Violent Spring Read online

  “Monk,” a voice said to him.

  His eyes came open. For a moment, he was disoriented. Where was Jill and where did this quilt come from? Then he remembered. “What’s up, Ray?” Pretending to scratch his leg, Monk checked to make sure his gun was still there. It was.

  Smith’s head jerked toward the phone. “Mad-T just called, said he’ll be here in about an hour.”

  “He say he’s bringing anybody with him?” Monk swung his legs onto the floor.

  “He said be ready to roll.”

  “Shit. What is this, a fuckin’ Chinese puzzle box?” Monk picked up the truce document from the floor and placed it on the coffee table.

  “It’s the way it is, Ivan. The cops and the FBI are running around out there looking for Crosshairs and Conrad, and you, too, now. And quiet as it’s kept, some of us have the opinion that there are some on the police department who don’t want to see the truce succeed. ’Cause they know the next step for these young brothers and sisters is to become politicized. From there it might be the next Black Panther Party.”

  Monk got up and stretched. “As long as they learn from the past, Ray, as long as they learn from the past.” He went into the bathroom to wash up. Afterwards, he and Ray each had a cup of instant coffee and Monk ate a couple of pieces of the beef salami cold cuts in the icebox. Presently, Mad-T arrived, and he and Monk departed the house. Ray Smith was left behind.

  They traveled east in a military green 1973 Bonneville. Mad-T took them on a route that eventually headed south along Alameda until they reached Imperial Boulevard. The car made a right and Monk knew where they were going. Over to the Imperial Courts housing project in Watts.

  It was a vast subsidized complex built in 1944, one of four public housing projects built in Watts during the war years. Watts, once called Mudtown, had been incorporated as a city in 1907. But the cigar boys downtown maneuvered to disenfranchise its growing black population, and the city was annexed back to Los Angeles in 1926.

  Mad-T entered the front gate into Imperial Courts and wound the car through the tracts of cinder-block abodes and trimmed lawns. A car marked security passed them and the driver nodded his head at Mad-T.

  “He just know you, or is he something else?” Monk asked.

  The young man stuck a toothpick in his mouth and said, “We got to be like the motherfuckin’ CIA and have our ears everywhere if we want to know what’s goin’ down.”

  He parked the car in a stall of a block of units along the southeast end of the place. They got out and Monk followed the Dalton along an alleyway, then between two buildings. They arrived at another set of units and Mad-T knocked on an unmarked door. The door swung inward on quiet hinges.

  “After you,” Mad-T said.

  Monk walked into the apartment, a two-level townhouse, followed by the young man. It was dark due to the fact that the drape was drawn against the large picture window. Two men sat on chairs at opposite ends of the front room. One was decked out in an oversized prison-style jean jacket, Dee-Cee khaki pants, Nike tennis shoes and a purple baseball cap with the words South Central stenciled on the crown. The other one Monk recognized.

  He wore coal black jeans, a smokey grey shirt with gold colored buttons and a rounded collar buttoned all the way up, black wingtips, and his apparently omnipresent grey homburg with the feather stuck in the band. As in their previous meeting, his eyes took in everything but betrayed nothing. Neither man moved or acknowledged the presence of Monk or Mad-T, save the one in the homburg who looked down at his hands then looked back up again.

  “What it be?” the one in the purple cap said.

  “It be like that,” Mad-T responded.

  Monk thought he was trapped in a hip-hop episode of Get Smart.

  Homburg rose and stepped close to Monk. “You gonna do what you said.”

  The lack of inflection seemed to make it more of a command than a question. Monk said, “I’ll get you a meeting with SOMA. I don’t promise that you’ll get any money out of it”

  “You search him?” Homburg said.

  “What for? So what if he’s carrying a piece. Every motherfucka’ in this room’s got a piece and then some. What he gonna do?” Mad-T smirked.

  “A wire, genius.” Homburg stepped back, moving his head slightly to glare past Monk at Mad-T. The light through the open door illuminated the left side of his face. The ear was missing its lobe. Something that Monk hadn’t noticed the other night in the half-light of Elrod’s garage.

  Mad-T said to Monk. “Take your jacket off, G.”

  Monk did so and submitted to a pat-down from the younger man.

  “I’ve got a gun strapped to my right ankle,” Monk volunteered.

  Mad-T retrieved the rig and the piece, and continued with his task. He finished his thorough search and straightened up. “No wire,” he announced.

  Homburg said nothing nor moved.

  Monk said, “What’s it going to be, Crosshairs?”

  Mad-T whined, “I didn’t tell him.”

  Crosshairs walked past the men in the room and went up the stairs. Mad-T and Monk remained standing while the one in the cap sat impassively. He heard the muffled creak of the floorboards above his head, and Crosshairs and another man came down.

  He was taller than his cousin and his face elastic with expression. Conrad James was dressed in faded blue jeans and a sweatshirt lettered with a Morehouse College logo. He had the shoulders of a wrestler and the hips of a running back. He was a poster stud for a randy sorority house.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Monk.”

  He took the other’s hand and said, “Ivan.”

  “Antoine and I have talked this over, Ivan,” James began, indicating Crosshairs who stood behind him statue-like. “He thinks you ain’t shit, but don’t take it personal.”

  “Oh, I don’t. I can name a dozen people who think I’m nothing but shit, so what do you think about that?”

  Crosshairs sniffed. James grinned and said, “Anyway, I’m the one that insisted that we talk to you. See what you could do for the Daltons and vice versa. Plus I can’t keep this up forever. This ain’t my life.”

  “Can we talk in private, or does the Greek Chorus need to be around?”

  James said, “We can talk upstairs.”

  He started up and as Monk walked past the immobile Crosshairs, he felt a light touch on his arm. “Don’t try nothin’ slick, slick.” Crosshairs hissed.

  Monk went on up to the second floor. There was a built-in linen closet next to a small bathroom off the small hallway. On either side of the closet and the lavatory were bedrooms. One of them had three mattresses spread about and several empty bottles of soda and beer. In the other was a couple of folding chairs, a writing desk with a PC and a printer on it, and a set of steel weights. James walked into this room. Monk sat on one of the folding chairs and the younger man sat at the table. A morning breeze blew in from an open window.

  “Was that your outline I read at the house near Budlong?”

  “Based on some input from Antoine and some others,” James said.

  “Just so I can get it out of the way, did you kill Bong Kim Suh?”

  “No, I did not. Nor did my cousin or any other gang member as far as I can tell.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw Bong twice after he shut down the store.”

  “About what.”

  “The first time he got in touch with me was to have me talk to Ruben Ursua.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, Bong knew that Ursua was into hot cars, and he wanted Ursua to get him a short.”

  “Suh wanted a hot car?” Monk asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “He wanted a car that had a good motor, one that he could pay cash for but that had its serial numbers altered and registered under a false name.”

  “So he wanted wheels other than his own. And if somebody took down the plate number, the name of Bong Kim Suh wouldn’t come up.”

  “I guess.”


  “Where did Ursua deliver this car?”

  “I don’t know. Once I set it up, Bong told me to have Ursua be at the Scorpion at a certain day and time and he’d contact him. The Scorpion is a bar Ursua hangs out in over on Figueroa.”

  “What was Suh’s reason for closing the Hi-Life?”

  “He said he needed to be moving around, needed to be mobile for the next few months. He couldn’t be in one place where they could get him, he said.”

  “Did he say who ‘they’ was?”

  “No.”

  “So you and he talked on the phone several times.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened the second time you saw him?”

  “That was in September. Bong came over to my pad all keyed up. He said he would have something he wanted me to take care of for him.”

  Monk got excited. “What was it?”

  “That’s just it. He said he was going to get this thing to me, but that was the last time I saw him.”

  “You have any idea what he was talking about?” Through the open window, two women could be heard arguing about the fate of one of the characters on the All My Children soap opera.

  “I’m not exactly sure. Bong never would tell me outright. But he hinted it had something to do with some of the kinds of people he knew back home.”

  “You mean like intelligence agents.”

  James wagged a finger at Monk. “What I remember him specifically saying was that he had something on those bastards, the same kind of bastards who had ruined his life in Korea.”

  Monk considered the information, then asked, “What made you go on the run?”

  “When I talked with Bong last, he said that if I hadn’t heard from him by the end of the year, or hadn’t received anything from him, then that would be a bad sign. That I should lay low until things broke.”

  “He said that, ‘Until things broke’?”

  “His exact words. Hey, I knew Bong wasn’t a nut, and something else happened that made me think whatever it was he’d been doing was the real deal.”

  “What happened?”

  “My crib got broken into and searched earlier this year. But my TV, stereo, none of that stuff got lifted. My ride, and even the locker I had at Trade Tech got busted into also. And then Antoine asked me to start helping move the truce into a second phase and all, so it seemed the right time to go underground.”

  “Did Bong ever mention Jiang Holdings?”

  “He could have, but I don’t remember.”

  “Any ideas on where he might have hidden his notes?”

  James cocked his head and spread his hands in the air.

  Monk stood. “How come he trusted you so much? How come you two were so tight?”

  “He was an all right guy, man. Just ’cause he was Korean and I’m black doesn’t mean that we’re automatic enemies. Momma taught me to take each one at their word until they do you dirt. And as for why he trusted me, well, I’d like to think it’s because we talked for real to each other. Got to know something about the other one. He told me his wife was beaten to death by the cops in some kind of strike at this place called the Dongil Company. I told him about an uncle I had who got sent to the hospital by the cops because he was a garbage man striking for better wages way back during the Civil Rights days in Montgomery.”

  “Out of curiosity, why did you break it off with Karen Jacobs?”

  “I really like her, man. I didn’t want her to get hurt in all this mess.”

  Monk held out his hand and the other took it. “Thanks for your time and the information, Conrad.”

  “Do you think you’ll find Bong’s killers?”

  “I’m going to run them to ground, as an old friend of mine says.”

  At the bottom of the stairs Crosshairs stood, his face in its usual blank pose, but Monk noticed activity in the eyes. As he drew close, the OG spoke.

  “You find out something useful?”

  “I think so.”

  Monk started to move past him, but said, “I had a run-in with a couple of Scalp Hunters who said that the Daltons used to deal drugs out of the Hi-Life Liquors.” He turned to gauge the other’s reaction. “Anything to that?”

  “The bums ain’t party to me truce. Some of those brothers ain’t nothing but stone capitalists, anything for a dollar. I’m not saying the Rolling Daltons are a bunch’a saints, I am saying ain’t no Dalton killed Suh over crack profits or any other reason. I’ve checked, Mr. Detective. If this peace thing is gonna hold, I got to know the for real on everybody who could fuck it up.”

  “Do you mean that, or are you just giving me a snow job? Make me think you’re the gangster with a heart of gold.”

  “Believe what you want, home. Believe we started this truce ’cause we got a devious plan in mind like the cops say. Believe we did it ’cause some of us is tired, beat down from bangin’ and seeing our homies and relatives die. Or believe that some black men and women can come together and not try to kill one another.” Crosshairs went up the stairs, not caring to wait for Monk’s reply.

  Mad-T dropped Monk off at the Tiger’s Den on 48th Street. He assumed that Keys and company were keeping watch on his office and his apartment. And he wanted to be able to move about unfettered at least for the next few hours.

  “You look like chewed over gristle,” Tiger said, greeting him.

  “Thank you, honey.” Monk winked at him and walked over to the pay phone. Figuring the tap was still activated on his office phone, Monk dialed the inside line of Hendricks, one of the developer partners he shared space with. She answered, and Monk asked her to get Delilah and put her on the line.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she scolded.

  “Detecting.”

  “You better get back over here and detect this.”

  “What?”

  “Ms. Scarn called again. She says maybe you better have your attorney get in contact with her. She says not only is there a question about your failure to file a weapons discharge report, but there is a new allegation of failure to cooperate with the authorities in a murder investigation.”

  “Goddamn Keys.”

  “Yeah, well, Special Agent Keys also called and asked in a very pleasant tone that when you had a chance, he’d like to hear from you.”

  “He’s trying to put the screws to me through Consumer Affairs. Did Ms. Scarn say anything else?”

  “She said you have to come to her office and talk this matter over.”

  “She give a deadline?”

  “No. But it was pretty clear she wanted to hear from you soon. Like today.”

  A pause dragged, then he said, “Did you deposit that check I asked you to from SOMA?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, don’t be so testy.”

  “You think you’re so fucking smooth.”

  “Everybody keeps telling me that. Call Ms. Scarn and tell her I can meet with her anytime she likes.”

  “Okay. Oh, Roy Park called you back, too. That is, he called back for the name you gave him on your phony card.”

  “Did he say when and where I could reach him?”

  “He said he’d be out of his office until this afternoon, but that if you missed him he’d be down at his property on Vermont around two tomorrow.”

  “Good work. Call his office back and tell them I’ll meet him there.”

  “Anything else you need me to do?”

  “When I hang up, I want you to priority-messenger a note to Jill’s bailiff. His name is Jory, and he knows me. Ask Jill in the note if she will pick me up over at Tiger’s place around,” Monk checked the time, “nine o’clock tonight”

  “Why all the subterfuge lately, boss? You getting beeps over the phone, rushing in and out of your office, the FBI dropping by, and your fourth call was from Jill. She sounded worried about you.”

  “There are more things on heaven and earth, my fine beauty, than our petty concerns.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll e
xplain soon enough. Put Hendricks back on will you?”

  She did and Monk, taking out his notepad and flipping it to a certain page, asked another favor of the architect. She said she’d find out what he wanted to know and Monk hung up. He wanted to call Jill but wasn’t sure that her line into her chambers wasn’t bugged, so he held off. He went to his locker and changed into his sweats. Mad-T had given him back his .38 and the ankle rig and he placed these on top of his clothes and shut the locker.

  For the next hour and a half Monk went through his routine of weights, sit-ups, cals, and some stationary bicycling. He rewarded himself with a stint in the sauna and then, towel wrapped around his waist, lay back on the bench in front of his locker.

  “Say man, this ain’t no flop house.” Tiger Flowers was shaking him awake, laughing.

  “How long was I out?”

  “A little over an hour. You looked as though you needed it.”

  Monk straightened up on the bench. “I better get going.”

  “All this have to do with this case you been on?”

  “It’s been a bear-hugger, Tiger. Listen, I may be back later tonight, if that’s okay.”

  What passed for a smile creased the folds around the Asiatic eyes of the old champ. He went to his office and returned with a key which he handed to Monk. “You need me to stay?”

  Monk clasped him on the shoulder. “Ain’t gonna be no rough stuff tonight, chief.”

  Flowers brushed the hand aside. “Good. Just make sure you turn out the lights when you’re through. This damn sure ain’t no charity outfit.” He rumbled off to find some kid who thought he was going to be the next Sugar Ray Leonard or Riddick Bowe to yell at.

  Monk finished dressing, mentally mapping out his moves for the next few hours. As a formality he checked the .38 to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with and strapped the ankle rig back on. Emerging into the structured cacophony of the gym, Monk absorbed the sounds and smells of all the agile young men. They were the inheritors of poor and working-class myths, shadow boxing against the Tiger Den’s yellowing plaster, jumping rope across her drab floor, or endlessly sparring in the four-cornered ring that would lead nowhere for most of them. Hoping to cash in on their fears and dreams in the great scam as old as the reign of Caesar, the boxing game. And in me process, somehow believing that their magnificent bodies could elevate them beyond the claim that time and death would place on their lives.