Only the Wicked Read online

  Lucky was known to have an eye for younger women, fast horses, and throughout his life was involved in a series of financial and morally suspect escapades. Yet he died very solvent in 1909, after settling not only the section of town bearing his name, but also Santa Anita, and naturally, its racetrack.

  No doubt Lucky’s ghost smiled as dozens of automated oil pumps these days worked continuously in fenced-off lots near Stocker. The land Baldwin developed was still producing the black gold as if fossil fuels would never run out.

  Second-tier entertainers, upper-level city bureaucrats, and some music people claimed residence in the hills on streets with names such as Don Lorenzo, Don Quixote and Don Zarembo. In 1985, a massive fire had wiped out more than fifty homes, and before that, there had been a bad flood when the hills’ concrete reservoir had burst in the ’60s.

  If there was something symbolic about both flame and water having wrought destruction in Baldwin Hills, some biblical sign the homeowners were meant to have heeded, they apparently had not. Or at least chose not to. For Baldwin Hills was still a place one could find the strivers, the strata of black folk one also found in nearby Windsor Hills and Ladera Heights, who asked for no hand out, worked hard at their jobs, and kept their wet bars well stocked with premium liquor.

  Not too far down below in the flatlands, Monk glimpsed the contours of the jungle. Coliseum Street sliced through this compact area of low- to moderate-rent apartment buildings landscaped with overgrown shrubs, wildly sprouting rubber plants, and towering eucalyptus trees. When he was a kid, he and his friends thought the place was called the jungle by whites because it was an all-black enclave. As it turned out the area had gotten the nickname when it was still white because of the amount of topiary.

  Monk ruminated on the intricacies of Los Angeles’ demarcations as he strode up the walk to the door with its unblinking single orb. Next door a woman in a shapeless housedress was on her knees digging at a brick-lined flower bed running along the base of her home. She pushed back the floppy brim of her sunhat at the sound of his footsteps.

  Monk knew she was giving him the once-over through her shades, what with him dressed in off-white jeans, striped shirt with sleeves rolled up and scuffed Timberlines. She also shot a glance at his restored ’64. Had one of the graspers from the crowded apartments down below dared to journey beyond his station? Monk smiled.

  She turned her head back toward her zinnias and marigolds, the trowel in her hand moving listlessly. She appeared to be deep in thought as Monk rang the bell.

  “Yes?” came the question from the indistinct shadow beyond the opaque glass.

  Monk told her his name and why he had come.

  “Really?” the woman said as she opened the door. She was somewhere in her mid-fifties and her dark brown hair was cut close and straight to her roundish face. She wore a loose silk T and a blue and orange print skirt. “A real live private eye?”

  He could tell his outfit didn’t fit the expected image. “I can show you my ID if you like.”

  “Oh, I believe you.” She stepped back. “Gome on, we’re in here.”

  He followed her through a deeply carpeted foyer past a flag-stone fireplace and a big-screen TV set diagonally from it. “Okay, ladies, clean up your language, there’s a man in the house,” the woman joked.

  Monk could hear hearty laughter and the unmistakable slap of cards on a table top. He came around a corner to see an enclosed patio where three other women were playing bid whist.

  “Uptown, girl,” one of them said, tossing down a seven of hearts. She glanced at Monk.

  “How’d you find me?” Clara Antony asked pleasantly.

  Grant had found out her haunts. “Denise Rutledge’s sister-in-law knows somebody I know.” That was more or less accurate.

  She nodded appreciatively. “You want to play a hand?”

  The owner of the house touched Monk’s arm. “Would you like some iced tea?”

  “He’s a beer man, Jeri.” The woman who said it was about Monk’s complexion, wearing a red sweater top, matching pumps, and had on too much blue eyeliner. Her hair was coiffured in layers and he could tell she worked out regularly. She kept her eyes on the only man in the room as she laid down a three of clubs.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” He wasn’t sure whether he should sit or stand. He didn’t want to seem awkward.

  Clara Antony explained who Monk was. “And what can I help you with today?” She indicated a couch set in front of a sliding-glass door. Beyond it an old golden retriever lounged and scratched.

  Monk sat down, suddenly wishing he had accepted the beverage as it would give him something to do with his hands. All the women were now sitting at the table, looking at him. They were all middle-aged black women dressed casually but expensively. They gave him the impression of having reached a certain station in life but they were not “siddidy” about it, as his mother would say.

  “Normally I don’t bust in on people like this,” he began.

  The one in blue eyeliner said, “You look like the kind that busts ’em up regularly, sugar.”

  Clara Antony gave her a look but said nothing, then glanced at the hand she held. “Who bid five?”

  “It’s just that I’m on short time and need to get as much done as I can in the next coupla days before I light out.”

  “Down to the Delta,” the former singer guessed.

  Monk confirmed that and told her about the attack on his mother. He was careful not to draw too fine a line between the last time he’d seen Clara Antony and the assault. His moving about town, dropping the news he was going to Mississippi, was a way to see if he could draw the killer and/or his partner to him. He wished Jill would pack that Smith & Wesson .38 she had, given all the attacks on the women around him.

  “Like I said, I may be a little rude here, Clara, but I wanted to ask you a few things away from your husband.”

  Blue Eyeliner made a face. And a serious-looking woman in over-sized glasses opened her eyes wide.

  “Ardmore may have had his rough edges, Ivan, but he wouldn’t truck with anything like murder.” She crossed her legs, her fingers pushing several of her cards face down on the table. “The club game in those days wasn’t for the fainthearted. I’m not saying he was always a gentleman. But—” she shook her head as a way of completing her sentence. “And he’s too old to be jumping ladies in their driveways.”

  “She’d rather he jump her,” the one with the mascara snorted. Big Glasses giggled and the one who had opened the door slapped her friend on the arm.

  Monk asked, “How about Harvey Lyle, the numbers man who sponsored the All-Stars with your husband? He and Kennesaw ever have a run-in?”

  Clara Antony considered his question. “Yeah, probably, but who didn’t with someone so foul tempered as Lyle?” She flicked her hand at the woman in blue eyeliner across from her. ‘“Course Gloria here had a thing for him, didn’t you Glo-glo?”

  “Careful,” she advised. She turned her eyes on Monk. “Harvey had at least two sons I knew of.” She played clubs.

  “They grow into their old man’s business?”

  “One went back east, Boston I think, he’s legitimate, works for a sportswear manufacturer, I believe. And the other, Trent, he was involved in some shady stuff.” She looked at the others to fill in. The homeowner raised an index finger and spoke.

  “Trent wound up involved in drugs, no surprise there. I hear he’s been in and out of jail several times.”

  “Anybody know what firm the one back in Boston works for?” Monk asked.

  “Oh, now, why would Stewart be a suspect, what would he be after?” Clara Antony continued to move her cards around on the table in circular motions.

  “Maybe Lyle and Kennesaw had some deal going back then,” Monk said. “Something behind your husband’s back.”

  “And the son is out to collect?” one of the women suggested.

  “Can anybody find out for sure where Stewart is?” The women’s hesitation wa
s apparent. “I just want to close all unnecessary doors.”

  Eyeliner looked at her friends, then said, “I can find out. But I’d want to talk to him first. Give me your card and I’ll have him call you.”

  “He’s going to be out of town,” Clara Antony reminded her.

  “My office will forward the information to me.” Monk got up and handed her one of his cards. He remained standing.

  “Why don’t you ask him to put his home number on it, Glo?” the one in the glasses goaded her.

  Glo showed horseteeth and tucked the card away in a clutch bag at her feet.

  “I appreciate your time, ladies, especially yours, Clara.”

  “I hope you find this nut, whoever he is, Ivan.”

  He said his goodbyes and wound his way back down to La Brea and headed north. The sky was uncustomarily clear and the San Gabriel mountains stood out sharp and bold beyond the high-rises of downtown.

  Monk had a chicken omelet and fries for lunch at Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles on Pico. Afterward, he headed north again. He had an appointment with Bernie Desconso, the lawyer who’d been involved in Creel’s appeals for the last twenty years. He knew Desconso, a gregarious man, slightly, having met him once at a garden party his own lawyer, Parren Teague, had given. He’d also run into him at some National Lawyer’s Guild dinner or ACLU fund-raiser that Kodama had dragged him to over the years. Desconso was a partner in a law firm that had offices in the Equitable Building on Wilshire near Normandie.

  He was standing and staring at a Basquiat print in the men’s waiting room when Desconso came out to greet him.

  “Ivan, long time no see, man. Come on back.” Desconso shook his hand, clasping his left one over the top like a ward healer on his rounds. He was in rolled-up shirt sleeves and tailored slacks. His longish hair was fast receding from his unwrinkled brow, and his waistline was trimmer than Monk remembered.

  “You been working out,” he commented.

  Desconso touched his head. “If I can’t keep this, might as well lose the other. Hell, it’s been five years since the divorce, might as well get in a few more innings until I need Viagra. How’s Jill?”

  “Busy.” He was going to go on about them talking about having children, but decided against elaborating, that maybe telling him would jinx the possibility.

  They sat in a corner office furnished in sterile modern. The personal touches were the photos of Descanso’s teenaged children on his desk in Plexiglas holders. Behind his chair, the vertical blinds had been drawn back to reveal a view to the west.

  Monk filled him in on his investigation.

  Desconso whistled. “I wouldn’t doubt that the Southern Citizens League was behind the attack on your mother, Ivan. I’ll maintain ‘til the day I die their reach has been far more insidious, far deeper than anything they revealed in the files they released or the so-called in-depth pieces on them the news magazine shows have done.”

  “They’ve officially disbanded,” Monk ventured.

  “And the CIA never partnered with drug dealers,” Desconso countered derisively.

  Monk held up his hands like he was under arrest. “I’m with you, brother. I faxed you that list I got from N’Kobari Embara of some of the folks who’ve been involved in Creel’s defense committee. Any one of them in particular you think I should talk to before I get down there? Or anybody else you can think of?”

  “Yeah, I gave that some thought. None of them jumped out at me. But there was this one woman we came across during one of our appeals. She’d been Ava Green’s roommate that first semester at Brandeis.”

  “You never deposed her?”

  “No,” Desconso was looking for something in the piles of files and notepads on his desk. “One of my investigators talked to her, and it turned out she’d had to come back home at the end of that semester; out here to LaCanada-Flintridge, actually.” He pointed north while still searching his desk. “Her mother had taken ill, and she was needed back home to help care for her.” Desconso found a torn half sheet of paper. “Here’s the note I made to myself.” He held the sheet aloft quickly, then read it. “Helena Jones is her name. See, she never did get back to Brandeis or join Green in Damon’s campaign. So really, for our purposes, she could offer nothing of value.” He handed the note across to Monk.

  He stared at what passed for Desconso’s handwriting. “Why do you think I should talk to her?”

  Desconso made a face. “You asked for others, she’s an other. That’s an old address and phone, the family’s house.”

  “Can you set it up so I can see Creel when I’m down there?” He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Sure, we’ll tell the prison authorities you’re working for us.” Desconso stared at him evenly, leaning back in his chair. “Now if I get you in to see Damon, I hope you’ll share anything relevant should you uncover something.”

  “Sure, Bernie, why wouldn’t I?”

  Desconso’s brows went up. “I’ve been convinced of Damon Creel’s innocence since the second day I became involved in his case. Some nights I can’t sleep right because I know that this country has cavalierly and repeatedly locked black men like Damon Creel away for what they stood for, what they tried to do. He is a political prisoner in a class and race war that’s been going on since the first Pilgrims arrived, and the rock Malcolm talked about landed on the Indians.”

  Monk was uncomfortable. “You want me to be a true believer, Bernie?”

  “I don’t know the relationship you had with your cousin. I heard from an attorney at the courthouse the other day about his poisoning before you phoned me.”

  “And you know he had a snitch jacket,” Monk leveled. “I won’t hold out on you, man.” A pigeon flitted past the large window, settled on the ledge and pecked at something as the two men stared at each other.

  Desconso rose and they shook hands again. “The best huh?”

  “Thanks.”

  Monk talked with several people on the list Embara had given him over the next two days. One was a woman named Reily who, along with her husband, owned a print shop in Culver City. She related that she still believed in Creel’s innocence, but what with the kids and the business, her activist life was severely curtailed. Another committee member named Franks was a practicing Buddhist, but his striving for inner balance didn’t temper his bitter feelings that he felt he’d been taken in by the Creel Defense Committee.

  “I’d be interested in knowing why,” Monk remarked. He stood next to Franks in the art gallery/bookstore/coffeeshop the latter owned in a shopping mall near King Harbor in Redondo Beach.

  Franks regarded Monk for several moments before speaking. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Monk. I think Damon Creel is the biggest fraud to come along since the three-dollar-bill. He’s a self-aggrandizer, an egotist who only wanted to advance his book deals, and of course, nail some college-educated pussy.”

  “Tough words from a man into brown rice and inner peace. So you think he murdered those girls?”

  Franks shifted on his feet, lightly touching the frame on a Betye Saar assemblage. “I know he was bopping one of them at least, probably both.”

  Monk enunciated, “Do you think he murdered them?”

  “I do,” Franks said softly. “I think he did it because Ava Green was going to expose him for the fake he is, and I think things got out of hand.” Franks’ eyes bore into Monk’s, daring him to question his judgement. “I think people like Creel used good-hearted white liberals like me. And too many of his brethren are still doing it today rather than getting on with their lives.”

  “Don’t a lot of us come up short, Mr. Franks? Does that mean Creel’s goals are less worthy?”

  Franks snorted. “Figures you’d defend him.”

  Monk was getting worked up but decided to let his irritation at this man simmer. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t ambiguous about Creel’s guilt or innocence himself. And Franks had been through the experience of being on the defense committe
e, not him. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Franks.” He started to leave.

  “Hey,” Franks called to him as Monk made the doorway. “If you find out something when you’re down there, let me know, okay?”

  “Why?” he asked, not looking around.

  “Maybe you’ll restore my faith.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The next day, the day before he was to leave for Mississippi, he had a talk with Helena Jones. They had agreed to meet for lunch at the Koo-Koo-Roo on Santa Monica Boulevard in the City of West Hollywood. Jones was a professor of urban planning at UCLA, and worked part-time as a consultant for the small city of gays and Russian emigrants.

  She was on the lean side, her upper body defined in angular lines with a full bosom. Her face broadcast her Slavic origins, and her smile was infectious. Jones wore dark wool pants and a satiny purple shirt with shiny black buttons. Gray was edging its way into the roots of her auburn hair.

  “So you and Ava talked over the phone from time to time when she and Sharon Aikens were down there working on the campaign?” Monk ate a forkful of creamed spinach.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said, using her fingers to pick up her skinless chicken drumstick.

  “I’ve talked to several people who used to be active in the defense committee,” Monk continued. “And I’ve been told that it was Ava who was big on going down to Memphis that summer. Why was that, a kid who grew up in Scarsdale?”

  “It was an adventure,” she said lightly. “And she was a young woman with her own mind looking to make her mark.” She chewed with vigor.

  “She wanted to change the world and herself at the same time,” Monk empathized.

  “You gotta remember Herbert Marcuse had been a big influence on the campus then. His classes were always packed. And him being a mentor to Angela Davis only increased the allure of his writings. Hell, in those days, Brandeis was considered Berkeley East, for goodness sake. All the smart young women had the desires Ava expressed before the onset of kids, and arguments over bullshit at three in the morning with your husband.” She appraised him. “You married, Ivan?”