Only the Wicked (37 page)

Authors: Gary Phillips

BOOK: Only the Wicked

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I got the ticket from my darlin' gal-she done sent the letter across the nationâgonna ride the train 'til it makes the Clarksdale stationâgonna ride that rail even though they's after meâeven though them killin' blues is after me.

“Through there,” Kodama pointed toward an open archway containing stone steps leading up. The couple ascended and found themselves in an enclosed hallway. Two uncovered bulbs, one at either end, dispersed their diminutive light in the space. They went down the hall.

Drop down to the bottomâdrop down and see ol' Satan-he got my soul in a jarâsay I got to pay my duesâsay I got them killin' blues
.

The voice on the scratchy recording yelped and hollered and then the music faded. Monk paused at a door of peeling ochre paint. The number on it was an upside down seven, loose on its nail.

“Can I help you?” a Latina with curlers in her hair asked, sticking her head out a door near the stairs. “You two looking to rent?” Down at her side Monk could see the glint of the pistol she held.

“Is this one occupied?” He poked a thumb at number Seven.

The woman looked back at Kodama and made the decision the two were either too old or dressed well enough not to “be up to foolishness” as Monk's mother would have said. “Hold on,” she said, easing her door shut to a crack. Momentarily she stepped out into the hall, sans the firearm. She marched over to the door where Kodama now stood next to Monk.

Examining the duo she asked querulously, “You two aren't going to run some kind of business out of here, are you? I've already gotten hassled by Building and Safety about that.”

“No,” Kodama answered.

The woman did a thing with her head and eyebrows and unlocked the door. She flicked on the light, revealing an empty apartment. No furniture, but there was a green shag rug in need of immediate replacement on the floor. Covering the windows were clean, light-blue sheets. Monk stepped inside.

“Who used to live here?”

The manager also stepped inside. “Old man, black man, I think.” She addressed their quizzical looks. “It was hard to tell. He certainly wasn't as dark as you”âshe indicated Monkâ“he was colored like gold, you know? And his hair was straight, but you know, curly on the ends. The way he talked, he sounded black.” She worked her head up and down. “I guess he must have been black.”

“He have a name?” Kodama asked while Monk prowled around the empty rooms.

“His name was,” she searched her memory, “Dockery. Yeah, I called him Mr. Dockery.”

“For Dockery Farms,” Kodama whispered.

Monk was back in the front room. “When did you last see him?”

The manager scratched at her chin. “It's been some time now.” She looked around. “Funny, too, I haven't been able to rent this apartment since.”

Monk wanted to wait around for who knew how long, but Kodama made him leave. Back out on 8th Street, Monk and Kodama sleepwalked to the Ford. Neither one said anything as he drove them home.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Elizabeth Connor

This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com