlier. They were now in Willowbrook, an area of the city lying between Watts and the city of Compton. It was straight out of Compton where Iva Tagorl, better known as one of the Tokyo Roses during WWII, went to high school; and, more recently, the city was infamous for gangsta rap. Riles was moaning and at first it seemed as if he might be crying. But he was singing again, slurring and whispering the refr
ain. Minutes went by as Monk drove.

  “What’s he goin’ on about?” Dellums barked from the rear seat.

  “The ‘Killin’ Blues’; you ever hear of that, by Charlie Patton?” Monk reached San Pedro and made a right.

  “No. You?”

  “That’s why I asked … no,” Monk said exasperated, “I haven’t, either. But I’m more of a jazz man than a blues collector, so I’m no expert.”

  He looked over at Riles. His cousin’s mouth was agape and his eyes shut. “Kennesaw,” he hollered, “why are the ‘Killin’ Blues’ after you? Because of Marshall Spears?”

  There was no answer as Monk continued driving. He got to 138th and made a left. He slowed and found the modest house his cousin said once belonged to an old girlfriend. The abode was one of a variety of California Craftsmen that were ubiquitous in older neighborhoods. This one had a peaked roof reminiscent of a Swiss chalet with a touch of Japanese influence exemplified in the ornate upswept eaves. There were white security bars on the windows and a matching heavy mesh screen door over the entrance. Water stains had oxidized to rusty brown on the metal door, making it look like a pelt left too long in the sun.

  “This is it, right, Kennesaw?” Monk peered at the house.

  “I think he’s asleep,” Dellums said.

  Monk looked over. Riles was slumped against the door, his head pressed against the glass. He shook the older man’s arm. Nothing. “Kennesaw.”

  The moan gurgled up from the other man like a desolate wind seeping through the reeds along the Mississippi’s banks. Riles grabbed at his head, crushing his Sonny Boy in his workman-like hands. He pulled the hat down across his face, sobbing as he did so. “I got to rest.”

  “You going to be all right?” Monk asked, concerned. He looked hard at Dellums.

  “I can stay with him tonight,” the other man said, reading the intent in Monk’s face. “As long as he’s got a TV in there and I can catch an old shoot-’em-up on it.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Mr. Dellums. I can come back for you in the morning.”

  “Good. Help me get him inside.”

  “I will make sure I pay my debt,” Riles said as Monk supported his cousin to the door.

  “Your riddles are startin’ to bug me, cuz.”

  Kennesaw Riles settled bleary eyes on him. “You and your mama close, Ivan?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed proudly.

  Awkwardly, the two ascended the steps, Dellums behind them.

  Riles leaned against the door, digging his walking stick into the toe of his left shoe.

  “Why don’t we get inside,” Dellums said to no one in particular. He came forward and placed a hand on Riles’ shoulder. “Give me the keys, huh?”

  Riles had his head down, watching the tip of his cane scuff the finish off his shoe. He had his cap in his other hand, kneading it in his fist. He dropped the cap and rummaged in his pocket. A crooked smile on his face made it appear lopsided. It took several moments to get his set of keys free.

  The two got the drunk man inside and onto the couch.

  He stretched out, holding onto his cane with both hands as if it were a talisman he needed to lead him out of the depths of the pit. Monk put his cousin’s cap on an end table. Riles’ eyelids were lowered, and he talked quietly to himself.

  Dellums walked into the kitchen, and put the tray of food Little had given them in the refrigerator. He returned to the front room. There was a portable TV on a circular table in the corner of the small and cluttered living room. There were too many chairs, as if they’d been hoarded against a time when such items would no longer be manufactured. Dellums sat in a rocker with paisley padding near the TV. He turned it on.

  “I’m going to leave my home number on this paper, Mr. Dellums,” Monk said. “I’ll be there the rest of the evening.”

  “Okay.” The older man was clicking through the various channels, settling on a war picture on KCAL 9. He was quickly becoming lost in its progress.

  “If you need me for anything, call at any time.” Monk placed the paper underneath the hat on the end table. He crossed to the door. Nearby on the wall was a small frame, dingy glass partially obscuring the photo inside. He peered closer and could discern Kennesaw Riles, Central Avenue hip in a bulky sport coat and broad-brimmed hat in hand. He was wearing the same coat now. Riles had his foot on the front bumper of a ’53 dark-colored Kaiser, four-door. Behind him Monk could make out part of a neon sign, off, on a building. It was the Nile. Worry and burden were far from the unlined smiling face in the picture. The club’s façade had an Egyptian-moderne panache. A light-skinned woman showing big teeth stood next to him. There was a lot he had to catch up on with his cousin. He wouldn’t make the same mistake he’d made with Spears.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, about ten, Mr. Dellums.”

  The old man waved listlessly as a blazing Thompson raked a Quonset hut.

  Chapter 5

  “That’s workin’ real good, chief.”

  “Certainly,” Monk said, effort in his voice. “This stuff you got is all that.” He stopped rubbing, studying the refurbished sheen of the leather he’d been buffing. A lustrous area had been revealed among the dull pallor of the booth’s padded back. The patch was like an eye gazing out on the early morning environs of Continental Donuts.

  Elrod, the six-foot-eight, 325-pound ex-burglar and current manager of the facility, picked up the pale green plastic bottle of leather cleaner. He poured an amount on his rag and went to work on the bench seat opposite. “Not that the regulars will notice.” His powerful strokes cleared a swath across the booth’s leather like a scraper across an icy windshield.

  “You know our customers expect the best, even if they don’t say it all the time.” Monk smiled, soaked his rag, and continued rubbing. “How’s that night class of yours going?”

  “Cool. Being adept with tools gives me a confidence in working with refrigeration and compressor units,” he replied laconically. The bench seat he was working on was nearly clean.

  Monk remembered when he’d first hired Elrod. He’d been warned against it by his mother and Dexter Grant, the ex-cop and former PI he’d gotten his license under. They told him it was good of him to want to help a man like Elrod, but Elrod’s size and usual unreadable demeanor didn’t instill serenity in the wary.

  Monk never did decide why he’d been willing to take a chance on the big man, since he did share his mom’s and Dexter’s misgivings. But he’d already been through three managers, including one who turned out to believe that maple bars contained secret messages from the netherworld. What the hell was there to lose? And a brother from the ’hood, who wanted to turn his life around, seemed a good fit for a part-time capitalist with a small business on the edge of the Crenshaw District.

  “See you been hitting more than just the text books,” Monk commented.

  “Been readin’ Ralph Ellison’s Shadow and Act like you suggested.” Elrod poured some more solution on his rag and started on the next booth.

  The bell over the door jingled and a square-shouldered black man in a dark blue three-piece pin-striped suit with an open-collared shirt walked through the door. He had a Strike Anywhere Diamond kitchen match dangling from one corner of his mouth, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  It took Monk a moment to recognize Roberts. He was a plain-clothes homicide detective he’d met a few years ago on a case involving a buried body at Florence and Normandie.

  Monk kept working but said, “What brings Hollywood Division over to see me, Sergeant?”

  Roberts sat with his back to the counter, swiveling back and forth on a stool. “I’m over at Southwest now, Mr. Monk.” He worked the wooden match from side to side. His knees would point left, the match would go right.

  Monk raised an eyebrow but kept silent. The cop would get to it.

  Roberts aimed a thumb at the just-brewed pot of coffee. “Mind if I pour myself some?”

  Elrod started to speak, then looked at Monk, who inclined h
is head. “Knock yourself out,” the manager said ruefully.

  Roberts did so, tossing his chewed match in the wastebasket after he poured some coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He stood at the window, looking out at the haze lifting off the morning. “When was the last time you saw your cousin, Kennesaw Riles?” He turned, blowing at the steam rising from his cup.

  So that was it. “Are you telling me he’s been murdered?” Monk finally stopped cleaning.

  “’Fraid so, Monk. He was found by a Mr. Dellums yesterday morning in his bathroom.”

  “Shit,” Monk threw the rag on the booth’s table. Somewhere a mooring had broken loose. He sat down heavily. “Burglary?” He sensed Elrod flinching.

  “Yes and no,” Roberts said, moving forward a few steps. “It looked like natural causes, an old man collapses in his robe and pajamas, draped over the bathtub.” Roberts made a semi-circular motion with the cup.

  “The ME would be obliged to do an autopsy.” A clinical detachment colored Monk’s voice.

  “It looked like a heart attack,” Roberts said. “And that’s what she confirmed after her first examination.”

  “So where did you come in?”

  “The old man, Dellums, insisted there was one of those fire-safe boxes under Riles’ bed was missing.”

  “But that could still have been a burglary and unintentional manslaughter,” Monk countered. “Say some cat surprised Kennesaw, he keels over, and the dude takes off with the goods.” Monk paused, then went on thinking aloud. “And what the hell could have been in the box? Probably personal items some stupid neighborhood thief thought would be hundred dollar bills.” The waste of both lives made him shake his head.

  “Uh-huh, that ain’t a bad scenario. I knocked it around myself in my head a few times.” Roberts put his cup on the table in the booth where Monk sat.

  Elrod went to work on another booth.

  “Fact, I probably would have gone with that notion, except of course no forced entry, which could still mean somebody he knew.”