Only the Wicked (7 page)

“Couldn't help but hear you were related to Mr. Spears.”

Monk introduced the newcomer. “Sikkuh, this is Abe Carson, another man who knew your great-uncle from the barber shop.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Carson said, exchanging a quick grin with Monk. It was the kind of look men get when in the presence of good-looking women—that feeling equally charged with sexual current and junior-high awkwardness. “We just recently learned he played baseball with Monk's cousin there.” He tipped his plate of food in Riles' direction.

“Oh yes, many a night Uncle Marsh would go on with the men folk about those times. Cool Papa Bell's running ability; Lou Dials' skill; he had a steamer trunk full of stories he liked to tell,” Sikkuh said.

“You said Cool Papa, miss?” Kennesaw Riles inquired from across the room. “Don't you know he once stole home plate and was in the showers by the time the ball bounced off the second baseman's glove.”

One of the men snorted, “He never got past me. I hugged third like she was Lena Home in a sarong.”

“Billy Timms,” one of the other men scolded, who was wearing a hearing aid, “you confusing my stats with yours again.”

The old men kept their cajoling and reminiscing going, entertaining themselves and several others moving in and out of the barber shop. Though embellished upon, their firsthand accounts of life in black baseball were like exploring a treasure cave with many alcoves.

“Listen, I have to get to a shoot out in the Valley.” Sikkuh had finally relented to the call of hunger. She'd sated her appetite with two bites of potato salad and one drumstick she'd peeled the skin off of and placed in a crumpled napkin.

“Guess that was a feast for you,” Monk observed.

“It's crazy, I know,” she said. “Thin is not simply a physical state in the modeling world, it's a religion.”

“You know your great-uncle's stuff is just sitting there in his duplex,” Carson said. He bestowed another smirk on Monk.

That was because Monk still had Spears' keys and wallet sitting on his dresser.

“Oh Lord, I can't deal with that right now. On Monday, I've got to go out of town for a small part I've got in a Morgan Freeman film.”

“Well,” Monk ventured, “we do have a set of his house keys. Frankly, I wanted to turn them over to you.” He didn't look at Carson. “And his wallet.”

“Didn't seem right leaving his personal items on him, us not having a relative for Mr. Spears at the time,” Carson elucidated.

She touched Carson's forearm. “Oh, no, I appreciate what y'all have done for Uncle Marsh. If you could get his stuff together and store it, I'd be really thankful.” Sikkuh shifted her hips, glancing up into the tall man's face.

“Of course,” he all but stammered.

“I should be back by next weekend. Then I can get in touch with you guys to get my uncle's things.”

Carson produced a business card and handed it across. “That'll be no problem.”

“Cool.” She smiled at both of them and walked out the door. Both men watched her go.

“You're a magnanimous man,” Monk said.

“Truly,” Carson replied, watching the woman go. He ambled toward the entrance, too.

“So that fine young honey is Marshall's niece?” Kennesaw asked.

“Great-niece,” Monk corrected.

Riles, Dellums and Cedras were sitting down, plates of food balanced on their laps or held shakily aloft by trembling hands. “Kind of a day for long-gone family,” Riles said to Monk around a mouthful of greens. “I ain't seen your mother in more than, hell, I guess it's been more than twenty years.”

“You moved back down south after the ball club folded.”

“The club didn't end, exactly,” Cedras said. “It was Wrigley Field that got closed.”

“After O'Malley brought the Dodgers west,” Dellums contributed, “and they did all that mess to build Dodger Stadium out there in Chavez Ravine. So Wrigley Field, and the teams that used to play there like the Pacific League and the Triple A Angels, became a casualty of war in our part of town.”

“'Course when Autry, the Singing Cowboy, bought 'em, the Angels became a pro club.”

“Dodger opening day in 'fifty-eight was in the Coliseum, the place they had to use until O'Malley built their park,” Cedras recalled. “I believe they beat the Giants.”

“O'Malley worked the swap of Wrigley to the city in exchange for the land out there in the ravine,” another old-timer put in from a corner. “And the city let our stadium go to rot.”

“And now O'Malley's done sold the Dodgers to that Murdoch, a foreigner.”

That got a round of heads shaking side-to-side.

“Let's face it,” Kennesaw added, “who was gonna pay to see the farm team when the big boys were in town? All the sharp colored boys who could were playing in pro teams, or trying to by then.”

“Integration ain't never done us no good.” Dellums set his plate down and wiped his mouth with a floral-patterned handkerchief.

“Central Avenue and its businesses, the Negro Leagues … when we built up our own, we couldn't wait to tear it down so we could go chase after the white man's approval.” Cedras also put down his plate, and took a drink from his cup.

“I hope you don't mean all white men.” The speaker was a portly individual in a military-green three-piece suit with a maroon-and-white polka dot tie and pocket square, with brown-and-white Stacey Adams. He wore rimless glasses, and there was a beneficence to the grin encased in the all-white, neatly trimmed beard.

A chocolate-brown-hued woman heavy in the hips but thin in the face stood next to the man. She wore a dark gray, pleated skirt and same-colored tunic top. Perched atop her head was a black slouch hat with a bright red feather sticking out of the crown. Though the years had marched her along, she was still a handsome woman who didn't hide her age behind vain attempts at too much make-up.

An awkward silence descended as the three older black men, and all the other black folks in the shop, stared at the stranger. It was like a scene from an old west movie when the outsider comes into the bar and the piano playing and conversation stops. Who was the stranger, and what did he want?

“I'll be shot and goddamned,” Cedras proclaimed. He got up and came over, Monk watching and waiting. The two men faced each other, then Cedras threw his arms around the man, hugging him. “You know I didn't mean the ones who'd crossed the tracks, man.”

The white man had his arms around Cedras and roared. “And never looked back, baby.”

Riles had also gotten up and was slapping the bearded man on the back. “Ardmore, man, how the hell are you?” He didn't wait for an answer and addressed the black woman. “Good to see you, too, Clara.” He kissed her on the cheek and she squeezed his shoulders.

“You too, Kennesaw.” She regarded him with an emotion Monk couldn't identify. Suddenly, she seemed to become aware of the expression on her face, and re-composed it into a cheerful appearance. “I was sorry to hear about Dora passing.”

“Yes, thank you,” the old ballplayer said. “She was a terrific woman. I want you to meet this young man, here. He's a cousin of mine on my mother's side of the family.” He extended an arm like a maitre d'. “This is Ivan Monk.”

“Ma'am.” He shook her hand with its set of long, fresh-crimson nails.

She shook a finger at him. “I've heard of you. Or read about you, I should say. You're some kind of detective, aren't you?”

“Uh-huh, private.”

His cousin and Dellums opened their mouths in mild shock. “Just like Jim Brown in them Slaughter movies?” Dellums exclaimed.

Monk grimaced. “Not really. It's much more ordinary than that. I can't be blasting at people in restaurants and airports like big Jim does in his flicks.”

“You carry a rod?” Cedras asked.

“I have a permit, yes.”

“I'll be goddamned twice today,” the one-time catcher said. “Got us a hawkshaw and the one white man who's been better to me than some of my own.” He clapped Monk on the back, and looked at the one they called Ardmore. “Come on, let me buy you fellas a drink.” And he led the way to the Old Grand Dad, the Gentleman Jack having been exhausted.

Three belts of bourbon and numerous tales of days past later, Monk was leading his cousin and Mr. Dellums out of the Abyssinia Barber Shop and Shine Parlor.

“Both you fellas got nice wheels,” Dellums exclaimed. He was walking with the careful exaggeration of a man who'd been bedridden for months, the use of his legs having suddenly returned. He put one foot assiduously in front of the other.

Monk ambled over to the 1958 Chevy Bel Air ragtop coupe parked a car down from his Ford. The classic was bronze-colored with silver-and-white trim, the leatherette seats the hue of dried oxblood. Ardmore and Clara Antony were exiting the shop too, heading toward the finely redone '50s Detroit iron.

The portly man had been the owner of the Nile, a jazz and supper club on Slauson near Towne Avenue back in the day. The Nile had opened in the waning days of club life along Central Avenue, the Stem, in the mid-'fifties. Monk, had learned this from his cousin and the other ex-ballplayers conversations over the past few hours.

The Nile's line-up of talent had represented the next phase of jazz. The mid-'fifties gave birth to the hard driving, be-bop era as exemplified by the warriors of cool such as Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie, and L.A. natives Dexter Gordon, Eric Dolphy, William “Budd” Collette and near-native Charles Mingus, born in Nogales, Arizona—but raised in Watts, California. Their tunes permeated the scene of clubs and records, and seeped under the skin of hipsters and squares. This jittery pulse was a reflection and a response to the oppressive Red Scare, and the stuffiness of Jim Anderson, the model patriarch of TV's
Father Knows Best.
But ol' Jim had one thing going for him: He was all reet in his snap-brim hat. And it was this insurance man's chapeau the jazz cats and beats would appropriate to wear on their wigged-out heads as they jammed or lolled in other night spots besides the Nile, like the Gas House in Venice or the original Parisian Room on La Brea and Washington.

The 'fifties was a time when you had to work to show you weren't a fan of Uncle Joe Stalin. One way to prove you weren't a pinko was to rat out a pal so you could keep your public teacher gig or get your name taken off The List. And it was in this environment that the wail of these jazz messengers could be heard, a signal that things were gonna change.

These cats were telling in their music, but few were listening, that they were part of a people that expected allegiance from the government and the people down south and up north, not to loyalty oaths worth their weight in toilet paper, but to a piece of paper with some real weight called the Constitution. That being a good American wasn't about denouncing your fellows to political poseurs like Tricky Dick Nixon and closet gay bully Roy Cohen, but upholding ideals like equality and fairness.

As these jazz players came of age in that time, it was no surprise that mid- to late-'fifties Jazz would blow the stanzas of the freedom suite. Collette and Mingus would integrate their musicians' local in Hollywood. The music had an edge, and the Nile was one of the venues where one could come and commune with the masters who laid it all out in tumbling, preening notes and innovative musical annotations.

Monk halted his ruminations, paying attention to Ardmore Antony, who was talking to his cousin. Clara Antony had the passenger door open to the Chevy, starting to get in the seat.

“You and your cousin tight?” she asked Monk abruptly, stopping midway into the car.

“Fact is, I haven't seen or heard from him since I was a kid.”

She considered his words, then sat heavily in the Bel Air. Monk closed the door for her.

“But you know about him, right?” she asked, rolling down the window. She rested her head on the back of the seat. She removed her hat and fanned her face, which was warm from the booze.

Her tone told him she wasn't talking about baseball. He was about to inquire further when her husband and Kennesaw Riles wandered over.

“We got to talk, you know what I mean?” Riles slapped a large hand on the Bel Air's fender. He leaned in to the car on his cane as if a harsh wind had suddenly whipped down from the San Gabriels. “I want to tell my side.” The older man was staring at Clara Antony, and she was making an effort not to return the look. “I need to,” Riles pleaded.

The fat man stood on the driver's side of the car. “We'll talk, Kennesaw, really, we'll talk. Now don't forget, I gave you my card.” He pointed at Riles' breast pocket. “I've got a concert coming up at the Olympic next month I want to give you tickets for, all right?” The round man squinted at something that wasn't sunlight. “I know where you've been, Kennesaw.” Antony got in the car and ignited the fine-tuned engine.

“I think he said his office was in the Dunbar,” Dellums mumbled, rubbing his head with both hands.

The Chevy melded into the light traffic on Broadway.

Kennesaw had Antony's card out, holding it far from his face. “Says the Somerville Two on it.” He looked blankly at Monk.

“Those're new buildings the economic housing people built after taking over Dunbar,” Monk illuminated. He unlocked the car for the men.

“Hey,” Kelvon Little called from the doorway. “Why don't you gents take this, otherwise it will Just go bad.” The barber came over with one of the serving tins that he'd folded over to hold its contents inside.

Dellums took the food and got in the back behind Riles in the Ford. Monk waved goodbye to Little and drove away.

“Them ‘Killin' Blues' is playin'.” Riles was slumped in the seat, his right leg moving with nervous energy. “Marshall is gone and Charlie Patton is strummin' for me.”