Violent Spring Page 20

  The harsh sunshine bracketed Monk’s body as he walked out of, then away from, the factory of pugilists. He walked east along 48th until he got to Figueroa, then trudged north along the main thoroughfare. The El Scorpion was a ticky-tacky joint inserted between a shoe repair parlor and a barber shop in a building which had apartments with fire escapes on its second and third floors. The entranceway was painted in uneven vertical strips of azure and green and a black scorpion—one of its claws pinching the mini-skirted butt of a woman with breasts drawn completely out of proportion to the rest of her body—arched over the open door.

  Monk considered walking in and sitting at the bar, but thought better of it. Watering holes, like communities in Los Angeles, tended to be segregated. And judging from the clientele he watched trickle in, the El Scorpion was definitely a gathering place for a Latino crowd. Besides, Ursua’s big Caddy was nowhere in sight. He may have already traded it in for something else, but Monk doubted it. That car was meant to be seen in. He waited.

  Not having the luxury of a car to hunker down in, Monk passed the time by ordering coffees at the donut stand on the corner and playing a couple of pathetic games of chess with a white-haired man who bore a resemblance to Milton Berle. The location afforded Monk a view of the bar’s front door and at a little past four in the afternoon, the metalflake-blue El D cruised by and went down a side street.

  Monk left the stand in time to see a medium-built, thick-waisted man wearing aviator-style sunglasses in a black polo shirt and white jeans, enter the El Scorpion. As casual as he could make it, Monk entered me establishment after him. The place was dark and there was sawdust on the floor. On its tinny speakers, the juke belted out some woman singer doing heavy melodramatics to a tune in Spanish.

  Two men in mechanic’s blues huddled conspiratorially over a pitcher of beer and a table. Another man in a UPS uniform sat at the oak bar drinking a martini. Two young Chicanas and a young man in knee-length slack shorts and penny loafers sat at another table, laughing and drinking. It must be some kind of trend, Monk reasoned. College kids, like the ones down in San Pedro the other night, who got a kick out of hanging out in neighborhood dives. Or a grand scheme of organizing the great unwashed into a vanguard of cutting edge culture.

  Since the idea of blending in with his environment was not possible, Monk walked up to me man in the white jeans, who also sat at the bar, with one of his boots up on the rail.

  “Ruben Ursua,” Monk said to the man, standing a little to the side and in back of him.

  The other man bestowed a baleful stare on Monk in the reflection of the mirror behind the row of bottles. “Fuck off. I’m not on parole anymore.”

  Monk laid a business card on the bar for him to see.

  Ursua glanced at it and went back to his drinking.

  “Usually people whistle and clap when I show them this.”

  Zero.

  “How about if I want the same deal you gave Bong Kim Suh?”

  That got a rise. “I know your name, now. You’re the one them Koreans hired to find out about his killing. I don’t know shit, man.”

  In his voice Monk could hear the cadence one learned in the prison yard. The code of silence crooks and cops, doctors and lawyers, and politicians and priests used. “Dig this.” Monk put two twenties on the bar in front of Ursua, who tried to pretend he didn’t notice them. “Just tell me where you delivered the car he wanted, and I’ll forget who told me.”

  “Otherwise the cops might find out, and I get dragged into this thing.”

  That was the farthest idea from Monk’s head, but he said, “And they said you weren’t a team player.”

  Ursua put his squat glass of scotch on the bar and picked up the twin twenties with the same hand. He folded them deftly with his one hand and placed the bills in his pants. “It surprised me when Conrad called me up, it was him that told you about this. I mean, I ain’t mad or anything. I just want to make sure there ain’t no leaks on my side.”

  Monk sat beside him at the bar. “You thinking of supplying cars for the Pentagon or something?”

  Ursua sipped his drink and waited.

  “Look, the way this works is I gather information from A and that leads me to B, who gives me more information and so on. Now, I don’t tell B who A is, and I don’t tell C who B is. Know what I’m saying?”

  “I’m supposed to be satisfied with that?”

  “It’ll have to do, Ruben. But just to ease your anxiety a little.” Monk produced another twenty and slid it across.

  “I guess I’m going to have to believe you’re as closed-mouthed as you pretend.”

  “Like a priest.”

  The lone twenty joined the others. “I’m going to have to show you. I don’t remember the address but I do remember the part of town the place was in. You’ll have to follow me in your car.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Ursua’s head tilted slightly and he got off his barstool. They removed themselves from the El Scorpion and got into the bad-assed El-D. He fired the big mill up. The V8 idled with a self-assured purring as the heavy car pulled into the flow of evening traffic.

  “Carter 750 Competition carb,” Monk said, appreciatively.

  “You got good ears. Hey, you must have been the one who came by the house in the Galaxie.”

  With that, they settled into a lively conversation on cars and the art of rebuilding them. By the time they reached the area where Ursua had delivered the car to Bong Kim Suh, they both agreed they missed the bygone era of Dodge muscle bangers. It was in the Lincoln Heights section of town, where the houses were neat and tidy California Craftsmen built before the big war, and every backyard seemed to have a dog.

  The Caddy slowed to a crawl. “He was standing on the corner, over there.” Ursua pointed at an intersection where a dry cleaners stood. “I came with the car, and he gave me the money, in cash.”

  “How’d you get back home?”

  “It was the middle of the day, so I took the bus.” Ursua pulled to the curb and put the car in neutral and let the engine idle. “Suh drove off in that direction.” He pointed again. “I saw him get to the corner there and make a left on Darwin. After that, he was gone and so was I.”

  “What kind of car was it? And I guess you wouldn’t happen to remember the license plate.”

  “It was a brown 1988 Volkswagen Jetta. And a man in my profession makes it his business not to know plates. But I do think they started with 2G something.”

  “You know, it’s none of my concern, but you’re a pretty bright guy, Ruben. You could make a decent living fixing up cars legitimately.”

  Ursua looked straight ahead through the windshield, leaning forward, his arms folded along me top of the Eldorado’s steering wheel. “That’s why I took the job in the liquor store my P.O. set up for me when I got out. Thought I was gonna settle down and do the straight and narrow.”

  Monk couldn’t tell if he meant himself or if he was referring to his parole officer.

  Ursua went on. “Really though, it was something I couldn’t escape. It’s in my blood, my friend. I don’t bash in anybody’s head, I don’t rape your wife or steal money out of a bank. Hell, a lot of the cars I deal with are right from the owners who want to work a scam on their insurance companies. I like the thrill and, like any junkie, I can’t stop until they make me. You know what I mean.”

  Ursua put the Cadillac back in gear and Monk asked him to drop him off at the Tiger’s Den. Tiger Flowers was just locking up as Ursua let him off. “That architect friend of yours sent something over here for you. It’s on my desk.

  “Thanks, Tiger. I’ll shut her up when I leave.”

  “See that you do.” He ambled off and got into his car, an AMC Concord, and drove off to whatever it was that Tiger Flowers did in his off-hours. Monk went in, relocking the door once he was inside. He entered the office and turned on the lights.

  It was a spare, functional affair reflecting its owner’s personality. There were no p
ictures from Tiger’s past on the cracked walls, only those of young—and some not so young now judging from how their photos had yellowed—fighters. There were two Army surplus file cabinets, a desk of the sort one used to find a third grade teacher behind when Monk went to school, three chairs, a weatherbeaten couch, an ancient clock plugged in over the door and a standing lamp.

  On the desk was a packet from a messenger service. Monk sat at the desk and opened the envelope. He read the single sheet of paper twice, then folded it up and put it in his back pocket. Monk got up from the desk and paced around the gym thinking, until fifteen before nine when he went out front. Jill’s Saab came into view seven minutes later, and he escorted her inside. She carried two plastic shopping sacks.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, after kissing him on the lips.

  “Is that basil and garlic I smell, or a new perfume?”

  “Asshole.”

  They went back into the office, and Monk cleared a space on the desk. Jill sat the sacks down and lifted out two containers and a bottle of wine. “Do you have any glasses around here?”

  Monk found a glass with a Texaco emblem on it and one with the logo of the San Francisco 49ers. “There you go, gas station specials.” He sat them down and pulled the cork out of the bottle which had already been worked free. Over a meal of linguine and squid in red sauce, Monk told Kodama what had transpired since he last saw her.

  “Do you believe Conrad James and Crosshairs? I don’t know about James, but Mr. Crosshairs Sawyer is hardly a candidate for the post of monsignor. I had his jacket pulled and since thirteen he’s been busted for assault, attempted assault, aggravated assault, robbery with assault, and did some hard time for second-degree manslaughter.”

  “I know, honey, I read his sheet, too. But who better to teach man someone who’s been there? It’s certainly something that Malcolm was an example of.”

  Kodama’s lips puckered. “Don’t you go pulling your nationalist cloak on me, homeboy. You got the FBI and the Daltons breathing down your neck because they both want you to produce something for them. You can’t please both of them, and they both know how to get even. Good and even.”

  “On the up side, I’ve got money from the Merchants Group and SOMA burning holes in my pocket.” He smiled and took another bite of his meal.

  “What makes you think that Ursua and James haven’t cooked up this story about the other car just to send you on a phantom hunt?”

  “To what purpose?” Monk countered. “If they wanted me dead, they could have easily accomplished that anytime when I was with them. Don’t forget, Stacy Grimes’ death figures in this somehow. He and Samuels both worked strongarm for Jiang Holdings. Their job was to convince the owners of properties damaged after the uprising in ’92 to sell.”

  “Then you believe Jiang is a front for the Korean Merchants Group.”

  “Let’s not get that far down the track just yet, Red Rider. I asked O’Day’s office to find out who was really Jiang; here’s what they got for me.” Monk pulled the paper he had folded up out of his back pocket.

  Kodama read the piece of paper and looked from it to Monk, her mouth slightly ajar. “Who gave you this?”

  “I had Hendricks look it up for me. She’s got friends down in the city planning department who actually produced that information.”

  Kodama said, “Curious.”

  “Isn’t it. There also seems to be a gentleman with a hunchback who was seen in the storeroom of Hi-Life Liquors a week after the riots. A so-far unidentified gentleman who has some kind of connection to our Mr. Samuels.” Monk didn’t add the part about his being at Samuels’ apartment and getting a glimpse of the other man before he was knocked out. If he did, he’d have to tell Kodama that he entered and searched Samuel’s place illegally. It was times like this that reminded Monk how odd his profession was, to one minute be riding around with an accomplished car thief, and the next eating dinner with his girlfriend the judge.

  Kodama was talking. “The first thing you have to do tomorrow is call Keys and tell him everything you know.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. It sounded like you wanted me to drop a dime on some guys who’re trusting me.”

  “Keys will ask you point blank if you’ve made contact with Crosshairs. It is a federal offense to knowingly lie to a federal official investigating a crime. If Crosshairs is as sharp as you and I think he is, I believe he’s already moved on to another safe house.”

  Monk rose and stared at the photographs on the wall, his hands in his back pockets. “But how’s that going to look to the Daltons?”

  “That you’re a handkerchief head motherfucker who would sell out his own momma to save his ass.” She paused, watching Monk as he turned to face her. “Or they’ll see you had no choice. That if they want you to get them their meeting, you had to give your opposition something.”

  “I can still lie to Keys, and he’ll never know the difference. Left to their own devices, him and Diaz couldn’t find Madonna on a bed of coal.”

  Kodama crossed her legs. “Then you’re making me a party to your complicity. Plus Keys can get you locked up on supposition alone. It won’t be hard to convince some judge appointed in the Bush era that you surely must have been going to meet with Crosshairs at two in the morning. Or else why the bait and switch with the cars. And even if you stick to your story, he’ll probably get this Ms. Scarn to pull your license, the cops will take away your concealed weapons permit, and your bond will be revoked. And then where would you be?”

  “Fucked.”

  “Let’s keep our sex life out of this.”

  “Ha, ha, cute.”

  Kodama remained silent.

  Monk sat heavily into Tiger Flowers’ chair. He closed his eyes but the problem wouldn’t go away. The words he had said to Ursua in the bar came back to him and a ball of something nasty rolled around in his stomach. “How come small guys like me are the ones that always have to bend?”

  Kodama came over and kissed him. “Because guys like you are always there to take somebody else’s heat.”

  “Fine,” Monk said crossly.

  Monk locked up the Tiger’s Den, and he and Kodama got a room at the Bel Age Hotel in West Hollywood. Later in bed, Monk asked Kodama while they were curled up together, “You know things have been jumping since you were shot at and we haven’t really talked about it fully. I know you can handle yourself and all, but I’d feel better if you rearranged your court calendar and went down to Dex’s place in Lake Elsinore until this thing gets sorted out.”

  “I’ve already rearranged my appointments.” She wriggled some causing Monk to groan with pleasure. “You’re my protection, baby.” She dropped off to sleep.

  Monk breathed in her aroma, listening to her breathing, his hand cupped under one of her breasts. He could feel the steady drum of her heart and hear the late night growl of traffic not too far away along Santa Monica Boulevard. There they were, safe and warm in their cocoon of plaster and glass, the goddamn FBI and the other wolves circling their lair temporarily abated. But the dam was breaking, and Monk wondered how long he would last in the flood.

  THE WOMAN COP named Bazeco looked at Keys, then back to Monk. She said, “I think he’s up to something.”

  Kodama folded her arms and spoke. “Mr. Monk has come to you of his own volition. As a licensed private investigator, it is his duty to cooperate with the authorities.”

  “Then why the fuck didn’t he get in touch with us yesterday?” Diaz said, stirring milk into his coffee.

  “I was exhausted and needed sleep. And there was a pressing matter I had to take care of,” Monk said tersely.

  “What was it?” Keys sat at the table with Diaz, his shirt sleeves uncharacteristically rolled up on his forearms.

  “That’s privileged information, agent,” Monk said.

  “Which client would that be, Monk? The Korean Merchants or SOMA?” Roberts piped in, leaning along one of the walls.

  Monk, who was
sitting with his back against the wall, lifted a hand. “Their interests are intertwined.”

  “How lovely for you,” plainclothes detective Haller offered.

  “Do you want the information, or not?” Kodama shot back.

  “He goes with us,” Keys demanded.

  Monk laughed without humor. “No, no. If I show my butt around there holding hands with a bunch of cops and feds, how long do you think I’ll live after that?”

  “How do we know we’ll find Crosshairs once we get out to Imperial Courts?” Diaz had stopped stirring his coffee and was now blowing on it to cool it off.

  “I never said you’d find Crosshairs, agent. I said I’d tell you where it was that I met with the murder suspect. Now if he’s still there, that’s his lookout.”

  Roberts got a drink of water from the Arrowhead cooler in the corner. Bazeco knotted her large, mannish hands. Haller sat down at the table and did nothing. Seguin, standing close to the door to the Detectives’ Squad room, looked quizzically at Monk. Diaz leaned over to whisper something to Keys. The other man nodded and Diaz left the room.

  Kodama, who had been standing near Monk, also sat down at the table. After a fashion, Diaz returned. He again said something in confidence to Keys, who then addressed Kodama. “Your client draws us a map and he signs a statement that the information he has provided is the truth.”

  “To the best of his knowledge,” Kodama added.

  The paper work was typed up and Monk drew a crude map. He and Kodama read the statement, and he signed it.

  “You wait here until we get back,” Keys said, studying the map.