Bad Night Is Falling (34 page)

“They do anything to him?” Monk's hand was wet from the light rain, and he feared if he let the receiver drop, he'd drift out beyond the limits of reason.

“Just scare him.” She let the rest go unsaid.

“But he still called,” Monk noted. “I'm going to get something to eat, Jill, then maybe swing over to Newton Division and see if I can get a word with Absalla.” He wasn't discussing his plan, simply announcing what his intentions were.

“They won't hardly let you see him.”

“So I'll follow him or I'll go right over to the Rancho and talk to the Ra-Falcons.”

“You have to rest, Ivan.” She said it for formality's sake. She knew he was on a gambler's roll, too much in to the house to quit, but not so beat that he didn't believe the golden pot was one throw of the dice away. Whatever, he had to stay in the game, had to be near the tables of chance.

He was tired and wired, and ready to jump whichever way he could force, cajole, or charm an answer out of someone. “I'm alright.”

“You have to come back to me.” Her voice cracked.

Soft rain began to pelt him. Figueroa was a wasteland, its cars multihued alloyed bugs meandering along not to seek the dark wetness, but heading for the light as if it held safety. But in fact the stalkers could sight you better that way. “Ain't no thing, baby.”

He ate his meal and downed three cups of coffee. He got over to the donut shop and caught four hours of sleep. Kodama was right, it would have been an errand of futility to have gone over to Newton Station.

Early morning hadn't yet broken, and Monk had rumbled loose from the comfort of his quilt and futon. It was false security anyway. He washed his face in the sink, and shaved meticulously. Afterward he got the Ultrastar and strapped it to his ankle. His old man's .45 was slipped into a right side belt rig that allowed the muzzle to stick out facing down, the grip up and flat against his side.

“From the Château Thierry to Con Thien,” Monk said admirably, snugging the weapon. He put on thick socks, then got his feet into the pair of scuffed work boots he kept in the file room. Over his top he put on a loose sweatshirt, and on his head a baseball cap with the insignia of the old Negro League Monarch Grays on the crown. He went up front and brewed some coffee. It was still early, but he wanted to talk with Wilkenson.

“Sorry to bother you 'fore the cows got up, Fletcher,” he said after the older man answered.

“I expected to hear from you,” he said, recognizing Monk's voice. “I guess you heard about Jokay coming to see me.”

Monk told him about his electronic encounter with DeKovan at his Dancing Dinosaur. “Maybe our nutty millionaire doesn't believe in the First Amendment.”

“Assuming he's behind this. There's nothing linking him directly.”

Monk couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved. “Then why the hell would Jokay care? And more to the point, why should DeKovan care now? He must have known you were working on the book.”

“Not necessarily. Most of my background research is either from my own notes from the past, or facts and information I've looked up. I purposely avoided interviewing anybody who DeKovan might pressure not to talk.”

“He didn't get it from me.” It seemed to him Dexter Grant was somewhere out there, poking at the edges of DeKovan's carefully constructed shell. But Grant wasn't an amateur, and he didn't think he all of a sudden had gotten Alzheimer's. “In all this time you never mentioned you were working on the book to anyone, Fletcher?”

“We-ell,” the sixty-plus radical sputtered, “I of course did talk with some of the old-timers at the Rancho. But if your supposition is correct, then that would mean DeKovan's got a spy in there.”

“Somebody who probably kept watch on you in the old days too.”

“That's not much of a reward, being allowed to keep living at the Rancho Tajuata.”

“You got me on that one,” Monk admitted. “But he had to find out some kind of way. Some of the Domingos saw you around, right?” A thunder clap made Monk spin around excitedly. A storm had moved in, and rain pelted a heavy staccato on the roof.

“Yes, and some of the Scalp Hunters as well. I even got an interview with Isaiah Booker. He's—”

“I know who he is,” Monk burst out. “He was also being comped at DeKovan's Airport Casino.”

“Interesting,” Fletcher Wilkenson mouthed quietly.

“I'm going over to the Rancho now. One of the Ra-Falcons has been worked over, and the same crew's out gunning for me. There's no place left to go.”

“You be careful in that den, Daniel,” Wilkenson warned him.

Monk laughed hollowly and said good-bye. He got into his thick, water-repellent Cumberland jacket that Kodama had brought over for him the night before. He looked out, and spotting nothing untoward, left the shop. Monk walked the two blocks to where he'd left the rental so as not to tip off the boys in the Isuzu in case they'd been cruising by the shop.

He was waiting on the couch for Sergeant LaToyce Blaine when she came walking up the stairs to the Ra-Falcons' second-floor office. Her long braids had been pulled back, she was wearing a long, green Army trenchcoat, and she carried the morning newspaper in plastic. She made a point of stopping in front of Monk.

“What in the holy hell are you doing here?”

“You heard about what happened to Keith?”

“N-no,” she stammered. “What are you talking about, man?”

“Where you been all night?” He assumed Absalla must have tried to call her or his other sergeant, Eddie Waters.

“With a friend, like it's your business,” she snapped.

Monk looked at one of the late-shift personnel getting ready to leave. “Why don't you tell her?”

The security guard, a corporal, older and heavier than most of the Ra-Falcons he'd seen, spoke. “They found Keith damn near dead, LaToyce. Absalla was arrested. And we tried getting ahold of Eddie, but he wasn't around last night either.”

Blaine threw the paper on the couch, and sat down on it also. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Who owns a black Isuzu Trooper? This year's model.” Monk crossed his legs.

The silence was telling.

“What if I said I did,” Blaine growled.

“I saw you drive up in an Acura,” Monk leveled.

The corporal was about to say something but Blaine stopped him with slitted eyes. “I think it's best we wait until I've talked with Antar.”

“You do that, Sarge.” Monk got up. “I'm not going anywhere. You get down to Newton or get the magnificent one on the phone. And when you do, tell him I know the Ra-Falcons, under different names, supply security to some of the businesses owned by H. H. DeKovan.”

She fixed Monk with a hard look. The corporal stared at both of them. “Who's that?”

“Ask her.” Monk walked out and down the stairs.

With no particular place to go, he meandered through the complex, nearing the abandoned job center across the unused tracks. Monk stared at the series of slabs, focusing east toward Alameda, on the open field that lay beyond the buildings. He was about to go over to the center when he realized if one of the Domingos should see him, and happen to catch him out in the open like that, he'd wind up the skewered morning special on a plate. That fact and the worsening weather finally got him over to see the only one who'd let him in at such an hour of the morning. He rang the buzzer at Henry Cady's door. He heard two locks being undone beyond the security screen.

“Monk?”

“Sorry about the milkman hours, Henry. Mind if I come in and sit a spell?” The heat of confronting Blaine had worn off, and the cold was fast seeping into him.

“Aaaalright” stretched out like bent time behind the doors. The screen was unlatched and Cady, clad in red-striped pajamas, peered out. “You making your rounds kinda early, ain't you, marshal?” He looked past him into the sky.

Monk put a hand against the wall. “What you trying to hide there, Henry?”

His head seesawed. “Company, you know?”

“Oh,” Monk was chagrined. “I'm sorry, man. Listen, I've just got two quick questions, okay? What did you tell me was the name of the company that owns the A. Philip Randolph Center?”

“Trentex. We”—involuntarily his head jerked toward the bedroom—“were discussing that earlier.”

Monk's eyes crinkled. “Who among the Ra-Falcons drives a new black Isuzu Trooper?”

Cady gave it some thought, still wedging his body between the door and its jamb. “I can't say for sure. But”—he made an exasperated sound and pushed the door wider—“why don't you come on in.”

He couldn't deny his curiosity, but tried to look circumspect as he entered the retired janitor's abode, letting the door stand partially ajar. The room was like a cave, the shades still down, a low light going in the corner. Listening, Monk could hear a Barry White cut playing low on the stereo. “Take off mat brassiere, my dear,” White's enticing baritone requested.

“Who drives a Trooper?” Cady called into the bedroom.

Reyisa Limón walked out in a silk kimono, pink chrysanthemums like kudzo climbing all over the material.

Monk blinked.

She put a hand on her large hip. “You're really something, you know that?”

“Aw, gee, kids.”

Cady twittered.

The window next to the door imploded, fragments of glass pirouetted through the air and tumbled across the carpet. Vertical trails of plaster dust erupted from the far walls, the lamp in the corner busting apart like overripe fruit. Barry got cut off in midmoan. Save for the sound of these items coming apart, there wasn't any other indication that automatic fire was invading the apartment.

Monk had Cady by the waist and was shoving him down to the ground. “Hit the fucking floor,” he yelled at Limón.

“Henry!” she screamed, crawling toward her bewildered-looking lover.

“Try and call the cops,” Monk yelled, crabbing around on the floor in the direction of the door. “It's me they want.” He got over to the door on his stomach. He peered out the partial opening. Rain was now driving into the buildings and soaking the ground outside. Visibility was poor and Monk could only hear the sound of the water running off the end of the roof's drainpipe. Incongruously, he could hear music, an old blues number. Charlie Patton?

There was no movement, no figures darting in and out of doorways. But the posse was out there. Somebody had called them. He knew he wasn't followed. One of the Ra-Falcons had to have done the deed. So what? Maybe I should hang around and try to identify that Patton tune. Get your ass moving.

Monk got up in a crouching position, daring to stick his head out into the rain. As he'd guessed, he couldn't see anybody. Time was on their side. Why shoot up the apartment and maybe call attention to themselves? Even if they did have suppressed weapons. Like a bull goaded and blinded with his own blood, the muscles cut in his neck so he couldn't lift his head to charge, Monk was being herded for the killing.

He eased out into the courtyard, the Ultrastar in his hand.

“The phone's out, Ivan,” Cady yelled behind him.

Monk slammed the door and ran around the corner of Cady's townhouse. He heard a car's engine and spun to his right, and went down behind a weight bench and barbells held in place overhead. He wasn't sure, but he seemed to remember the lane running behind Cady's emptied onto a parking lot.

The running engine seemed to place it parallel to where he was. Quite suddenly there was a squelch of tires, then the automatic fire muffled by silencers. The sound was like the low trilling of a horde of bees hurtling against a thick metal wall. One of the gunmen was shooting at the car.

Monk came out and around the cinder block apartments onto a narrow walking court. Just ahead, blocked by the building's corner, he could hear the car slamming to a halt. He ran up and could see a dark-colored Crown Victoria being punched with ragged holes as if by phantom fingers. He looked up and, against the darkened sky, he could see a figure on the roof. He cranked off two shots from the Ultrastar, driving the figure back.

Monk ran low and dove around the far side of the car. The passenger door was open, and he could see a man running deftly toward a causeway between two buildings over to the left.

“Marasco,” Monk yelled into the storm. “It's me, Monk.” Bullets lit into the hulk of the car, Monk covering his head as glass screamed about.

More hushed shooting, and Monk chanced a maneuver around the rear of the auto. Right arm extended, supported by the left … take a breath, sight down the
V
, and squeeze. The hunched mass on the roof reared back, the weapon clattering to the ground. Monk was already running toward the crevice.

“They tagged me before I could use the radio,” Seguin said, sucking in air. He was dressed in jeans and a light windbreaker, unusual attire for the fashion conspicuous cop.

“But you came to round up some Ra-Falcons, didn't you?” Monk looked over at the apartment house, but couldn't tell what had happened to the sniper.

“Actually, Absalla was OR'd around six-thirty this morning. But Keith 2X was found, badly beaten, by a couple of kids racing their go-kart along the concrete banks of the L.A. River. So I wanted to talk with his fellow workers.”

Monk twisted his mouth. “Where the hell're Zaneski and Fitzhugh?”

“When we was kids and we used to ride our bikes down there …” Seguin reminisced.

“Ah, Hoss?” Monk said with genuine concern.

Seguin brought himself back to the present. “Those two are talking to the Cruzado sister; they found her living at the home of a member of the immigrant rights group, CHIRLA. The organization had set her and the family up temporarily.”

“We've got to move,” Monk said.

“We got to try and not endanger anyone,” Seguin said unnecessarily.