Violent Spring Read online

  Men like Maxfield O’Day believed the salvation of Los Angeles lay in the will of the corporate patrician. Possibly that was part of the equation. But Monk was also convinced it resided with her everyday people, those folk like his sister working day to day, under the onus of budget cuts and top-heavy bureaucracy, trying to do their job because they believed it made a difference. It had to.

  Monk’s Galaxie took him to his office and a worried Delilah.

  “A Ms. Scarn from the Bureau of Consumer Affairs has already called twice for you this morning, Ivan.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She heard some news that concerned her in regards to you. She’d like you to call her as soon as possible.”

  One of the architects who did some work for Ross and Hendricks came out of a suite at the opposite end of the rotunda where Monk and Delilah stood talking. He strolled over and handed the administrative assistant some papers, and they briefly talked about what he wanted done with them. He left.

  “Call her back and tell her she better put whatever the hell it is she wants in writing and that I will pass it along to my attorney,” Monk said, checking his watch for the time. “I’m going over to meet with Luis Santillion. After that, I’ll call in to see what’s happening.”

  Delilah put a hand on his arm. “Ivan, she didn’t sound like she was playing.”

  “Neither am I, baby.” He started to exit, then said, “Call Maxfield O’Day’s office and tell them I need to meet with him, soon.”

  Designed by part-time architect George H. Wyman for a mining magnate in the late 1800s, the Bradbury Building on lower Broadway in downtown Los Angeles was best known as a movie prop. With its wrought-iron railings, old-fashioned elevator, and general noir ambiance, it had been the office of many a movie detective, from Boston Blackie, to Miles C. Banyon, to Marlowe, to Deckard in Blade Runner. It was even in an Outer Limits show with aliens crawling all over it, battling an android who thought he was human. Seeing that episode had kept him up half the night when he was a kid.

  Monk turned from gazing up at the wonderfully restored Bradbury and walked across the street and entered the exquisite chaos of the Grand Central Market, a sprawling indoor facility of stalls of fresh poultry, fish, fruits and vegetables. And vendors selling every imaginable chachka from Elvis dash ornaments to Navajo throw rugs made in China. People eddied back and forth through the maze-like setup of the place, haggling and bargaining over quantity and quality while mariachi music blared from one section, and Chicano rap from another. There were a lot of Mexican food places in the giant mercado, but there was only one called the Taquito Factory.

  It was ten to one, and as Monk approached the stand, he didn’t see Santillion or anybody who looked like they worked for him. He took a seat at the counter and ordered the especial numero dos and a glass of iced tea. At precisely one, while Monk was slathering guacamole on his chicken burrito, the head of El Major rounded a corner near the stand. Two other men, in severe suits of charcoal grey, trailed four paces behind him. He strolled over to Monk.

  “Glad to see you’re on time, Mr. Monk,” Santillion said, extending his hand.

  Monk had half-turned in his seat to face the other man and rose to shake his hand. As he did so, a flashbulb went off and Monk stared at the two in the dark suits. One of them was working a camera with the flash, and the other one seemed to be there to keep other people from entering the picture. Monk turned to look at Santillion.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Something for our next newsletter. Just showing that I’m not opposed to black and brown unity.” Santillion sat down beside Monk. The two ciphers faded from view.

  “Do you have something to tell me?” Monk had also sat down again and was intent on finishing his lunch. He felt too used to it now to be pissed for being suckered into another publicity angle one of these jokers who think they represent the people seemed hell-bent to use him for. Everybody’s favorite black private eye pinup.

  The waitress brought Santillion a Corona and an empty glass with a wedge of lemon perched on it. He poured some of the pale brew into the glass and took a liberal sip of it. “About six or seven months ago, I got a call from a man who is not in our organization. He’s a small businessman, he and his wife own a launderette and corner market over on Atlantic Boulevard near Compton. They had suffered some damage in the riots, and were still trying to get through all the red tape to get an SBA loan so they can expand.”

  “If he’s not in your group, then why did he call you?”

  “I’ve known him a long time. He’s one of those kind of people who’ve always believed that you only needed the sweat of your brow and a strong woman to make your way in the world.”

  Santillion’s order came. Monk said, “And not the help of some guy who wears eight-hundred-dollar suits and sits on the board of SOMA.”

  Santillion bit into his taco, grated cheese spilling onto the counter. He chewed and swallowed. He turned his head slightly to look at Monk. “My brother and I were born and raised in City Terrace, Mr. Monk. We both ran with the White Fence gang, and he was the one who got the good grades in school.” A slight grin creased his weathered face. “But none the less, we’re brothers, and I’m the one he felt compelled to call.”

  “So he swallowed his pride and asked you to help him get an SBA loan.”

  “Of course not. He’d cut out his tongue first. He’d been approached by two men who said they represented a company who’d buy his distressed property. Of course they offered below market value. Way fucking below.”

  “And what did your brother say?”

  “In his own warm way, he told them no.” He took another sip of his Corona. “But these two representatives seemed intent on not taking a no and they suggested he rethink his decision.”

  Monk had stopped eating and waited for the other man to continue.

  “The roof of his car was caved in one morning, the side of his house was chopped with a fire ax, and his daughter had a rock thrown at her on her way to school. It took five stitches to close the wound in my niece’s head.” Santillion halted, reliving the image in his mind.

  “So your brother was scared?”

  “I said we were crime partners in White Fence, man. He called up some of our old homies, some of these carnales who’ve done time in Pelican Bay and Q, and had them do bodyguard duty. The trouble went away.”

  “Both of these gentlemen were white, buffed and one had a ponytail?”

  Santillion nodded. “I never saw them, but I remember my brother mentioning the ponytail.”

  “And they said they represented Jiang Holdings?”

  As an answer, Santillion took out a card and slid it across the countertop toward Monk. On it was the name of Jiang Holdings and a phone number in Orange County. Nothing else.

  “He called me because he wanted to know if I’d heard anything about them. I hadn’t up till then.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ve heard from a few small landlords, some in Pico-Union and some in South Central, that they’ve been approached by this Jiang Holdings. But much more discreetly, much less harsh than with my brother. Some have sold and cut and run.”

  Monk tapped the card against his index finger. “So are we to believe there is some kind of conspiracy of Koreans buying up property all over town?”

  Santillion raised his hands palm up into the air.

  “That kind of talk could set off another goddamn conflagration.”

  Santillion eased off his stool. He laid a five on the counter. “Yes, I’m aware of that. But I felt you should know. And there’s something else. Several of the properties that have been bought are in areas that the Administration in Washington are targeting as Revitalization Zones.”

  “But the federal money won’t cover all costs.”

  “That’s right. But if you were someone who had the land, and had the start-up capital that enabled you to get things going once the zones were established.…” He patted him
on the shoulder and walked away.

  Monk left his meal unfinished and placed another five on the counter. He walked out of the bustling Grand Central Market into the hustle of Broadway with its discount electronic stores, cut-rate gold jewelers and knock-off designer jeans. He walked North until he came to Temple and then into the Municipal Court House at 210 west. He hadn’t worn his gun and didn’t have to go through a hassle at the metal detector at the entrance. He took the elevator to the floor where Jill Kodama’s courtroom was.

  “Are we to believe, sir, that when you pointed the AK47 at Mr. Wade, you didn’t think that would anger him?” The attorney who said that was a tall, portly man Monk had met at a dinner party once. He sat down in the area of the court reserved for observers and watched as the trial progressed. A little after three-thirty, Kodama recessed the trial until ten in the morning. The defendant was led away, and several people who had been in the gallery, including a young woman with an amazing amount of mascara over her eyelashes, exited the courtroom. Monk got up and walked over to the bailiff.

  “Sherlock, how’s it hangin’?”

  His name was Jory. He was a white guy in his mid-fifties, and he’d been over to Grant’s house for poker games off and on for the last fifteen years. “Same old sixes and sevens, you know,” Monk said, leaning on the rail separating the jury section from the rest of the courtroom.

  “I hear you’re hip deep in it”

  Monk lifted a shoulder.

  “Yeah,” the bailiff began, shaking a Pall Mall loose from a rumpled pack. “I never thought Los Angeles would wind up like New York, but damned if it hasn’t.” The smoke from his cigarette plumed from his straight line of a mouth. “I’m taking my early retirement in two years and blowing this hell hole.”

  The door to Kodama’s chambers opened and she stepped through sans judicial robe. Smartly dressed in a double-breasted cream-colored linen suit and an electric blue blouse, she smiled at Monk.

  “And if you two are smart, you will too. Go someplace where you can have a lot of babies and fish all day,” Jory said, emphasizing his statement with a tap of his back hand on Monk’s stomach.

  “There’s a war on all over the world. There is no such place, Jory,” Monk countered.

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  The bailiff left. Monk stared up at the handsome woman standing beside the large swivel chair upholstered in black cracked leather. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  “That sounds good.”

  They wound up going through Pershing Square on Olive Street, stopping twice to give change to a homeless person in the one-block-square plot of greenery. There were numerous men and women sitting on the stone benches erected by the city to deter the homeless from gathering. “So what were we arguing about?” Monk asked.

  Kodama put her arm through the crook of his elbow. “Our future.”

  “Oh yeah, I knew it was something insignificant.”

  “He-yuk.”

  They went across the street and into the Beaux Arts-designed Biltmore Hotel, an old institution that had fallen into ruin, and was then restored during the brief laissez faire portion of the ’80s. They got a quiet booth in the bar.

  “I apologize for what I said the other night, honey,” Monk said, holding onto her hand across the table.

  “Well, I was a bit vague, wasn’t I?”

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Maybe I just want us to clean up all our business and get the hell out of here.”

  “Like Jory.”

  “Somedays I feel like that. Like this whole thing, the very idea of the urban metropolis, was a mistake of the twentieth century.” She paused, watching Monk.

  “What does that have to do with us, baby?”

  “You know exactly. I’m a judge and you’re a private detective. We’re two sides of the same dollar and nobody will give us change.”

  “That’s a little too cryptic for me.”

  “It’s what keeps us going, Ivan, it’s our reason to live. And it will also be our undoing.”

  “Not if we try.”

  She leaned back, the stark gloom of the place temporarily swallowing her chiseled face. Momentarily, Monk had the irrational feeling that the monsters of the city had abducted her for daring to speak of their secrets. Her voice floated to him. “We aren’t cops, Ivan. I try to be detached, objective. I’m not. That is to say, I do my best to render fair and impartially, but I carry the burden with me.”

  “You’re a good person.”

  “Shit.”

  “You can’t escape it”

  “Speaking of which, how’s the case coming?”

  He filled her in on recent developments, including the threat against his license. “But it’s starting to come together. It’s starting to make sense.”

  “You should see your face. You’re addicted to this way of life.”

  “It takes one to know one.” He pointed a finger at her. “See that’s what’s got you worried. You think our relationship is built on a vicarious thrill we each derive from one another.”

  She waved a hand in the air to dismiss the words. “You can stop with the cheap psychology, Dr. Freud.”

  “Remember, a cigar is just a cigar.”

  “Uh-huh, except when Ivan Monk waves his around, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you think that’s our only attraction for one another, Ivan?”

  “We can’t divorce it from who we are, Jill. But that’s not to say if tomorrow one or both of us were doing something else, we’d fall out of love.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Monk sat back in his chair, studying the woman before him. “I’ll always want you.”

  Kodama leaned across the table and kissed Monk. “You’re such a romantic.”

  “We can’t all be hardboiled like you,” he said. At length they arose from the table and went back to Kodama’s house above the reservoir in Silver Lake. She made dinner, a rarity, and afterwards they snuggled near a fire Monk built in the study’s fireplace. “I’ve got to see a man about a horse.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to be down in Anaheim by eleven-thirty tonight.”

  “Why does that not surprise me,” she said, sneering at him.

  He opened up a magazine on the coffee table and wrote something on a page. He tore it out and handed it to her.

  She read it, then threw the page into the fire. “Put on some music, honey. Put on some Diz, will you? His music is magic, and you’ll please his ghost by invoking it,” Kodama said. “You’ll need his protection in the days ahead.”

  The phono played a scratchy album that was one of the lord of be-bop’s outings with him and Roy Eldridge on trumpet, Oscar Peterson on piano, Ray Brown on bass and Mickey Roker on drums. By the time the needle found the opening groove of “I Cried for You (Now it’s Your Turn to Cry for Me),” Monk laid a blanket on the sleeping judge. She’d fallen asleep with her head in his lap and he’d managed to place it on one of the couch’s pillows.

  As John Burks “Dizzy” Gillespie plowed into the second chorus of “Indiana,” Monk eased out of the house into the chilly evening, the moon a broken quarter of bitter light. Faintly, he could hear the strains of Eldridge’s solo as he got in his car and drove away. Monk took pains to make sure he wasn’t being followed and he got out to San Pedro seventeen minutes past eleven.

  It was a harbor town and its population included an interesting mix of Italians, Greeks, Serbs and Croats. They each had their own social clubs, expressed by their segregated soccer teams, and several community papers. Monk drove past a storefront whose Slavic lettering had several large flyers pasted up in the picture window. He couldn’t read them, but could guess it pertained to the continuing bloody conflict in the Balkans.

  He reached 4th Street and went along it till he got close to Beacon and the water. Once upon a time, Dexter Grant had informed him there
was a hill here, and the radical union of the Industrial Workers of the World held their rallies there for the Maritime Union which was one of their locals. And, Grant had gone on to tell him, in 1925 there was a big rally here where Upton Sinclair, teetotaler, the author of The Jungle, and who ran for governor as a socialist in California in the ’30s, came to speak. This was another facet of life Grant’s Wobblie Uncle Logan had bestowed upon his nephew.

  Liberty Hill was what they called it. Parked at the curb along Beacon Street was Grant’s 1967 Buick Electra 225. Monk pulled in behind it and watched the older man get out of his car and into the passenger seat of the Galaxie.

  “I was about to give up hope on my number-two protegé” he said.

  “Who’s number one?”

  “Me, baby, me,” he said, putting a file folder on the dash, and holding onto a Winchell’s styrofoam cup of coffee.

  “It was a good clue, Dex. Using beeps for the foghorns of the harbor here.”

  “Just like your first time in the sack. You don’t forget where it was that someone first took a shot at you. Or the time.”

  “And people say you’re a bad influence on me.”

  “Fuck ’em, and feed ’em fish. What’s happening on the case?”

  Monk filled him in, then asked, “What did you find out about brother Suh?”

  “There’s an all-night strip joint over on Gaffey. Let’s go over there and talk.”

  Monk stared at Grant.

  “The place is circular. We can sit at a table and one of us watches the front while the other keeps an eye on the back. The music’s a good cover in case your girlfriend Keys is using a directional mike or some of that other sophisticated eavesdropping equipment. We’re both good at shaking tails, but let’s face it, the Bureau’s been at this longer than both of us have been alive.”

  “Okay,” Monk said, gunning the motor to life. “I think it’s just an excuse for you to leer at naked young women more than half your age.”

  “Sure, there’s that, too.”

  The Chain Puller’s clientele was sparse, but diverse. A couple of the typical middle-aged businessmen with their ties askew in their Hart Schaffner & Marx costumes, a trio of bikers—one of whom gave Monk an “I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me” look—some collegiate types who looked underage, and a lone woman in a peasant dress who drank in a corner and scribbled on a pad of paper.