Phoenix Noir

Monk walked about downtown, came upon a barbecue rib and chicken joint, and had a late lunch. It was past 2 and still over a hundred degrees of dry heat. His cell chimed as he swallowed a bite of tri-tip sandwich. After his hello, a quiet voice said, “My name’s Burris Parchman. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Who told you?”

“Charley did. Course, he also convinced me to let him resurrect my so-called career. Once the Sugar Kings compilation comes out, he said he’d be able to get me some new gigs.” He had a rumble of a laugh like the organ he played. “Well, one thing at a time, I guess.”

“Where are you?” The number and area code hadn’t come up on Monk’s screen.

“Sure, let me give you this address. I’m staying with a friend.”

The house was a neat little Craftsman not unlike those Monk was familiar with in the older parts of L.A. It was east of downtown in a mostly Latino section judging from the Llantas Goodyear and mini-mercado signs.

“Come on in,” a pleasant voice said on the other side of a screen door.

“Thanks,” Monk said, stepping into a freshly painted room with little furniture and no TV. The hardwood floors looked like they’d been recently refinished. The walls were bare.

“She’s getting some work done,” Burris Parchman remarked. The musician was a thin, medium-complexioned black man in his mid-sixties with a trim mustache and receding hairline. He wore wrinkled khakis, a short-sleeved shirt, and raggedy tennis shoes. “As you can see,” he continued, pointing at the open windows, “the air-conditioning hasn’t been put back in. But I have some iced tea. I was just about to have a glass. You?”

“Sure, that’d be great,” Monk said.

“Cop a squat,” Parchman said as he stepped into the kitchen. He soon returned with two glasses and put one before Monk on a side table. The coaster was already in place and was from the Raven’s Mill.

“So tell me about this project.”

Monk sipped his drink and began to speak, half rising from his chair to hand over the paperwork. His head suddenly felt light and he sat back down quickly, his mouth dry despite the liquid. Coltrane’s sax was moaning “Naima,” but he knew there was no music on. He drained his drink, his throat closing up. He stared at the residue in the bottom of the glass. Were those scales?

“Say,” Monk began, dropping the glass, his fingers telling him to do so. “Why would Minnie and Nazeen Love … Lo-venobody.” He giggled but it sounded like one of those demon clowns in a low-budget horror movie. “Why would they lie to me about where to find you?” Why was it so hard to get a sentence out?

“This is the West, Mr. Monk. We protect our legends around here.” Parchman seemed to be talking to him underwater. It was as if Monk were floating up to the moon and watching the earth recede beneath him. He stood but his shoes had ballooned way out of proportion like in a cartoon. He fell over and was quite content to lie there on his side, his ear to the floor listening for the woo woo of the Underground Railroad. He smacked his lips, tasting purple while he counted the infinite swirls and whirls within the wood floor. His heart beat rapidly and sweat doused his face and shirt front.

“How long will he be like that?”

“I don’t know but we need to get him out of here. Then wipe the house down for his prints and put the For Sale sign back up.”

Monk rolled over and glared hazily at the green Martians with their elongated heads discussing his fate. Through a window he could see a giant ant from Them looking at him too. He decided this was a party. Especially since Lee Dorsey was singing, “Everything I do gohn be funky from now on.” He sang along, trying to snap his fingers.

Hands lifted him off the undulating floor. The Martian with the fancy silver bracelet was talking again. “Check outside and we’ll put him in his car. Get his wallet.”

“We driving him away from here?”

“That’s too risky. It’s better to get him behind the wheel,” the silver bracelet said. Clearly, Monk cogitated, this one was the H.N.I.C., ah, the H.M.I.C. He giggled again. Kurt Vonnegut, the size of a fly with insect wings, landed on his arm. He said in a tiny voice, “Three to get ready and two to go, bro.” Kurt the Fly-Man flitted away. Monk was sad to see him go.

“He could hurt somebody,” one of them said.

“We’re in this too far now. We can’t have him hurt her,” one of the Martians said.

In a blue haze, they walked him to his car. Or was it a stagecoach? He squinted at the giant ants hitched and ready.

“Giddy-up!” he yelled. He went all rubber and, jerking his arms free, flopped to the ground. Time for a sit-down on these mufus, he reasoned. He had to catch his rocket to the moon. His honey would be waiting for him. “I got to call Jill,” he added, rolling around on the ground like a temperamental child.

“Get his ass up before somebody sees us.”

He was snatched upright and hauled to his car. Keys were plucked out of his pocket and he grabbed at them.