“One clean movement.” Her father chuckled, making a flitting, almost ephemeral movement with his hand.
“The experience didn’t turn you into a vegetarian,” her mother piped in. “You know his wife was Japanese,” she said with mirth in her voice. “Japanese used to go to Compton High in pretty big numbers before the war. The southern end of Watts used to be farmland; Compton had cattle herds and dairies up through the thirties.”
“She couldn’t wait for the ‘special chicken,’ she used to call it,” her father kidded.
It got on to twenty past eleven, gaps and lags increasing in their conversation. The silence was not due to a lack of things to say, but reflected the pattern of those attuned to each other’s moods.
“Well,” her mother said, raising her slim frame off the divan. “I’m all played out for tonight.” She stood near her daughter, massaging her lower back with one hand. “Don’t forget you’re speaking before our homeowners’ association in two weeks.”
“I shall be the upright and uptight jurist before the members Satozo.” She bowed slightly.
“Hmm,” her mother remarked doubtfully. “Good night, honey.”
Kodama also rose and kissed and hugged her mother. “I guess I better get on my way, too.”
“Will Ivan be up?”
“If I didn’t know better, Mom, I’d say you were trying to slip past a double entendre.”
“Oh?” her mother feigned, patting her father on the head on her way to the bedroom.
“Modern women,” Mark Kodama mumbled, righting himself in his recliner. He got up, too, stretching and making noise.
Kodama eased into her leather jacket, purposely looking at the ancestors’ shrine. Her mother had lit new incense earlier; its silky smell was comforting and honey-sweet.
She kissed her father on the cheek and squeezed his shoulder. “See you soon, Pop.”
Mark Kodama used a finger to probe the briar of his seldom lit pipe. He kept the thing in the side pocket of his chair, and he’d clamped it between his lips like a businessman’s pacifier.
“I want you to know how I think the world of you, Jill.”
She just stood there, unused to her father being so emotive.
“You stand up to these bastards,” he said. He kept messing with the pipe, alternately glancing up at her then at his probing digit. “Everybody says Asians are supposed to just take it, be stoic and roll with like it was in our genes.” He glanced up again, seemingly focused on a speck in another galaxy. “But you stand on it—don’t let them make another Ito out of you. You’ve always had your own mind, and that hasn’t been so bad, has it?” He smiled, tugging on the pipe’s stem.
“I love you, Pop.”
Mark Kodama put an arm around his daughter, giving her an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll see you at the homeowners meeting.” He watched her get in her car and turn the engine over before walking, ponderously, back to the house.
As the Saab slowly drove off, she turned her head to see, in sharp silhouette from the light in the open doorway, her old man half-turned, his open palm up and stationary. The smoke, like levitating silver threads, filtered out and up from his pipe.
Fífteen
“The alignment is connected with the various eras this world has been through. As the planets in their centuries of phases have passed through our cosmos, so too has the sojourn of the black man, the travails of the black woman, been part of that panorama. There are 365 days of the year, and there have been 365 years of oppression and subjugation of our people.”
“But do not despair, my brethren, for just as the shadow must fall across the sundial’s face, so too must our time to shine be upon us. But as we embark these young souls to God’s hands, so too we must measure how we’re living our lives in the eyes of Allah.”
“For this sickness we perpetuate on one another, this disease we infect one another with via injections of mercury-tipped bullets, must stop. And I’m not just talking about black on black, but black on brown and brown on black. Why? Why, when our real climb is a hill constructed from those who practice tricknology daily in our communities.”
“Don’t you see? We must stop placing stones beneath the heads of our brothers and sisters, our raza and our rukas. No amount of blood can wash away the debt owed to the past. All about us Malcolm and Du Bois Wells-Barnett and Mandela Nkhruma, Zapata and Martí, Chavez and King, Hamer and Nasser and Mother Jones—yes, I said Mother Jones—are watching and waiting. They’re asking how long will you waste your strength on recriminations and retributions. How long will you foolishly fight for chunks of sidewalks that don’t belong to you, streets with no deed in your name on them? How long, my brethren? How long must this spiral of destruction go on?”
“These are horrendous days we face; time is no longer a luxury we can afford to twiddle our thumbs over. Open up your eyes, and see where this crooked road will take you. I’ll tell you where it will take you; here, in this fine polished box of pine and metal. If that’s what you want, the taste of ash and disappointment in your mouth, then you’re welcome to it. I turn my back on you.”
“Yes, if you wish to sup from the cup of righteousness and redemption, then I shall hold such a chalice for you. We will make sure all who wish to drink get to drink. For it is filled with the tears of the mothers who’ve wept for the senseless slaughter of the ones like Antoine Felix and Dubro Morris in these coffins before us.”
“But the cup shall hold no bitter taste. For just as the caterpillar sheds its cocoon and becomes the butterfly, a creature of self-worth and peace, thus so can we, my brethren. So can we, my sisters. Stop putting on those … those hoochie mama outfits, your butt hanging out all over the place for men named Bergman and Moscowitz to put in videos to sell filthy music. Rap songs that talk about making a joy out of murder and how many women one supposed man can bed down. No responsibility, no self-respect. That is no way to live. Come forward, my fine African warriors, drape robes over those thong bikinis, cloth all up the crack of your butt, and reclaim your proud heritage, my good African queens.”
Minister Tariq continued his speech that was part eulogy, part admonishment, and part challenge to the gathered at the funeral. Dual semicircles of his devout, and martial arts trained, bodyguards stood at thirty-degree angles to either side of him. The men looked properly intimidating with their blue and black wool suits, close-cropped hair, and thick necks.
Mari Sicorro tapped Monk with the program. “So which one was this Junior Blue?” she whispered.
They were standing off to the side in the last rows of the assembled crowd. The sun was beaming, the Muslim leader’s speechifying meandering, and Monk’s Nunn Bushes felt tight. He remembered his foot falling asleep the other day, and was momentarily terrified he might have phlebitis or some other ailment that would necessitate the amputation of his feet. “How in the hell should I know,” he crabbed.
“Well,” she said, making a face and fanning herself with the program.
“You know anything about circulation and feet?”
“No wonder you don’t know which one it is. You can’t keep your mind on business.”
“He-yuk.”
A mourner turned to shush Monk. But other eyes had already been on him. Including the steel-piercing bore he received from Antar Absalla when he’d spotted his former employee.
“We can leave any time now, Mari.”
“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” she said while continuing to make notes on her pad. “I’ve got a story going, buzzhead.”
Monk mumbled something and focused on his shoes, looking for swelling. Custom Caprices trimmed in metal flake golds, drop-ended Impalas with Cyclone rims, chopped Blazers with eight-foot speakers dug into their rear compartments, and tricked-out El D’s dipped in twelve coats of lacquer choked the narrow lanes running through the Masonic Moor Memorial Park. Adding to the mix were their owners dressed in black shirts or turtlenecks, slacks, and tennis shoes. Almost none of the Scalp Hunter crowd wore
a jacket. Conversely, the Ra-Falcons and Muslims were formal in attire and manner.
“You going to try to interview Tariq?”
Vigorously she bobbed her head as she wrote. “This will make double truck in the paper, home base. No other media bothered to make the scene,” she said covetedly.
Monk was about to say something when a beat-up Dodge van cruised past the cemetery gates. He was pretty sure it was the one that had taken him to see Maladrone. The vehicle did a U-turn and doubled back on the other side of the street. Monk’s alarm broadcast a vibe the savvy Sicorro noticed.
“What’s happening, Ivan?”
He said nothing, his mind preparing his hand to reach down and get the Glock strapped to his ankle. The van rolled out of sight.
“What the fuck is going on?” Sicorro looked around as if she could see what he was imagining.
There was the squeal of tires as Maladrone’s messengers returned for the third time, not to look, Monk feared, but to do. Tariq seemed to actually be working toward his windup.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, patting her in the middle of her back.
“My ass,” she countered.
“That too.”
She arched a thick brow. “Careful, I don’t think you could handle two women like me and the judge at once. Although,” she joked, batting her eyes, “we might could work out a tag team arrangement.”
“Knucklehead.” Evidently, the van had moved along.
Sicorro slapped his arm with her pad and sought to position herself closer to the minister. Various people were now stepping forward and taking their turns shoveling a mound of dirt on the now lowered coffins.
Minister Tariq’s guards, a seemingly impermeable physical and psychic barrier, stood around him. He clasped his large hands in front of his athletic frame. The minister was wearing red-tinted Gargoyle sunglasses, and his unlined face—Monk recalled he was a grandfather five times—was unbroken by sweat or consternation. Tariq was dressed in a camel-colored sport coat, starched blue shirt, and a dawngrey bow tie. His burgundy trousers broke just so on the crest of his coffee-with-a-hint-of-cream Stacey Adamses.
Sicorro managed to get the attention of one of the grim burkandaz, showing him her press credentials. Monk was drifting along the rear wall, anxious to look up the record of Dubro Morris. He was the twenty-two-year-old identified in the program book as Junior Blue, the cousin of Kelmont “Kid Blue” Reeves.
“You must be trippin’ to show up here.” Absalla came up and latched onto his arm.
Monk knocked his hand away. “I ain’t on your dime, Absalla, and where I show up is my goddamn business.” He squared up in front of the Muslim chief. He was acutely aware mat he was facing him down in hostile territory.
Absalla’s hand did its flexing routine, his eyes alert and transmitting a building rage. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“The thing I’m good at, Absalla.”
A sturdy finger bluntly pushed its way close to Monk’s down-turned mouth. “You better take your monkey ass out of here before you dip your dick in business where it’s likely to get snapped off.”
“Trying to get back in solid with the head man, huh?” Monk goaded. “You pay for his ticket out here?”
Absalla charged forward and Monk jammed the heel of his rigid palm into the crux of his sternum. “Better be cool, fool, or the big man will think maybe you ain’t got it back together after all.” A sliver of what might have been joy tugged his lips to one side. “But it don’t unhinge my world if you want to tumble.”
There were some people coming over, but none within earshot yet. If they were, Monk was certain Absalla would have had to swing to maintain what he felt to be his manly stature. But the absence of other earwitnesses allowed for room to dance.
“You best be staying out of my way, chump. You might find out I ain’t always willing to settle things with talk.”
“You mean like Malcolm X found out?”
By then, others were crowding close, including Keith 2X, who was jostling to the front. Monk couldn’t take his attention off Absalla, but could feel their presence. He very much wanted to talk with 2X alone.
The growing crowd was parted by the prow of Tariq’s berserkers. His decked-out chasseurs then opened at the juncture of their base and the charismatic minister glided into view.
“Mr. Monk, I presume.” His voice, even at rest, had the quality of a tempestuous ocean right before a squall.
“He’s been fired,” Absalla said loud enough for all to hear, “’cause he’s responsible for these two deaths.”
Murmurs couldn’t drown out Monk’s desire to slug the smug Absalla.
“Is that so?” Tariq’s head rotated toward Monk.
“That’s his opinion,” Monk countered. “But I have a different theory.” He wanted to look at 2X but resisted the impulse.
“So you’re still looking into this? For who?” Tariq inquired.
“My own enlightenment. You’re for empowering the black man, aren’t you, Minister Tariq?”
“Indeed.” Tariq pondered that then said, “I hope matters will remain peaceful with all these goings-on. Don’t you, Mr. Monk?”
“Naturally.”
His audience over, Tariq returned to the graveside with his brutally efficient entourage. Absalla trailed behind, not deigning to look back at Monk. Keith 2X also followed, but he did look back. Monk winked, and the young man blanched. Sicorro made a menacing face at him and went to try to get her story.
“Why can’t I go in, dammit.” She kicked at the floorboard.
“Because I don’t want to get grandma in there all worked up. She’s got to feel comfortable with me asking the questions.”
“Yeah, like you’re Madeleine Albright. Tell her I’m your assistant. Which is kinda accurate considering the day I’ve had.” Sicorro pouted.
Monk was already half out of the Ford’s driver side. “You’re getting all this great background for the piece. And you can always come back and talk with the old girl after this is over with.”
“That’s assuming your sorry ass ain’t doing ten to fifteen in Mule State.” She tapped his dash. “How come you don’t have a CD player in this ride?”
He was standing and closed the door calmly. “Whatsa matter, Mari, ain’t ya getting it steady?”
“Sexist dog,” she retorted. “We all can’t be enjoying the priapic life of Ivan Monk, the Sleuth of South Central. Now don’t be forever, huh? I’d like to get over to the office and get these notes typed up.”
“On it.” He marched up the cracked walkway to Constance Smalls’s house. She was the maternal grandmother of the Morris clan, and had been at the funeral. Monk recognized her choice 1982 Frank Sinatra Edition Chrysler Imperial in the driveway. If he recalled correctly, fewer than three thousand Imperials had been built that year. The following year was the last go-round for the model. Too bad, he mused, knocking on the security screen, he’d always wanted to see Chrysler do a Sammy Davis edition. Ca-chung, ca-chung.
The inner door opened. “Yes?… You were the one having words with Absalla this morning at Dubro’s funeral.” The screen stayed shut.
“Yes, ma’am, I was. I’m sorry to come calling on a day like this, but I got your name from a bail bondsman I know here in Compton.”
“You some kind of policeman, is that it?”
“Not really. My name’s Ivan Monk. I’m a private detective originally hired by Absalla to find out who did the murders over in the Rancho.”
She said nothing and Monk was worried she was going to shut the door. “This have something to do with my grandson’s death?”
“I think so, at least, I want to finish what I started to find out.”
“What Absalla says about you being responsible, is that so?”
“I’d be lying if I told you that was a hundred percent the opposite. I don’t think I was followed to the meeting where Dubro was killed. I have been doing this kind of work for some time now. But
I’m man enough to come back and tell you if I played a part in it after all this is over.”
The screen cracked open. “Come on in. I guess anybody who can get under Absalla’s skin can’t be all bad.”
She was a tall, large, and solidly built woman who couldn’t have been over fifty-five. Though not fashion-magazine pretty, there was a compelling allure to her wide brown eyes, flaring nostrils, and well-proportioned full lips. They were African features little diluted by the Middle Passage and centuries of the American journey.
Her short, curly hair was pinned to one side with only wisps of grey sprouting at the roots hinting at her years. She was still wearing the dress she’d worn at the funeral. It was a black, midlength sheath dress. The hemline bordered a strong-looking pair of calves. Her matching pillbox hat with its arching peacock plume rested on a chair in the corner.
“I just got back from my sister’s, where we had the gettogether. His father managed to drag his pitiful self over there.” She shook her head at the surreal pathos of it all. “What do you want from me, Mr. Monk?” Her hand was on her hip. It wasn’t from exasperation, but from a life lived too much at the behest of others’ dreams delaying her own. The death of her grandson, nothing more than a blip in the annual crime statistics compiled by the state, was just one more chunk taken out of her soul.
“I’d like to know who Dubro’s friends were. Are they the same as Kelmont’s.”
She angled her head again and walked past him to the kitchen. “Come on, I was about to have a cup of tea.”
Monk sat patiently as the water boiled and Constance Smalls talked about growing up in Arkansas, and coming out here when she was in her teens. She’d married young, and gave birth in Los Angeles. Her daughter, though attentive to her grades, got tangled up like so many young girls do, and wound up pregnant at sixteen. But unlike her mother, the daughter had no man to at least stick around for the first ten years as Constance’s husband had.
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