Perdition, U.S.A.

by Gary Phillips

  Self-contempt or anger contorted the crack head’s face. He spat red on the pavement between them. The contempt overtook the anger, tightening the slack skin around the pin-prick eyes. “I got to have some, man. I’ve got to.”

  “Fuck you, punk.” Aaron strode off, triumphant. He left Osage and went east along Kenmore. He felt good having stood down Herbert. Word would spread and those that inhabited the depths of Pacific Shores would know he was not a man to be fucked with. Hell, he was a man of respect.

  “Yo,” a voice said from somewhere behind him.

  Feeling immortal, Aaron turned. “Yeah,” he said, Napoleon addressing a lesser. He grinned crookedly. “What?”

  The first bullet tore into his left kneecap and he sunk to the sidewalk on his good leg. “Motherfuckah,” Aaron screamed, grabbing for the .32 tucked in his back pocket. The second bullet entered his open mouth, busted out his new fillings, and continued to travel downward. The slug exited his back below the shoulder blades. Ronny Aaron was already dead when his body gently crumpled to the earth.

  Chapter 3

  There was no mention of Ronny Aaron’s shooting in the L.A. Times, nor any coverage of it on the nightly news. There were three paragraphs in the lesser-circulated Press-Telegram out of Long Beach, but it was a dry summing-up of an insignificant life. He was just one more penny-ante drug dealer the sheriff’s deputies in Pacific Shores were glad to be shut of.

  Even if there had been banner headlines about Aaron’s killing, it probably wouldn’t have been the topic du jour at the reception for California’s new Senator, Grainger Wu, at the Sunset Orchid Hotel in L.A.’s Chinatown.

  Jill Kodama stepped out of the ladies room just as Walter Kane was placing an empty glass on a table in the foyer. “Jill, I saw you come in earlier. I meant to say hi but you know how it is when you get cornered by ass-kissers.”

  “Not that you’re opposed to that in certain circumstances.”

  “Yeow.” Kane did a Groucho Marx with his eyebrows. He was over six-two and rapier sharp in a grey double-breasted fine checked suit. Underneath the jacket was an aqua-hued shirt with a spear-point collar and a black tie. A crimson pocket square completed the look. His auburn hair was cut modishly long, and he sprouted a thin, Errol Flynn mustache.

  Standing close to him, Kodama was greeted with the aroma of vodka mixed with Obsession for Men. “Yeah, it’s a tough job being the senator’s chief aide, running interference with the oil lobbyists, the aerospace industry, and the tourist bureaus. Helping them figure out which political action committee to dump their next ten thousand on.”

  Kane grinned and the two walked back toward the room where the reception was taking place. “What a cynic, and you’re not even old enough to drink.”

  “You can quit the flattery, Walter. I’ve already voted.”

  They crossed the threshold into the reception area, called the Autumn Lounge. A jazz sextet played a low samba from the raised stage off to one side. Kodama plucked a white wine from the hosted bar and took a sip. “Seriously, Walter, Grainger’s got a hard row to hoe and we both know it. A freshman senator from California who won in a tight race.”

  “And standing on liberal legs,” Kane added. “’Course it didn’t hurt he has sound fiscal programs that appealed to the older, whiter electorate.”

  “Despite a campaign where the racial mud-slinging flew fast and furious in the last weeks.”

  They both turned to the new voice as Ursala Brock walked up. She was a large-hipped, small-waisted, handsome black woman who handled urban affairs for Senator Wu. The two women kissed one another on the cheek.

  “Yeah, the mailer Jankowsky put out in the last month ran with the headline, ‘A Peril from the East’,” Kane said. “So of course he gets a lot of attention for it. Then the old cocksucker goes on talk shows and claims it referred to the fact that Grainger had been an assemblyman from the ‘East’ Bay—Oakland.” Kane winked broadly.

  The band began a version of a Cedar Walton tune called “Midnight Waltz.” Kodama asked rhetorically, “So with less than a three-percent margin of victory, does our favorite son have a chance to do anything in the Senate?”

  A toupeed white man in a pin-striped three-piece suit, his vest straining against an ample belly, grabbed Brock aggressively from behind. “Ursala, when the hell are you going to forget about politics and come work for me?” He quaffed a healthy amount of the drink he was holding.

  Brock smirked. “I lay awake nights thinking about the good the advertising council does, Harry.” She removed the ad man’s hand from her body, giving Kodama a sidelong glance.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Harry agreed and wandered off to cop a feel on some other woman.

  Momentarily a silence descended on the trio. A reflection on the forces that created men like Harry, and an understanding it was his universe they were operating in, not the other way around.

  Eventually, Kane spoke. “You’re right, Jill, we ain’t got shit in the way of a mandate, but I’ll be damned if we won’t fight for the high ground.” Somehow the aide had obtained another vodka tonic and was sampling it steadily.

  Brock put her hand around Kodama’s waist. “Before we take Pork Chop Hill, sarge, I want to know how’s that brutally handsome black man of yours?”

  Kodama bared her uppers. “How come every time I see you, you got to be asking about my man, honey?”

  “Girls,” Kane intoned. He leaned into them like a schoolyard leach, “I’m serious, you guys,” he pointed the rim of the glass at Brock. “Tell Jill about the kind of mail we’ve been getting.”

  She eyed him curiously. “Well, what else do you expect to get in the office of the first Chinese-American, hell, the first Asian from the mainland to become a member of the U.S. Senate?”

  “Meaning there’s a certain level of racism and intolerance we must accommodate,” Kane said, baiting her as the sextet swung into a rendition of Herbie Hancock’s “Cantaloupe Island.” Several people bobbed their heads to the jaunty beat.

  “Meaning we have to push to accomplish some goals,” Brock responded testily, “’cause we may not get a second go-round.”

  “All of us are well aware of the limits of politics,” Kane slurred.

  “My point, Walter, is that we need to do something about these groups,” Ursala replied aggressively.

  It seemed to Kodama this was getting to be an old argument among her two friends. “How do you mean, Ursala?”

  “I mean, your honor, that I don’t think the goddamn nazis, the Posse Comitatus, gangsta rappers calling for bashin’ their hoes, the Jewish Defense League, or the fuckin’ War Reich have a right to exist, let alone exercise their poisonous free speech.”

  Kodama was used to being grilled for being a card-carrying member of the American Civil Liberties Union. “I suppose I don’t need to remind you our chapter broke with the national and didn’t go along with the nazis’ march that year in Skokie, Illinois.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Brock conceded.

  Kodama said, “Now before you expect me to go into my patented “The Constitution is nothing if it’s not for all of us,’ who the hell is the War Reich?”

  “A group of skinheads who started in the Pacific Northwest,” Kane contributed.

  “An all-too-typical group of young disaffected whites who see it as their Aryan destiny to create a homeland for their race.” Brock waved a silent hello to a passerby.

  Kane said, “They’re connected to that fire bombing of a Puerto Rican family in Port Huron.”

  “No question these are serious times, Walter. This state passed the anti-immigrant 187 and that goddamn three-strikes 184.”

  “Which takes even more discretion away from judges,” Brock observed. “Further demonizing black and brown youth.”

  “Which,” Kane said, sipping more vodka, “is right in line with the thinking behind Colorado’s gay-bashing Proposition M measure. The lines are being drawn in this country just like in Bosnia.”

  “
I hope you’re wrong, Walter,” Kodama said.

  Wu called to Kane from the stage and the chief aide polished off the last of his vodka tonic. He placed the glass in the dirt of an urn next to a twisted thick-trunked cactus. “But we can only do what we can to make the system work,” he said, his breath heavy with drink. He jogged to the stage.

  “Enough of this depressing shit.” Brock took Kodama by the arm, leading her to one side. “So what’s going on with you and Ivan.” Her eyes glittered mischievously.

  “Cool, cool. How about you and Terry?”

  “We spent last weekend up in Monterey. Got away to talk about the future. You know Terry, he had champagne sent up to the room and took me on a balloon ride.”

  Brock took delight in her stock broker boyfriend and his doting on her. “And what does the future hold, Kreskin?”

  “Love or ruin, baby. But Terry and I will face it together.”

  “Ivan and I have a good thing,” she said defensively. And surprised that she felt the need to blurt it out like that.

  Brock perceived it as a challenge. “Four years is enough time to make up one’s mind.”

  “We’re comfortable, Ursala.”

  “My shoes are comfortable, girl. But I walk on them.”

  Kodama got hot. “Ivan doesn’t take me or our relationship for granted. We both have careers.”

  “So do a lot of us. Maybe it’s you who likes the status quo.”

  “What if I do?” Kodama replied tersely.

  Brock drew close. “Jill, if you’re happy with where you’re at, so am I. We’ve known each other too long to fall out over some silly men.” They hugged and Brock went off toward the stage where Wu beckoned her.

  The wine glass was in her hand, but Kodama had suddenly lost the taste for the stuff.

  Chapter 4

  “Yo, home, you gettin’ it steady from Tracy?”

  Jimmy Henderson took another swig of his cranberry juice. “A man doesn’t go around saying he is, or he ain’t. A man has to be circumspect about such matters.”

  His cousin, Malik Bradford, gave him a light sock on the shoulder. He downshifted, and guided the VW beetle around the corner. “Well if it was me going out with one of the finest hammers in our poli-sci class, I’d be showboatin’ to every jealous brother I knew.” He regaled Henderson with an oblique glance. “You are using the hat?”

  Henderson didn’t reply. He chewed a handful of his fries and pointed at the market on the corner. “Pull over, man.”

  “What for? We just got some grub at the King Lion.”

  “Don’t be cute,” Henderson chided. “Let me have a five, will you?”

  “Next time don’t be leaving your wallet at home,” Bradford replied as the Volkswagen coasted to the curb in front of the Zacharias store. The young man in the passenger seat got out and entered the small market. He emerged moments later holding a small brown bag and got back in the car.

  “What’s in the sack?” Bradford inquired with mock innocence.

  Henderson showed him the two packs of Sheik rubbers and reclosed the bag. “Satisfied, doctor?”

  “Uh-huh,” his cousin said. Both of them burst into laughter.

  The beetle did a U-turn in the street and presently stopped directly in front of the Neptune Manor, the plain apartment house where Henderson lived with his mother and two younger sisters.

  “Okay, Jimmy, don’t forget to be at the library at two. We’ll go over your chemistry assignment.”

  “Bet, Malik.” They performed an elaborate handshake which ended with them lightly knocking their fists together. The bug took off into the gathering evening.

  Henderson walked toward the rear of the building. Something disturbed the thatch of shrubbery to his right and he expected to see one of the neighborhood cats dart across his path. But he didn’t panic as the figure of a man suddenly filled the space in front of him.

  “What can I do for you, my man?” The muscles in Henderson’s calves tensed.

  The form didn’t talk. One of the arms started to come up perpendicular to its body. “You gotta give it up,” the darkened shape finally said.

  Henderson was already reacting. His angular body was in the air and latching onto his attacker. The two went down on the hard surface of the walkway, even as the pistol went off.

  “Shit.” Henderson grimaced as an unfamiliar sensation speared his left thigh. He choked back a stab of nausea and aimed his fist in the direction of the other man’s head. He connected with the jaw underneath the blur of white hair. He was about to follow up with another blow when the man slapped him along side the head with the flat of the gun. A white thug in the Shores was unusual, but Henderson had little time to reflect on the oddity of the situation.

  “Little coward pussy bitch,” Henderson cursed through the pain. He was on his side, facing the apartment building when several lights went on in the three-story structure. “Help me,” the young man yelled. Just then the warm muzzle of the gun was pressed against his neck and he could feel his wallet being lifted from his back pocket.

  “Hey, what’s going on down there?” a woman’s voice queried hesitantly from above.

  There was a slight movement of the weapon against his flesh and Henderson reared up. He wrapped his hands around the arm with the gun at the end of it.

  “Fucker,” the other man snarled. “Let go.”

  Henderson tried to stand but his bleeding leg wouldn’t support him. A fist crashed into his side and he sagged, letting the arm loose. But he knew what would happen next if he didn’t act. From somewhere he tapped into a reserve and lurched toward the figure which was backing up.

  “Goddamnit,” the other man said.

  Henderson clung to the man because his life depended on it.

  “I’m going to give you what’s coming to you,” the attacker promised.

  A door opened somewhere and Henderson punched the robber in the gut. There was a rush of wind from the man and Henderson grinned weakly with satisfaction.

  “I called the police on you crack fools,” a grandmotherly voice said from above. “I’m tired of you misfits comin’ here and getting high and doing all that devilment you always doin’.”

  Henderson gasped, “Help me, please.”

  The attacker’s body straightened and there was a flash that temporarily blinded Henderson. He fell to the ground again and could hear the man running off. He fought to clear his vision and became aware that he was having trouble breathing. It felt as if jagged chunks of his lung were swimming in his mouth and he coughed up some thick liquid. Jimmy Henderson prayed it wasn’t one of his nine lives.

  Chapter 5

  Delilah Carnes was sitting at her desk in the rotunda, entering data into her reliable 486, when Monk got to his office at seventeen minutes after nine. Monk and the architectural firm of Ross and Hendricks shared office expenses and the salary of the all-purpose Delilah.

  “Good morning.”

  “Mademoiselle.” He picked up her empty coffee cup and filled it from the steaming carafe. Adding milk, but no sugar, he replaced it near her.

  “Thanks. You have somebody waiting for you in your office.”

  “Look like money?” He chuckled, heading for his closed door.

  “The kind you’re used to.”

  As he opened his office door, he caught a glimpse of a baby crawling on top of his colonial desk. The kid picked up a paperweight and brought it down forcefully onto the desk’s polished surface. Then she rolled the glass orb until it dropped off the edge, thumping dully onto the carpet.

  Monk stifled a comment and entered. Clarice was reaching for Shawndell on the desk. She then proceeded to change her daughter’s disposable diaper. He remained standing near the entrance.

  “I’ll bet you’ll believe me now,” the young mother said as she finished cleaning up her daughter. She folded the weighty thing and dropped it in the wastebasket.

  “How do you mean, Clarice?” Monk got a kick out of her pit bull attitude. I
t seemed that once she set her mind to it, damned if she wasn’t going to get satisfaction. He picked up the paperweight and placed it back on a small pile of letters.

  Clarice pointed at a folded newspaper beside the squirming Shawndell.

  He retrieved it and pulled one of his Eastlakes away from her and the smell of fresh baby feces. Monk sat down near the window and read the item she’d circled in red in yesterday’s Press-Telegram. It was an account of a robbery and shooting of a college student named Jimmy Henderson. The young man was in critical condition at Long Beach Memorial. The article went on to point out that Henderson was the third young man shot in the same general area in less than a month.

  Monk looked at Clarice who was dancing with her baby. “All right,” he said.

  “That boy got shot less than four blocks from where Scatterboy got killed.” Shawndell swept a flabby hand across her mother’s cheek.

  “Pacific Shores has seen better days, Clarice.” Even as he said it, he wondered if he wasn’t trying to rationalize his own inaction. “Unfortunately, it’s not too unusual for a number of robberies and shootings to take place in a given area. Especially if a gang figures it’s easy pickings for them.”

  “Scatterboy had over two hundred dollars in his pocket when he was shot.” She set Shawndell loose to roam on all fours across the office rug. Occasionally the baby would make an effort to stand, stumble along a foot or so, then go back to crawling around.

  “But Henderson was robbed,” Monk emphasized. “That could mean more than one person doing these shootings. Once there’s a smell of blood, the pack comes out.”

  “If it’s gangsta shit, then why wasn’t Scatterboy’s roll taken? And if you read that article better, you’ll see that the one they talk about didn’t have a wallet on him so they ain’t sure about the robbery thing.”

  Clarice’s single-mindedness got on Monk’s nerves, but he had to concede her point. “I don’t have an answer for that.”

  “You act like such a wheel and all, why don’t you find out?”