Only the Wicked (17 page)

“‘… Of solitary beds, knew what they were, that passion could bring character enough.'” He had a spoonful of his cereal.

She frowned, unable to place the quote. She had some of her own breakfast. “And you got a mind to go with those shoulders of yours.” She smiled sweetly, but got serious quick. “I just want to make sure you're not going to be so wrapped up in this you'll make mistakes.”

“At times this gig does have its dangers.”

“As long as you're not out there instigating when you need to be investigating.”

He considered being obstinate but having one loved one mad at him was enough for now. “Yes, dear.” He ate like a man rescued after a week in a mining shaft.

Later, at Continental Donuts, sitting in the front, Monk again went over the things belonging to Marshall Spears. He examined all the photos, looking for some visual clue that would trigger the alarm in his brain. No such item appeared, though he did identify a few familiar faces in some of the shots. He was sure he'd spotted black aviatrix Bessie Coleman in at least two photos. There was a young Louis Armstrong in a suit of wide pin-stripes blowing his horn on first base. And he was pretty sure that was W.E.B. DuBois at a game the Grays had against the Birmingham Barons.

Whoever killed his cousin apparently didn't get what he wanted when they stole his mementos from his duplex. Yet it seemed whatever they were after wasn't in Spears' effects, either.

Underneath the scrapbooks Monk found a ball autographed by homerun king Josh Gibson. It was wrapped in dry burlap and tied with twine. He hefted it against the light. This memorabilia had value, but only to a connoisseur. Was there some incredible artifact the killer was supposing Kennesaw possessed? People had been killed for rare coins and old books, so it was possible. Yet it also seemed to tie into the Creel case. Or maybe that too was not really what it was. Maybe the killer left the clipping in the slats on purpose to make it seem Kennesaw's death was revenge for him testifying, when that wasn't it at all. So the murder had to be tied to the “Killin' Blues.'

Monk felt rudderless. He poured two twelve-ounce Minute Maid orange juices into a large cup with ice. He slid into a booth and lit a Te-Amo Maduro. He smoked and ruminated while several customers came and went, the brass bells over the front door jangling each time the door was opened and closed.

The bluish-white plumes of his cigar obscured his face at times from all others in the corner. The cigar was down to the red-and-white band when the phone rang behind the counter.

“For you,” Josette said, after answering. She grimaced at the sight of the stump in his mouth as he approached. “This ain't gonna be a habit, is it?”

“Thanks,” Monk said, taking the handset. “Hello?”

“Ivan, this is Sikkuh. Your secretary gave me this number.”

“I've been trying to find you.”

“My part ran longer than I figured. I got back yesterday. Ah, say, is there a way we can get together later? I have a few things that need doing. But it's important I see you.”

“It's a little more involved now,” he went on. “Somebody poisoned Kennesaw.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, aghast.

He told her what happened, including the attack on his mother earlier that morning. “Can we get together today? I'll bring your great uncle's goods; you might have some idea on what's going on.” He clamped the dead stump back in his mouth.

“Oh sure, we have to,” she said urgently. “I have something to tell you, too.”

They arranged a time and place and he severed the connection. He then called Dexter Grant and managed to reach him at home.

“Jesus, Ivan,” the former LAPD plainclothesman exclaimed after being filled in. “How long is Nona gonna be laid up?”

“Her doctor should have gone over her MRI by”—he looked at his watch—“'bout an hour from now. I'll call and see what she says. If everything is cool, she's to be out tomorrow.”

“You want me up there?”

“I'd like that, Dex, if you could. I'm not a hundred percent sure right at the moment, but it looks like I might need to take a trip down to the Delta.”

“What for? The killer is loose up here.”

“Yeah, but everything points in that direction. And maybe if I move that way, he will too. I don't think he's a stranger to those parts.”

“But down there you are,” Grant pointed out.

“It's where the case takes me, Dex.”

“So it would seem.” He breathed heavy for several moments. “Say, I got a coupla things on that Ardmore Antony of yours.”

“They told me about the Shuttlesworth matter.”

“Well, ride this mule, Fosdick, did they tell you that Antony once put two from a Luger into a guy who said the impresario ripped off some songs from him? He was a writer-singer by the name of Slim Willie T.”

“That particular gossip didn't come up,” Monk admitted.

“Antony got off 'cause the other dude had a bowie knife he was trying to bury in your portly pal's belly-button at the time.”

“Anything to the song business?”

“Hard to say. The ASCAP registration has both their names on it, and only Ardmore's around to tell the tale. I looked in an R-and-B history book, and the writer was noncommittal on the subject.”

“Maybe he figures Mr. Antony's kept his German heirloom oiled.” Monk stuck the cigar stump in a corner of his mouth, chawing on the stalk.

“Whatever. This couple's got death following them around.”

“People might say the same about you and me.”

He laughed briefly. “You must be reading your B. Traven again.”

Monk tugged on an ear. “Listen, Dex, I know I seem to take you for granted, but it ain't like that, man.”

“I'm a dependable guy, right?”

“You're more than that.”

Grant let some time gather. “Look, Ivan, how long we been saddle tramps?”

“You remember when I first came into your office? That walkup you had over that radio-TV repair place?”

“Stoddard's, on Overland. Had a view of that goddamn water tower on the MGM lot. You'd been tracking some stickup clown who'd knocked over a couple's ice cream parlor.”

Monk grunted. “It was his second offense, so the bounty was good.”

“You were a fuckin' hound dog, right out of one of those Fred Williamson movies. All hot on guns and stopping power.”

It was embarrassing to hear him tell it. “But as usual you had the goods, Dex. LaSalle had hipped me you'd run the kid's father in for grand theft auto. He figured you'd know his haunts since he'd gotten his son started on the path to ruination.”

“LaSalle. Christ. That corner-cutting bail-bonder still kickin'?”

“Retired, got a little plot of land up in Hisperia, I heard last.”

“Built on all of them poor folks' collateral.” The line buzzed for a few more moments. “When you want me at Nona's?”

“Day after tomorrow, assuming her tests are okay. I'll call you
mañana
, Sarge Steel.”

“Be looking for it.” He replaced the receiver gently.

Monk rolled the stump to the other side of his mouth, chewing on it and assessing what he knew so far. Later, forty minutes after sunset, he walked into the Grassy Knoll coffeehouse on Coldwater. It was “open mike” night, and a reedy yellow-haired youngster in a watch cap and overrun jeans was swaying before the microphone stand like a hip-hop version of the late Frank Sinatra. He was reciting a bit about driving his mother's Plymouth Fury to Arkansas, while popping Percodan. Sikkuh stood and waved to him from a tiered rise to the right.

“What in hell happened to you?” He indicated the double ace bandages around her wrist. He sat, his view of her and the performance area unobstructed. The front door was at a diagonal from him. When was the last time he sat with his back to the door? Old habits.

“That's why it was so important we have a face to face,” she whispered. “I got thrown around my apartment last night when I got back to town.”

A waiter with an earring piercing the middle of his nose wafted in front of them. They ordered and he snapped his fingers twice in appreciation and drifted away.

“What'd this attacker look like?” Monk leaned forward.

“Overalls and a Halloween mask of some kind.” Her hand shook on the table as she talked, and she clasped one over the other in her lap.

“That describes the fool who assaulted my mother earlier this morning. How'd this go down?”

She ordered her thoughts before speaking. “I got back to my apartment around seven-thirty or so. Put my key in the lock, and walked inside, beat. Suddenly this hand gripped my arm, and wrenched me around. I went back against the wall, thinking this was some kind of burglary and rape. I was mad terrified.”

“I can believe that,” he sympathized.

“This man growled at me: ‘Where is it?'”

“He didn't specify?”

“He might have, but I wasn't paying that much attention. I ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. Fortunately, the apartment has solid, not hollow-core doors. While he was hitting it with his shoulder, I hit the panic button next to my bed, praying.”

“He split then?”

“Yes, thank the Lord. Here's a Xerox of the police report.” She got a folded copy out of her purse at her feet and handed it across.

Monk perused it and tucked it away without asking any questions.

“What does he want, Ivan?” Her eyes got wide with anxious uncertainty.

“Something that either your great-uncle or my cousin had.”

“What, old baseball jive?”

The waiter eeled back to their table, delivering Monk's café mocha and her cappuccino. The server set the cups down and twirled the tray on an index finger as he walked away.

“Your great-uncle ever mention the ‘Killin' Blues'?”

“The what?” she asked, scrunching up her face.

“Never mind. You know he had an autographed ball by Josh Gibson.”

“Who?”

“He was a homerun king who never got his chance in the majors. It's worth something to the collector, but not, you'd think, to a murderer.”

“Or maybe something's hidden inside.” She got excited like a ten-year-old on a pirate treasure hunt.

“That's possible,” Monk grumbled doubtfully. “But it seems farfetched. Are there other items you or a relative have from your great-uncle?”

“That's funny you bring it up. I was racking my brain at the emergency room and remembered I already had some of his things. This is stuff his sister used to have and I got when he was moving around. I've had it in a safe deposit box for several years, with some other family things.”

“Can we take a look tomorrow?”

“Hey, baby.”

Monk cocked an eye in the direction of the voice coming over his head. The newcomer was a sturdy fellow in tight, coal-black jeans and a shirt sans sleeves. All the better to show off his rippled triceps and deltoids, Monk noted. He was bronze-skinned with dreads pulled back in a ponytail.

“Hey Indigo,” Sikkuh greeted.

“How are you, sir?” The man stuck out a hand toward Monk.

He must have been no more than twenty-five. “Just fine there, son.” Monk accepted the handshake; each applied subtle pressure to show how manly they were.

“Hey, how 'bout we catch Ben Harper at the Palace on Saturday?” Indigo addressed Sikkuh.

“Well,” she hedged, “I might have to get up early for a shoot with
Car and Rims
magazine.”

“How 'bout you call me on Friday?” He shifted his glance to Monk, then back to her.

“Sure, that's a good idea.”

“Awright …” he let out in a guttural hiss. “Friday.” He bobbed his head and flexed as he strode away.

“Lovely fellow,” Monk raised his cup in a salute.

The pretty model laughed genuinely. “He's just trying too hard. Like all of us, he wants to be something in a town where everybody's got to have a title.”

“Reminds me of a saying my dad used to repeat now and then.” Monk sipped thoughtfully. “Three-dollar job descriptions and twenty-five-cent pay checks.”

“He still around?” She perched her pointed chin on a sturdy-looking hand.

Monk shook his head.

“Sorry for your loss.”

“It's been a while.”

On the stage area a petite woman in a leopard-print dress began reciting a piece about killing her landlord with gusto.

He stirred his coffee and had some. “Can we go to the bank tomorrow to look at those other items from your great-uncle?” he asked again

“Absolutely. I want to stop this horrible person.”

“And find out what he's after.” Monk tipped his cup in her direction.

“Yes, that is so.” She showed great teeth and tipped her head slightly.

“You sustain any other injuries?”

“You're sweet,” she purred. “No, just this.” She held up her arm.

They sat, talked, drank and listened to several poets and writers do their thing at the mike. Some were okay and some were too paralyzed by angst and self-pity to produce work of any reflective nature. But all at least had something to say.

Monk checked his watch. “I better be getting along. Can you stay at your friends' place in Sherman Oaks for a few days?”

“Yes, I've already talked to them and they said cool.”

“What about some clothes and towels and such?”

“Come back with me to get them?”

“Sure.” But he felt a tug in a place he shouldn't. Monk forced himself to remember she was a client, and he was living with a woman who knew how to use a gat.

They started walking out. A wiry-built dark-skinned black man with high cheekbones in over-sized gabardine shorts and a tight black T with gold epaulets was coming through the entrance. His eyes were lidded, and he smelled as if he'd just smoked a joint.