Perdition, U.S.A. Read online

  “I’d like to know what your theories are,” Monk countered.

  “I think that was clear in the article in the Sentinel, which I imagine you saw.”

  “A conspiracy between some members of the Sheriffs Department and this killer.”

  “Collusion, maybe,” Mrs. Henderson corrected. “Could be the killer is weeding out certain elements, drug dealers and so on, whose elimination suit the interests of officials like Captain Olson.”

  Monk found such reasoning annoying. When the police were in the picture, black folk were much too willing to buy into bizarro conspiracy notions.

  On the other hand, it was understandable in light of many historical events: the FBI’s role in undermining the ’60’s black power movement, ex-LAPD Chief Gates’ infatuation with the choke hold, the frequent appearance of Klan flyers in police locker rooms, the admitted racism of certain cops.

  “Your son isn’t a drug dealer, Mrs. Henderson,” he eventually said.

  An odd look flitted across her face but it departed just as quick.

  “No,” Bradford offered, “Jimmy’s shooting seemed out of character with the rest. I mean if you consider the other ones are brothers who have records.”

  “A warning to you then?” Monk inquired, admitting to himself that particular spin on the case was interesting.

  Bradford was glum. “I’d gotten him to help with a few things on campus.” He looked doe-eyed at his aunt.

  “What was it, Malik?” she said, rubbing his arm tenderly.

  “There’d been an editorial in the school paper by someone from the Ayn Rand Club calling for the end to social entitlements, minority scholarships, and what not. Naturally, editorials fly back and forth. Then the Randites hold a rally, and some skins show up in support.”

  “There was a brawl?” Monk inquired.

  “Not really. But some choice words got thrown around. Jimmy and I had a face-down with a couple of them.”

  “You think what happened to your cousin was payback?” Monk had a sensation of excitement, like a hunting dog getting the scent.

  Bradford hesitated. “It’s been on my mind.” He stole a look at his aunt.

  “Then you must have some idea who you’re looking for,” Monk commented, “the ones from campus.”

  “Some,” was all he’d allow.

  Monk was about to pursue that when Mrs. Henderson broke in.

  “You looking to get more headlines for yourself?” Mrs. Henderson condemned. “Like you did with that Korean mess you were involved in.”

  Softly he replied, “I just want to make it right, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “We do think there’s more to this than just some lone nut,” Bradford said, ignoring Monk’s emotion. “In some ways, these Shoreline killings have had a positive effect. Finally there’s something, a catalyst, to help pull our people together.”

  “The common enemy that unites the lumpen, the workers and the intelligentsia,” Monk wondered dubiously.

  That got a grin out of the young man. “One can always dream.”

  Reverend Tompkins, who sat behind his desk listening, interjected. “I knew Scatterboy. He, ah, may not have been as straight an arrow as we’d have liked, but he was still a product of this town. What we don’t want is our community becoming a freak show in the side tent between the sports and weather on the six o’clock news. We’re asking you to work cooperatively with us, brother Monk, so we can continue to bring our folks forward.”

  Monk drew in a breath. He admired Bradford’s sincerity, but he didn’t want his “dirty dozen” traipsing all over the place either. “How about this. I leave the political high ground to Malik, while I—”

  The door nearly came off its hinges as it swung inward and slapped violently against the wall. Ajax tumbled into the room. The other youth rushed in and took a kick at him, but Ajax rolled out of the way.

  “You high yellow bitch,” Ajax screamed, “I’m gonna plant my foot so far in your ass your mama’s gonna taste shoe polish.”

  Monk was already up and trying to pull the two apart.

  Bradford and Tompkins were also on their feet, helping to separate the combatants.

  “What happened, Ty?” Bradford had his arm around the youth’s waist.

  “This punk had some more eight ball in his car so of course he goes and drinks it.” Spittle flew as he rasped out his words. “Then he starts mumbling about how he should be in on this and starts to march up here.”

  “Fuckin’ right,” Ajax said, blood collecting on the side of his lower lip. “You book-learnin’ chumps wouldn’t have the balls to go lookin’ for skins unless you’d hooked up with me and my crew.” He pounded his chest with an open hand. “You might know politics, and have the great plan for the black race, but none of you have popped a cap on a fool, have you?” He clamped his jaw tight, weaving slightly.

  Reverend Tompkins was holding onto one side of Ajax, exposing his sleeve and the watch around his wrist. Monk realized it was a Cartier.

  Contemptuously, Bradford said, “I’m happy you shared that.”

  “I don’t feel too good right now,” Ajax suddenly weak, proclaimed.

  Ty laughed, and Tompkins got the young tough to a trash can in the corner in time for him to get sick into it.

  Off to one side, Bradford and Mrs. Henderson talked quietly with one another. She then said to Monk, “I want the man who tried to kill my baby. If you want the glory, you can have it.”

  “I want him too, Mrs. Henderson, believe me. He’s got a debt to pay, and I intend to be the one who collects the ticket.”

  She seemed to weigh his words for the first time. “Why? What’s your stake in this?”

  His father’s hand reached for him in the kitchen, the strong fingers kneading his shoulder as they pulled him toward the maw. His dad’s age then was just a few years older than he was now. His old man’s question hovered before him, the answer still out of reach. Monk temporarily shook loose of the memory. “We can’t let this go on.”

  She looked at Tompkins and Bradford for their assessment.

  Finally the younger man spoke. “I haven’t seen any of the nazi types who were on campus that day. But our patrol spotted the killer earlier that night we ran into you and Midnight.”

  “You get a license plate number?” Monk asked. Over by the trash can, Ajax got sick again.

  “No. We’d split into smaller units, and got the call some of the crew had spotted the red Jeep.”

  “You all kept in touch by cellular?” Monk inquired.

  “Yes, “Bradford said, “we’d keep several of our cars stationed around so that if we were to run up on him, some of us would be able to keep him in sight.”

  “That was good thinking. Did the man in the Jeep travel in a certain area?”

  Bradford made a “Y” with his hands. “Hard to say. He was driving like he knew the Shores, but it’s anybody’s guess if he had Midnight specifically in mind.”

  “Or,” Monk reflected, “any brother out that night in the same age range as the others.”

  “Maybe he thought it was funny to shoot a white-skinned black man,” Mrs. Henderson broke in.

  “Could be.” Monk turned his head to look directly at Bradford. “Were you at the dance that night at Tri-Harbor College?”

  “I heard about it, but neither me or Jimmy was there that night.”

  Ajax groaned from the corner. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall.

  Abruptly, Monk pointed a finger at the pastor. “That’s quite a timepiece you got there, Reverend Tompkins. ’Course Cartier don’t make ’em cheap. How’d you come by that one? Gift from a parishioner?” He smiled mischievously.

  Tompkins worked on a chagrined look as all the heads in the room pivoted in his direction. Quietly he confessed, “I bought it off of Scatterboy the night he was killed. But I swear on the head of the sweet baby Jesus I didn’t see anything of no ghost killer in his devil’s chariot.”

  The reverend glanced at eve
ryone in the room, looking like a man in a lineup. “After I bought the watch I went into the Corsair, a local tavern, where, ah, I was supposed to meet a member I’ve been counseling.”

  Mrs. Henderson placed a hand on her hip, a smirk on her face. Bradford and Ty silently guffawed at each other.

  “You didn’t volunteer this to the police,” Monk said.

  Tompkins raised his arms apologetically. “What was there to tell them? I did not see anything of him after I had my business with our dear departed brother Williams. I heard about his demise same as everyone the following day. Frankly, at the time I thought he’d met his fate at the hands of a fellow brigand he’d had a falling out with.”

  Monk plucked at his goatee. “Okay folks, let’s see if we can’t compromise here. If Bradford and the rowdy boys hold off on their night patrols, from here on in, I’ll keep everyone abreast of my activities.”

  “Why the fuck should we do that?” Ajax had regained his vigor and was standing up, gesturing at the detective.

  “Because one of you might get shot, or more likely scare the killer off.”

  “You’ve probably already done that,” Bradford countered.

  “Let’s say that I have. But the cops are working one angle, and I’m working another. Now who’s more likely to be straight up with you on this?”

  Ty piped in, “But we ain’t gonna sit back and have a bunch of skins running around the Shores. They can’t just come here fuckin’ around with us.”

  “We’re not going to have a candlelight vigil for civil rights if the War Reich comes marching through, Monk. The time to make a stand is now,” Bradford added. “This goddamn country belongs to us too, man. I don’t care what Newt and his peckerwood buddies think up on Capitol Hill.”

  “Bat for bat, gat for gat, cuz,” a pale Ajax prophesied.

  “I’m talking about house meetings and town halls,” Bradford rebuffed the gangbanger. “We go toe-to-toe only when we have to defend ourselves.”

  Ajax made a sound like air escaping a balloon.

  “All right.” Monk held up his hand as a sign of contrition. “Can we agree if the skins aren’t around, then y’all aren’t doing the night patrols? Let’s not give the sheriff any excuse to jack up more brothers.”

  “We’ll hold you accountable, Monk,” Bradford promised.

  “Somebody needs to.” He shook hands with Bradford and Mrs. Henderson. Ty said good-bye and Ajax, back in form, gave him the nihilistic nod favored by his gangsta peers. He climbed into his Ford and made it back to his apartment in Mar Vista, tired and sleepy.

  His place was in a reconditioned brick building on a block of mixed use facilities. On the ground floor was a Cuban-Chinese restaurant, a print shop, a courier service, and an auto parts store. Eighteen months ago, it was four different businesses. Eighteen months from now, it would probably be four new ones. The economy of Southern California was going through a restructuring and who knew how it would shake out. It had begun with the deindustrialization of the urban core in the ’80s, displacing workers like his dad’s friends, men and women who once upon a time could rely on well-paid, unionized, blue-collar work to raise a family and buy a house. But like the plains buffalo, those days were gone. They’d been put to the skewer by cowboy arbitragers, capital flight, and the bottomless greed of money manipulators out to make a fast buck by exploiting whomever, whatever, wherever.

  Monk plodded up the stairs to the second floor. There was a message from his mother and one from Jill on his machine. His mom wanted him to come over for dinner on Sunday, and the judge said they needed to talk. At the moment, both seemed like Herculean tasks.

  He decided his mother could wait for his yes until tomorrow. Maybe she was as curious about Odessa’s young man as he was. And Jill? He felt apprehensive about their impending little talk. Was this going to be a we-need-a-little-space speech? The last few days there had been tension between them. The more he thought about their differences in earning power, the more he’d backed off in his own mind about them living together. But were there deeper issues?

  Whatever, it was too much for tonight.

  He got a Miller from the refrigerator, pulled off his shoes, and sat in his wing chair overlooking his portion of the city. He took a couple of sips and began to drift off. Dimly, he was aware of his hand placing the bottle on the floor.

  Down the block, he heard an auto alarm go off. Then another. Maybe Midnight was stealing his way across the cities of Southern California, on his own peculiar odyssey of self-discovery. Each Alpine and Blaupunkt Midnight swiped tuned to a different station and as he ripped them from their housings, the last broken word or phrase pointed him to his next destination, until he had pieced together the whole meaningless message, the final word to complete his existential sojourn.

  Monk yawned, and fell asleep in front of the window.

  Chapter 15

  The following day he and Grant began running down the possible leads he’d developed. From the onset, they knew Monk was going to get the short end of the stick. Since the cases had to fit certain parameters—a black suspect and a white victim—it was unlikely either the victim or his kin would be eager to talk about the incident, especially to a black man a couple of inches over six feet tall and topping the scales around 220.

  The first name on his list, a woman in Seal Beach who’d been robbed at knife point and hit so hard in the head she’d required twelve stitches, slammed the door on Monk’s solemn face. The clipboard he held shook with the impact. He didn’t even have time to tell his story, that he was a researcher from a westside college conducting a study about people’s perspectives on crime.

  His second stop, at an apartment in Wilmington, went like this:

  “Yeah,” said a man named Tim, as he stood in the door, soda in hand, TV playing in the background.

  Monk gave his spiel.

  “Yeah, I used to work at a 7-Eleven, a second job, see? I work for my money rather than try to get handouts. That is until one night a couple of your cousins stopped by. One of them stuck a shotgun under my nose, and I gave them all that was in the till.”

  Swallowing a comeback to the man’s racist comment, Monk plunged ahead, probing a little deeper with his next question.

  “No, I don’t think enough shit’s been done to curb crime. Even with the Republicans calling the shots. Ain’t hardly more cops on the beat, and they can’t fry them Jehri-curled, crack-of-their-ass showin’ motherfuckers fast enough for my taste.” He took a sip of the soda, sweat developing on his upper lip.

  Monk managed to control his voice and asked what happened the night he was robbed.

  “After I did what they asked, they started shuffling out. Then all of a sudden, the one with the hog leg pivots and lets loose with a blast. That answer your goddamn question?” With that, Tim opened the door a little further, balancing his body against it. He eased his frame down into a wheelchair. Their eyes met momentarily, then the door closed.

  And so it went until he met up with Grant in the evening at Continental Donuts.

  “This has been an illuminating day about the intolerance of my fellow Americans,” Monk quipped, pouring coffee for them into cups emblazoned with donuts interlocked in the style of Olympic rings.

  Uncharacteristically, Grant didn’t retort. Quietly, he added liberal amounts of milk, no sugar, to his coffee. “People aren’t as bad as we think they are, Ivan. Just because they say a wrong thing, doesn’t mean that same person wouldn’t pull a kid out of the way of a speeding car no matter what their color.”

  Monk almost spilled his coffee. “I’m sorry, Dex, but you’re not going to get a lot of empathy from me on this. I know some of these people have been fucked over by criminals, but does that make me as an individual carry the burden for a minority of assholes? Especially when it’s mostly other black people black folks usually are jacking up.”

  He drank too much hot coffee too quickly. It scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he tried to stop from s
wallowing. But he did, and batted back tears.

  Grant methodically stirred in his cup. “I think you’re losing your perspective on this case, weed hopper.”

  “What the fuck am I supposed to be objective about, Dex? The old lady who I talked to today down in Belmont?” Monk began to pace as he talked. “I’m sitting there in her living room when her big corn-fed seventeen-year-old grandson comes waltzing in and says that’s enough, she don’t have to answer any more questions from me.

  “I say why, maintaining my cool, and the kid gets in my face screamin’ about some fight at school he’s just had with a black kid over what kind of music should be played at the dance. And he goes on about how you blacks complain all the time about the whites but don’t deal with our own racism. About how we apologize for crime.” Monk sank into a booth. He could feel the raw trailings of skin on the roof of his mouth and it angered him further.

  “Do you?” Grant finally sampled his coffee.

  “You goddamn know I don’t, Dex. You’ve never heard me make excuses for criminal behavior. But that doesn’t mean I think these young brothers are genetically predisposed to crime and violence. You can’t ignore the effects on the inner cities when they’re stripped of resources. Or when the resources weren’t there in the first place.”

  “But people have to take responsibility for their own actions,” the older man said.

  “What a goddamn insight. So what the hell did you come up with today?”

  Grant let Monk change the subject. “A couple of possibles. One of them is strong. He’s a relatively young white guy who joined a gun club since he was robbed last year. They caught the crook in this case.”

  “Why is he a possible then?”

  “This chap makes his living as a special effects man.”

  “That’s not bad, the killer was so damn white, it could be a disguise.”

  “Plus being in the movie business, he has access to cars, fake plates, all that.”