Bad Night Is Falling Read Online Free Page A

“What are you getting at?”
    â€œI’m not the only one who thinks the Domingos are working for some others who want to make sure the Rancho doesn’t get into the hands of the tenants. Black tenants anyway.”
    Monk rested his chin on his hand, his elbow propped on the table. “So the Domingos kill a Latino family as part of mis conspiracy.”
    â€œExactly. See, Cruzado was trying to organize some of the immigrant tenants into his own association. He claimed neither the Chicanos nor the blacks were responsive to his people’s—you know, immigrants’—concerns.”
    â€œSo he was disrupting the program,” Monk said, trying to flow with Antar’s reasoning.
    â€œSomething like mat, yeah. I’m not saying I’m sure who’s behind me Domingos, but whoever it is wants everybody to roll over and let the place get sold out from under them.”
    Absalla continued. “The African-Americans there are generally the longest-running residents. They want to buy the place.” The man sat back, content that he’d given the initiate a few glimpses of the secrets of the keep. “Did I scare you?”
    Monk willingly took the bait. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
    â€œHere.” With a grin, Absalla handed Monk a sheaf of papers from a soft leather portfolio he’d placed against the legs of the table. “These are the reimbursement forms.”
    â€œYou mean I have to submit these before I get paid?”
    A quick torque of his gleaming head. “’Fraid so, my man. See, I can hire you through some consultant funds I can access, but it is federal money, and there is a bureaucracy to follow.”
    â€œIsn’t there always.”
    The other man made a fist and began working it as if kneading on an invisible ball. “I hope you can get onto something soon, Monk. I don’t expect you to go up against the Domingos, but find us proof so the law can move on them. Make your friend Seguin a big man downtown.”
    Monk worked on a wan smile then lost interest.
    â€œIf I didn’t have to oversee two other housing projects we patrol, I’d get to it myself.” He rose, placed some money down, and tucked the portfolio under one muscled arm.
    â€œI’ll see what I can do to fill in,” Monk deadpanned.
    â€œRight on,” Absalla said guilelessly.
    Daniel hoped they’d have a nice day. Monk walked with Absalla part of the way along the boardwalk. They parted company near the refurbished Muscle Beach area. Several buffed participants were going through their routines for the enjoyment of both the onlookers and themselves.
    In particular, Monk noticed a light-skinned black woman with a back broader than a set of double doors. She was doing a set of behind-the-neck lifts with some serious iron. Monk watched her for several minutes, the fluid muscles beneath her coppery arms bunching and flexing like part of a timeless machine whose sole function was to provide chiseled, efficient beauty in a flawed and treacherous world.
    Eventually he walked off, trying to pick out tourists from residents. His path took him past a jazz trumpeter he recognized sitting in a frayed chaise lounge. He was singing a version of “I Should Care” which Rodgers and Hart probably never intended. But when he got to the instrumental part, his horn proved he still had his chops.
    Monk, his sport coat draped over his arm, came to Ozone then turned left past a clump of bleached-out apartment buildings. He reached the street called Speedway, where he’d parked his restored ’64 Ford Galaxie. The thoroughfare had gotten its name in the late ’40s from the hotrodders who used the then isolated straightaway to run their milled-out Fords and Willyses.
    He beeped off the alarm and got behind the wheel. A homeless man wearing a grimy peacoat buttoned all the way up stuck a Styrofoam cup against his window. Monk cranked it