Monk was about to say something to Paul Robeson, he being the most vociferous about his and Father Divine’s departure, when the goddamn bell went off again.

  “Shit, answer that motherfuckah,” Monk mumbled, climbing out of sleep. He groped, found the handset, and pulled it to the pillow somewhere in the vicinity of his head.

  “Sorry to wake you, my friend.”

  What?

  “Mr. Monk, are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “As I’d said, I apologize for the earliness of the hour. But having raised five children of varying ages, my body clock is eternally attuned to getting up at five-thirty each A.M.”

  Jovial son-of-a-bitch. And then the voice made its way past the skull into the brain. “Mr. O’Day.”

  “Ah, yes indeed, sir. You are a detective.”

  “What can I do for you at”—he glanced at his clock radio—“five-forty in the morning?”

  “I was wondering if you’d be my guest for breakfast.”

  Why not? “Where?”

  “The Odin Club.”

  “I didn’t know they let Black people in there.”

  “Mr. Monk, Mr. Monk, what a splendid man you are. Let’s say a decent hour, shall we. Eight-thirty.”

  “Sure. I’ll wear my tie rakishly askew.”

  “Of that I’m sure.”

  The call ended and Monk rolled onto his back, staring at the names in the case revolving around the inside of his head. He added O’Day’s, unsure at the moment of how much prominence to give it. But time would tell. He got out of bed and trudged into the bathroom. Monk took an invigorating bath, all the while examining the facets of the case. Toweling off, Monk put on his charcoal gray sharkskin suit and a round collar carmine colored shirt which he buttoned all the way up.

  He got a shot of Nicaraguan coffee from the espresso joint on the corner. With time to spare, he tooled his car west on Sunset, past UCLA, the Bel Air Estates (where the Great Communicator and Mommy lived), Brentwood, and on into the sphere of affluence which was Pacific Palisades. Drawing closer to the Coast Highway, Monk put the Ford onto a road winding into the Santa Monica Mountains. On a street called Apollo, he arrived at the gated driveway that led to the Odin Club.

  On either side of the wide roadway was a guard booth, for the entrance and exit. Each was done in the shape of a five-headed plaster-and-lathe dog with a mane of writhing snakes sitting on its haunches. Cerberus at the port of Hades. In the belly one of the dogs was the two-sectioned door that allowed the guards to look out. Each was blonde, with pecs the size of Nebraska straining the black shirts of their uniforms. One was crew cut, the other splendidly Californian in a ponytail.

  A column separated the dogs. At the top of it was a statue of someone Monk presumed to be Atlas. The muscular figure squatted and strained while holding up not a globe, but an oil well. They really mixed their metaphors and mythology around here, Monk concluded.

  Ponytail, on Monk’s side, leaned his large head toward him as he stopped at the closed gate. “Can I help you, my man?” He said it like he was used to turning away the unwanted and unwhite several times a day.

  “Ivan Monk to see Maxfield O’Day.”

  Ponytail looked at Crewcut, a smirk stretching his thin lips. “Sure,” he said. He arched back into the booth on the stool he sat on and punched something up on a monitor. He looked at it for a few beats, then turned back. “Go on in, Mr. Monk.” He turned a knob on a console and the gate swung upward. Monk drove on up.

  The asphalt drive, lined on either side by a low strip of flagstone, had large palm trees running parallel to it beyond the wall. At the end of the winding path, seemingly in another time zone—or was that another time?—was the Odin Club.

  It was a multitiered structure, with several of its levels jutting into a mountain side. All white, sun-washed walls, pillars, tile roofs, maplewood shutters, chrome railing and cut glass panes in a mix-mash of Greco-Roman, Beaux Arts and Streamline zip. The total of it overwhelming and harkening back to the Roaring ’20s when it was built with robber baron money. An ostentatious den for high society parties and some dirty, low-down sex with well-endowed chorus girls.

  Monk went up the slab of steps to the entrance of dual oak doors embedded with wrought iron rings. He yanked on one of the doors, and was surprised to find it opened effortlessly. It was guided by pneumatic cylinders on the top and bottom. He stepped into the foyer with its stone composition floor. Instantly, a smooth-haired maitre d’ appeared beside him.

  “This way, Mr. Monk.”

  Monk followed the spry gent into a dining room of forest green carpeting, oak-paneled walls, and indirect lighting. Old and middle-aged white men, some in suits and some in designer work out togs, inhabited the eating ground of the powerbrokers. These were not the men seen eating in the Polo Lounge or Spago, talking on their cellulars while sending the water back because it didn’t have enough sparkle.

  No, these men ate bacon and eggs or cereal and half a grapefruit for a light breakfast. They drank their coffee black and strong and wouldn’t know cafe au lait if you spilled it on them. Their names rarely surfaced in the pages of People or Los Angeles magazine, and their faces never graced the cover of Time. For they were the scions of Mulholland and Otis, Griffith and O’Melvany. Heirs not to gaudy, transient fortunes of celluloid or software, but the eternal stuff men and women fought and died for the world over. Land and water.

  Monk made it to a table by a window where Maxfield O’Day stood to greet him. No one in the room had stopped talking to gape at him or drop food from their mouths. Monk imagined O’Day must have warned them that one of the inner city denizens would be in their midst this morning.

  “Glad you could come, Mr. Monk.”

  “My pleasure,” Monk replied.

  The two shook hands. As he’d expected, O’Day’s grip was firm and he looked you in the eye when he spoke. The attorney was natty in a tan gabardine suit, light blue single-stitched shirt with buttoned-down collar offset by a patterned aquamarine tie. They sat down. The Pacific, silent and purple in the morning light, rolled beyond the large thick-paned window bordered in etched filigree.

  A waiter, another older, white-haired, white guy saddled up beside the table. “Coffee?” He stared down the middle of the table, neither at Monk or O’Day.

  “Absolutely, Graham. And the breakfast menus, please,” O’Day said.

  The waiter drifted off. O’Day placed his elbows on the table. “I won’t waste your or my time with a lot of useless small talk, Mr. Monk.”

  “Fine.”

  O’Day reached into this pocket and withdrew a sealed number-ten envelope. In the corner was the four-color logo of SOMA. He pushed the envelope toward Monk. “There’s a check and some information in there.”

  Monk made no move for the envelope. “What’s the job?”

  “Finding the killer of Kim Bong-Suh.”

  The coffee arrived and the waiter left the menus.

  Monk mixed in half and half and sugar. He sipped. “I’m sure you know that I already have a client in that matter.”

  “Nothing precludes you from having another client whose interests converge on a matter. Or, from working more than one case at a time.” O’Day examined the menu. “The blueberry pancakes are quite good.”

  “Just eggs and toast, for me,” Monk said to the waiter who’d reappeared.

  “The pancakes and a side of bacon,” O’Day said.

  The waiter went away again, leaving a faint trail of mothballs.

  “Why is SOMA interested in Kim’s murder?”

  “Business, Mr. Monk. It’s important that Save Our Material Assets demonstrate it is a responsible member of the community. And frankly”—the wattage came on in his smile—“we can’t get that site going where his body was found.”

  “The police are holding it up?”

  “The FBI. The bastards have managed to slap a federal injunction around the site and my law firm’s been going around in circles trying to get it lifted.”

  “So they and you won’t be satisfied until the Kim matter is resolved.”

  “Yes.” O’Day drank his coffee. On his ring finger was a class ring inscribed with something in Latin Monk couldn’t make out. He saw Monk staring at it and said, pointing at it. “Lux Et Veritas.”

  “Light and Truth. Harvard.”

  “Class of ’64. You were probably still on training wheels.”

  “I still am.”

  Their food arrived and they ate in silence. Midway through, Monk paused and opened the envelope. Inside was a check for five thousand pretty little green ones and some folded sheets. He unfolded the sheets. A 3x5 photo dropped out. Monk turned it over. On the back, typed on a label, was the name of Conrad James. He turned it over.

  Its contrast was terrible and looked to have been shot from another photograph. The photo revealed a vital young Black man in his mid-twenties. James was standing in a park, a beer in one hand, the other around the waist of an unidentified girl. Dressed in jeans and a sweat-stained T-shirt, Conrad James and his wiry frame and open face was a modern-day Neal Cassidy come to South Central. Monk could see why Karen Jacobs had asked around about him.

  On the first page of the typed information the name of Conrad James was listed along with a physical description of the man. There was also his last known address, his social security and driver’s license number, and known associates. Among them was an Antoine “Crosshairs” Sawyer, a cousin and reputed leader in the Hauser Avenue Rolling Daltons.

  On the second sheet was a description, address and remarks about Sawyer. The last sheet contained information on two others who had worked in Kim’s store, James Robinson and Ruben Ursua. Names Monk had received from Karen Jacobs.

  “What do you think?” O’Day asked.

  Monk refolded the sheets and placed them and the check back into the envelope. “Why isn’t there anything in here about Kim?”

  “Why should there be? James is the one missing and one of the others who worked in the store, Ursua, has a criminal record. He too seems to be scarce these days as well.” Light came through the window and cast half of O’Day’s face in an angelic glow.

  “Meaning you think both he and James had something to do with Kim’s murder?”

  “I’m not suggesting any such thing. I’m merely relating the facts as I understand them.”

  Monk said, “And what do you think is the motive for Kim’s murder?”

  O’Day wiped a finger across his uncreased brow. “I don’t know. He left no will nor seemingly had any assets.” O’Day looked away to the ocean then looked back. “Somehow it always seems that money, real or the hint of it, is at the bottom of these things.”

  “I find it interesting you’re willing to pay me for work I’m already doing.”

  O’Day lifted his cup of coffee. “Let’s look at it as a good faith investment on the part of SOMA. It’s my opinion as its president that there may be further”—he made circles in the air with his free hand—“bumps in the road to rebuilding. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone like you around who may be available as our troubleshooter in these coming months.” He lit up his sign of a smile.

  “Then this isn’t a decision of your board.”

  “There is a certain amount of discretionary funds I have control over. And of course I will send a memo around to them about this development.”

  “I’ll send over a contract,” Monk said, pocketing the envelope. “It’ll spell out that if I discover anything that puts me in conflict with my primary client, our deal, and your money, will be returned.”

  “Fair enough.”

  They finished their meals and walked to the parking lot together. O’Day stopped at a shiny Lincoln Mark VII. The license plate read NEW DAY. The silver-haired wheeler-dealer stuck out his hand again, and Monk took it.

  “I look forward to us keeping in touch. And please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you in the course of this investigation,” O’Day said.

  “There is.” Monk took out his notepad and wrote down the name of Jiang Holdings in Stanton, California. He handed the paper to O’Day. “This name has come up a couple of times. The only thing I’ve turned up on it so far is that it’s a mail drop in Orange County. I’m sure your hot shot law clerks can do a more efficient and thorough legal search than I can.”

  O’Day got into his car. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Monk said, “Thank you,” and got into his Galaxie. Both vehicles made their way down the expanse of the drive. At the bottom, the exit gate lifted, and the Lincoln pulled off. Quite suddenly the gate descended again. Monk slammed on the brakes, glaring at Crewcut in Cerberus’s belly. Nonchalantly, the kid sucked loudly on a lollipop.

  Monk put the car in neutral, opened his door, stood up, placing his arm on the hood of the 500. “Is there some problem?”

  “Problem?”

  Monk engaged the emergency brake and stepped around to the guard booth. “Yes, is there some problem?” He reached into the booth, aiming his hand for the switch to lift the gate. The kid’s hand snaked forward and latched onto Monk’s wrist. Monk lurched back, taking Crewcut off his stool, breaking the grip on his wrist.

  “That’s your ass, nigger.” The door to the booth came open and he stepped out. He was two inches taller than Monk and looked to be at least ten years younger.

  “Your momma’s a nigger,” Monk growled, moving his body forward. He caught the other one around the waist with his arms, his weight driving the both of them back against the booth.

  Crewcut brought a fist down between Monk’s shoulder blades. Stars exploded in the corner of his right eye. He grunted in pain but held on. He wrenched to the left, upsetting their balance. They tumbled to the asphalt.

  “That’s enough,” Ponytail said, running over to the two.

  Monk’s teeth came together sharply as Crewcut socked him hard in the side. He went over on his side and the younger man clambered on top of him.

  “Cut it out, Stacy,” Ponytail yelled, grabbing at the other’s arm.

  “Get the fuck off,” Stacy hollered back, turning his head slightly. Just then, Monk jabbed upward, into the blonde farmboy’s Adam’s apple. Stacy’s eyes bulged. Involuntarily, his hands clutched at his throat. Monk kneed him in the stomach and he went over.

  Monk regained his footing, glaring at the crewcut Stacy. “Get up, so I can put you on the ground again.”

  Ponytail came between them. “Look mister,” he said to Monk. “He’s always bullshittin’. He didn’t mean anything.”

  Stacy was on one knee, gaping at the other two. Monk pointed a finger at Crewcut and addressed Ponytail. “I bet Maxfield O’Day would like to know how his guests get treated around here.”

  “You ain’t nothing to Maxfield O’Day except hired backdoor help,” Crewcut said, rising up.

  Monk stepped closer to him. “What’s it to you?”

  Stacy looked at Monk, then Ponytail. “Sorry Bart,” he said to Ponytail. “I didn’t mean nothin’.”

  He started to walk off. Monk got in his way.

  “Look man, it was just a joke that got out of hand.” He said the words, but Monk heard no sincerity behind them.

  Bart put a hand on Monk’s shoulder. “Hey, bro, can’t we let this slide. You know how it is.” He turned his natural blonde head. An emerald Jaguar was stopped behind Monk’s car. A heavy set man leaned his jowled face out the window, observing the scene.

  Monk glared at Stacy, who glared back. “Yes. I know how it is.” He shoved him, waiting for the comeback. None was to be had. Monk got in his car and drove off. It was past the morning rush hour and Monk burned off excess adrenaline by speeding back to Continental Donuts.

  The middle knuckles on his right hand were skinned and had started to throb. The second joint on his left index was split open and was swelling. He swabbed Mercurachrome on his abrasions and taped a Band-Aid over the joint. Monk called his office.

  “What’s shaking?” he said to Delilah after pleasantries.

  “Tina Chalmers called.”

  An electric charge pulsed along Monk’s spine. “What did she say?”

  “Wouldn’t tell me. You’re supposed to call her back at two. She’ll be out till then.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later.” Two was his appointed time with the task force, something he was desperate to avoid. He locked up his office and went out front. The only customers in the place were two of the regulars playing chess in one of the booths.

  “What it is, Lenny?” He patted the man on the shoulder and nodded at the other one. “Hilton.”

  Lenny Levine was a retired union organizer who, with a fellow Black organizer, led the fight to integrate the docks of San Pedro and Long Beach in the fifties. Branded a communist—he was a “card-carrying,” bona fide, hair-shirt-wearing member of the Communist Party-USA in those days—he was driven out of the union under the Tenney Committee, a California version of the federal House Un-American Activities Committee.

  “Fine, brother Monk.” Levine moved the rook, intently watching the board.

  His chess partner sat back, contemplating his next move. Hilton was a mulatto in his late forties. The rumor was that early in life he’d passed for white and had risen to some prominence in a large petrochemical company. That was the most anyone had ever gotten out of him about his past.

  “Hawkshaw.” Hilton deployed one of his bishops.

  Monk went behind the counter where Elrod sat, reading the latest issue of a rap magazine. The private eye poured himself a cup of coffee and went back around the counter, facing the big man. “How many Rolling Daltons do you know?”

  Elrod said, “Been sometime since I hung with that kind’a crowd, chief. Them young bucks a little too fast for my blood.”