Only the Wicked (2 page)

Nonetheless, Carson had spotted the couple, and they'd hung out together through two sets. Monk had also been over to Carson's house a couple of times. The last time was when the builder's pickup truck had broken down and he needed a ride home.

And some of the barber shop crew also frequented Monk's donut shop on the edge of the Crenshaw District. But Continental Donuts had its own collection of regulars and Monk realized he knew less about them than the ones in the room. Obviously those folks, like Spears, like all of them, had a life beyond these walls.

The older man was working at his brow again, leaning back in his chair. He looked tired. The interview with Kennesaw Riles had ended. A commercial for auto insurance played while Brant and Patterson continued their gentlemanly jousting.

“You saying you'd choose Halle Berry over Selma what's-her-name, the one who was in
The Wild, Wild West
movie?” Brant all but fell out of his chair he was so stunned.

“Ain't nothing wrong with preferring a sister, Willie,” Patterson intoned, couching his prurient interests in nationalist trappings.

“That's cool, brah,” Brant retorted, “but Selma's got a body, man. Halle's cute, but she's too much on the thin side for my tastes.”

“For somebody who's always complaining about foreigners,” Carson joined in, “you really dig women with Spanish in them, don't you, Willie?”

“Yeah, so?” Brant asked rhetorically. “I tell you what, you get rid of the men, and let their women stay. Fact, that should be our state policy.”

“Open borders if you fine and got a nice booty, the Willie Brant law,” Little joked.

The men started laughing again. Underneath the cackling, Monk could hear Spears hacking. The older man sat upright and the younger man reached out to him. Spears went slack and dripped to the floor like liquefied vinyl.

“Oh shit,” Brant exclaimed as he erupted from his seat.

Monk kneeled beside Spears, tilting his head back. He opened his mouth, checking for any obstructions.

“I'll get an ambulance,” Little shouted. He whirled and snatched the phone's handset mounted next to his picture mirror.

Carson had removed the barber's shroud and moved toward where Spears lay. “Come on, y'all, give Monk some room,” he boomed.

“Hey, should you be doing that?” Brant inquired in his bothersome voice. “I worked with a dude named Fowler who gave this big-titted transvestite mouth-to-mouth at Tommy Tucker's Playroom one night and he—”

“Shut up, Willie,” Carson ordered. Nobody snickered at the sight of his unevenly clipped hair, one side of his medium salt-and-pepper Afro looked like an untended hedge.

Monk pinched Spears' nose, and breathed into his mouth three times. He then forcibly pressed on the man's chest three times. Concern frosted his eyes as he repeated the CPR technique for several minutes. The men in the shop stood in a semicircle around the two on the floor. A mortal quiet gripped the gathered. Everyone could tell it was too late. They knew Monk's efforts were futile, yet he had no choice but to continue.

“Paramedics are here,” Patterson said unnecessarily. The emergency vehicle's siren had been apparent for some moments. He had raised the blinds to see out into the street. The auto parts clerk stood there in sunlit relief, his ever-present cigarette unlit between his compressed lips.

Monk looked at Carson, and the contractor shook his head. The PI felt cheated. Here was a man who had stories to tell, anecdotes about his personal struggles and triumphs to relate. And none of them had known that. Who would tell them about the life of Old Man Spears? And would the men in this barber shop, like many in other parts of the city, fade away without anyone championing their accomplishments on this planet?

He stood as two paramedics rushed through the Abyssinia's front door. Patterson was holding it open for the the techs, their gurney surging forward on well-oiled wheels. Monk fumbled with the keys and wallet he'd taken off the dead man. He managed to hold onto the items behind his back.

Carson glanced at Monk, tilting his head slightly downward. He didn't hide the accusatory glare he leveled at Monk.

Chapter 2

“So that's all you know,” the paramedic declared perfunctorily. Her umber eyes, behind modified granny glasses, drifted from Carson to Monk. The woman, a Chinese-American, had done her hair short, and the strands adhered to the contours of her head. She was left-handed, and made notes on a clipboard encased in a slim, rectangular metal container.

The second paramedic was a stout blond man with a brush mustache and tawny skin from off-hours spent on the beach. As was required, even though he'd checked for a pulse, he'd placed an oxygen mask over the still man's unmoving mouth. Now he was guiding Spears toward the door on the collapsible gurney.

“Yes,” Carson repeated. “We only knew Mr. Spears from seeing him around here.” He flicked his long fingers at the ceiling, as if seeking to pull descriptions from the stratosphere. “Can't say I know anything about his family or where he lived. Sorry.”

“That true for you gentlemen, too?” she asked, swiveling her head and upper body to address the others.

“Yep,” Kelvon Little corroborated. “He's been coming here ‘bout eight years, and this was the first time I knew he'd played in the Negro Leagues.”

“He must live around here,” Patterson concluded. “He always was on foot.”

The woman had already closed her clipboard carrier and had retrieved her small plastic case of medical supplies.

“Take this if you need us for anything else.” Monk handed her a business card. “Where will Spears' body be?”

She glanced at the card and was putting it in a pocket of her overalls when she looked at it again. She read it carefully as she talked. “California Hospital on Grand. At least for tonight. We'll try to contact a family member or relative, of course.” The woman exited, climbed behind the wheel of the ambulance, and sped off.

Monk, crowding with the others in the doorway, made a note of the vehicle, a Med-Trans van. As one, the quartet went back into the shop.

“They ain't gonna be able to find any relatives, are they?” Carson twisted his bottom lip, fixing Monk with a snide glare.

“My mother's an RN, Abe. I know all about how wallets and keys disappear from hospital bedsides.” He lifted the wallet to eye level. “And don't tell me you're not curious like I am about Spears.” What had he meant about Malachi?

“Yeah, and it shouldn't be strangers goin' through his stuff anyway,” Brant rationalized.

“I suppose,” Carson amended. Little indicated for him to get back in the barber chair. The contractor did so. “So Monk, did the old man have a driver's license?” Brant wanted to know.

“We'll see.” He had the thin wallet open and was going through its contents. There was $23 in cash, no ATM card, a Kaiser card, a two-jumbo-jacks-for-99¢ coupon, no credit cards, an NAACP lifetime membership card, some loose receipts, and no driver's license. “That's it,” Monk announced, looking up. He was seated and Patterson and Brant stood near him.

“His social security number's on the Kaiser card,” Brant stated. “I belong, too.”

Monk read the number on the medical card. It began with 4-2-6, and the letter A came after the nine digits.

“That means,” Brant said, poking the letter with his finger, “he worked for the railroad.”

Patterson took the Kool out of his mouth and pointed with it. “You sure about that, Willie?”

Offended, Brant merely bugged his eyes at Patterson.

“And these first three numbers of his social security ID indicate Mississippi,” Monk noted.

“Ain't you the Simon Templar,” Patterson flattered him.

“His first name was Marshall, and his middle name was Adam,” Brant announced, tapping the Kaiser card in Monk's hand.

“But what about where he lived?” Little snipped at the back of Carson's head with a pair of his long scissors, finishing the haircut.

“You would bring that up,” Monk fretted. He went through the receipts. There was a recent one from the Ralph's Market not too far away on 52nd and Main, one from Gadberry's Bar-B-Que on Broadway near Slauson—did he walk or did he ride?—a couple from liquor stores for chips and sodas, and a large rectangular NCR receipt from Lordain's Hardware folded in four.

“You know this place, don't you?” Monk stood close to Carson, extending the receipt.

“Sure. I trade there all the time.” He was also standing, and he began to brush loose hairs from his pant legs with his large hands.

“Then you two ought to get on your horses and find out where the old man lived.” Brant also came over.

Carson shrugged a shoulder and Monk nodded. “I'll drive. Can I go in front of Johnny for my haircut?”

“Ain't you on a mission, man?” His cigarette tilted sideways as he grinned.

“Gotta look clean, baby.”

Monk was allowed to bump the others, and soon he and Carson were in his cherry '64 Ford driving over to Lordain's Hardware. The business was on Main Street in the 6700 block. The building it was housed in also contained a furniture store and a chrome-plating service on the ground level. In its second story were the cursory ghetto apartments that were hot and sticky in the summer, and inadequately heated in the surprisingly cold Los Angeles winters. Yellowed curtains blew from weathered sashes and Monk could hear
Nortena
music over an infant's cry coming from one of the windows.

“You should do the talking, Abe,” Monk said as they entered Lordain's.

“Yep,” he responded. “One of these fellas ought to know Spears.”

The two were near a collection of rakes whose tines stood ready in industrial green and glossy black. Off to the side from the rakes was a row of shelving containing bins of nails, hooks, wood screws, carriage bolts and the like. Opposite that row was a stand-alone counter where a heavyset man in a striped shirt was measuring a piece of glass. On the owner's side of the counter, an older man sipped coffee noisily despite the heat.

“See, it's off by a quarter of an inch,” the man in the striped shirt growled.

“That was made 'cordin' to the measurements you gave us, Blass.”

“It's a quarter inch off.”

The other man produced a small piece of paper from underneath the counter. “You tell me.”

Blass picked up the paper and scrutinized it for too long, like he was working out his best excuse. “Well, you can see this here is a three, not an eight.” Even he didn't sound like he believed what he was saying.

“That's an eight,” the other man said, enjoying his coffee. He acknowledged Carson's presence. “Tell you what, Blass, I'll charge you half for that glass and you pay me cost for the other'n.”

The lower part of Blass' face contorted and he leaned heavily on the counter. He looked as if he were going to get into it, then gave himself an out. He made a production of looking at his wristwatch and sighing. “All right, Price,” he said, shifting his weight on tiny feet. “What can I do, I've got to get this pane in.”

Price gave Carson a dry look and took the pane into the back. He returned momentarily. “It'll be out in a minute, brother Blass.” He sipped and said over the rim of his cup, “What's on your plate for today, Abe?”

Carson put a hand on Monk's shoulder. “This is Ivan Monk, Price. He's that detective I've mentioned now and then.”

“Pleasure,” Monk said, returning the other man's assertive handshake.

“Same here.”

“Without getting into a whole to-do, we're trying to find out where one of your customers lives.” Carson was careful to use the present tense.

“He steal some drywall from you, Abe?” Price asked half seriously.

“Nothing like that,” Carson replied. “His name is Spears, and he was in here”—Carson took out the receipt—“day before yesterday. He bought some Clear-All and a whisk broom.”

“What does he look like, Abe? A lot of folks come here to buy the real stuff once they find out that advertised shit can't unclog nothing. Now how in the hell anyone expects people to get a drain backed up with that conk, wave, Jheri Juice, straightener, and what all men and women be putting on their hair with that weak-ass gel crap they sell them dupes, is beyond me. 'Course, if people just used some plain ol' Ivory Soap and a spot of Brill Cream, then they wouldn't be having such problems.” He touched his fingers to the side of his receding hairline.

Monk was hoping Carson could get Price back on the subject.

“That might cut down on your business, Price,” a new voice said. He was an older man, and he walked slowly through a doorway leading from an area where the sign EMPLOYEES ONLY was tacked overhead. He had on matching green khaki shirt and pants, and there was a white handkerchief protruding from one of his back pockets. He was above medium height, and his graying hair had a reddish hue at its roots.

“Least I got some people who come in here to buy something now and then, Dellums,” Price responded.

“I bring in new customers, man.” Dellums stopped at the counter and leaned against a fly-fishing decal. “How you gentlemen doing today? Now who you say you were looking for?”

“Why don't you go on back there and finish counting the bags of peat moss like I asked you?” Price folded bony arms.

“Thirty-seven, Price. I told you it was around that 'fore you had me count them 'cause I knew how much was unloaded last week. And I knew roughly how many bags had been sold since then.”

“That's 'cause you ain't got no place to be 'cept here.” Price picked at the space between his teeth with the edge of a matchbook cover.

“Mr. Dellums,” Monk started, we're trying to find out where Mr. Marshall Spears lived.” He purposely used the past tense reference. “He was about this tall”—Monk leveled a hand two inches below the top of his own head—“dark complexion, had a scar on the right side of his nose. He wore suspenders, the button-on kind, not clip-ons. He—”