Only the Wicked (15 page)

“Is Creel out?” Clara Antony asked.

“He's still inside,” Monk said.

“One of his running buddies then,” Antony pointed out forcefully. “Back when the black power movement was on, them brothers would get their point across to a pusher or snitch with serious emphasis, if you dig what I'm saying.”

“Why wait until now? Why all this time?” Monk was ready to dismiss the idea, but tucked it away for further examination.

“Yeah, especially when he's an old man. Unless,” Antony snapped his fingers, “he was on to something about the trial and wanted to tell you. Maybe the somebody found out you were in the picture and that made him kill your cousin.”

Clara looked dubiously at her husband. “I know you want to believe the best of Kennesaw, Ardmore. But history is history, and he was a turncoat.” She enjoyed some more Cactus Cooler.

“Then why was he poisoned?” Antony asked testily.

“What about this ‘Killin' Blues'?” Monk interjected.

Now it was the wife's turn to get in a good laugh. “That story has been going around since I was at Jefferson High. And I ain't saying when that was.” Her eyes twinkled and she smiled warmly at her husband.

“I went to Jeff,” Monk said. “And it wasn't too long ago an unknown recording by Clifford Jordan was discovered and released on CD.”

“True, true,” Ardmore agreed. “That too had been rumored for years. But this ‘Killin' Blues' is like the so-called thirtieth song of Robert Johnson, or ‘Stormy Weather' on seventy-eight by the Five Sharps, ya dig? It's a legend, and over the years there's been enough half-truths whispered that it keeps people looking. I mean, man, collectors in Japan and Germany are crazy for blues and R-and-B originals from the states.

“Collecting used to be a quiet little hobby for geeky fans, cats prowling swap meets, garage sales and old records shows. Or going down south and chancing upon a Son House record in some backwater grocery store in the used bin. But like comic books and baseball cards, it just got bigger and bigger, all them baby boomers getting gray and wanting to spend their money on something to invest in for the future.”

“Look, Monk, a forty-five by a one-hit wonder group like the Hornets recently sold for eighteen grand. So imagine what an undiscovered album by a blues giant like Patton would be worth by itself, plus all the ancillary junk.”

“Like it's magical or something,” Clara Antony waved her fingers in the air. “Patton was one of the originators, Johnson an interpreter. Though one hell of one. I heard that a seventy-eight of him singing ‘Stones in My Passway' sold for six grand.”

“So if the ‘Killin' Blues' did exist—” Monk began.

“Then whoever found it would have a money-making machine, baby.” Antony stared into the distance. “The CD, some kind of book deal, probably a documentary about finding it, maybe be a consultant to a TV movie.” He clucked his tongue.

“If my husband was an envious man, I'd be worried,” Clara Antony snickered sarcastically.

“Worth a million?” Monk asked.

“Probably double that if you played it right,” Antony allowed. He brought himself out of his daydream of plenty. “On the other matter, see my wife was a singer, Ivan. She and some girlfriends from school and the choir formed a group called the Torches in the 'fifties.”

“‘Flame of Love' and ‘Main Street Man.”' Monk could hear the tunes in his head.

“Our hit forty-fives. We went on tour with Johnny Otis and played the Five-Four Ballroom on a revue with Dinah Washington.” She pointed toward a poster in a corner. The thing was laminated in thick plastic, and was the ad for the musical bill at the L.A. landmark she'd just mentioned.

“Had us a few more hits, a little glitter, but then”—she gestured with a hand like a baroness dismissing a serf—“I guess we really don't do anything but repeat bullshit from decade to decade.”

Monk encouraged her to continue with a look.

“I was the lead singer,” she said, pausing as if that explained all the rest. “I guess I got caught up and all.”

“You guess,” her husband kidded.

She drank more of his Cactus Cooler. “I had a few mikes stuck in my face, an interview in the
California Eagle
, got on KGFJ, even had a beauty supply man put my face on one of his products.”

“So you wanted to go solo,” Monk commented. “The others holding you back.”

“Sounds so cliché, doesn't it?”

“The ego game keeps repeating itself over and over, and forevermore.” Antony touched his forehead with two fingers.

“Yeah,” Clara Antony added, sighing loudly. “Mary hasn't talked to me in over, my goodness, twelve, fifteen years. And Donice—” She shook her head in remorse.

Antony presented his defense. “So you see why Kennesaw might so badly want to make up for a mistake of his past.”

“Getting too big for your britches isn't the same as being a snitch.”

“But you see my point,” Antony persisted.

Before they got too far on that course, Monk spoke again. “I don't have any delicate way of asking this, Clara, but it's important to me I find out as much as I can about Kennesaw's murder.”

She reared back, a sardonic grin contorting her mouth. “I know what you want to know. I'm sure you've asked around and heard those stories about me and Ardmore from the bad old days.”

“Look, you don't have to do this,” Antony said protectively. He set a hard glance on Monk, his attitude stiffening. “You think you're some kind of sharpie, don't you?” He got up and pointed, “You can get out now.” He inclined his head toward the arch, a second away from summoning the behemoth in the Homburg.

“No, let it alone, Ardmore,” his wife said softly. “It isn't like he won't go on and find out.”

“They always like to hear you tell it,” Ardmore said from experience.

“That's true,” Monk admitted. “But I'm not trying any tricks here, Clara. I heard the story about you and poison, and wanted to know what there was to it.”

Clara Ardmore stuck her legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “I was going around with a couple of smooth operators. This was around 'fifty-five or 'fifty-six, 'cause I remember one of these fellas loved that
Davy Crockett
show on TV.”

Monk caught Antony dipping his head.

“One was him,” she pointed at her husband, “and the other was Howell Exum.”

“That's a hell of a name.”

“I guess. Ex, as we called him, had a job down at the Continental Trailways depot downtown unloading the buses, and doing some light mechanical work.”

“But his real work was the ponies and craps,” Antony put in mildly.

“Both showed a girl a good time.”

“However, both didn't have chicks packing cardboard suitcases taking the all-nighters from Woodstomp, Georgia, up to L.A. to settle old debts.” Antony got up and retrieved his soda, finishing the bottle.

Clara crossed her feet the other way as her husband sat back down. “See, what went down is Ex had run out on this girl's baby sister. Not the first such time he'd done that you understand. So Inez Jackson Shuttlesworth packed her bag with a butcher's knife with one side of its handle missing, some changes of clothes, and a map of Los Angeles.”

“You saying this is the woman poisoned Howell Exum?” Monk catalogued the names in his mind.

“When you check, you'll see.” Antony used a paper towel to wipe at sweat under his chin.

“Me and this hard-headed dame, Inez, got into it one night at the Barrelhouse out in Watts. We traded some blows, baby, like Ali and Frazier, I'll tell you.” She related her ring experience proudly. “Ashtrays and pressed hair flying, upended a table with plates of food.” She boomed with a hearty laugh.

“Yes, buddy,” Antony clucked his tongue again. “Some kind of woman.”

“About three days later, I get hauled in by a couple of detectives over to Seventy-seventh. They're yammering at me about do I have an alibi. Where was I at three that morning, what kind of poison did I use on Ex. The whole bit, man.”

“And you did have an alibi,” Monk stated.

“Me,” Antony declared in a defiant tone.

“That and the bottle of Duniger's rat poison the cops found in the cans behind the rooming house Inez was staying at on Maple.”

“This Inez go to prison?” Monk asked with interest.

“They brought her back from Georgia, and charged her. But there wasn't anything concrete to pin the deed on her. They got her for a bench warrant and evading arrest.” She pushed out her lips. “I think maybe she did a year in jail.”

“Ever see her since?”

“Surprisingly, yes. Ex had a daughter who got in a bad way, financially. Me and Ardmore were helping her out, and who shows up one week but Inez. We kinda stared down each other, then all we could do was hug.”

“This daughter Inez's niece?”

It took a few moments for his question to sink in. “Oh no, this child was by some other woman altogether. Not from Inez's little sister. I've seen her a few times after that. Seen her more than I've seen Mary.” She drew her legs back under the chair as if a sudden chill had descended on her. “Or rather, I've seen Mary, she just doesn't want to talk to me.”

Monk got up. “I appreciate you talking so frankly, Clara.” He started to go, then realized the obvious. “Say, did the cops ever talk to the younger sister?”

Antony too was standing. “Her name was Mardisa. Yeah, they grilled her, too. She claimed she was ironing clothes in her apartment and listening to shows on the radio. You know, the ‘Whistler,' ‘Gangbusters,' jive like that. She told the cops what was on when, and given her quiet nature, they had to let her go, too.”

“She wasn't sharing rooms with her sister?” Monk got interested again.

“No,” Clara said bemusedly. “Inez liked to entertain and her demure sister was one to complain. Inez got that room she was staying in because a childhood friend from Woodstomp lived there, too.”

“How in the hell did the tame Mardisa get hooked up with this hustler Exum?” Monk stood directly under the archway, a cool breeze blowing against his back.

“Another old tired story,” Clara Antony said. “Fast man puts the whammy on country girl, promises her everything, then cleans out her savings.”

“So Exum wasn't that fascinating,” Monk remarked.

“Hindsight gets pretty clear over decades,” the woman observed.

“Thanks for the history lesson.” Monk went downstairs onto the sidewalk in front of the office. Did Clara and her husband give his cousin an overdose, maybe having wrangled a clue to the “Killin' Blues” location out of him? Kennesaw had desperately wanted to talk to the man, so access wasn't a problem. And Antony could parlay such an album, if it did exist, into quite a hunk of cash for his golden years. He worked it over in his head, his hands in his pockets, standing in front of Antony's office.

The space occupied a portion of the front and corner of Somerville Place II. It was a mixed-use building with businesses and retail on the ground and second floors, and low income housing above those. This was on the northern end.

To the south was Somerville Place I, a similar construction. In between these new buildings was the Dunbar Hotel. Originally the hotel was called the Somerville, after the black doctor who built it in 1923 to service a dusky clientele. The hotel, along with the Clark and the Golden West, were the places black travelers, from Pullman porters during down-time to entertainers like Lena Home and Cab Calloway, could stay in when in town. L.A. in the '30s and '40s was known for its orange groves and its legal housing apartheid.

Monk's headache had devolved into a steady annoyance, and he remembered something about a bar being in the Dunbar's basement. He was crossing the street and working on the name when Antony called to him. He looked back at the rotund man leaning out of the window.

“Hey, I know you want to do right by your cousin. To make up for coming at you like that, let me comp you a couple of tickets to the revue. Just show up and you'll be on a list at the will-call.”

Monk waved thanks and drove off. He used the after-work traffic as an excuse not to drive home. He had a bad feeling his sister had burned up the answering machine and he didn't want to face her transmitted wrath. He went to the donut shop and was surprised to find Curtis and Lonnie Armstrong at work on a Bluebird yellow school bus.

He decided to bug Curtis and started to walk over. Lonnie was on a short ladder, bent over the engine compartment. He had his perpetual cigarette stuck behind his ear.

“I heard from Lonny J.,” Lonnie of the “ie” said without turning. Lonny J. used to work for Monk part-time. That Lonny was in his twenties and played in a band called the Exiles. They'd evolved from a rap act into real musicians playing a blend of socially conscious rap, ska and rock. The group had cut a CD on an independent label, and were on a tour.

“Tell him I know he and the band are gonna do it.” Monk tapped the fender. The mechanic Lonnie was the play uncle to the younger Lonny J. He'd gotten the job because the singing Lonny had told him Curtis was looking to hire another mechanic. Curtis had a silent partner, a co-owner of the shop, but neither Monk, nor anyone else he knew, had ever met him or her.

Curtis, the beefy one, let loose in his Mike Tyson squeak from down below. “Ain't this some fucking shit.” The front end shook as he worked to loosen some particularly stubborn fitting.

“This be our contract with the school district,” Lonnie said without being asked, engrossed in his work. “We gets the overruns. Good money, but that mean we gets the buses at all times, days and weekends.”

Monk hadn't heard Lonnie string that many words together in half a year. “I'll catch y'all later.”