Violent Spring Read online

  Grant and Monk took a table toward the middle of the rear. The stripper, a thin brunette with a protruding rib cage, did her act on stage as heavy metal music played. It was loud enough so that they both felt safe talking, but not so much that they had to shout.

  It was a two-drink minimum in the place, all well drinks were five dollars, plus the cover charge. They both ordered beer from the topless waitress. Monk browsed through the contents of the folder.

  “Bong Kim Suh,” Grant began, “was a labor leader in a large steel mill in Inchun.”

  The waitress returned with their order, and he waited until she put down the order to continue. Monk said, “I don’t think there’s anywhere on her to hide a bug, Dex.”

  The older man was staring at the departing woman’s backside and didn’t respond. He went on. “From 1945 to about 1965, the U.S. supplied the sometimes less-than-democratic governments of South Korea over 12 billion big ones in military and economic grants. Not to mention some spare change they picked up from the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund and so on.”

  “All in the name of stopping the red hordes to the north.”

  “Something like that,” Grant conceded. “Anyway, the South Koreans sniffed the then-subtle shifting of political winds, and knew they best be about developing some economic independence. They started what would be the first of several five-year plans.”

  Monk took a sip of his tepid beer and made a face. “That sounds kind of socialist to me.”

  “National Socialism, I guess. After all, the Nazis began Germany’s nationwide healthcare system, and it’s still used today.”

  “But we digress.”

  “The first five-year plan called for economic diversification. They normalized relations with their former colonizers, Japan, and received $800 million in government grants and loans, and private industry loans, too. With that, and the fact that U.S. aid also continued, they achieved some degree of their goal.”

  “Which was?”

  “Increase in electrical energy capacity, upping the production of food for internal use, and building up the industrial infrastructure.”

  “This leads us to the second five-year plan.”

  “Absolutely, weed hopper.”

  One of the bikers and a businessman had gotten into a shouting thatch but one of the frat boys had stumbled over to them. A drunk referee. After several moments of consultation with the young man, the bikers and the businessmen pushed some tables together, and all of them commenced to have a grand time of it.

  Grant returned to his subject. “In the second phase, the economic wizards sought further food production, an increase in employment and retooling of industries such as textiles. As a matter of fact, GNP shot up damn near 12 percent during that period.”

  “The beginning of the rise of South Korea as an economic power in the East.”

  “Partly accomplished because most of the union officials were paid by the company.”

  “Handmaidens of the government,” Monk elaborated.

  Grant continued. “In the ’60s the workers lived on industrial estates or in towns near the factories they worked in. Bad pay, long hours, lousy housing and no playgrounds for your kids, quite a fucked-up deal. Most of the unions worked in concert with the big companies to fuel the economic miracle.”

  “The only place to go, as far as the workers were concerned, was up,” Monk added, having given up on trying to drink the swill the Chain Puller passed off as beer.

  “Right. And there began a new militancy on the part of some workers who put it on the line with their unions. But,” Grant held up a finger, “General Pak Chung Hee, who’d been in power since 1963, wasn’t about to have any of that. And he wasn’t about to step down, though two terms was the prescribed limit on holding the presidency.”

  “This is about in ’71, right?” Monk said. “He declared martial law.”

  “Sort of. He finagled the National Assembly to allow him a third term. Everybody was screaming, the people, the business leaders and so forth. But he managed to squeak through in a very shady election. Chung Hee could see democracy was not for him, not if he wanted to stay in power, so he declared a national emergency and suspended the constitution. The Korean Central Intelligence Agency and the cops got a free hand. Chung Hee used the spectre of communism as his excuse to crack down on unions, political movements, university students, and whoever else pissed him off.”

  “Old story,” Monk mused. “His version of Yushin.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework, youngster. Anyway, during this period, as you can imagine, there was a lot of opposition to this iron hand of government, particularly in the ranks of labor. As I said,” Grant stopped because the screeching music had suddenly stopped. It was now quiet in the strip bar save for the carousing crew of bikers, businessmen and students. But all of them seemed too drunk to notice that the stripper had left the stage as they continued to laugh at one another’s jokes. The woman in the corner continued to write.

  Grant went on. “Like I was saying, Bong Kim Suh was a worker in a steel mill and he was also a member of a group that didn’t express themselves as socialists, but they definitely were left of center. He’d been through trainings for union leaders at church-based organizations who, later, would be influenced by the Liberation Theology movement. Suh was bright, articulate and courageous. He became a shop steward on a platform of more union independence and more militancy.”

  “I imagine he got his hand slapped once or twice.”

  “He made a visit to South Mountain, which was a nice way of saying you got picked up by the KCIA and taken to their headquarters. There they practiced a little bit of the ol’ ultra-vi to make you see the error of your ways.”

  “And did he?”

  “He took it, and more. He and some others organized a strike in the late seventies that resulted in the deaths of some twenty workers.”

  “Anything about his wife?”

  “That’s a bit sketchy. But I concluded she was involved in some union business, textiles. Seems there was a job slowdown and the bosses hired some goons to teach the ladies the true meaning of labor relations. She was killed sometime in the mid-seventies.”

  “Damn. What else on Suh?”

  “Well,” Grant said, sipping his beer, “that’s where I got my hand slapped. The background stuff we’ve been talking about, most of the stuff that’s in that file, can be obtained from books and magazines written about South Korea. My contacts at State were okay about supplying that.”

  “But when you started to ask about Suh?”

  “I got as far as his labor background and the strike in the late seventies. Then all of a sudden, my contacts dried up.”

  “Like they got a memo to be cool,” Monk offered.

  “There’s no doubt.”

  “Keys must know about you and me, so he must figure I have this info.”

  “But he must know the complete history of Suh.”

  “Which raises the question as to what it hides. What bearing does it have on his death in South Central Los Angeles?”

  The waitress returned without being summoned. She placed two more beers on the table and said laconically, “That’ll be ten dollars plus tip.”

  Monk’s eyes assailed her, but he could not pierce the veil of distance he’d seen on the faces of women like her, those who mostly by factors they could never control found themselves trapped in the sex trade. He put a ten and five on her tray. “Okay.”

  She picked it up and looked at him. “Thanks, man.” And off she went.

  Grant hunched forward across the table. “How about this scenario? After the strike there came reprisals from the government. Suh flees and for the next several years bounces around and winds up here in ’82, okay?”

  “Yeah. But something makes him close up shop a week before the upheaval and then he starts keeping odd hours where he lives.”

  Grant’s brow furrowed. “Like he was on to something. That would explain c
losing the store. Harder to find a guy if he ain’t where he’s supposed to be.”

  “Yet his actions would seem to indicate he was working on something. And it has to be all tied in with Jiang Holdings.”

  “But you told me the phone number you got for them is now out of service.”

  “And the address is an empty lot. But Jiang holds the liquor certificate on the Hi-Life liquor store, the non-operation certificate for Suh’s car was filed by the concern, and most importantly, it would appear that Bart Samuels and the late Stacy Grimes were employed by Jiang.”

  “For the purpose of buying up distressed properties.”

  “So I need to know who is behind Jiang,” Monk said.

  “Bong Kim Suh probably found out and paid for the knowledge.”

  Monk nodded his head in the affirmative.

  “LAW OFFICE,” THE efficient female voice said.

  “I’m a friend of Bart Samuels, he recommended this law office, but I can’t remember the name of the lawyer.”

  Monk could hear the quiet buzz on the line, then, “Was he a client?” Some of the efficiency had worn off.

  “Yes. He’d been arrested on assault charges.”

  “Oh, hold on.”

  He listened to the Muzak version of Tone Loc’s “Funky Cold Medina,” then another female voice, older than the first, came on the line.

  “This is Sheila Evans, can I help you?”

  “Miss Evans, I … I got involved in a little something helping out my buddy Bart Samuels.” He let it hang in the air but no words were forthcoming from the other end. “Well, actually, it involved him and Stacy Grimes.”

  That got a compact intake of air. Sheila Evans said, “Where did you get my number?”

  “From Bart, I told you.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Monk picked up an edginess in her voice that was more than annoyance. “But you know Bart and Stacy.”

  “Mr. Grimes is.…”

  “Dead.”

  “Who are you?”

  “More importantly, Ms. Evans, how is it that you came to represent Grimes?”

  She cradled the handset. Monk got up from his desk and stuck his head out into the rotunda. “Delilah, check with the bar association for a current business address for a lawyer named Sheila Evans.”

  “Okay. I’ve got some work to finish for Ross, and I’ll get on it after lunch.”

  Monk closed the door and returned to his desk. Momentarily, his phone rang and he picked it up. “This is Monk.”

  “Mr. Monk.”

  “Mr. O’Day, I’m glad to hear from you.”

  “I’d been out of town on SOMA business. I understand you’ve been making progress.”

  “I have. As a matter of fact, I’ve just been talking with a lawyer named Sheila Evans. Do you know her?”

  “Yes, yes I do. She’s a lawyer at a firm whose senior partner is an old classmate of mine.”

  “Did you recommend her to Stacy Grimes?”

  “I may have. I understood he was in some trouble with the LAPD and I might have told him or Bart Samuels about them. A professional courtesy, you know. Does this have something to do with the case?”

  “It may. When can we get together?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with the mayor this morning. Why don’t I call you this afternoon and if not today, then on Monday.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Mr. Monk.”

  “Yes, Mr. O’Day.”

  “How close are you to finding Crosshairs Sawyer?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not sure it matters.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Indeed we will.”

  Monk made further notes on the case on a tablet of yellow paper. Later, he would flesh them out in his report when he wrote it up on the computer at the donut shop. He finished, arose and stretched, then headed out.

  “I’ll be back by one-thirty, D,” he said. “I’m expecting a call from O’Day this afternoon. If I miss him, ask him where I can find him. Oh, call Li at the Merchants Group and tell him I’ll be dropping off my report to him over the weekend.”

  Monk took the 10 freeway east and got off at Vermont. He went south until he came to a low-slung two-story building of first-floor storefronts with apartments on the second level. An empty lot was next to the building. It was boxed in with cyclone fencing, another piece of archaeology from the Spring of ’92. Park’s building still had scorch marks on it, and had unrented spaces in it, too. He parked and looked into the vacant spaces. Debris was strewn about the floor, and a portion of the wall that faced the lot was missing.

  Monk entered the carniceria at the apex of the building. He walked up to a middle-aged, heavyset Latina behind the counter.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m interested in renting one of the storefronts in this building. Can you tell me how to get ahold of the landlord?”

  “His name is Park,” she said. “I’ve got the number to his office around here somewhere.” She rummaged under the counter and produced a dogeared Rolodex. She flipped through it and came to the entry she was looking for and turned it for Monk to see. He wrote down the address, which was in Monterey Park, and the phone number in the 818 area code.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Sure.”

  Monk then drove over to a pay phone and called Roy Park’s office.

  “Triple A Realty,” the woman on the other end of the line said when it connected.

  “Is Mr. Park in?” Monk asked.

  “Not at the moment. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to rent out one of his storefronts on Vermont near Jefferson.”

  “If you leave your name and number, I’ll have him get back to you.”

  Monk gave her a false name and the phone number that was the fourth line into the office space he shared with Ross and Hendricks. He rang off. Delilah had been briefed, and she would answer it accordingly. He wasn’t sure how Park might take hearing his real name—maybe he was a member of the Merchants Group and it didn’t matter, or maybe it did.

  He grabbed some bland lunch over at the food court in the shopping center across the street from the University of Southern California on Hoover and Jefferson. Then he called into the office.

  “No, Mr. Park didn’t call, or Mr. O’Day,” Delilah said. “But Ms. Scarn did.”

  “Who? Oh. What did she say this time?”

  “She said be in her office at ten in the morning on Monday, or your license will be suspended for thirty days for failure to appear.”

  Monk exploded. “Give me that stiff-backed bureaucrat’s number. I’ll—”

  “She faxed over a formal summons, Ivan.”

  “Fuck. What’s her basis for the summons?”

  He could hear the rustle of papers as Delilah retrieved the document. “It is alleged that you fired your weapon without filing a discharge report.”

  Frozen water collected along Monk’s spine. Had Keys been able to follow him out to Bart Samuels’ apartment? Had it been Keys that night on the stairs? The third person who slugged him. He shook himself. “All right, thanks Delilah. I’ll be back in awhile.”

  Monk left the shopping center and took the Galaxie over to Hi-Life Liquors. Pulling into the parking space behind the establishment, Monk recognized a grey Blazer, the color of dull gun metal with sport rims, parked there also. He got out and warily entered through the front.

  One of the kids who had been in there the last time he was there was again playing a video game. Mrs. Chung was standing next to a rack of sugar-loaded snack cakes. Her nephew was behind the counter. He shifted his gaze from Monk to one of the others in the store, a medium-sized young black man in a cheaply made double-breasted suit and a brown bowler. He was standing next to Mrs. Chung at the rack. It was very quiet in the Hi-Life save for the kid racking up points on the video game.

  “Good day, Mrs. Chung,” Monk began, scanning the remaining parts of the room for the ot
her one. All he could see were the aisles containing such delicacies as Wonder Bread and canned Spam.

  “What can I do for you today?” she said.

  “I came back because I had some more questions I wanted to ask you.” He moved forward and the one next to Mrs. Chung turned his body slightly, his shoulder out to Monk but he was looking straight at him.

  “Why don’t you come back later, cuz?” he said, smiling. “I’ve got an order to fill here.”

  It might be, Monk reasoned, that the other Scalp Hunter had a gun trained on him. That’s why he wanted to be closer to the one he was talking to. “It can’t wait that long.” He stepped forward.

  “Too motherfuckin’ bad, then.” The one next to Mrs. Chung brought his fist up and into Monk’s stomach.

  He gritted his teeth and, even as he clutched at his stomach, he let loose with his other hand. He caught the Scalp Hunter on the side of the jaw, sending him backwards into the rack. Ho Hos, Ding Dongs and Little Bettys sailed through the air. Mrs. Chung moved off, and Monk shouted at no one in particular, “Where’s the other one?”

  “In the backroom,” the nephew shouted back.

  The one closest to him was regaining his balance, and Monk lashed out with his feet, catching him in the ribs. There was a burst of air from him like a busted soda bottle. Monk propelled his body forward over the fallen rack. The other Scalp Hunter, similarly dressed, appeared in the doorway leading to the back.

  He was small but the gun in his hand made up for it. There was too much ground to cover if the gang member had a mind to pull the trigger. Monk hadn’t worn his gun. Not that it mattered, he wouldn’t have been able to draw it in time anyway.

  “You just won the wet T-shirt contest, homeboy,” he said.

  Monk could already feel the rounds penetrating his chest, cutting into his head. There was a loud retort behind the detective which caused the Scalp Hunter in front of him to momentarily look in that direction. Monk leaped and drove the other man back through the doorway. The two collided with some stacked boxes of beef jerky and a variety of canned nuts. They went over along with the boxed goods in the half-light of the stock room.