Authors: Gary Phillips

Bad Night Is Falling (37 page)

BOOK: Bad Night Is Falling

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Twenty-three

I
t was a hot and humid afternoon with few breezes to bring relief. The portable canopies erected on the basketball court hardly rippled. The assembled residents of the Rancho Tajuata sat fanning themselves with printed programs. Latino and black children played tag with each other, the stern looks of admonishment from their parents to cease their running going unheeded.

On the raised dais, also covered under a blue and white canopy courtesy of the city, several officials from the local housing authority squinted with discomfort. Some looked worried to actually be inside one of the ghetto housing projects they only knew by map coordinates.

Also onstage were Henry Cady and Reyisa LimÃ³nâsitting on opposite sides of the podium so as not to blow their coverâand a couple of bureaucrats from HUD. Antar Absalla was finishing his speech.

“I don't ask that you pat me on the back for helping to rid our housing project of the bad element. I'm not looking for accolades.”

“Then why don't you quit lying,” Jill Kodama said loud enough for several rows to hear.

“I ask that you congratulate all the Ra-Falcons who stand side by side with the tenants when I say we're not only here to help keep the peace, but that the revamped security force will also reflect the realities of the nineties.” He thrust an arm toward the audience. “I'd like to introduce some of our newest soldiers for peace.”

Several young men and women stood up, many of whom were Latino. There was even a Southeast Asian face.

“What a guy,” Kodama whispered to Monk. Both sat among the audience.

“Here, here,” Monk shouted, tapping his lower leg, in a cast up to his knee, with his cane.

“I guess he ain't gonna mention the kilos of gold, diamond jewelry, freight manifests, and boxes of cash the cops found in that fortified room in the job center.” Kodama sucked her tongue against her teeth.

“Don't forget those bills had traces of cocaine on them,” Monk said.

“Money laundering, smuggling goods off the books from the downtown jewelry mart, quite an operation they were setting up.” Kodama waved at city councilwoman Tina Chalmers, who had arrived late and was making for the stage. “But how the hell were they going to hide all that?”

Monk shifted, trying to get into a comfortable position. “Trentex had taken out permits to rehab the center as an auto parts warehouse. Those old S.P. tracks were due to be utilized again by the Santa Fe Railroad, who bought them out several years ago.”

“To-your-door service,” Kodama said cheerily. “And I guess DeKovan's not coming back from Switzerland any time soon.” Kodama could sense the shift in his mood. She looked at his grim profile.

Monk clapped heartily as Absalla sat down, a sardonic twist on his lips. Cady came to the podium to say a few words about the work of the tenants' association going forward, and that he was optimistic that the Rancho would eventually be owned by the residents.

“Seems DeKovan's been maintaining a dual citizenship since the seventies. He's nonextraditable there.” Monk whacked a leg of the chair in front of him very hard with his cane.

Kodama rubbed his arm. “At least it came to light that it was one of DeKovan's companies that'd purchased the center.” She looked off beyond the stage, where the hulk of the A. Philip Randolph Advancement and Placement Center shimmered as if it were a mirage. The center should have been a symbol of hope, but instead it had been corrupted into a construct of greedy imaginations.

Monk found little consolation in the fact that the smuggling and laundering operation had been uncovered. For the sad reality was that EfraÃn Cruzado and members of his family were casualties of war because bastards like Maladrone deemed him a threat, a threat because he wanted to organize people.

Fletcher Wilkenson, another organizer, another threat, was now accepting a plaque from Cady.

“My friends, I would not be so naive as to say the hardest is behind us. But I do know if we can work together, appreciate our differences and emphasize our commonalities, then surely some good will come of that.” His voice broke and cheers and applause went up from the gathered.

“How's Keith Burroughs?” Kodama asked Monk, hoping that would get him on another subject.

“He's gonna make it. He told me Eddie Waters had hipped him to the meeting on Trinity as a way of feeling him out. He wanted to see if his old running buddy was going to roll with the flavor and work for the new crime regime, as it represented the irresistible melding of corporate capital and street muscle. Plus a little mumbo-jumbo had been thrown into the mix for seasoning.”

“Oh, check this out,” Monk continued. “Keith's hospital bill has been covered by an anonymous benefactor.”

“DeKovan,” Kodama concluded. “He really is a bent fuck.”

“He had enough wherewithal to flee.”

The ceremony was winding down. Its purpose had been part dog-and-pony, and part pragmatic. The tenants were feeling good and so Cady, LimÃ³n, and the rest of the leadership threw them a bash to aid in boosting morale. The practical aspect was to show the Department of Housing and Urban Development suits that the Rancho was ready and should have the opportunity to work with the federal agency in completing proposals for the loans and grants to convert the complex to private hands.

Afterward, people milled about the dual canopies under which a buffet of sliced meats, strawberries, chunks of melons, and Doritos had been set up.

“I'm sure glad you're back in harness, Judge Kodama.” A smallish older black woman looked up at Kodama, smiling. Her wrinkled face was framed by a wide-brimmed sun hat held in place with a long stickpin topped with a teardrop fake pearl.

“Thank you,” Kodama said humbly, shaking the wellwisher's hand.

“We sure need more like you.” The woman ambled off, holding a plastic cup whose contents smelled like brandy.

“You know what I need right now, baby?” Monk balanced himself on his cane, putting his arm around her waist.

“More codeine, darling?” She pinched his side. “You get the Gorzynskis straightened out?”

“Yes. He finally believed she was only putting away money for an IRA she'd opened up for them when we took him over to the bank to prove it.”

“Ivan, come over here.”

Monk jerked his head around. Wilkenson was standing in the doorway of the newly reopened rec center. He hobbled over. “Congratulations, Fletcher.”

“Thank you. Look at that.” He pointed.

On the wide-screen TV, divers in scuba gear were swimming near a Coast Guard boat. “The Gulf of Mexico” was superimposed over the images on the screen. The boat had a crane, and had hauled up in a net an object Monk recognized by the angular patterns engraved on its side.

The newscaster spoke. “Again, at the top of the news, off the coast of Corpus Christi this morning, authorities found an iron lung believed to belong to the missing Jokay Maladrone. The crime boss is wanted for questioning in the murders of several people in Los Angeles. Though his lifesustaining apparatus was found, his body has yet to be recovered.”

“Some kind of diversion,” Monk said. “He probably just switched machines.”

“I don't know,” Wilkenson mused wistfully. “It's not like he can just hop out and hop into another one.”

“Isaiah Booker has copped a deal,” Kodama reminded both of them. There had to be some balance.

“But with no Maladrone, and DeKovan out of reach â¦” Monk stopped speaking; he had a hard time accepting he was going to be denied retribution. “And the real cold part is DeKovan didn't need the money. This whole thing”âhis hand swept toward the A. Philip Randolph Advancement and Placement Centerâ“the murders, everything.” He spat, air seemingly coming hard for him. “Just a lark for him. One more quirky acquisition in a life of them.” Monk looked around, but he couldn't figure out what to hit.

Several people came up to chat with Wilkenson and reminisce about the old days. A news crew cornered Kodama to get her comments on Jamboni's announcement that he was going to run for the attorney general's job.

Monk wandered outside and took a seat on a bench, stretching out his throbbing leg. On a corner of the paved area bunched in by newly planted eucalyptus trees, a rooster walked around the tree trunks. The bird turned its head, his red unblinking orb transfixing Monk.

Mesmerized, Monk sat there for several moments. The creature stood sideways, staring at him, still and silent. The thing got on his nerves and he tried to get up, wincing and huffing with effort. He looked down momentarily to see where his bound leg was, and looked up again. The rooster had disappeared.

A blues band began playing on the stage. The woman singer started in on the Robert Johnson number, “Me and the Devil Blues.” In the song, a man tells his girlfriend to bury his body along the road. The singer worked the song like it was her own, the crowd having stopped chatting to listen to her delivery. It was as if a shroud had descended upon the gathered, and within its folds, they had been transported to the Deltaâwhere indeed some of their forbearers had left looking for work and relief from Jim Crow decades ago.

She finished with the lyric, “So my evil spirit can get a Greyhound bus and ride.” As she repeated the words, Monk was possessed by a mental picture of that rooster's eye boring in on him. He limped off to find the old sister with the brandy.

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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
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New York, NY 10014
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