Authors: Gary Phillips
He did, but only got her machine at her home. “Tina, it's Monk, I'll be at the Cork later tonight.”
“Oh, a little rendezvous with Ms. Chalmers,” Jill said.
“Business, baby, business.”
“Make sure it ain't monkey business, sport.”
They left the eatery and walked toward the car. A silver van with gold rims drove by with the SOMA logo emblazoned on its side.
“Creepy,” Jill remarked, eyeing the cruising van. “Like there's been a silent coup, and tomorrow morning we'll have to wear our uniforms to work in the SOMA plant making soma.”
“I'm hip. Hey, look at this.”
They had stopped in front of a building undergoing some rehab work. There were the ubiquitous plywood boards thrown up around it as a barrier, and posters announcing upcoming movies and record albums had been slavered across the wood. Monk pointed to one about a meeting to take place at an auditorium of a black-owned insurance company on Western Avenue. It was billed as a meeting of the minds between Linton Perry of Harvesters Unlimited and Luis Santillion of El Major. The event was to happen tonight.
“Meeting of the titanic egos is more like it,” Kodama enthused, reading the announcement.
Monk smiled at her and they walked on, holding hands. Monk retrieved his car from home, and they took two cars back to Kodama's house. But they found intimacy impossible to initiate given the possibility of being recorded for the lecherous pleasures of the FBI. Instead, Kodama, an accomplished amateur painter, worked on a piece she was doing in oils.
It depicted two women, one Asian, the other black, sitting at a diner's counter drinking coffee and rolling dice. The counterman, garbed in a forties-style white apron and three-corner hat, was a dead ringer for the late African liberation leader, Patrice Lumumba. Seen through the diner's window was a street scene of burning oil rigs. Monk always waited until after the paintings were done before he asked her what they meant.
The aroma of drying oil paint, like the smell of fresh apricots, embraced the study. Monk read more from the book he'd started,
The Closest of Strangers
, the title gaining a new meaning for him. Dusk burgeoned and Monk prepared them a supper of broiled bass, southern dirty rice and sauteed carrots. A pall hung over them as they ate in near silence, looking at their food more than at one another, picking at it and moving it around on their plates.
Afterward, Monk rose and opened the gym bag he'd brought with him. He took out his well-worn shoulder holster and the Springfield Armory issue .45 automatic. Jill watched him in stony silence. He sat at the dining room table, the pistol before him on a sheet of yesterday's newspaper. Next to that he placed the gun kit he'd also brought along.
“Happiness is a warm gun,” she said.
Monk didn't respond but disassembled the weapon which had originally belonged to his father, Master Sergeant Josiah Monk. Over the years, the younger Monk had replaced several of the original parts with aftermarket ones to insure continued proper functioning of the 1911-based model. He checked the slide, and the remanufactured stop which made for positive release of the slide and ejection of the magazine. He made sure the Wilson full-length guide with the Dwyer Group Gripper was the one he'd put on, as well as checking the neoprene washer he'd installed to reduce frame battering during firing.
Meticulously he wiped parts and oiled some others. He reassembled the weapon and put on his harness. “Just want to make sure it hadn't been tampered with.” The .45 went home into the holster, and Monk shrugged into his loose camel hair sport coat hanging in Kodama's closet. “See you later?”
“You betchum, Red Rider.”
He came over to her and they kissed passionately.
Monk drove the Galaxie into the heart of L.A., heading for the Cork. Arriving on Western, not too far from the auditorium where the meeting between Perry and Santillion was to take place, he decided to stop there and see what was going on. The parking lot was jammed, and he had to put the car two blocks away and walk back.
Inside the auditorium, the joint was jumping. On the stage was a long folding table with chairs and two microphones. Linton Perry, casually hip in slacks and a muted sport coat sat on one end of the table. On the other was Luis Santillion in a three-piece suit, black shirt and blood-red tie. In between the two sat the moderator, Tina Chalmers.
The theater-style seating of the place was filled to capacity. Men and women, mostly brown and black with a smattering of Asians, occupied all available seating. Most, Monk judged from their manner of clothing, were blue collar but a few he surmised to be professional types. Interspersed along the sides of the aisles and down into the front were African-American and Chicano men who, it appeared, were the security for the event.
Several electronic and print journalists were also present, including Monk's pal, Kelly Drier.
A middle-aged Latino man in a plaid shirt was standing and pointing at the stage, his voice raised several notches above normal. “You say you're for jobs in the community, Mr. Perry. Well, I live in this community twenty years and pay my taxes and my kids go to school with black kids. They come to our house for dinner some time, and mine go to theirs. So how come you only fight for jobs for black people when it's brown people living here too?”
Applause and hooting erupted from some of the Latinos in attendance. The black security personnel flexed as one. Tina Chalmers' mouth twisted slightly into a wry smile.
Perry pulled one of the microphones close to him.
“Mr. Santillion has told me that when it comes to the concerns of Latinos, El Major is the organization that will take care of that.” Perry waited then added, “And that black people need to step aside since it's the Chicanos who have the numbers in this city.” He pushed the microphone back.
Boos and catcalls emanated loudly from many of the black people in the audience. The Latino sergeants-at-arms looked at one another and pulled back a step or two from the audience. Santillion, his face a mask of controlled anger, spoke into a mike. “What I've said is that if black leaders like Mr. Perry insist on treating us as if we are invisible, then we will treat him and the ones associated with him with equal disdain.”
“Rather than letting fly with accusations back and forth,” Chalmers began, “why don't we try exploring those areas where we have commonality? Surely there's something to be gained in a joint project that involves hiring all unemployed or underemployed residents of a community, be they black or brown, on some of these SOMA projects.”
“And who gets priority?” Santillion demanded.
“We break it down by numbers, Mr. Santillion,” Chalmers said, cooly. “There are some areas of this city where it's fifty-fifty, so that would be the hiring ratio.”
“And what about Pico-Union which is heavily Latino?” Perry asked.
Chalmers glanced at him sideways. “I think the answer is obvious, Mr. Perry.”
Monk was leaning against the back wall and turned his head at the sound of the rear double doors opening. Chung Ju Li, president of the Korean-American Merchants Group, Kenny Yu, and several other Korean-Americans strode into the room. They looked around for seats, and finding none available, they too lined up against the back wall. Monk gave Yu a high sign, and he moved near the private eye.
“Mr. Monk, how goes the work?” The young lawyer extended his hand and Monk shook it.
“Progress, Mr. Yu, progress. Would you have time to see me on Monday morning? Say early, around breakfast time?”
“Your office.”
“No. How about Maria's Kitchen on La Brea at 8:30 A.M.?”
“Yes, I know it.” Yu focused on Monk. “Why do you want to meet with just me and not Li and some of the others.”
Plain-faced, Monk said, “Because I think you'll tell me the truth about Yushin and what it meant to Bong Kim Suh.”
Yu took a breath and was about to say something when shouting voices drew their attention to the front of the auditorium. Perry was standing and pointing toward the rear. He shouted, “Why don't you ask Mr. Li, Ms. Chalmers? Ask Mr. Li about the rumors of bought-up riot-damaged property on the sly and the cheap. That's about real economic displacement.”
“The question was about the property you own around town. Like the commercial printing shop down in Compton, Mr. Perry. The shop where you fired two workers for trying to organize a union,” Li said, moving down the center aisle. His hands held tightly at his sides, his head thrust forward like an attack dog.
Perry shot out of his seat, upending it. “I think you've got a lot of nerve coming here and trying to lay that at my doorstep.”
“I came here,” Li began, “because I knew you'd use this forum to try and make the Merchants Group look like villains.”
“If the shoe fits,” Perry said. “Tell them I'm a liar about you funneling some of that 7 million in relief money raised in South Korea for the Korean victims here and using it to buy property in South Central and Pico Union through dummy fronts.”
“You're a liar and, I think this is the right expression, a two-faced bastard.” Portions of the crowd reacted visibly. “He just asked him to call him a liar, the bastard part he could have left out,” Monk whispered to himself, pushing away from the wall.
Perry, standing behind the table, was rigid with fury. His voice a whisper of wind across an arctic landscape. “You should be wary of things you say, Mr. Li. Chickens always come home to roost.”
Li advanced toward the stage. Several black people in the crowd were on their feet.
Monk gently but firmly put his hand on his shoulder and spun him around. “My advice would be to consider that you've made your point, and now get the fuck out of here.”
The head of the Korean-American Merchants Group stared open-mouthed at the private eye. It took him several seconds to recognize Monk. Finally he said, “This is a free country. I can go up there if I want to.” He shook loose from Monk's grasp.
Monk looked past him, at Perry up on the stage. Chalmers had her hand on Perry's arm, who now stood in front of the table. A look Monk could only interpret as expectation contoured his smooth face. Over to his left, Monk saw two Asian men stand up. Some of the members of the security duty inched closer to the rows the two men stood in.
“Give it a rest, Mr. Li,” Monk said evenly.
“I think you forget who works for whom, Mr. Monk,” Li said imperially.
“It hasn't slipped my mind. But I can't very well collect my fee if you wind up in a bed with a tube sticking out of your ass.”
An odd grin shaped Li's features. “But it is you blacks who have taught me this lesson. That to get something out of this system, one must make noise and confront those who would deny you.” With that bit of social observation, Li swung around and walked stiff-legged up to the stage.
Perry waved the guards aside and Li stepped close to the African-American community leader. Chalmers too had come to her feet, standing roughly center and a foot back from the two. She spotted Monk and brightened as he approached. Luis Santillion remained seated, bemusedly gauging the antics of Li and Perry.
Past his shoulder, Monk heard a commotion. He pivoted at the noise. A young Latino man and two young black men were standing up in their respective rows yelling incoherently at one another. Some of the security, of both races, moved forward. They kept a cool head and managed to escort the three out of the auditorium. Monk started for the stage again.
Li was standing very close to the taller Perry, his finger wagging vigorously under the other's nose. “You don't know what you're talking about, my friend.”
The guards stopped Monk, but withdrew at the urging of Chalmers. He climbed up.
“I'm damn sure not your friend, Mr. Li. And I'm damn sure of what I said.”
“Silly rumors,” Li responded contemptuously. In a fluid motion belying his age, Li turned, scooped up the mike, and held it close to his face. “What about those workers you fired, Mr. Perry? You don't believe in fair pay for a fair day's work?” He was a minister exhorting his congregation, swaying his body to the emotional flow of the gathered.
Li turned his body in the direction of Santillion. Clearly enjoying the spotlight.
“And you, Mr. Santillion. What have you to smile about?”
“I don't own any property where I fire the workers,” Santillion said.
“Ah,” Li began theatrically, “but your organization does have payroll checkoff through the county employee system.”
Santillion came alive behind his passive features. “What's your point?”
“I know that you're under investigation by the IRS for possible misuse of some of those funds.”
Gasps went up from several people. Li was playing both men like a concertmaster. Monk was interested in where he got his information.
“How did you know that?”
Coyly, Li said, “I read a lot”
A large middle-aged black woman rose from the assembled masses, adorned in a shapeless black dress of some dull, light absorbing material. Cylindrical, muscular arms complemented her robust frame. She pointed one of the meathook appendages straight out. The index finger that extended from it was composed of misshapen knotted joints. This was a woman who had worked hard all her life, and only thankless toil would follow her to the grave. She had the attention of everyone.
“I can't speak to the business of the Korean gentleman or the Spanish fellow,” she rumbled. “But I knows something about Mr. Perry. I been watching him since he came on the scene after the Watts riots in '65. Just a teenager then, but already a firebrand.”
A couple of older black women shook their heads in affirmation. Church was in session. Monk moved closer to Chalmers.
“What âI'd like to know,” the woman went on, “is since the Harvesters been goin' since the late seventies, how come since all that government money and charity money y'all get, you ain't never done no training in the community.”