Bad Night Is Falling (22 page)

He copied the address, a number in the 6800 block of Madden Avenue. It was a location too far south to be in the Crenshaw District. Monk guessed 2X's place was in what was called the Hyde Park section, bordering the city of Inglewood. “I appreciate this, Constance.”

“You better.” She picked up her hat, more for something to do than seeking to put it on. “You make sure that whatever's going on, it don't take any more of our black folk from us, Ivan Monk.”

Coming from her, a woman who kept on giving, who didn't stop believing in some hope that transcended the buffeting her daily existence took, it weighed him down with a sense of duty as tangible as stone. “I'll do my best.”

“That's all I can ask.”

Monk went out to his car and got in next to an irritable Mari Sicorro.

“Were you building an addition to the house?”

“Relax, I'll buy you a late lunch before I take you over to the office.”

“Mr. Mellow.”

“Humbled, baby, humbled.”

Síxteen

T
he two figures made their way around the hedges with missing sections that stood in front of the duplex on Madden. Monk waited a respectful time, then crept toward the residence of Keith 2X—a little frame house behind the duplex.

He'd been watching the place since before sundown. He knew 2X's schedule at the Rancho, that he didn't get off until six-thirty. It was now past nine, but no one had been around until the two had arrived in a dark-colored Isuzu Trooper. He was planted in his Ford when the two had driven past, parked, and exited.

Monk couldn't tell much about them at night, their race nor their intent. Even their body types weren't too revealing as to gender. The phantoms had moved quickly.

Monk wrote down the sport utility vehicle's license number and, as quietly as he could, went along the cement path toward the little house. The front window's blinds were slatted closed, and Monk could perceive no light from within. He debated waiting some more, but not knowing 2X's car he couldn't take the chance the recent arrivals weren't his quarry and a fellow Ra-Falcon.

He pushed the doorbell and heard it buzz inside. He pushed it twice more. He heard no movement. He knocked, and got the same result. Just for the heck of it, he tried the knob on the security screen. It turned.

“Keith, it's Monk, I want to talk with you,” he said, gingerly stepping into the house. A single lamp glowed on low wattage from a corner. A premonition tickled his cerebellum nanoseconds before a flash and a crack from a darkened doorway had Monk moving sideways, sending a stereo unit crashing to the floor. “Keith, it's Monk, man,” he announced anxiously, working to free his .45.

Another blast from the doorway slammed home to the right, and a few inches above, Monk's head. The doorway was to his left and Monk, crouching and pressed up against the wall partially behind an off-color divan, let go with two of his own into the void. There was a
plop
, and a body fell into the dim light. Big Loco had two dark spots staining the back of his white form-fitting T-shirt. There was no gun in his hand.

Monk assessed all this as he threw an African statue from an end table at the lamp in the corner. He knocked it over, waiting and listening as the room went dark. There was still a second player, and he had to be back through that doorway. Monk crawled out from behind the divan on his stomach. If the second gunman was still in the house, no sense staying in the same spot.

He heard the sound of a spring releasing and something whizzed over his head. What was that? It wasn't a bullet. He stopped, the gun steady before him. He couldn't see his pistol, but its weight let him know it was ready. There was that sound again and Monk rolled reflexively. As he did, he sensed he'd landed his shoulder on something thin and hard.

Suddenly his legs jerked, and bursts of light collided like meteors on the inside of his eye sockets. He couldn't hold the automatic, and a large wet ball of phlegm clogged his throat. He yelped, trying desperately to get to his feet. Hearing footsteps scuffing across the house's funky green shag, he let loose with two more shots in the general direction of the doorway to drive the interlopers back.

“Shit, motherfuckah's still dangerous,” a voice protested in a high octave.

“I'm gonna one eighty-seven 'em,” another promised.

Monk aimed for the source and cranked off another round. He scrambled across the floor to where he thought the kitchenette had been. A shot sounded when he stumbled headfirst into one of the stools at the barlike counter.

“Fuck me,” he swore softly, groping to get around the corner. How many shots had he pulled off? Five? Six? One or two left? No extra magazine, no backup piece on his ankle. Damn. Is this the end of the counter? Two more rounds meant for him sounded like M-80s going off in buckets in this joint.

Lying on the cold linoleum of the kitchenette, he squinted to see his attackers but he was having a hard time getting his vision to clear. The lights were off, right? Forming coherent ideas was work too. He felt as if his head were in a velvet-lined C-clamp, alternately tightening and loosening on his skull.

The damn thing that jolted him must have been some kind of stun device like a Taser. The juice made his brain fluids sizzle. There was a tittering like giant rats on psilocybin and he was sure his intestines were liquefying. But he was pretty sure he wasn't the one laughing like a nut.

“Hey, motherfuckah, I got something for you to investigate. Come on over here.” The inane giggle went up again.

“Shut up,” the more mature voice admonished.

There was movement again and Monk held the .45, the heel of his hand supported by the other. “Come on over and see me,” he invited around the saliva pooling in his mouth. He felt drunk, disoriented. Only the potential for immediate death kept enough endorphins going so he didn't pass out.

Nothing happened for several minutes as Monk's heart rate returned to normal. He chanced feeling around for the lamp but could feel only the broken ends of the bulb. He got up and flipped on the light switch in the kitchenette. He immediately crouched down, but it appeared that Big Loco and he were the only occupants.

His sudden movement had made him fuzzy again and he went down on all fours and crawled over to the inert form of the late leader of Los Domingos Trece. He gaped uncomprehendingly at the openings he knew his .45 had made in him. Monk couldn't seem to summon enough energy to walk about the house, so he propped himself against the doorjamb, staring at Big Loco.

“Goddamnit,” he managed. He reached over and groped the cooling body. There was no gun, no fucking gun. He got the dead man's wallet out and fumbled through it. Various scraps of paper rained down and one in particular, a bright orange piece, registered in his distorted senses. He tried to bend over and wound up on his back. The horror of dying in his own vomit got his motor going and he turned over, the orange card right on his nose.

The item was a VIP comp ticket from the Airport Casino. He'd seen a few that day he'd tried to get in good with Isaiah Booker. He gathered up the other cards and slips of paper and put them back in Big Loco's wallet. Then he returned the wallet to Loco's back pocket.

Monk righted himself and stuffed the comp ticket in his own wallet. He got over to the phone and called the law. The pumped and psyched uniforms arrived to the muffled pulse of a helicopter overhead, its strobe lighting up the small frame house. Monk had wisely placed his .45 on the kitchenette's counter, and placed himself in front of the house, arms outstretched.

He was proned out, and cops' feet were shoved into his back and buttocks. Searched, his hands were cuffed behind his back and finally the muzzles of the several 9mms that had been imbedded in his neck and upper back were drawn back. He was hauled up and marched toward a patrol car.

“There's a couple of detectives down at Newton who would like an appointment with you,” a sergeant politely told him after he was placed in the vehicle.

“Tell their people to call my people,” he slurred.

“Surely,” the cop said. He stood up from where he'd been bending down and said, “Get this asshole over to see Zaneski and Fitzhugh.”

Monk fell asleep on the way to his interrogation.

Seventeen

“T
wo shots he admits are from his piece.”

“There are other bullet holes in the house which show my client was under attack.”

“By a person or persons he conveniently can't identify,” Zaneski said sarcastically.

Parren Teague responded. “Your officers on the scene reported forced entry through the bars over the bedroom window.”

“But,” Fitzhugh piped in, “we don't know it wasn't how Monk got in. There was no sign of forced entry through the front door. Plus, and this be the biggie, Counselor, the preliminary on Big Loco's hands and shirt were negative. He wasn't firing anything.” He produced some clippers, and began to clean under his nails with the short file that came with the thing.

“Implying …?” Teague's eyebrow arched.

“That Mr. Monk at the least could be facing manslaughter if not murder two.” He worked at the dirt under his thumb.

Teague removed his thin-framed glasses. “He's already ID'd Ismael Vaccarano, aka Big Loco, as one of the hitters that night of the shoot-out on Trinity. It's not too much of a leap, even for LAPD detectives, to believe he and some of his crew would be lying in wait to ambush my client.”

“Save that shit for the jury,” Fitzhugh snarled.

“If need be.” The slender man put his glasses back on. “Along with your comments.”

Zaneski gave a look to Fitzhugh, who declined a comeback. In an accommodating tone he said, “Where's Keith Burroughs, Monk?”

“I don't know.”

“Who were the other hitters?”

“I don't know.”

“Why were you watching Burroughs's house?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Zaneski didn't break a sweat. “In about …” he glanced over his shoulder at the wall clock, which read 5:17. “In about another four hours I'm going to give a call up to Sacramento and request the Bureau of Consumer Affairs pull your license. I already made one complaint. Then I'm going to get that permit to carry you got over in Inglewood revoked.”

Monk tasted his cold coffee. Once upon a time, the LAPD was adamant about not granting concealed weapon permits. But California law was such that as long as you got a permit in any one municipality, it was good for the whole state. The L.A. cops had gone through a change and were now granting more concealed weapons permits in L.A. City. Hell, since everybody else was doing it, why not get a cut of the action? God bless the NRA lobbyists, and gun nuts everywhere.

“Are you trying to interfere with Mr. Monk maintaining his livelihood?” Teague said icily.

“Oh hell, we're just trying to ensure public safety.” Fitzhugh stretched and groaned and massaged his lower back. “'Sides, we can throw Monk's ass in the klink on a B&E beef and keep y'all running around for a few days dealing with that.”

“You should keep in mind my client has given you the license number of the vehicle he spotted the men who attacked him driving.”

Zaneski pointed at Teague. “Yeah, that was kinda oh-so-helpful, wasn't it?”

“Who does the plate belong to?” Monk asked.

“We ain't here to do your work, Monk,” Fitzhugh said, leaning in a corner and continuing to work on his nails.

Teague stood up. “I would suggest you allow my client to get some rest and some quiet, or I'll have you all up before a judge before twelve.” Teague's voice hadn't once cambered above its usual steady wavelength, but the force of his sincerity was apparent. “He's answered your questions several times since before eleven. This is enough for now.”

There was some poking of tongues in jaws and shifting of bulks in their Men's Warehouse coats. “Okay, we'll let Monk cool out in a cell awhile. Maybe later, after a nice nap and a taste of the hearty breakfast sandwich we serve 'round here, he'll be a bit more illuminating.”