Violent Spring by Gary Phillips Page A

continued. “And on some of the clotheslines hung octopuses, or octopi or whatever the plural is, drying in the sun. Later they would be marinated, cooked and served with ouzo. See, a lot of the porches were covered, so these creatures gave off weird shadows across the raw stone of the houses. None of them alike, yet related.”
    â€œLike a Rorschach test,” she offered.
    â€œYes. You could see in the shapes whatever you wanted to. But there’s always something solid beyond the pattern.”
    â€œIs that right, Mr. Monk?”
    They both laughed. After a while, Kodama fell asleep and Monk eased out of the bed. Unable to sleep, he went downstairs to the study, got a book and came back to the bedroom. Sitting in a chair in the corner, he switched on an Art Deco wall sconce. He read several chapters from Jim Sleeper’s The Closest of Strangers . The patterns on the walls shifted as the wicks grew longer in the candles and the curtain swirled about the open window. The shadows of ectoplasm.

T HE ROOM WAS quiet like a run-down watch. Next to him, Monk heard the rhythmic breathing of the woman he loved. Gazing at her, he imagined what she was dreaming. What do women dream about? What do they see in men like him? Three years. Not long in the annals of humankind, an eon in relationships in the city of dashed hopes.
    He scratched his side, got out of bed, and went into the bathroom. Then he trod into the kitchen and started brewing some coffee. He slipped on the jeans he’d left draped over the faux Louis XIV chair in the study. Out front, on the well-tended lawn, Monk picked up the morning edition of the LA. Times , the folded part moist from the morning dew.
    Back in the kitchen, Monk poured two cups of coffee in over-sized stoneware mugs. Black for Jill, liberal amounts of sugar and milk for him. Paper tucked under his muscled arm, he strolled back into the bedroom with the hot coffee. He put the cups on the nightstand and sat on the bed, digging the Metro section out of the paper.
    Jill moved under her blanket and slid an arm onto Monk’s thigh. The covering moved below the middle of her back. “Hey.”
    â€œHey.” Monk read the article about yesterday’s news conference the Merchants Group had held.
    Jill’s hand rubbed his leg. “What time is it?”
    Monk glanced at the clock. “Six-forty.” He leaned over and kissed her shoulder blade.
    â€œWould you hand me some coffee, baby?”
    He retrieved it as she sat up in bed and handed it to her.
    â€œThanks. I’ve got to—shit!” she suddenly exclaimed, clutching at the blanket and drawing it over her nude torso.
    Monk had been sitting on the bed facing Jill. From her position, she faced the bedroom windows running on the south side of her house. He spun in that direction. There in one of the windows was a blonde bush. No, Monk corrected himself, it was the ash-blonde mane of Kelly Drier, one-time minor league ball player, currently six figure sensationalist hack for the number-two local TV station in town.
    Drier knocked lightly on the window and pointed at the two on the bed. He mouthed something which Monk couldn’t make out. A tight grin pulled his lips back. “I’m going to go out there and stick my foot way up that moron’s ass.”
    â€œAs your lawyer, I must advise you if you do, Drier will have it all over the four o’clock news.” Jill calmly sipped her coffee, eyeing the reporter who continued to gesticulate at the window. “I think he wants to talk to you, Ivan.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Monk went to the window. Drier, a kind of sun-tanned version of ex Vice-President Dan Quayle, but with better taste in ties, smiled broadly. Solemnly, Monk pointed toward the front of the house. The reporter’s head worked up and down as if it were a clown head on a spring.
    It occurred to Monk the analogy was not too far strained as he put on his shirt, tail out.