Perdition, U.S.A. Read online

  He quit the school, found another phone booth, and wrote down the three Meyers listed in it. Consulting his map, he located the addresses and marked them. Next stop was city hall, a substantial edifice the color of soap stone on Liberty. The mayor, he learned, was to be found in his other office.

  “Howdy. I heard you’ve been looking our town over.”

  Mayor Carter Ash was a loose-limbed individual displaying a gap-toothed grin, his number twelve dogs stuffed into pointed desert boots. The curved dimensional type in his office window announced the mayor’s full-time profession as Ash Concrete Coring. The letters’ outlines cast oblique shadows across the yellow pine desk and the ruddy hue of the Mexican tile.

  “I needed to look up some land records. Where would I find those?” Monk asked, shaking hands with the mayor. He knew where they were, but wanted to ingratiate himself with the man, maybe learn a little more about Bright.

  “Well sure, that’s…”

  The mayor and Monk were simultaneously diverted by a disturbance from outside on Commercial. Some skins and some of Rameses’ crew were mixing it up; shoving, pointing fingers, exchanging heated words. Rameses, and the one with the spiked hair, were in the midst of it. The back and forth business escalated and a couple of the skins produced bats and pipes.

  Monk was already out the door. But there was no need to rush, most of the skins and Rameses crew weren’t bloodletting, just brandishing. It was a dance of nerve and posturing between warring tribes, a ritual played out on streets from Belfast to the Gaza Strip.

  Only a War Reich member, the one with the jiggling gut who he’d sparred with earlier, was upping the tempo and rushing the big woman’s blind side, raising a tire iron for a home run. Happy that his aging legs still had the physical memory of his college football days, Monk the former linebacker yanked the young woman away just as the space where her head had been was invaded violently.

  Blondie, taller than her assailant, stamped down on his foot in her heavy Doc Marten. Pivoting her body, she checked his follow-through blow and her hand dipped forward and across. Then Monk understood. The foot had been to hold her attacker in place. The skin doubled over, swearing and holding his face as fluid leaked from between his clutching hands.

  “Thanks, cutie,” she winked, one of those four-finger brass knuckle type rings favored by rap artists stradling her fist. The name plate on the thing read: “Love.”

  The yelling and pumping of fists in the air went on for a few more minutes until the clans separated, each vowing to kick the other’s ass next time.

  “I’m Katya.” Her hand, the name plate tucked inside her leather jacket, was out and she was breathing through her mouth.

  Monk shook it and told her his name. The spiked-haired woman, a punked-out Valkyrie, had a rush in her eyes, and Monk started to get self-conscious and sick. Sex and violence were starting to have an uncomfortable association for him.

  The mayor and several townspeople were out on the sidewalk and some leaned from open doorways. Ash’s face was knotted in pain. Was it from concern over what his town was becoming or because his side hadn’t won today? Monk filed the observation for future reference. Interestingly enough, no member of the well-staffed Perdition P.D. had shown up.

  “You do all right for an old fuck,” Rameses said by way of a back-handed compliment.

  Monk was feeling a little light-headed but was determined to keep up appearances. Not to impress Katya he lied to himself, stealing another view of her standing there in her sweat-soaked T-shirt. “Blight’s in town.”

  “Where’d you see him?” Katya inquired.

  “At the War Reich headquarters this morning. He had a mamma jamma of a bodyguard with him.”

  “You see a lot for a guy who’s supposed to be concerned with software and tax breaks.” Rameses placed hands on his hips, mimicking his mother’s body language.

  “Don’t I though?” Monk massaged the back of his neck and moved it side to side. He wanted to place his body, which was starting to stiffen up, under a hot shower. And he wouldn’t mind a bit if Katya slowly bent down for the soap. Concentrating, he continued talking.

  “There was an older fella with him. Sharp dresser. Good shape. Favored these big sort of shades.” Monk held up his hand on either side of his face to indicate what he meant.

  “That’s Halstead,” Katya offered.

  Rameses daggered her and she bared teeth at him unconcerned. “He’s Bright’s media advisor, guru and head dick wiper.”

  Ash and two others Monk didn’t know were coming over to them.

  “Well, I’m glad no one was seriously hurt,” the working stiff mayor bubbled.

  “Or have your cops working up a sweat,” Rameses sneered.

  Ash pretended he didn’t hear and said to Monk, “I want you to realize that this element is not…,” his head jerked spastically and his hands worked for a few moments as he sought to conjure up the words.

  He got back on track with, “This element is just an aberration of the hard times all of us in this region have been going through. The majority of people in this town are good enough. I know, I grew up here. We can make it into the next century if we just get a chance.”

  “And you two-bit acid-head miscegenationist gangbangers are merely adding to the misery,” one of the other men barked, pointing a pudgy digit in the general direction of Katya and several members of her crew.

  She blew him a kiss and the multi-racial skinheads hugged and celebrated one another walking away.

  Ash loosened his tie. “It’s a different world now.” He came over to Monk, placing a reassuring hand on his upper arm. “Let me take you over to the records office. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee on the way.”

  Monk was psyched and wanted to be doing something, connecting the dots, not listening to small town players bemoan fates they probably didn’t have any control over. Particularly since he was Perdition’s Trojan Horse. But he did want to talk to the man. “That’d be fine, Mr. Ash.”

  The other man who’d come over with the mayor, a short individual with a wandering eye, said, “So this hasn’t put you off our town?”

  Monk choked back a swear word and answered, “No. We have facilities in L.A., and we haven’t been scared out of there yet.”

  Over some particularly tepid coffee in the City Hall canteen, Monk got way too much information on Perdition, its promise, and its prime location.

  “I understand you went to high school with Bright?” Monk finally had to blurt out, to stem the mayor’s boosterism.

  “Ah, yes, yes I did,” he dourly admitted. “But we took different roads after high school.”

  “What made him like he is, Carter?” Monk sipped like he was enjoying the taste. “Get beat up by a gang of black guys? Some brother take his best girl?”

  Ash’s sallow face bleached beneath the skin. “Derek had a more than honest man’s burden of problems at home. And really, who can say where any of us get our ideas.” For the first time, the man wasn’t talkative.

  “Like what problems?” Monk tried not to sound too curious.

  Ash made a thing of checking his watch. “I better get back to the office. Mayoring takes up way too much of my time, and I still got a business to run.” He got off his stool. “Good to meet you, Mr. Monk. I hope you decide to come here. Believe me, this business with the skinheads will blow over.”

  Like cancer, Monk concluded silently. “Thanks for your time, Carter.”

  “Mine to give.”

  Afterwards, for exercise Monk walked upstairs into the section containing the birth records on the fifth floor. Forty-two minutes later Monk had the information he’d been looking for and drove over to Dudley’s. He eagerly devoured three quarters of a fried chicken, a double helping of rice with gravy, two biscuits, and downed two cans of Millers.

  Recharged, Monk went back to Juanita Oray’s rooming house and came in just as she was lecturing her son.

  “What in the living hell are you thinking with,
Orin?”

  “You’re sweatin’ it too much, mom.”

  They stood apart in the far end of the dining room. Under the dissipated glow from the ceiling light, their wan expressions were in sharp contrast to their heated words.

  “It’s gotten beyond the point of my worries, honey.” She put a hand on his broad shoulder and looked up into his face. “How far do you and Katya and the rest intend to go with this?”

  “Ask him, he’s the one who jumped frogish today,” Rameses said, indicating Monk.

  Juanita Oray pinned Monk with a look only a parent could administer to a child who constantly disappointed. “I heard something about that but figured it was just bored townspeople going on.”

  “One can’t always be on the sidelines, ma’am.”

  “You look a little young for playin’ out some kind of Vietnam anger,” she admonished.

  “By the time I had to register, the Paris Peace Talks were happening.

  “So what the hell’s your excuse?” she retorted.

  He considered his response. Even telling the truth wouldn’t answer her question. His dad’s hand was reaching for him through the kitchen’s half-light, the question on his whisky wet lips. What did you have to do? Beat every racist until one of them spat out the cosmic reason? The atonement for black folks’ burden?

  “I’m not trying to play out some tough guy fantasy,” was his feeble reply.

  “But you and Orin think cracking heads is a way to deal with these fools?”

  “It’s part of the tactics,” Rameses declared.

  Exasperation made Juanita Oray’s body sag. “At the expense of doing something constructive on our side?”

  “You have a point.” Monk nodded at them and went on up to his room. Soon, he returned but mother and son weren’t around. Mr. Kahn and another man Monk hadn’t seen before were absorbed in a TV cop show Monk watched on occasion. He joined them for a few minutes as the episode unfolded. Presently, he zipped up his heavy windbreaker and went out into the chilly evening.

  The rental eventually took him along an avenue tinged in washed-out blues from street lights illuminating closed-up businesses. He came to a stop and shoved the emergency brake pedal home, his breath frosting the curve of the windshield before him. It was a ’section of town that contained light manufacturing facilities. Monk walked past such enterprises as a rattan furniture factory, a chrome-plating plant, and a taxidermy supply warehouse.

  His destination was a plant at the nexus of the dead-end. It consisted of a series of tall and short cylindrical buildings whose purpose were not readily apparent to him. But as Monk got closer he could make out tall, slim cut-out lettering inscribed in an arch over a large old-fashioned iron main gate.

  Thick chains snaked through the rusting bars. The name on the gate spelled out “Elihu Brewery Works.” Christ, the old bastard had even tried his hand at beer making, Monk mused. Interestingly, from where he stood on the outside, the name was done backwards.

  In between two towers on the abandoned lot Monk could see the contours of a large ornate Gothic Revival house which loomed behind the plant. The front of the house was the street address for the third Meyer he’d found in the phone book. The first two were a bust, but a fire engine red Jeep had been parked in the driveway of this residence earlier. He’d come around the block this time to see if there was a back way in, and to see what the plant was. The house was in the flats from which rose an assortment of low hills collectively called Paradise Hills, according to his local map. Staring up at the mansion behind the empty beer works, it came to him that inside the house, probably from his bedroom window, Elihu could’ve read the name right on his gate. The old man’s house was built as a monument to himself and a life of making money.

  “Almost missed you there, sunshine.”

  Monk was confronted by three skinheads walking up to him. One of them was the tallow-haired mechanic he’d encountered behind the War Reich office before. The other two were interchangeable with the ones he’d engaged in front of the mayor’s office.

  “Ain’t no mists for you to disappear in, gorilla,” the middle one said. His arms were thick, a weight lifter, and he wore an open leather vest over a sleeveless sweat shirt. His hair was long, and he talked with a slight impediment.

  The other one, his hair in the style of a regimented skin, had on large boots with exposed steel toes. “You gonna give us a little sport, boy? Gonna give us a little something ’fore we do to you what them good officers in Detroit did for Malice Green?” He wet his lips with anticipation.

  “I got something for you.” The .45 was in Monk’s hand. The one in the middle, the leader, blinked several times, his brain not accepting the image it was receiving.

  “What the fuck,” the quiet one said.

  Big arms showed bravado. “Nigger ain’t gonna do shit with that piece. Are you, nigger?” What passed for a grin made his face more ugly.

  Monk placed a shot at his feet, an inch from his instep. “In case you’re having trouble seeing my eyes, you better be listening to my voice, boy.” He let that hang for a few heartbeats. “You better hear me when I tell you I’ve put a few in the hole.” The gun came up even with the one in the middle’s face. “And it would be my distinct pleasure to add you to the list.” Monk was worried he meant it but kept the gun steady.

  “No jigaboo’s gonna make me back down,” the one in the steel-toed boots promised.

  “Then stand over here, asshole,” the long-haired one snapped back.

  The silent one finally spoke. “Come on, we’ve had as much fun as we’re going to have tonight.”

  “Fuck that,” the shaved one bellowed. “Nigger ain’t shit.”

  Monk shifted the automatic onto him and walked forward. The youth’s eyes stayed the same, but his mouth drew tight and dry.

  “Uh-huh.” In a vicious motion, Monk jammed the butt of the weapon against the young man’s lip, splitting it open like a swollen blister. Nothing registered on his face nor in his mind as he did it.

  The kid was swearing a stream of racial epithets. A weird edginess descended on everyone as the young man held a hand up to his bleeding mouth. One of them started for Monk but stopped at the sound of a Perdition police cruiser approaching from the other end of the street. Two cops were out of their car, handguns and shotguns first.

  Immediately, the Remington was in Monk’s back, moving him toward the wall of the brewery. The side of his face was scuffed against the brick, and Anderson, the big cop he’d run into before, was leaning his weight on the gun, clipped words coming out of him between his adrenalin rush. “Where’d you put that gun you had?”

  “Kicked it, over by the curb,” Monk managed in a curt reply, his mouth hot with brick dust.

  “I have it.” The good-natured one, Oates, ambled up with the .45 held by the barrel. “Nicely taken care off, original frame, huh?” He studied it with interest. In his other hand he held a flashlight.

  Monk’s face was still pressed against the wall, the big cop’s shotgun burrowing a groove into his back. “Listen, I need to explain what’s—”

  “No need for all that, Mr. Monk.” Oates said in that easy-going way of his. “We saw you assault one of these young fellas here.”

  “I know, I’m not that kind of guy, really. I… this case has been doing things inside my head.” Humiliation made the words stall in his chest, made him want to hide until he was right again.

  Anderson said, “What do you mean, ‘case’?”

  If Monk had an answer, he didn’t get to it. The next thing he felt was a dull throb against the base of his neck and his face sliding down the wall.

  “What the fuck you do that for?” somebody said in a high tower over his head.

  “Why not? This nigger’s flat nose has been sniffing all over town like he was looking for white pussy,” somebody else responded.

  Down on all fours, Monk’s senses were rearranging themselves when a foot plowed into his rib cage. Blood collected in hi
s mouth but suddenly there was clarity in his brain.

  “I didn’t tell you to get up, did I, jungle boy?” It was Oates. Good old Oates. “Stay down, dog. Ain’t that what you bloods call each other these days?”

  The aluminum billy club was a black streak in the indigo light and Monk blocked it with his forearm. Up on one knee, he sunk a left into Oates’ breadbasket. Behind him, his eyes registered the three youths moving about. Where the hell was the bruiser, Anderson? Monk got up and hit Oates again and then his .45 was falling from the cop’s limp hand.

  Monk heard the Remington being chambered and he held onto Oates. The three skins appeared in front of him, the long-haired one made a move for the gun on the ground.

  “No,” Anderson ordered, running up, shoving the kid back with a meaty palm.

  Oates got his second wind and locked his arms around Monk. It threw them both off-balance. Monk was about to hit him when something blurred the air in front of Monk’s face.

  The stock of the shotgun ramming into his head blunted the functioning of his brain. A curtain of velvet amethyst parted and allowed him to tumble down an aisle of fog into a sea of waiting pitch.

  Lying on the ground, the crack in his head pumping crimson, he saw something funny. Then he saw the scarred end of Oates’ billy club coming for his head. Then the curtain closed.

  Chapter 20

  “Goddamnit, read this.”

  Monk’s face hurt like it’d been pulled apart by a diseased surgeon then sewn back together with burlap thread.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I asked them to confirm, they did.”

  “Holy jumping fuck.”

  Something crashed onto something else and there was breaking and smaller pieces spilled all over the place. Monk tried to roll over but it took too much effort and hurt too bad. He opened an eye. That hurt less. A statuesque woman grinned at him. She wore bikini pants and a tank top barely containing breasts the size of New Hampshire. She was leaning across the hood of a clean ’65 Mustang rag top. The keys were in her hand. Bless you Lord, he’d gone to glory.