Bad Night Is Falling Read online

  The cop, who’d been looking at a mounted photo of Absalla leading a contingent at the Million Man March, turned to greet him. “I’m Lieutenant Marasco Seguin,” the man with the drooping mustache said. He handed Absalla a card.

  On the card’s left corner was a raised-relief image of a detective’s shield in silver. Superimposed over that was a gold banner proclaiming his rank in blue lettering, City Hall in gold, and below that a bar in gold with his badge number in blue. The card stated that Seguin worked out of Wilshire Division on Pico.

  Absalla put the card on his desk and stood looking at the clean-decked cop. “Look, Lieutenant, a couple of detectives from Newton have already been all over me about this Cruzado mess.” He let his annoyance show. “’Sides, aren’t you out of your division?”

  Seguin scratched at his chin. “This is an investigation the brass wants solved, with haste. I’m temporarily reassigned, and in charge of Fitzhugh and Zaneski’s investigation.”

  Absalla was tempted to tell Seguin he’d found Zaneski particularly funky to deal with, but he wasn’t sure this Chicano would empathize with a black man’s plight. He moved behind his desk and they both sat down.

  “Why is this murder so important to the LAPD?” Absalla asked.

  “It’s a little unusual even for the Rancho to have a triple homicide in one night.” He paused a beat, and as he went on, a sour look contorted his face. “Especially when one of them was a little child.”

  “And the city wants the turnover of the Rancho and other public housing units to go through,” Absalla observed. “No more matching funds the county is obligated to pony up if there’s no federal program. The cost savings must look real good to the county supervisors what with the budget shortfalls we always have.”

  “Sometimes interests collide, Mr. Absalla,” Seguin countered. “Some of your employees have records, don’t they?”

  “You know they do. I’ve asked all of them if they know anything, and they say they don’t. These young folk who are the Ra-Falcons have demonstrated time and again they are no longer following the life, Lieutenant.”

  He put his hand flat on the desk like a distended creature. “I vouch for each and every one of them.” His gaze didn’t move off Seguin.

  The cop said nothing and Absalla continued. “And it’s still anyone’s guess on who did the firebombing. I heard that Cruzado may have been mixed up in some kind of trouble back in his hometown in Mexico. That’s why he came up here.”

  “I’d like copies of everybody’s personnel record, Mr. Absalla.”

  “I don’t think so without a court order.”

  “This isn’t about you against the blue-eyed devil, man. This is about finding the guilty.”

  “A ten-year-old black boy named Troy was gunned down three months ago in what we gleefully call a cycle-by. Where was your special assignment then?” Absalla demanded.

  “Sometimes it takes the deaths of one too many innocents to make things happen.”

  The right kind of innocents. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll have the court order in the morning, Mr. Absalla.” Seguin stood up, unconsciously fingering his tie. “I want to repeat that the department is looking for a slam dunk on this. Cooperation can go a long way.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Please do.”

  Seguin left and Absalla sat looking intently out the grilled window at a cracked concrete walkway and one of those plastic tricycles designed to look like a rocket sled. After some moments, he got up and went back into the outer room.

  Blaine was busy filling out her patrol report from last night. An oldies soul station played softly on the radio near her.

  “Who was that brother you mentioned to me?” Absalla asked, moving about the room like a panther in search of meat.

  The sergeant’s braided head tilted toward the ceiling. “Ah, Pope or something like that.”

  “And he’s a private detective?”

  The young woman shook her braids. “I think so. At least, he helped a girlfriend of my friend whose boyfriend was shot to death.”

  He didn’t bother to follow that trail. “Get his number, will you?”

  “What you up to, Antar?”

  “About not being put in a trick bag.” With that the stocky, shaved-headed Muslim went back into his office, closing the door tightly against what he could feel was a mother of a storm gathering.

  Two

  Ivan Monk used the end of his finger to get at some grit the wind off the Pacific had blown into a corner of his eye. Unlike his old lady, he was not big on the lure of the outdoors and all its wonders. That’s why the good Lord created concrete and takeout for guys like him.

  “So that’s what’s been going on since the murders about three days ago,” Absalla said, taking another bite of his swordfish.

  “I know Seguin. Is that another reason you want me to look into the Cruzados’ murders?” Monk gulped down more of his delicious lemonade.

  Three healthy, young women in jean shorts and taut bikini tops Rollerbladed past their outdoor table on the Venice boardwalk. Various men of differing ages and shapes gave them appreciative attention. Absalla was gauging his lunch guest. “I didn’t know that.” A halting crept into his voice. “You telling me this because there’s only so far you’re willing to go?” A forkful of swordfish and wild rice rested in his hand.

  “No,” Monk said casually. “I’m just pointing out something that would come up sooner or later, and wanted to get it out of the way. Marasco and I are cool about working the same side of the street.”

  The food slowly made its way to the stolid face. He chewed slowly and asked, “You have a lot of friends in the police department?”

  “Marasco’s it.”

  “How’d you two meet?”

  Monk tugged at the underside of his goatee. “A story only worth telling on a bar stool sometime. Have the cops questioned your Ra-Falcons?” He finished his glass. He spotted a knot of people gathered on the sand. They were watching a man in a turquoise turban juggle two live chain saws. He shifted his gaze back to his potential employer.

  “Been on them like white on rice since your boy subpoenaed my records. See, Monk”—Absalla pointed with the blunt end of his fork—“them cops are out to catch a case on one or more of my crew, and that ain’t how it’s going to be.”

  “I’d like a copy of your records too.”

  “You gonna take my money and not trust me?” Absalla’s voice went up half a notch over a piece of baguette in his cheek.

  “It will help give me a full picture. And I’d also like a list of who’s in the tenants’ union. And if you would, I need you to introduce me to the members who can get me some play at the Rancho.”

  Absalla worked the bread. He chewed like a man with loose bridge work. “Black faces open some doors, brown ones others at the Taj, my man.”

  “I assumed that.” Monk tried to get their waiter’s attention for more lemonade. As was the fashion at trendy restaurants, the kid who’d seated the two had told them what his name was, and what the specials of the day were. He had told them that his name was Daniel, pronouncing the name like it was made of paper-mâché. He was a tall, dark-haired Filipino lad. He sauntered over to the table.

  “Yes,” he cooed at Monk.

  He made his request and the waiter took off with his empty glass.

  Absalla smirked. “Looked like he was hopin’ you’d ask him for more than a refill.”

  “He’s just doing his gig until the multimillion-dollar movie offer comes along.”

  “Oh, you one of them tolerant niggers, huh?” Absalla goaded.

  “To a point,” Monk retorted. Daniel returned with his refilled glass. “The possibility of you hiring me to find a killer or killers is to take the heat off you, Antar. Now there’s nothing about that says I have to convert to do my job, right?”

  Absalla held up his hands in mock deference. “Calm, my brother, be calm. I was only foolin’,” he said unco
nvincingly.

  “How long does the tenants’ association have until they’re supposed to have their application in to HUD?” Monk asked, eager to conclude their business.

  “Well, it ain’t no secret them crackers in Washington want to be shuck of as much public subsidies they can push through. What with time limits on welfare, creating workfare programs and all.” Absalla stabbed at a piece of cauliflower like it was trying to get away. “The association’s been told they’ve got about three months to apply and see if they qualify.”

  “That means most of the tenants want to stay and be owners together,” Monk concluded.

  The other man nodded. “That’s right. Things weren’t exactly ‘we are the world’ at the Rancho to begin with, then this incident had to go down. The tenant organizing has stalled, and the association needs at least another four hundred families or so to even attempt to apply. Plus,” he added, pointing with the end of the fork again, “the city housing people are also getting jammed up and want to see the Rancho conversion go through.”

  “And if the tenants can’t get it together then the housing project is sold on the open market.” Monk ate some of his chicken fettucini. “A lot of these potential signatures are to be found among the Latino population?” Monk surmised.

  Absalla grinned. “You must study this housing jive in your off days.”

  “It seemed obvious given the changing demographics of the Rancho.”

  The other man made a curt sound that sounded like a semi’s power brakes letting off air. “That and every other part of the city. Even a liberal like you has to admit this city is turning into one big Tijuana.” He gleefully attacked his vegetables once again.

  Monk searched for an offhand comment, but couldn’t find one. Presently he said, “What are your theories about the murders?”

  “I think it was those goddamn Domingos Trece. I think some of the Hispanic tenants living around the Cruzados know that, and are either too afraid to say it, or don’t want to.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Absalla leaned forward, using his fork as teacher’s tool a third time. “Before the Ra-Falcons were brought in, the folks at the Rancho were catching hell, caught between the Scalp Hunters and the Domingos. Bricks through your car window to snatch a purse, muggings, dope dealin’ on your front stoop. The security company they had wasn’t doin’ shit.”

  “Your turning things around in other housing projects has gotten you a lot of press,” Monk commented. “I guess the tenants’ association at the Rancho had nothing to lose.”

  The security chief got going, waving the end of the fork as he talked. “We take those that many have given up on and give them something to believe in. Now don’t misunderstand me, Monk. I stand foursquare for my people, but I’m also the first one to come down on a brother when he’s doing wrong. The Scalps ain’t no Jehovah’s Witnesses. We came in, and with the aid of the tenants’ association, we put the squash on a lot of that action. At least as the Rancho proper is concerned. See, the Ra-Falcons don’t joke, and people know that.”

  Monk wanted to reel him in before he launched into one of the soliloquies he’d seen him doing at televised press conferences. Absalla would regale, to any who’d listen, his rise from car thief and dope dealer, then redemption as a convert to the Muslim faith. The successes his security services had achieved at several crime-plagued housing projects in various cities had received national press.

  However, his hip-hop Horatio Alger tale usually skipped the part about him being kicked out of the Nation of Islam due to some questions about bookkeeping at the mosque he ran in Philadelphia. His exile had precipitated his move west.

  “How does all that get us to Los Domingos?” Monk abrasively cut in.

  Absalla seemed caught up short, like a pitcher called in just before throwing a no-hitter. “Sure, I was getting to that. Over the last year or so, there’s been some shootings and retaliations between them Central Americans and the Scalps. This despite the fact there’s been an unofficial detente between the two sets for years.”

  “I gather the escalation is over who will control the drug traffic in the area,” Monk concluded glumly.

  “Yeah, mere’s that. But there’s also been threats against black residents who aren’t in any way mixed up with the gangs.” Absalla looked at him knowingly.

  Monk was adrift. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks the Domingos are working for some others who want to make sure the Rancho doesn’t get into the hands of the tenants. Black tenants anyway.”

  Monk rested his chin on his hand, his elbow propped on the table. “So the Domingos kill a Latino family as part of mis conspiracy.”

  “Exactly. See, Cruzado was trying to organize some of the immigrant tenants into his own association. He claimed neither the Chicanos nor the blacks were responsive to his people’s—you know, immigrants’—concerns.”

  “So he was disrupting the program,” Monk said, trying to flow with Antar’s reasoning.

  “Something like mat, yeah. I’m not saying I’m sure who’s behind me Domingos, but whoever it is wants everybody to roll over and let the place get sold out from under them.”

  Absalla continued. “The African-Americans there are generally the longest-running residents. They want to buy the place.” The man sat back, content that he’d given the initiate a few glimpses of the secrets of the keep. “Did I scare you?”

  Monk willingly took the bait. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Here.” With a grin, Absalla handed Monk a sheaf of papers from a soft leather portfolio he’d placed against the legs of the table. “These are the reimbursement forms.”

  “You mean I have to submit these before I get paid?”

  A quick torque of his gleaming head. “’Fraid so, my man. See, I can hire you through some consultant funds I can access, but it is federal money, and there is a bureaucracy to follow.”

  “Isn’t there always.”

  The other man made a fist and began working it as if kneading on an invisible ball. “I hope you can get onto something soon, Monk. I don’t expect you to go up against the Domingos, but find us proof so the law can move on them. Make your friend Seguin a big man downtown.”

  Monk worked on a wan smile then lost interest.

  “If I didn’t have to oversee two other housing projects we patrol, I’d get to it myself.” He rose, placed some money down, and tucked the portfolio under one muscled arm.

  “I’ll see what I can do to fill in,” Monk deadpanned.

  “Right on,” Absalla said guilelessly.

  Daniel hoped they’d have a nice day. Monk walked with Absalla part of the way along the boardwalk. They parted company near the refurbished Muscle Beach area. Several buffed participants were going through their routines for the enjoyment of both the onlookers and themselves.

  In particular, Monk noticed a light-skinned black woman with a back broader than a set of double doors. She was doing a set of behind-the-neck lifts with some serious iron. Monk watched her for several minutes, the fluid muscles beneath her coppery arms bunching and flexing like part of a timeless machine whose sole function was to provide chiseled, efficient beauty in a flawed and treacherous world.

  Eventually he walked off, trying to pick out tourists from residents. His path took him past a jazz trumpeter he recognized sitting in a frayed chaise lounge. He was singing a version of “I Should Care” which Rodgers and Hart probably never intended. But when he got to the instrumental part, his horn proved he still had his chops.

  Monk, his sport coat draped over his arm, came to Ozone then turned left past a clump of bleached-out apartment buildings. He reached the street called Speedway, where he’d parked his restored ’64 Ford Galaxie. The thoroughfare had gotten its name in the late ’40s from the hotrodders who used the then isolated straightaway to run their milled-out Fords and Willyses.

  He beeped off the alarm and got behind the wheel. A homeless man wearing
a grimy peacoat buttoned all the way up stuck a Styrofoam cup against his window. Monk cranked it down.

  “How ’bout a little change, trooper?”

  He dug out some coins and plopped them in the cup. “There you go.”

  The man mumbled something while he jingled the cup, staring intently at the contents as if he were a sage rolling the bones. He started to walk away, looking up at the warm, clear sky. As Monk started the car he noticed that the man was talking to himself.

  “Bad night is falling,” Monk thought he heard the man say as he drove off.

  Three

  “That was the going-away dinner they had for me. Gilbert Lindsey himself handed me the certificate.” Henry Cady beamed, touching a corner of the framed photo. In the shot, an obviously pleased Cady stood alongside the diminutive Lindsey, the late councilman who had represented the district of L.A. he’d called “the Mighty Ninth.”

  Lindsey had been the first black member of the L.A. City Council. He had been appointed to fill a vacant seat in January of 1963. He’d worked his way up from janitor in the Department of Water and Power to aide to the late liberal white County Supervisor, Kenneth Hahn. Hahn had attended Thomas Jefferson High School. The same school Monk had, decades later.

  Next to that photo was another one of a younger Cady without glasses, in creased khaki pants and shirt standing at the apex of an inverted V of men dressed similarly. The other men, all black save for a couple of Latinos, were in squatting positions and some had floor buffers before them. A small metal caption read: CITY HALL JANITORS, AUGUST 1965.

  “This couldn’t have been taken during the riots,” Monk observed. Everybody in the picture looked relaxed.

  “That was taken on the sixth, a Friday. Five days before everything happened on the following Wednesday,” Cady said offhandedly, clearly having repeated the date often to visitors. “Man, we didn’t get back to work for damn near a month after the streets blew up.”